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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/16786-8.txt b/16786-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..03439c5 --- /dev/null +++ b/16786-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17020 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of The World's Best Poetry, Volume 3, 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 World's Best Poetry, Volume 3 + Sorrow and Consolation + +Author: Various + +Commentator: Lyman Abbott + +Editor: Bliss Carman + +Release Date: October 1, 2005 [EBook #16786] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Victoria Woosley and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE WORLD'S + BEST POETRY + + + + + +I Home: Friendship VI Fancy: Sentiment + II Love VII Descriptive: Narrative +III Sorrow and Consolation VIII National Spirit + IV The Higher Life IX Tragedy: Humor +V Nature X Poetical Quotations + + * * * * * + + + THE + WORLD'S + BEST POETRY + + + IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED + + Editor-in-Chief + BLISS CARMAN + + Associate Editors + John Vance Cheney + Charles G.D. Roberts + Charles F. Richardson + Francis H. Stoddard + + Managing Editor + John R. Howard + + + J.D. Morris and Company + Philadelphia + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1904, by + J.D. Morris & Company + + + + The World's Best Poetry + Vol. III + + + SORROW AND + CONSOLATION + + AN + INTERPRETER OF + LIFE + + By + LYMAN ABBOTT + + * * * * * + +NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS. + + +I. + +American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright +are used by the courteous permission of the owners,--either the +publishers named in the following list or the authors or their +representatives in the subsequent one,--who reserve all their rights. So +far as practicable, permission has been secured also for poems out of +copyright. + +PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY. 1904. + +Messrs. D. APPLETON & Co., New York.--_W.C. Bryant_: "Blessed are They +that Mourn," "The Conqueror's Grave," "Thanatopsis." + +Messrs. E.P. DUTTON & Co., New York.--_Mary W. Howland_: "Rest." + +The FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, New York.--_John W. Palmer_: "For Charlie's +Sake." + +Messrs. HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.--_Will Carleton_: "Over the Hill to +the Poor House." + +Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co., Boston.--_Margaret Deland_: "Love and +Death;" _John Hay_: "A Woman's Love;" _O.W. Holmes_: "The Last Leaf," +"The Voiceless;" _Mary Clemmer A. Hudson_: "Something Beyond;" _H.W. +Longfellow_: "Death of Minnehaha," "Footsteps of Angels," "God's Acre," +"The Rainy Day," "The Reaper and the Flowers," "Resignation;" _J.R. +Lowell_: "Auf Wiedersehen," "First Snow Fall," "Palinode;" _Harriet W. +Preston_: "Fidelity in Doubt;" _Margaret E. Sangster_: "Are the Children +at Home?" _E.R. Sill_: "A Morning Thought;" _Harriet E. Spofford_: "The +Nun and Harp;" _Harriet B. Stowe_: "Lines to the Memory of Annie." "Only +a Year;" _J.T. Trowbridge_: "Dorothy in the Garret;" _J.G. Whittier_: +"To Her Absent Sailor," "Angel of Patience," "Maud Muller." + +Mr. JOHN LANE, New York.--_R. Le Gallienne_: "Song," "What of the +Darkness?" + +Messrs. LITTLE, BROWN & Co., Boston.--_J.W. Chadwick_: "The Two +Waitings;" _Helen Hunt Jackson_: "Habeas Corpus." + +The LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY, Boston.--_Paul H. Hayne_: "In Harbor." + +Messrs. G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York.--_Elaine Goodale Eastman_: "Ashes +of Roses;" _R.C. Rogers_: "The Shadow Rose." + +Messrs. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, New York.--_R. Bridges (Droch)_: "The +Unillumined Verge;" _Mary Mapes Dodge_: "The Two Mysteries;" _Julia C.R. +Dorr_: "Hush" (Afterglow). + + +II. + +American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given below +are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their representatives +named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without their permission, +which for the present work has been courteously granted. + +PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY. 1904. + +_W.R. Alger; Mrs. Amelia E. Barr; Henry A. Blood_ (Mrs. R.E. Whitman); +_Robert J. Burdette; John Burroughs; Mary A. De Vere; Nathan H. Dole; +William C. Gannett; Dr. Silas W. Mitchell; Mrs. Sarah M. Piatt; Walt +Whitman_ (H. Traubel, Literary Executor). + + * * * * * + + + + +AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE. + +BY LYMAN ABBOTT. + + + +Poetry, music, and painting are three correlated arts, connected not +merely by an accidental classification, but by their intrinsic nature. +For they all possess the same essential function, namely, to interpret +the uninterpretable, to reveal the undiscoverable, to express the +inexpressible. They all attempt, in different forms and through +different languages, to translate the invisible and eternal into +sensuous forms, and through sensuous forms to produce in other souls +experiences akin to those in the soul of the translator, be he poet, +musician, or painter. That they are three correlated arts, attempting, +each in its own way and by its own language, to express the same +essential life, is indicated by their co-operation in the musical drama. +This is the principle which Wagner saw so clearly, and has used to such +effective purpose in his so-called operas, whose resemblance to the +Italian operas which preceded them is more superficial than real. In the +drama Wagner wishes you to consider neither the music apart from the +scenery, nor the scenery apart from the acting, nor the three apart from +the poetry. Poetry, music, and art combine with the actor to interpret +truths of life which transcend philosophic definition. Thus in the first +act of "Parsifal," innocence born of ignorance, remorse born of the +experience of temptation and sin, and reverence bred in an atmosphere +not innocent yet free from the experience of great temptation, mingle in +a drama which elevates all hearts, because in some one of these three +phases it touches every heart. And yet certain of the clergy condemned +the presentation as irreverent, because it expresses reverence in a +symbolism to which they were unaccustomed. + +But while it is true that these three arts are correlative and +co-operative, they do not duplicate one another. Each not only speaks in +a language of its own, but expresses in that language a life which the +others cannot express. As color and fragrance combine to make the +flower, but the color expresses what the fragrance cannot express, and +the fragrance expresses what the color cannot express, so in the musical +drama, music, poetry, and painting combine, not by duplicating but by +supplementing each other. One may describe in language a symphony; but +no description will produce the effect which the symphony produces. One +may describe a painting; but no description will produce the effect +which the painting will produce. So neither music, nor painting, nor +both combined, can produce the same effect on the soul as poetry. The +"Midsummer Night's Dream" enacted in pantomime, with Mendelssohn's +music, would no more produce the same effect on the auditors which would +be produced by the interpretation of the play in spoken words, than +would the reading of the play at home produce the same effect as the +enacting of the play with what are miscalled the accessories of music +and scenery. The music and scenery are no more accessories to the words +than the words are accessories to the music and scenery. The three +combine in a triple language to express and produce one life, and it can +be expressed and produced in no other way than by the combination of the +three arts in harmonious action. This is the reason why no parlor +readings can ever take the place of the theatre, and no concert +performance can ever take the place of the opera. This is the reason why +all attempts to suppress the theatre and opera are and always will be in +vain. They are attempts to suppress the expression and awakening of a +life which can neither be expressed nor awakened in any other way; and +suppression of life, however successfully it may be accomplished for a +time, is never permanently possible. + +These arts do not truly create, they interpret. Man is not a creator, he +is only a discoverer. The imagination is not creative, it is only +reportorial. Ideals are realities; imagination is seeing. The musician, +the artist, the poet, discover life which others have not discovered, +and each with his own instrument interprets that life to those less +sensitive than himself. Observe a musician composing. He writes; stops; +hesitates; meditates; perhaps hums softly to himself; perhaps goes to +the piano and strikes a chord or two. What is he doing? He is trying to +express to himself a beauty which he has heard in the world of infinite +phenomena, and to reproduce it as well as sensuous sounds can reproduce +it, that those with duller hearing than himself may hear it also. +Observe a painter before his easel. He paints; looks to see the effect; +erases; adds; modifies; reexamines; and repeats this operation over and +over again. What is he doing? He is copying a beauty which he has seen +in the invisible world, and which he is attempting to bring out from its +hiding so that the men who have no eyes except for the sensuous may also +see it. In my library is an original sonnet by John G. Whittier. In +almost every line are erasures and interlineations. In some cases the +careful poet has written a new line and pasted it over the rejected one. +What does this mean? It means that he has discovered a truth of moral +beauty and is attempting to interpret his discovery to the world. His +first interpretation of his vision did not suit him, nor his second, nor +his third, and he has revised and re-revised in the attempt to make his +verse a true interpretation of the truth which he had seen. He did not +make the truth; it eternally was. Neither did the musician make the +truth of harmony, nor the painter the truth of form and color. They also +eternally were. Poet, musician, painter, have seen, heard, felt, +realized in their own souls some experience of life, some potent reality +which philosophy cannot formulate, nor creed contain, nor eloquence +define; and each in his own way endeavors to give it to the world of +men; each in his own way endeavors to lift the gauzy curtain, +impenetrable to most souls, which hides the invisible, the inaudible, +the eternal, the divine from men; and he gives them a glimpse of that of +which he himself had but a glimpse. + +In one sense and in one only can art be called creative: the artist, +whether he be painter, musician, or poet, so interprets to other men the +experience which has been created in him by his vision of the +supersensible and eternal, that he evokes in them a similar experience. +He is a creator only as he conveys to others the life which has been +created in himself. As the electric wire creates light in the home; as +the band creates the movement in the machinery; thus and only thus does +the artist create life in those that wait upon him. He is in truth an +interpreter and transmitter, not a creator. Nor can he interpret what he +has not first received, nor transmit what he has not first experienced. +The music, the painting, the poem are merely the instruments which he +uses for that purpose. The life must first be in him or the so-called +music, painting, poem are but dead simulacra; imitations of art, not +real art. This is the reason why no mechanical device, be it never so +skillfully contrived, can ever take the place of the living artist. The +pianola can never rival the living performer; nor the orchestrion the +orchestra; nor the chromo the painting. No mechanical device has yet +been invented to produce poetry; even if some shrewd Yankee should +invent a printing machine which would pick out rhymes as some printing +machines seem to pick out letters, the result would not be a poem. This +is the reason too why mere perfection of execution never really +satisfies. "She sings like a bird." Yes! and that is exactly the +difficulty with her. We want one who sings like a woman. The popular +criticism of the mere musical expert that he has no soul, is profound +and true. It is soul we want; for the piano, the organ, the violin, the +orchestra, are only instruments for the transmission of soul. This is +also the reason why the most flawless conductor is not always the best. +He must have a soul capable of reading the soul of the composer; and the +orchestra must receive the life of the composer as that is interpreted +to them through the life of the conductor, or the performance will be a +soulless performance. + +Into each of these arts, therefore--music, painting, poetry--enter two +elements: the inner and the outer, the truth and the language, the +reality and the symbol, the life and the expression. Without the +electric current the carbon is a mere blank thread; the electric current +is not luminous if there be no carbon. The life and the form are alike +essential. So the painter must have something to express, but he must +also have skill to express it; the musician must have music in his soul, +but he must also have a power of instrumentation; the poet must feel the +truth, or he is no poet, but he must also have power to express what he +feels in such forms as will create a similar feeling in his readers, or +he is still no poet. Multitudes of women send to the newspapers poetical +effusions which, are not poems. The feeling of the writer is excellent, +but the expression is bad. The writer has seen, but she cannot tell what +she has seen; she has felt, but she cannot express her experience so as +to enkindle a like experience in others. These poetical utterances of +inarticulate poets are sometimes whimsical but oftener pathetic; +sometimes they are like the prattle of little children who exercise +their vocal organs before they have anything to say; but oftener they +seem to me like the beseeching eyes of a dumb animal, full of affection +and entreaty for which he has no vocal expression. It is just as +essential that poetical feeling should have poetical expression in order +to constitute poetry as it is that musical feeling should have musical +expression in order to constitute music. And, on the other hand, as +splashes of color without artistic feeling which they interpret are not +art, as musical, sounds without musical feeling which they interpret are +not music, so poetical forms without poetical feeling are not poetry. +Poetical feeling in unpoetical forms may be poetical prose, but it is +still prose. And on the other hand, rhymes, however musical they may be +to the ear, are only rhymes, not poetry, unless they express a true +poetical life. + +But these two elements are separable only in thought, not in reality. +Poetry is not common thought expressed in an uncommon manner; it is not +an artificial phrasing of even the higher emotions. The higher emotions +have a phrasing of their own; they fall naturally--whether as the result +of instinct or of habit need not here be considered--into fitting forms. +The form may be rhyme; it may be blank verse; it may be the old Hebrew +parallelism; it may even be the indescribable form which Walt Whitman +has adopted. What is noticeable is the fact that poetical thought, if it +is at its best, always takes on, by a kind of necessity, some poetical +form. To illustrate if not to demonstrate this, it is only necessary to +select from literature any fine piece of poetical expression of a higher +and nobler emotion, or of clear and inspiring vision, and attempt to put +it into prose form. The reader will find, if he be dealing with the +highest poetry, that translating it into prose impairs its power to +express the feeling, and makes the expression not less but more +artificial. If he doubt this statement, let him turn to any of the finer +specimens of verse in this volume and see whether he can express the +life in prose as truly, as naturally, as effectively, as it is there +expressed in rhythmical form. + +These various considerations may help to explain why in all ages of the +world the arts have been the handmaidens of religion. Not to amplify +too much, I have confined these considerations to the three arts of +music, painting, and poetry; but they are also applicable to sculpture +and architecture. All are attempts by men of vision to interpret to the +men who are not equally endowed with vision, what the invisible world +about us and within us has for the enrichment of our lives. This is +exactly the function of religion: to enrich human lives by making them +acquainted with the infinite. It is true that at times the arts have +been sensualized, the emphasis has been put on the form of expression, +not on the life expressed; and then reformers, like the Puritans and the +Quakers, have endeavored to exclude the arts from religion, lest they +should contaminate it. But the exclusion has been accomplished with +difficulty, and to maintain it has been impossible. It is neither an +accident, nor a sign of decadence, that painting and sculpture are +creeping back into the Protestant churches, to combine with poetry and +music in expressing the religious life of man. For the intellect alone +is inadequate either to express that life as it exists, or to call it +into existence where it does not exist. The tendency to ritual in our +time is a tendency not to substitute æsthetic for spiritual life, though +there is probably always a danger that such a substitution may be +unconsciously made, but to express a religious life which cannot be +expressed without the aid of æsthetic symbols. The work of the intellect +is to analyze and define. But the infinite is in the nature of the case +indefinable, and it is with the infinite religion has to do. All that +theology can hope to accomplish is to define certain provinces in the +illimitable realm of truth; to analyze certain experiences in a life +which transcends all complete analysis. The Church must learn to regard +not with disfavor or suspicion, but with eager acceptance, the +co-operation of the arts in the interpretation of infinite truth and the +expression of infinite life. Certainly we are not to turn our churches +into concert rooms or picture and sculpture galleries, and imagine that +æsthetic enjoyment is synonymous with piety. But as surely we are not to +banish the arts from our churches, and think that we are religious +because we are barren. All language, whether of painting, sculpture, +architecture, music, poetry, or oratory, is legitimately used to express +the divine life, as all the faculties, whether of painter, sculptor, +architect, musician, poet, orator, and philosopher, are to be used in +reaching after a more perfect knowledge of Him who always transcends and +always will transcend our perfect knowing. + +Thus the study of poetry is the study of life, because poetry is the +interpretation of life. Poetry is not a mere instrument for promoting +enjoyment; it does not merely dazzle the imagination and excite the +emotions. Through the emotions and the imagination it both interprets +life and ministers to life. When the critic attempts to express that +truth, that is, to interpret the interpreter, which he can do only by +translating the poetry into prose, and the language of imagination and +emotion into that of philosophy, he destroys the poem in the process, +much as the botanist destroys the flower in analyzing it, or the musical +critic the composition in disentangling its interwoven melodies and +explaining the mature of its harmonic structure. The analysis, whether +of music, art, or poetry, must be followed by a synthesis, which, in the +nature of the case, can be accomplished only by the hearer or reader for +himself. All that I can do here is to illustrate this revelatory +character of poetry by some references to the poems which this volume +contains. I do not attempt to explain the meaning of these poems; that +is a task quite impossible. I only attempt to show that they have a +meaning, that beneath their beauty of form is a depth of truth which +philosophical statement in prose cannot interpret, but the essence of +which such statement may serve to suggest. I do not wish to expound the +truth of life which is contained in the poet's verse; I only wish to +show that the poet by his verse reveals a truth of life which the critic +cannot express, and that it is for this reason pre-eminently that such a +collection of poetry as this is deserving of the reader's study. + +If for example the student turns to such a volume as Newman Smyth's +"Christian Ethics," he will find there a careful though condensed +discussion of the right and wrong of suicide. It is cool, deliberate, +philosophical. But it gives no slightest hint of the real state of the +man who is deliberating within himself whether he will commit suicide +or no; no hint of the real arguments that pass in shadow through his +mind:--the weariness of life which summons him to end all; the nameless, +indefinable dread of the mystery and darkness and night into which death +carries us, which makes him hesitate. If we would really understand the +mind of the suicide, not merely the mind of the philosopher coolly +debating suicide, we must turn to the poet. + + "To be, or not to be: that is the question: + Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer + The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, + Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, + And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; + No more; and by a sleep to say we end + The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks + That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation + Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; + To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; + For in that sleep of death what dreams may come + When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, + Must give us pause: there's the respect + That makes calamity of so long life; + For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, + The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, + The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, + The insolence of office, and the spurns + That patient merit of the unworthy takes, + When he himself might his quietus make + With a bare bodkin! Who would fardels bear, + To grunt and sweat under a weary life, + But that the dread of something after death, + The undiscovered country from whose bourne + No traveller returns, puzzles the will + And makes us rather bear those ills we have + Than fly to others that we know not of? + Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; + And thus the native hue of resolution + Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, + And enterprises of great pith and moment + With this regard their currents turn awry, + And lose the name of action." + +This first the poet does: he draws aside the veil which hides the +working of men's hearts, and lets us see their hidden life. But he does +more. Not merely does he afford us knowledge, he imparts life. For we +know feeling only by participating in the feeling; and the poet has the +art not merely to describe the experiences of men but so to describe +them that for the moment we share them, and so truly know them by the +only process by which they can be known. Who, for instance, can read +Thomas Hood's "The Bridge of Sighs" and not, as he reads, stand by the +despairing one as she waits a moment upon the bridge just ready to take +her last leap out of the cruelty of this world into, let us hope, the +mercy of a more merciful world beyond? + + "Where the lamps quiver + So far in the river, + With many a light + From window and casement, + From garret to basement, + She stood, with amazement, + Homeless by night. + + "The bleak wind of March + Made her tremble and shiver; + But not the dark arch, + Or the black flowing river: + Mad from life's history, + Glad to death's mystery + Swift to be hurled-- + Anywhere, anywhere + Out of the world. + + "In she plunged boldly-- + No matter how coldly + The rough river ran,-- + Over the brink of it! + Picture it--think of it, + Dissolute man! + Lave in it, drink of it, + Then, if you can. + + "Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care; + Fashioned so slenderly, + Young, and so fair!" + +No analysis of philosophy can make us acquainted with the tragedy of +this life as the poet can; no exhortation of preacher can so effectively +arouse in us the spirit of a Christian charity for the despairing +wanderer as the poet. + +Would you know the tragedy of a careless and supercilious coquetry which +plays with the heart as the fisherman plays with the salmon? Read "Clara +Vere de Vere." Would you know the dull heartache of a loveless married +life, growing at times into an intolerable anguish which no marital +fidelity can do much to medicate? Read "Auld Robin Gray." Who but a poet +can interpret the pain of a parting between loving hearts, with its +remorseful recollections of the wholly innocent love's joys that are +past? + + "Had we never loved sae kindly, + Had we never loved sae blindly, + Never met--or never parted, + We had ne'er been broken hearted." + +Who but a poet can depict the perils of an unconscious drifting apart, +such as has destroyed many a friendship and wrecked many a married life, +as Clough has depicted it in "Qua Cursum Ventus"? If you would know the +life-long sorrow of the blind man at your side, would enter into his +life and for a brief moment share his captivity, read Milton's +interpretation of that sorrow in Samson's Lament. If you would find some +message to cheer the blind man in his darkness and illumine his +captivity, read the same poet's ode on his own blindness: + + "God doth not need + Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best + Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state + Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, + And post o'er land and ocean without rest; + They also serve who only stand and wait." + +No prison statistics, no police reports, no reformer's documents, no +public discussions of the question, What to do with the tramp, will ever +so make the student of life participant of the innermost experience of +the tramp, his experience of dull despair, his loss of his grip on life, +as Béranger's "The Old Vagabond." No expert in nervous diseases, no +psychological student of mental states, normal and abnormal, can give +the reader so clear an understanding of that deep and seemingly +causeless dejection, which because it seems to be causeless seems also +to be well-nigh incurable, as Percy Bysshe Shelley has given in his +"Stanzas written near Naples." No critical expounder of the Stoical +philosophy can interpret the stoical temper which interposes a sullen +but dauntless pride to attacking sorrow as William Ernest Henley has +done: + + "Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, + I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + + "In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. + Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed." + +Nor can any preacher put in so vital a contrast to this despairing +defiance with which pride challenges sorrow, the joyous victory which a +trusting love wins over it by submitting to it, as John Greenleaf +Whittier has done in "The Eternal Goodness": + + "I know not what the future hath + Of marvel or surprise, + Assured alone that life and death + His mercy underlies. + + "I know not where His islands lift + Their fronded palms in air: + I only know I cannot drift + Beyond His love and care." + +No philosophical treatise can interpret bereavement as the great poets +have interpreted it. The mystery of sorrow, the bewilderment it causes, +the wonder whether there is any God or any good, the silence that is the +only answer to our call for help, the tumult of emotion, the strange +perplexity of mind, the dull despair, the inexplicable paralysis of +feeling, intermingling in one wholly inconsistent and incongruous +experience: where, in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such +an exposition and echo and interpretation of this experience as in that +great Hebrew epic--the Book of Job? And where in all the literature of +Philosophy can we find such interpreters of the two great comforters of +the soul, faith and hope, as one finds in the poets? They do not argue; +they simply sing. And, as a note struck upon one of a chime of bells +will set the neighboring bell vibrating, so the strong note of faith and +hope sounded by the poet, sets a like note vibrating in the mourner's +heart. The mystery is not solved, but the silence is broken. First we +listen to the poet, then we listen to the same song sung in our own +hearts,--the same, for it is God who has sung to him and who sings to +us. And when the bereaved has found God, he has found light in his +darkness, peace in his tempest, a ray in his night. + + "As a child, + Whose song-bird seeks the wood forevermore, + Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth; + Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, + He sleep the faster that he wept before." + +The visitor to the island of Catalina, off the coast of California, is +invited to go out in a glass-bottomed boat upon the sea. If he accepts +the invitation and looks about him with careless curiosity, he will +enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean wave, and the architectural +beauty of the island hills; but if he turns his gaze downward and looks +through the glass bottom of the boat in which he is sailing, he will +discover manifold phases of beauty in the life beneath the sea waves: in +goldfish darting hither and thither, in umbrella-shaped jellyfish lazily +swimming by, in starfish and anemones of infinite variety, in +sea-urchins brilliant in color, and in an endless forest of water-weeds +exquisitely delicate in their structure. Perhaps he will try to +photograph them; but in vain: his camera will render him no report of +the wealth of life which he has seen. So he who takes up such a volume +of poetry as this will find ample repayment in the successive pictures +which it presents to his imagination, and the transient emotions which +it will excite in him. But besides this there is a secret life which the +careless reader will fail to see, and which the critic cannot report, +but which will be revealed to the thoughtful, patient, meditative +student. In this power to reveal an otherwise unknown world, lies the +true glory of poetry. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the +poet has to say to him. + +[Signature: Lyman Abbot] + + * * * * * + + + + TABLE OF CONTENTS + + +INTRODUCTORY ESSAY: + + "AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE." By _Lyman Abbot_ + + +POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION: + + DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE + PARTING AND ABSENCE + ADVERSITY + COMFORT AND CHEER + DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT + CONSOLATION + + +INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW _Frontispiece_ + + _Photogravure from photograph by Hanfstaengl after portrait by Kramer_. + +PENELOPE AWAITING ULYSSES + + _The patient grief and endurance of Absence: while the tapestry + woven by day stands on the frame to be unravelled by night, as the + loyal wife puts off her suitors. Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch_. + +ABSENCE + + "What shall I do with all the days and hours + That must be counted ere I see thy face?" + + _From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after a painting by + R. Pötzelberger_. + +WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND + + "Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods! + Behold, with throe on throe, + How, wasted by this woe, + I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!" + + _From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff_. + + +PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER + + _From lithograph after a crayon-drawing by H. Alophe_. + + +THOMAS HOOD + + _After an engraving from contemporary portrait_. + + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING + + _After a photograph from life by Talfourd, London_. + +THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD + + "Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." + + _After an original drawing by Harry Fenn_. + + +LOVE AND DEATH + + "Death comes in, + Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread, + Would bar the way." + + _From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts_. + +WALT WHITMAN + + _After a life-photograph by Rockwood, New York_. + +HARRIET BEECHER STOWE + + _From an engraving after the drawing by George Richmond_. + + +SIR EDWIN ARNOLD + + _After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London_. + + + + + * * * * * + + + POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION. + + + * * * * * + + + + +I. DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE. + + + +THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. + + FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1. + + +For aught that ever I could read, +Could ever hear by tale or history, +The course of true love never did run smooth: +But, either it was different in blood, +Or else misgraffèd in respect of years, +Or else it stood upon the choice of friends; +Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, +War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, +Making it momentary as a sound, +Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; +Brief as the lightning in the collied night, +That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, +And ere a man hath power to say,--Behold! +The jaws of darkness do devour it up: +So quick bright things come to confusion. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. + + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + Of me you shall not win renown; +You thought to break a country heart + For pastime, ere you went to town. +At me you smiled, but unbeguiled + I saw the snare, and I retired: +The daughter of a hundred Earls, + You are not one to be desired. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + I know you proud to bear your name; +Your pride is yet no mate for mine, + Too proud to care from whence I came. +Nor would I break for your sweet sake + A heart that dotes on truer charms. +A simple maiden in her flower + Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + Some meeker pupil you must find, +For were you queen of all that is, + I could not stoop to such a mind. +You sought to prove how I could love, + And my disdain is my reply. +The lion on your old stone gates + Is not more cold to you than I. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + You put strange memories in my head. +Not thrice your branching lines have blown + Since I beheld young Laurence dead. +O your sweet eyes, your low replies: + A great enchantress you may be; +But there was that across his throat + Which you had hardly cared to see. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + When thus he met his mother's view, +She had the passions of her kind, + She spake some certain truths of you. +Indeed I heard one bitter word + That scarce is fit for you to hear; +Her manners had not that repose + Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + There stands a spectre in your hall: +The guilt of blood is at your door: + You changed a wholesome heart to gall. +You held your course without remorse, + To make him trust his modest worth, +And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, + And slew him with your noble birth. + +Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, + From yon blue heavens above us bent +The grand old gardener and his wife + Smile at the claims of long descent. +Howe'er it be, it seems to me, + 'T is only noble to be good. +Kind hearts are more than coronets, + And simple faith than Norman blood. + +I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: + You pine among your halls and towers: +The languid light of your proud eyes + Is wearied of the rolling hours. +In glowing health, with boundless wealth, + But sickening of a vague disease, +You know so ill to deal with time, + You needs must play such pranks as these. + +Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, + If Time be heavy on your hands, +Are there no beggars at your gate. + Nor any poor about your lands? +Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, + Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, +Pray Heaven for a human heart, + And let the foolish yeoman go. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +LINDA TO HAFED. + + FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." + + +"How sweetly," said the trembling maid, +Of her own gentle voice afraid, +So long had they in silence stood, +Looking upon that moonlight flood,-- +"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile +To-night upon yon leafy isle! +Oft in my fancy's wanderings, +I've wished that little isle had wings, +And we, within its fairy bowers, + Were wafted off to seas unknown, +Where not a pulse should beat but ours, + And we might live, love, die alone! +Far from the cruel and the cold,-- + Where the bright eyes of angels only +Should come around us, to behold + A paradise so pure and lonely! +Would this be world enough for thee?"-- +Playful she turned, that he might see + The passing smile her cheek put on; +But when she marked how mournfully + His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; +And, bursting into heartfelt tears, +"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, +My dreams, have boded all too right,-- +We part--forever part--to-night! +I knew, I knew it _could_ not last,-- +'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past! +O, ever thus, from childhood's hour, + I've seen my fondest hopes decay; +I never loved a tree or flower + But 't was the first to fade away. +I never nursed a dear gazelle, + To glad me with its soft black eye, +But when it came to know me well, + And love me, it was sure to die! +Now, too, the joy most like divine + Of all I ever dreamt or knew, +To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,-- + O misery! must I lose _that_ too?" + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +LOVE NOT. + + +Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! +Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers,-- +Things that are made to fade and fall away +Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. + Love not! + +Love not! the thing ye love may change; +The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, +The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, +The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. + Love not! + +Love not! the thing you love may die,-- +May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; +The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, +Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. + Love not! + +Love not! O warning vainly said +In present hours as in years gone by! +Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, +Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. + Love not! + +CAROLINE ELIZABETH SHERIDAN. (HON. MRS. NORTON.) + + + +THE PRINCESS. + + +The Princess sat lone in her maiden bower, +The lad blew his horn at the foot of the tower. +"Why playest thou alway? Be silent, I pray, +It fetters my thoughts that would flee far away. + As the sun goes down." + +In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, +The lad had ceased to play on his horn. +"Oh, why art thou silent? I beg thee to play! +It gives wings to my thought that would flee far away, + As the sun goes down." + +In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, +Once more with delight played the lad on his horn. +She wept as the shadows grew long, and she sighed: +"Oh, tell me, my God, what my heart doth betide, + Now the sun has gone down." + +From the Norwegian of BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON. +Translation of NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. + + + +UNREQUITED LOVE. + + FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4. + + +VIOLA.--Ay, but I know,-- + +DUKE. What dost thou know? + +VIOLA.--Too well what love women to men may owe: +In faith, they are as true of heart as we. +My father had a daughter loved a man, +As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, +I should your lordship. + +DUKE.--And what's her history? + +VIOLA.--A blank, my lord. She never told her love, +But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, +Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; +And, with a green and yellow melancholy, +She sat like Patience on a monument, +Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? +We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, +Our shows are more than will; for still we prove +Much in our vows, but little in our love. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +FAIR INES. + + +O saw ye not fair Ines? she's gone into the west, +To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest; +She took our daylight with her, the smiles that we love best, +With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her breast. + +O turn again, fair Ines, before the fall of night, +For fear the moon should shine alone, and stars unrivalled bright; +And blessèd will the lover be that walks beneath their light, +And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! + +Would I had been, fair Ines, that gallant cavalier +Who rode so gayly by thy side and whispered thee so near! +Were there no bonny dames at home, or no true lovers here, +That he should cross the seas to win the dearest of the dear? + +I saw thee, lovely Ines, descend along the shore, +With bands of noble gentlemen, and banners waved before; +And gentle youth and maidens gay, and snowy plumes they wore;-- +It would have been a beauteous dream--if it had been no more! + +Alas! alas! fair Ines! she went away with song, +With music waiting on her steps, and shoutings of the throng; +But some were sad, and felt no mirth, but only Music's wrong, +In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell to her you've loved so long. + +Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! that vessel never bore +So fair a lady on its deck, nor danced so light before-- +Alas for pleasure on the sea, and sorrow on the shore! +The smile that blest one lover's heart has broken many more! + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +THE BANKS O' DOON. + + +Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, + How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? +How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae weary, fu' o' care? + +Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, + That wantons through the flowering thorn; +Thou minds me o' departed joys, + Departed--never to return. + +Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird, + That sings beside thy mate; +For sae I sat, and sae I sang, + And wistna o' my fate. + +Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, + To see the rose and woodbine twine; +And ilka bird sang o' its luve, + And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. + +Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose, + Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; +And my fause luver stole my rose, + But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +SONNET. + + FROM "ASTROPHEL AND STELLA." + + +With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, +How silently, and with how wan a face! +What may it be, that even in heavenly place +That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? +Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes +Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; +I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace +To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. +Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, +Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? +Are beauties there as proud as here they be? +Do they above love to be loved, and yet +Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? +Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? + +SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. + + + +AGATHA. + + +She wanders in the April woods, + That glisten with the fallen shower; +She leans her face against the buds, + She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. + She feels the ferment of the hour: +She broodeth when the ringdove broods; + The sun and flying clouds have power +Upon her cheek and changing moods. + She cannot think she is alone, + As over her senses warmly steal + Floods of unrest she fears to own + And almost dreads to feel. + +Among the summer woodlands wide + Anew she roams, no more alone; +The joy she feared is at her side, + Spring's blushing secret now is known. + The primrose and its mates have flown, +The thrush's ringing note hath died; + But glancing eye and glowing tone +Fall on her from her god, her guide. + She knows not, asks not, what the goal, + She only feels she moves towards bliss, + And yields her pure unquestioning soul + To touch and fondling kiss. + +And still she haunts those woodland ways, + Though all fond fancy finds there now +To mind of spring or summer days, + Are sodden trunk and songless bough. + The past sits widowed on her brow, +Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, + To walls that house a hollow vow, +To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze; + Watches the clammy twilight wane, + With grief too fixed for woe or tear; + And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, + Envies the dying year. + +ALFRED AUSTIN. + + + +THE SUN-DIAL. + + +'T is an old dial, dark with many a stain; + In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, +Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, + And white in winter like a marble tomb. + +And round about its gray, time-eaten brow + Lean letters speak,--a worn and shattered row: +=I am a Shade; a Shadowe too art thou: + I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?= + +Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head; + And here the snail a silver course would run, +Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread + His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. + +The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; + Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, +That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune,-- + Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. + +O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; + About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; +And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, + Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. + +She leaned upon the slab a little while, + Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, +Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, + Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. + +The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; + There came a second lady to the place, +Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale,-- + An inner beauty shining from her face. + +She, as if listless with a lonely love, + Straying among the alleys with a book,-- +Herrick or Herbert,--watched the circling dove, + And spied the tiny letter in the nook. + +Then, like to one who confirmation found + Of some dread secret half-accounted true,-- +Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound, + And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,-- + +She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; + The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; +And 'twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone + The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. + +The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; + Then came a soldier gallant in her stead, +Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, + A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head. + +Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, + Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; +So kindly fronted that you marvelled how + The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; + +Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; + Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; +And standing somewhat widely, like to one + More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe + +As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, + Took out the note;--held it as one who feared +The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; + Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; + +Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; + Laughed softly in a flattered, happy way, +Arranged the broidered baldrick on his crest, + And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. + + * * * * * + +The shade crept forward through the dying glow; + There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; +But for a little time the brass will show + A small gray spot,--the record of a tear. + +AUSTIN DOBSON. + + + +LOCKSLEY HALL. + + +Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn,-- +Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. + +'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, +Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall: + +Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, +And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. + +Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, +Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west. + +Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, +Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. + +Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime +With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time; + +When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; +When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed; + +When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,-- +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. + +In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; +In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; + +In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove; +In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. + +Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, +And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. + +And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me; +Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." + +On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, +As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. + +And she turned,--her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs; +All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes,-- + +Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;" +Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long." + +Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands; +Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. + +Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; +Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. + +Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, +And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring. + +Many an evening by the water did we watch the stately ships, +And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. + +O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more! +O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! + +Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,-- +Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! + +Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me; to decline +On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! + +Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day, +What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. + +As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, +And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. + +He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, +Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. + +What is this? his eyes are heavy,--think not they are glazed with wine. +Go to him; it is thy duty,--kiss him; take his hand in thine. + +It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over wrought,-- +Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. + +He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand,-- +Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hand. + +Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, +Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. + +Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! +Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! + +Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule +Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool! + +Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved, +Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. + +Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? +I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. + +Never! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come +As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home. + +Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? +Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? + +I remember one that perished; sweetly did she speak and move; +Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. + +Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? +No,--she never loved me truly; love is love forevermore. + +Comfort? comfort scorned of devils; this is truth the poet sings, +That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. + +Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, +In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. + +Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art staring at the wall, +Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. + +Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, +To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. + +Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years, +And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; + +And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. +Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. + +Nay, but nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry; +'Tis a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. + +Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest,-- +Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. + +O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. +Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. + +O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, +With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. + +"They were dangerous guides, the feelings--she herself was not exempt-- +Truly, she herself had suffered"--Perish in thy self-contempt! + +Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care? +I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. + +What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? +Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. + +Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow. +I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? + +I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, +When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. + +But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels, +And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. + +Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. +Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous mother-age! + +Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, +When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; + +Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, +Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, + +And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, +Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; + +And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, +Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men; + +Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: +That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: + +For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; + +Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, +Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; + +Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew +From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; + +Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, +With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-storm; + +Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled +In the parliament of man, the federation of the world. + +There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, +And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. + +So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry, +Left me with a palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; + +Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint. +Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: + +Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, +Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire. + +Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, +And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. + +What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, +Though the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's? + +Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I linger on the shore +And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. + +Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, +Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness of his rest. + +Hark! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle horn,-- +They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn; + +Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string? +I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. + +Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain-- +Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain; + +Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine, +Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine-- + +Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah for some retreat +Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat! + +Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starred; +I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. + +Or to burst all links of habit,--there to wander far away, +On from island unto island at the gateways of the day, + +Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, +Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. + +Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,-- +Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag,-- + +Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree,-- +Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. + +There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind-- +In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. + +There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and + breathing-space; +I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. + +Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run, +Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun, + +Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, +Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books-- + +Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, +But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. + +I, to herd with narrow foreheads vacant of our glorious gains, +Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! + +Mated with a squalid savage,--what to me were sun or clime? +I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time,-- + +I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one, +Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! + +Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range; +Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. + +Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: +Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. + +Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun,-- +Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun, + +O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set; +Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet. + +Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! +Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. + +Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, +Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. + +Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; +For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +SONG. + + +"A weary lot is thine, fair maid, + A weary lot is thine! +To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, + And press the rue for wine! +A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, + A feather of the blue, +A doublet of the Lincoln green-- + No more of me you knew, + My love! + No more of me you knew. + +"The morn is merry June, I trow-- + The rose is budding fain; +But she shall bloom in winter snow + Ere we two meet again." +He turned his charger as he spake, + Upon the river shore; +He gave his bridle-rein a shake, + Said, "Adieu for evermore, + My love! + And adieu for evermore." + +SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + +AULD ROBIN GRAY. + + +When the sheep are in the fauld and the kye a' at hame, +When a' the weary world to sleep are gane, +The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, +While my gudeman lies sound by me. + +Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; +But saving a crown, he had naething else beside. +To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea; +And the crown and the pound, they were baith for me! + +He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, +When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa; +My father brak his arm--my Jamie at the sea-- +And Auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. + +My father couldna work,--my mither couldna spin; +I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; +And Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, +Said, "Jennie for their sakes, will you marry me?" + +My heart it said na, for I looked for Jamie back; +But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; +His ship was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee? +Or why was I spared to cry, Wae is me! + +My father argued sair--my mither didna speak, +But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; +They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea; +And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me. + +I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, +When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, +I saw my Jamie's ghaist--I couldna think it he, +Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, for to marry thee!" + +O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say: +Ae kiss we took--nae mair--I bad him gang away. +I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, +And why do I live to say, Wae is me! + +I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; +I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. +But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, +For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind unto me. + +LADY ANNE BARNARD. + + + +TO A PORTRAIT. + + +A pensive photograph + Watches me from the shelf-- +Ghost of old love, and half + Ghost of myself! + +How the dear waiting eyes + Watch me and love me yet-- +Sad home of memories, + Her waiting eyes! + +Ghost of old love, wronged ghost, + Return: though all the pain +Of all once loved, long lost, + Come back again. + +Forget not, but forgive! + Alas, too late I cry. +We are two ghosts that had their chance to live, + And lost it, she and I. + +ARTHUR SYMONS. + + + +MAUD MULLER. + + +Maud Muller, on a summer's day, +Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + +Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth +Of simple beauty and rustic health. + +Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee +The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + +But, when she glanced to the far-off town, +White from its hill-slope looking down, + +The sweet song died, and a vague unrest +And a nameless longing filled her breast,-- + +A wish, that she hardly dared to own, +For something better than she had known. + +The Judge rode slowly down the lane, +Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + +He drew his bridle in the shade +Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + +And ask a draught from the spring that flowed +Through the meadow, across the road. + +She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, +And filled for him her small tin cup, + +And blushed as she gave it, looking down +On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + +"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught +From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + +He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, +Of the singing birds and the humming bees; + +Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether +The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + +And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, +And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, + +And listened, while a pleased surprise +Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + +At last, like one who for delay +Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + +Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! +That I the Judge's bride might be! + +"He would dress me up in silks so fine, +And praise and toast me at his wine. + +"My father should wear a broadcloth coat, +My brother should sail a painted boat. + +"I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, +And the baby should have a new toy each day. + +"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, +And all should bless me who left our door." + +The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, +And saw Maud Muller standing still: + +"A form more fair, a face more sweet, +Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. + +"And her modest answer and graceful air +Show her wise and good as she is fair. + +"Would she were mine, and I to-day, +Like her, a harvester of hay. + +"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, +Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + +"But low of cattle, and song of birds, +And health, and quiet, and loving words." + +But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, +And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. + +So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, +And Maud was left in the field alone. + +But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, +When he hummed in court an old love tune; + +And the young girl mused beside the well, +Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. + +He wedded a wife of richest dower, +Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + +Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, +He watched a picture come and go; + +And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes +Looked out in their innocent surprise. + +Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, +He longed for the wayside well instead, + +And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, +To dream of meadows and clover blooms; + +And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, +"Ah, that I were free again! + +"Free as when I rode that day +Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." + +She wedded a man unlearned and poor, +And many children played round her door. + +But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, +Left their traces on heart and brain. + +And oft, when the summer sun shone hot +On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + +And she heard the little spring brook fall +Over the roadside, through the wall, + +In the shade of the apple-tree again +She saw a rider draw his rein, + +And, gazing down with a timid grace, +She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + +Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls +Stretched away into stately halls; + +The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, +The tallow candle an astral burned; + +And for him who sat by the chimney lug, +Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + +A manly form at her side she saw, +And joy was duty and love was law. + +Then she took up her burden of life again, +Saying only, "It might have been." + +Alas for maiden, alas for judge, +For rich repiner and household drudge! + +God pity them both! and pity us all, +Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; + +For of all sad words of tongue or pen, +The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + +Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies +Deeply buried from human eyes; + +And, in the hereafter, angels may +Roll the stone from its grave away! + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + + +THE PALM AND THE PINE. + + +Beneath an Indian palm a girl + Of other blood reposes; +Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl + Amid that wild of roses. + +Beside a northern pine a boy + Is leaning fancy-bound. +Nor listens where with noisy joy + Awaits the impatient hound. + +Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, + Relaxed the frosty twine.-- +The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, + The palm-tree of the pine. + +As soon shall nature interlace + Those dimly-visioned boughs, +As these young lovers face to face + Renew their early vows. + +From the German of HEINRICH HEINE. +Translation of RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON. + + + +CUMNOR HALL. + + [SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE SUGGESTIVE ORIGIN OF SCOTT'S + "KENILWORTH."] + + +The dews of summer night did fall; + The moon, sweet regent of the sky, +Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby. + +Now naught was heard beneath the skies, + The sounds of busy life were still, +Save an unhappy lady's sighs, + That issued from that lonely pile. + +"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love + That thou so oft hast sworn to me, +To leave me in this lonely grove, + Immured in shameful privity? + +"No more thou com'st with lover's speed, + Thy once belovèd bride to see; +But be she alive, or be she dead, + I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. + +"Not so the usage I received + When happy in my father's hall; +No faithless husband then me grieved, + No chilling fears did me appal. + +"I rose up with the cheerful morn, + No lark more blithe, no flower more gay +And like the bird that haunts the thorn, + So merrily sung the livelong day. + +"If that my beauty is but small, + Among court ladies all despised, +Why didst thou rend it from that hall, + Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? + +"And when you first to me made suit, + How fair I was, you oft would say! +And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, + Then left the blossom to decay. + +"Yes! now neglected and despised, + The rose is pale, the lily's dead; +But he, that once their charms so prized, + Is sure the cause those charms are fled. + +"For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, + And tender love's repaid with scorn, +The sweetest beauty will decay,-- + What floweret can endure the storm? + +"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, + Where every lady's passing rare, +That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun, + Are not so glowing, not so fair. + +"Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds + Where roses and where lilies vie, +To seek a primrose, whose pale shades + Must sicken when those gauds are by? + +"'Mong rural beauties I was one, + Among the fields wild flowers are fair; +Some country swain might me have won, + And thought my beauty passing rare. + +"But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,) + Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows; +Rather ambition's gilded crown + Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. + +"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, + (The injured surely may repine,)-- +Why didst thou wed a country maid, + When some fair princess might be thine? + +"Why didst thou praise my humble charms, + And, oh! then leave them to decay? +Why didst thou win me to thy arms, + Then leave to mourn the livelong day? + +"The village maidens of the plain + Salute me lowly as they go; +Envious they mark my silken train, + Nor think a Countess can have woe. + +"The simple nymphs! they little know + How far more happy 's their estate; +To smile for joy than sigh for woe + To be content--than to be great. + +"How far less blest am I than them + Daily to pine and waste with care! +Like the poor plant, that, from its stem + Divided, feels the chilling air. + +"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy + The humble charms of solitude; +Your minions proud my peace destroy, + By sullen frowns or pratings rude. + +"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, + The village death-bell smote my ear; +They winked aside, and seemed to say, + 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near.' + +"And now, while happy peasants sleep, + Here I sit lonely and forlorn; +No one to soothe me as I weep, + Save Philomel on yonder thorn. + +"My spirits flag--my hopes decay-- + Still that dread death-bell smites my ear, +And many a boding seems to say, + 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'" + +Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, + In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, +And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, + And let fall many a bitter tear. + +And ere the dawn of day appeared, + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, +Full many a piercing scream was heard, + And many a cry of mortal fear. + +The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, + An aerial voice was heard to call, +And thrice the raven flapped its wing + Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. + +The mastiff bowled at village door, + The oaks were shattered on the green; +Woe was the hour, for nevermore + That hapless Countess e'er was seen. + +And in that manor now no more + Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; +For ever since that dreary hour + Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. + +The village maids, with fearful glance, + Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, +Nor ever lead the merry dance, + Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. + +Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, + And pensive wept the Countess' fall, +As wandering onward they've espied + The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. + + + +WALY, WALY. + + +O waly, waly, up the bank, + O waly, waly, doun the brae, +And waly, waly, yon burn-side, + Where I and my love were wont to gae! +I leaned my back unto an aik, + I thocht it was a trustie tree, +But first it bowed and syne it brak',-- + Sae my true love did lichtlie me. + +O waly, waly, but love be bonnie + A little time while it is new! +But when it's auld it waxeth cauld, + And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. +O wherefore should I busk my heid. + Or wherefore should I kame my hair? +For my true love has me forsook, + And says he'll never lo'e me mair. + +Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed, + The sheets sall ne'er be pressed by me; +Saint Anton's well sall be my drink; + Since my true love's forsaken me. +Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, + And shake the green leaves off the tree? +O gentle death, when wilt thou come? + For of my life I am wearie. + +'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, + Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, +'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; + But my love's heart grown cauld to me. +When we cam' in by Glasgow toun, + We were a comely sicht to see; +My love was clad in the black velvet, + An' I mysel' in cramasie. + +But had I wist before I kissed + That love had been so ill to win, +I 'd locked my heart in a case o' goud, + And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. +Oh, oh! if my young babe were born, + And set upon the nurse's knee; +And I mysel' were dead and gane, + And the green grass growing over me! + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. + +A SCOTTISH SONG. + + +Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! +It grieves me sair to see thee weipe; +If thoust be silent, Ise be glad, +Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. +Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy! +Thy father breides me great annoy. + _Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe! + It grieves me sair to see thee weipe._ + +When he began to court my luve, +And with his sugred words to muve, +His faynings fals and flattering cheire +To me that time did not appeire: +But now I see, most cruell hee, +Cares neither for my babe nor mee. + _Balow_, etc. + +Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, +And when thou wakest sweitly smile: +But smile not, as thy father did, +To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! +But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, +Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. + _Balow_, etc. + +I cannae chuse, but ever will +Be luving to thy father stil: +Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, +My luve with him maun stil abyde: +In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, +Mine hart can neir depart him frae. + _Balow_, etc. + +But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, +To faynings fals thine hart incline; +Be loyal to thy luver trew, +And nevir change hir for a new; +If gude or faire, of hir have care, +For womens banning's wonderous sair. + _Balow_, etc. + +Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, +Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; +My babe and I 'll together live, +He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve; +My babe and I right saft will ly, +And quite forgeit man's cruelty. + _Balow_, etc. + +Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth +That ever kist a woman's mouth! +I wish all maids be warned by mee, +Nevir to trust man's curtesy; +For if we doe but chance to bow, +They'll use us then they care not how. + _Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe! + It grieves me sair to see thee weipe._ + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. + + +My heid is like to rend, Willie, + My heart is like to break; +I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, + I'm dyin' for your sake! +O, say ye'll think on me, Willie, + Your hand on my briest-bane,-- +O, say ye'll think of me, Willie, + When I am deid and gane! + +It's vain to comfort me, Willie, + Sair grief maun ha'e its will; +But let me rest upon your briest + To sab and greet my fill. +Let me sit on your knee, Willie, + Let me shed by your hair, +And look into the face, Willie, + I never sall see mair! + +I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, + For the last time in my life,-- +A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, + A mither, yet nae wife. +Ay, press your hand upon my heart, + And press it mair and mair, +Or it will burst the silken twine, + Sae strang is its despair. + +O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, + When we thegither met,-- +O, wae's me for the time, Willie, + That our first tryst was set! +O, wae's me for the loanin' green + Where we were wont to gae,-- +And wae's me for the destinie + That gart me luve thee sae! + +O, dinna mind my words, Willie, + I downa seek to blame; +But O, it's hard to live, Willie, + And dree a warld's shame! +Het tears are hailin' ower our cheek, + And hailin' ower your chin: +Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, + For sorrow, and for sin? + +I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, + And sick wi' a' I see, +I canna live as I ha'e lived, + Or be as I should be. +But fauld unto your heart, Willie, + The heart that still is thine, +And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek + Ye said was red langsyne. + +A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, + A sair stoun' through my heart; +O, haud me up and let me kiss + Thy brow ere we twa pairt. +Anither, and anither yet!-- + How fast my life-strings break!-- +Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard + Step lichtly for my sake! + +The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, + That lifts far ower our heid, +Will sing the morn as merrilie + Abune the clay-cauld deid; +And this green turf we're sittin' on, + Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, +Will hap the heart that luvit thee + As warld has seldom seen. + +But O, remember me, Willie, + On land where'er ye be; +And O, think on the leal, leal heart, + That ne'er luvit ane but thee! +And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools + That file my yellow hair, +That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin + Ye never sall kiss mair! + +WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. + + + +ASHES OF ROSES. + + +Soft on the sunset sky + Bright daylight closes, +Leaving, when light doth die, +Pale hues that mingling lie,-- + Ashes of roses. + +When love's warm sun is set, + Love's brightness closes; +Eyes with hot tears are wet, +In hearts there linger yet + Ashes of roses. + +ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN. + + + +A WOMAN'S LOVE. + + +A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory, +Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: +"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! + +"I loved,--and, blind with passionate love, I fell. +Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell; +For God is just, and death for sin is well. + +"I do not rage against his high decree, +Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; +But for my love on earth who mourns for me. + +"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again +And comfort him one hour, and I were fain +To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." + +Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent +That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent +Down to the last hour of thy punishment!" + +But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! +I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. +O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!" + +The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, +And upwards, joyous, like a rising star, +She rose and vanished in the ether far. + +But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, +And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, +She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. + +She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea +Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,-- +She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!" + +She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! +I have been fond and foolish. Let me in +To expiate my sorrow and my sin." + +The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! +To be deceived in your true heart's desire +Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!" + +JOHN HAY. + + + +THE SHADOW ROSE. + + +A noisette on my garden path + An ever-swaying shadow throws; +But if I pluck it strolling by, + I pluck the shadow with the rose. + +Just near enough my heart you stood + To shadow it,--but was it fair +In him, who plucked and bore you off, + To leave your shadow lingering there? + +ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS. + + + +HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE? + + +Has summer come without the rose, + Or left the bird behind? +Is the blue changed above thee, + O world! or am I blind? +Will you change every flower that grows, + Or only change this spot, +Where she who said, I love thee, + Now says, I love thee not? + +The skies seemed true above thee, + The rose true on the tree; +The bird seemed true the summer through, + But all proved false to me. +World, is there one good thing in you, + Life, love, or death--or what? +Since lips that sang, I love thee, + Have said, I love thee not? + +I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall + Into one flower's gold cup; +I think the bird will miss me, + And give the summer up. +O sweet place, desolate in tall + Wild grass, have you forgot +How her lips loved to kiss me, + Now that they kiss me not? + +Be false or fair above me; + Come back with any face, +Summer!--do I care what you do? + You cannot change one place,-- +The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, + The grave I make the spot,-- +Here, where she used to love me, + Here, where she loves me not. + +ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. + + + +THE DIRTY OLD MAN. + +A LAY OF LEADENHALL. + +[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large +hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty +Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of +business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These +verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.] + + +In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man; +Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. +For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, +His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. + +'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street, +One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: +The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, +And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. + +Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, +Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain; +The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, +And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. + +On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell +The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell; +But for house and for man a new title took growth, +Like a fungus,--the Dirt gave its name to them both. + +Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, +The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust. +Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof; +'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof. + +There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man +Lives busy and dirty as ever he can; +With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face, +For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. + +From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, +His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt; +The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,-- +Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. + +Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, +Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare; +And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful, +The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. + +Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom, +To peep at the door of the wonderful room +Such stories are told about, none of them true!-- +The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. + +That room,--forty years since, folk settled and decked it. +The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected, +The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, +For his love and her friends will be with him today. + +With solid and dainty the table is drest, +The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best; +Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, +For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. + +Full forty years since turned the key in that door. +'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. +The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, +May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. + +Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go; +The seats are in order, the dishes a-row: +But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse +Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House. + +Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust; +The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust; +A nosegay was laid before one special chair, +And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. + +The old man has played out his part in the scene. +Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean. +Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban +To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man. + +WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + + +HOME, WOUNDED. + + +Wheel me into the sunshine, +Wheel me into the shadow. +There must be leaves on the woodbine, +Is the kingcup crowned in the meadow? + +Wheel me down to the meadow, +Down to the little river, +In sun or in shadow +I shall not dazzle or shiver, +I shall be happy anywhere, +Every breath of the morning air +Makes me throb and quiver. + +Stay wherever you will, +By the mount or under the hill, +Or down by the little river: +Stay as long as you please, +Give me only a bud from the trees, +Or a blade of grass in morning dew, +Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, +I could look on it forever. + +Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, +Wheel, wheel through the shadow; +There must be odors round the pine, +There must be balm of breathing kine, +Somewhere down in the meadow. +Must I choose? Then anchor me there +Beyond the beckoning poplars, where +The larch is snooding her flowery hair +With wreaths of morning shadow. + +Among the thickest hazels of the brake +Perchance some nightingale doth shake +His feathers, and the air is full of song; +In those old days when I was young and strong, +He used to sing on yonder garden tree, +Beside the nursery. +Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, +And find him singing on the self-same bough +(I know it even now) +Where, since the flit of bat, +In ceaseless voice he sat, +Trying the spring night over, like a tune, +Beneath the vernal moon; +And while I listed long, +Day rose, and still he sang, +And all his stanchless song, +As something falling unaware, +Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, +Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,-- +Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. + + * * * * * + +My soul lies out like a basking hound,-- +A hound that dreams and dozes; +Along my life my length I lay, +I fill to-morrow and yesterday, +I am warm with the suns that have long since set, +I am warm with the summers that are not yet, +And like one who dreams and dozes +Softly afloat on a sunny sea, +Two worlds are whispering over me, +And there blows a wind of roses +From the backward shore to the shore before, +From the shore before to the backward shore, +And like two clouds that meet and pour +Each through each, till core in core +A single self reposes, +The nevermore with the evermore +Above me mingles and closes; +As my soul lies out like the basking hound, +And wherever it lies seems happy ground, +And when, awakened by some sweet sound, +A dreamy eye uncloses, +I see a blooming world around, +And I lie amid primroses,--Years +of sweet primroses, +Springs of fresh primroses, +Springs to be, and springs for me +Of distant dim primroses. + +O, to lie a-dream, a-dream, +To feel I may dream and to know you deem +My work is done forever, +And the palpitating fever, +That gains and loses, loses and gains, +And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains, +Cooled at once by that blood-let +Upon the parapet; +And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavor +Solved and quit by no more fine +Than these limbs of mine, +Spanned and measured once for all +By that right-hand I lost, +Bought up at so light a cost +As one bloody fall +On the soldier's bed, +And three days on the ruined wall +Among the thirstless dead. + +O, to think my name is crost +From duty's muster-roll; +That I may slumber though the clarion call, +And live the joy of an embodied soul +Free as a liberated ghost. +O, to feel a life of deed +Was emptied out to feed +That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,-- +That fire from which I come, as the dead come +Forth from the irreparable tomb, +Or as a martyr on his funeral pile +Heaps up the burdens other men do bear +Through years of segregated care, +And takes the total load +Upon his shoulders broad, +And steps from earth to God. + +O, to think, through good or ill, +Whatever I am you'll love me still; +O, to think, though dull I be, +You that are so grand and free, +You that are so bright and gay, +Will pause to hear me when I will, +As though my head were gray; +A single self reposes, +The nevermore with the evermore +Above me mingles and closes; +As my soul lies out like the basking hound, +And wherever it lies seems happy ground, +And when, awakened by some sweet sound, +A dreamy eye uncloses, +I see a blooming world around, +And I lie amid primroses,-- +Years of sweet primroses, +Springs of fresh primroses. +Springs to be, and springs for me +Of distant dim primroses. + +O, to lie a-dream, a-dream, +To feel I may dream and to know you deem +My work is done forever, +And the palpitating fever, +That gains and loses, loses and gains, +And she, +Perhaps, O even she +May look as she looked when I knew her +In those old days of childish sooth, +Ere my boyhood dared to woo her. +I will not seek nor sue her, +For I'm neither fonder nor truer +Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth, +My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth, +And I only lived to rue her. +But I'll never love another, +And, in spite of her lovers and lands, +She shall love me yet, my brother! + +As a child that holds by his mother, +While his mother speaks his praises, +Holds with eager hands, +And ruddy and silent stands +In the ruddy and silent daisies, +And hears her bless her boy, +And lifts a wondering joy, +So I'll not seek nor sue her, +But I'll leave my glory to woo her, +And I'll stand like a child beside, +And from behind the purple pride +I'll lift my eyes unto her, +And I shall not be denied. +And you will love her, brother dear, +And perhaps next year you'll bring me here +All through the balmy April tide, +And she will trip like spring by my side, +And be all the birds to my ear. + +And here all three we'll sit in the sun, +And see the Aprils one by one, +Primrosed Aprils on and on, +Till the floating prospect closes +In golden glimmers that rise and rise, +And perhaps are gleams of Paradise, +And perhaps too far for mortal eyes, +New springs of fresh primroses, +Springs of earth's primroses, +Springs to be, and springs for me +Of distant dim primroses. + +SYDNEY DOBELL. + + + +DIVIDED. + + +I. + +An empty sky, a world of heather, + Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom: +We two among them wading together, + Shaking out honey, treading perfume. + +Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, + Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet: +Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, + Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. + +Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, + Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, +'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, + Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. + +We two walk till the purple dieth, + And short dry grass under foot is brown, +But one little streak at a distance lieth + Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down. + + +II. + +Over the grass we stepped unto it, + And God, He knoweth how blithe we were! +Never a voice to bid us eschew it; + Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair! + +Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, + We parted the grasses dewy and sheen: +Drop over drop there filtered and slided + A tiny bright beck that trickled between. + +Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, + Light was our talk as of faery bells-- +Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, + Down in their fortunate parallels. + +Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, + We lapped the grass on that youngling spring, +Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, + And said, "Let us follow it westering." + + +III. + +A dappled sky, a world of meadows; + Circling above us the black rooks fly, +'Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadows + Flit on the blossoming tapestry-- + +Flit on the beck--for her long grass parteth, + As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back; +And lo, the sun like a lover darteth + His flattering smile on her wayward track. + +Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather, + Till one steps over the tiny strand, +So narrow, in sooth, that still together + On either brink we go hand in hand. + +The beck grows wider, the hands must sever, + On either margin, our songs all done, +We move apart, while she singeth ever, + Taking the course of the stooping sun. + +He prays, "Come over"--I may not follow; + I cry, "Return"--but he cannot come: +We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; + Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. + + +IV. + +A breathing sigh--a sigh for answer; + A little talking of outward things: +The careless beck is a merry dancer, + Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. + +A little pain when the beck grows wider-- + "Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:" +"I may not cross" and the voice beside her + Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. + +No backward path; ah! no returning: + No second crossing that ripple's flow: +"Come to me now, for the west is burning: + Come ere it darkens."--"Ah, no! ah, no!" + +Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching-- + The beck grows wider and swift and deep; +Passionate words as of one beseeching-- + The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep. + + +V. + +A yellow moon in splendor drooping, + A tired queen with her state oppressed, +Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping, + Lies she soft on the waves at rest. + +The desert heavens have felt her sadness; + Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; +The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, + And goeth stilly as soul that fears. + +We two walk on in our grassy places, + On either marge of the moonlit flood, +With the moon's own sadness in our faces, + Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. + + +VI. + +A shady freshness, chafers whirring, + A little piping of leaf-hid birds; +A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, + A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. + +Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered, + Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined; +Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, + Swell high in their freckled robes behind. + +A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, + When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; +A flashing edge for the milk-white river, + The beck, a river--with still sleek tide. + +Broad and white, and polished as silver, + On she goes under fruit-laden trees; +Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, + And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. + +Glitters the dew, and shines the river; + Up comes the lily and dries her bell; +But two are walking apart forever, + And wave their hands for a mute farewell. + + +VII. + +A braver swell, a swifter sliding; + The river hasteth, her banks recede; +Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding + Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. + +Stately prows are rising and bowing-- + (Shouts of mariners winnow the air)-- +And level sands for banks endowing + The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. + +While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, + And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, +How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, + That moving speck on the far-off side! + +Farther, farther--I see it--know it-- + My eyes brim over, it melts away: +Only my heart to my heart shall show it, + As I walk desolate day by day. + + +VIII. + +And yet I know past all doubting, truly,-- + A knowledge greater than grief can dim-- +I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- + Yea, better--e'en better than I love him: + +And as I walk by the vast calm river, + The awful river so dread to see, +I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever + Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." + +JEAN INGELOW. + + + +TO DIANE DE POITIERS. + + +Farewell! since vain is all my care, + Far, in some desert rude, +I'll hide my weakness, my despair: + And, 'midst my solitude, +I'll pray, that, should another move thee, +He may as fondly, truly love thee. + +Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven! + Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms! +Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given, + Which Love inhabits and illumes! +Your rays have fallen but coldly on me: +One far less fond, perchance, had won ye! + +From the French of CLEMENT MAROT. +Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO. + + + +THE SPINNER. + + +The spinner twisted her slender thread +As she sat and spun: +"The earth and the heavens are mine," she said, +"And the moon and sun; +Into my web the sunlight goes, +And the breath of May, +And the crimson life of the new-blown rose +That was born to-day." + +The spinner sang in the hush of noon +And her song was low: +"Ah, morning, you pass away too soon, +You are swift to go. +My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup +With its hopes and fears. +Love, come and drink the sweetness up +Ere it turn to tears." + +The spinner looked at the falling sun: +"Is it time to rest? +My hands are weary,--my work is done, +I have wrought my best; +I have spun and woven with patient eyes +And with fingers fleet. +Lo! where the toil of a lifetime lies +In a winding-sheet!" + +MARY AINGE DE VERE (_Madeline Bridges_). + + + +TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.[1] + + +Take, O, take those lips away, +That so sweetly were forsworn; +And those eyes, like break of day, +Lights that do mislead the morn; +But my kisses bring again, +Seals of love, but sealed in vain. + +Hide, O, hide those hills of snow +Which thy frozen bosom bears, +On whose tops the pinks that grow +Are yet of those that April wears! +But first set my poor heart free, + +Bound in those icy chains by thee. + +SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER. + + [1] The first stanza of this song appears in Shakespeare's + "Measure for Measure," Activ. Sc. I.; the same, with the + second, stanza added, is found in Beaumont and Fletcher's + "Bloody Brother," Act v. Sc. 2. + + + +WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. + + +I loved thee once, I'll love no more, +Thine be the grief as is the blame; +Thou art not what thou wast before, +What reason I should be the same? +He that can love unloved again, +Hath better store of love than brain: +God sends me love my debts to pay, +While unthrifts fool their love away. + +Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, +If thou hadst still continued mine; +Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, +I might perchance have yet been thine. +But thou thy freedom didst recall, +That if thou might elsewhere inthrall; +And then how could I but disdain +A captive's captive to remain? + +When new desires had conquered thee, +And changed the object of thy will, +It had been lethargy in me, +Not constancy, to love thee still. +Yea, it had been a sin to go +And prostitute affection so, +Since we are taught no prayers to say +To such as must to others pray. + +Yet do thou glory in thy choice. +Thy choice of his good fortune boast; +I 'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, +To see him gain what I have lost; +The height of my disdain shall be, +To laugh at him, to blush for thee; +To love thee still, but go no more +A begging to a beggar's door. + +SIR ROBERT AYTON. + + + +TIME'S REVENGE. + + +She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen, +Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien-- +Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears, +Now sheds her graces in the waste of years. +Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow, +And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow; +And querulous the voice by time repressed, +Whose artless music stole me from my rest. +Age gives redress to love; and silvery hair +And earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair. + +From the Greek of AGATHIAS. +Translation of ROBERT BLAND. + + + +THE DREAM. + + +Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, +A boundary between the things misnamed +Death and existence: sleep hath its own world, +And a wide realm of wild reality, +And dreams in their development have breath, +And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; +They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, +They take a weight from off our waking toils, +They do divide our being; they become +A portion of ourselves as of our time, +And look like heralds of eternity; +They pass like spirits of the past,--they speak +Like sibyls of the future; they have power,-- +The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; +They make us what we were not,--what they will, +And shake us with the vision that's gone by. +The dread of vanished shadows.--Are they so? +Is not the past all shadow? What are they? +Creations of the mind?--The mind can make +Substances, and people planets of its own +With beings brighter than have been, and give +A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. +I would recall a vision which I dreamed +Perchance in sleep,--for in itself a thought, +A slumbering thought, is capable of years, +And curdles a long life into one hour. + +I saw two beings in the hues of youth +Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, +Green and of a mild declivity, the last +As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, +Save that there was no sea to lave its base, +But a most living landscape, and the wave +Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men +Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke +Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill +Was crowned with a peculiar diadem +Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, +Not by the sport of nature, but of man: +These two, a maiden and a youth, were there +Gazing,--the one on all that was beneath +Fair as herself,--but the boy gazed on her; +And both were young, and one was beautiful; +And both were young,--yet not alike in youth. +As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, +The maid was on the eve of womanhood; +The boy had fewer summers, but his heart +Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye +There was but one beloved face on earth, +And that was shining on him; he had looked +Upon it till it could not pass away; +He had no breath, no being, but in hers; +She was his voice; he did not speak to her, +But trembled on her words; she was his sight, +For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, +Which colored all his objects;--he had ceased +To live with himself: she was his life, +The ocean to the river of his thoughts, +Which terminated all; upon a tone, +A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, +And his cheek change tempestuously;--his heart +Unknowing of its cause of agony. +But she in these fond feelings had no share: +Her sighs were not for him; to her he was +Even as a brother,--but no more; 'twas much, +For brotherless she was, save in the name +Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; +Herself the solitary scion left +Of a time-honored race. It was a name +Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not,--and why? +Time taught him a deep answer--when she loved +Another; even _now_ she loved another, +And on the summit of the hill she stood, +Looking afar if yet her lover's steed +Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +There was an ancient mansion, and before +Its walls there was a steed caparisoned; +Within an antique oratory stood +The boy of whom I spake;--he was alone, +And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon +He sate him down, and seized a pen and traced +Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned +His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere +With a convulsion,--then arose again, +And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear +What he had written, but he shed no tears, +And he did calm himself, and fix his brow +Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, +The lady of his love re-entered there; +She was serene and smiling then, and yet +She knew she was by him beloved; she knew-- +For quickly comes such knowledge--that his heart +Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw +That he was wretched, but she saw not all. +He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp +He took her hand; a moment o'er his face +A tablet of unutterable thoughts +Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; +He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps +Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, +For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed +From out the massy gate of that old Hall, +And mounting on his steed he went his way; +And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wilds +Of fiery climes he made himself a home, +And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt +With strange and dusky aspects; he was not +Himself like what he had been; on the sea +And on the shore he was a wanderer; +There was a mass of many images +Crowded like waves upon me, but he was +A part of all; and in the last he lay +Reposing from the noontide sultriness, +Couched among fallen columns, in the shade +Of ruined walls that had survived the names +Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side +Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds +Were fastened near a fountain; and a man, +Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, +While many of his tribe slumbered around: +And they were canopied by the blue sky, +So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, +That God alone was to be seen in heaven. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The lady of his love was wed with one +Who did not love her better: in her home, +A thousand leagues from his,--her native home, +She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, +Daughters and sons of beauty,--but behold! +Upon her face there was the tint of grief, +The settled shadow of an inward strife, +And an unquiet drooping of the eye, +As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. +What could her grief be?--she had all she loved, +And he who had so loved her was not there +To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, +Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. +What could her grief be?--she had loved him not, +Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, +Nor could he be a part of that which preyed +Upon her mind--a spectre of the past. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The wanderer was returned.--I saw him stand +Before an altar--with a gentle bride; +Her face was fair, but was not that which made +The starlight of his boyhood;--as he stood +Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came +The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock +That in the antique oratory shook +His bosom in its solitude; and then-- +As in that hour--a moment o'er his face +The tablet of unutterable thoughts +Was traced,--and then it faded as it came, +And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke +The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, +And all things reeled around him; he could see +Not that which was, nor that which should have been,-- +But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, +And the remembered chambers, and the place, +The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, +All things pertaining to that place and hour, +And her who was his destiny, came back +And thrust themselves between him and the light; +What business had they there at such a time? + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The lady of his love;--O, she was changed, +As by the sickness of the soul! her mind +Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, +They had not their own lustre, but the look +Which is not of the earth; she was become +The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts +Were combinations of disjointed things, +And forms impalpable and unperceived +Of others' sight familiar were to hers. +And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise +Have a far deeper madness, and the glance +Of melancholy is a fearful gift; +What is it but the telescope of truth, +Which strips the distance of its fantasies, +And brings life near in utter nakedness, +Making the cold reality too real! + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The wanderer was alone as heretofore, +The beings which surrounded him were gone, +Or were at war with him; he was a mark +For blight and desolation, compassed round +With hatred and contention; pain was mixed +In all which was served up to him, until, +Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, +He fed on poisons, and they had no power, +But were a kind of nutriment; he lived +Through that which had been death to many men, +And made him friends of mountains: with the stars +And the quick Spirit of the universe +He held his dialogues; and they did teach +To him the magic of their mysteries; +To him the book of Night was opened wide, +And voices from the deep abyss revealed +A marvel and a secret.--Be it so. + +My dream was past; it had no further change. +It was of a strange order, that the doom +Of these two creatures should be thus traced out +Almost like a reality,--the one +To end in madness--both in misery. + +LORD BYRON. + + + +ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE. + + FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." + + +Alas! how light a cause may move +Dissension between hearts that love! +Hearts that the world in vain has tried, +And sorrow but more closely tied; +That stood the storm when waves were rough, +Yet in a sunny hour fall off, +Like ships that have gone down at sea, +When heaven was all tranquillity! + +A something light as air,--a look, + A word unkind or wrongly taken,-- +O, love that tempests never shook, + A breath, a touch like this has shaken! +And ruder words will soon rush in +To spread the breach that words begin; +And eyes forget the gentle ray +They wore in courtship's smiling day; +And voices lose the tone that shed +A tenderness round all they said; +Till fast declining, one by one, +The sweetnesses of love are gone, +And hearts, so lately mingled, seem +Like broken clouds,--or like the stream, +That smiling left the mountain's brow, + As though its waters ne'er could sever, +Yet, ere it reach the plain below, + Breaks into floods that part forever. + +O you, that have the charge of Love, + Keep him in rosy bondage bound, +As in the Fields of Bliss above + He sits, with flowerets fettered round;-- +Loose not a tie that round him clings, +Nor ever let him use his wings; +For even an hour, a minute's flight +Will rob the plumes of half their light. +Like that celestial bird,--whose nest + Is found beneath far Eastern skies,-- + Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, +Lose all their glory when he flies! + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +BLIGHTED LOVE. + + +Flowers are fresh, and bushes green, + Cheerily the linnets sing; +Winds are soft, and skies serene; + Time, however, soon shall throw + Winter's snow +O'er the buxom breast of Spring! + +Hope, that buds in lover's heart, + Lives not through the scorn of years; +Time makes love itself depart; + Time and scorn congeal the mind,-- + Looks unkind +Freeze affection's warmest tears. + +Time shall make the bushes green; + Time dissolve the winter snow; +Winds be soft, and skies serene; + Linnets sing their wonted strain: + But again +Blighted love shall never blow! + +From the Portuguese of LUIS DE CAMOENS. +Translation of LORD STRANGFORD. + + + +THE NEVERMORE. + + +Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; + I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; + Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell +Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; +Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen + Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell + Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, +Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. + +Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart + One moment through my soul the soft surprise + Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,-- +Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart +Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart + Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. + +DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. + + + +THE PORTRAIT. + + +Midnight past! Not a sound of aught + Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. +I sat by the dying fire, and thought + Of the dear dead woman upstairs. + +A night of tears! for the gusty rain + Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; +And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, + With her face all white and wet: + +Nobody with me, my watch to keep, + But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: +And grief had sent him fast to sleep + In the chamber up above. + +Nobody else, in the country place + All round, that knew of my loss beside, +But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, + Who confessed her when she died. + +That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, + And my grief had moved him beyond control; +For his lips grew white, as I could observe, + When he speeded her parting soul. + +I sat by the dreary hearth alone: + I thought of the pleasant days of yore: +I said, "The staff of my life is gone: + The woman I loved is no more. + +"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, + Which next to her heart she used to wear-- +Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes + When my own face was not there. + +"It is set all round with rubies red, + And pearls which a Peri, might have kept. +For each ruby there my heart hath bled: + For each pearl my eyes have wept." + +And I said--"The thing is precious to me: + They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; +It lies on her heart, and lost must be + If I do not take it away." + +I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, + And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, +Till into the chamber of death I came, + Where she lay all in white. + +The moon shone over her winding-sheet, + There stark she lay on her carven bed: +Seven burning tapers about her feet, + And seven about her head. + +As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; + I turned as I drew the curtains apart: +I dared not look on the face of death: + I knew where to find her heart. + +I thought at first, as my touch fell there, + It had warmed that heart to life, with love; +For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, + And I could feel it move. + +'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow + O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side: +And at once the sweat broke over my brow. + "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. + +Opposite me by the tapers' light, + The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, +Stood over the corpse, and all as white, + And neither of us moved. + +"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man + Looked first at me, and then at the dead. +"There is a portrait here," he began; + "There is. It is mine," I said. + +Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, + The portrait was, till a month ago, +When this suffering angel took that out, + And placed mine there, I know." + +"This woman, she loved me well," said I. + "A month ago," said my friend to me: +"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" + He answered, ... "Let us see." + +"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: + And whosesoever the portrait prove, +His shall it be, when the cause is tried, + Where Death is arraigned by Love." + +We found the portrait there, in its place: + We opened it by the tapers' shine: +The gems were all unchanged: the face + Was--neither his nor mine. +"One nail drives out another, at least! + The face of the portrait there," I cried, +"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, + Who confessed her when she died." + +The setting is all of rubies red, + And pearls which a Peri might have kept. +For each ruby there my heart hath bled: + For each pearl my eyes have wept. + +ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (_Owen Meredith_). + + + +ONLY A WOMAN. + + "She loves with love that cannot tire: + And if, ah, woe! she loves alone, + Through passionate duty love flames higher, + As grass grows taller round a stone." + + --COVENTRY PATMORE. + + +So, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake,-- +It will not slay me. My heart shall not break +Awhile, if only for the children's sake. + +For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed; +None say, he gave me less than honor claimed, +Except--one trifle scarcely worth being named-- + +The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be +As easily raised up, breathing,--fair to see, +As he could bring his whole heart back to me. + +I never sought him in coquettish sport, +Or courted him as silly maidens court, +And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. + +I only loved him,--any woman would: +But shut my love up till he came and sued, +Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. + +I was so happy I could make him blest!-- +So happy that I was his first and best, +As he mine,--when he took me to his breast. + +Ah me! if only then he had been true! +If for one little year, a month or two, +He had given me love for love, as was my due! + +Or had he told me, ere the deed was done, +He only raised me to his heart's dear throne-- +Poor substitute--because the queen was gone! + +O, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss +Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss, +He had kissed another woman even as this,-- + +It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep +To be thus cheated, like a child asleep;-- +Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. + +So I built my house upon another's ground; +Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound,-- +A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. + +And when that heart grew colder,--colder still, +I, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil, +Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, + +All,--anything but him. It was to be +The full draught others drink up carelessly +Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. + +I say again,--he gives me all I claimed, +I and my children never shall be shamed: +He is a just man,--he will live unblamed. + +Only--O God, O God, to cry for bread. +And get a stone! Daily to lay my head +Upon a bosom where the old love's dead! + +Dead?--Fool! It never lived. It only stirred +Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard: +So let me bury it without a word. + +He'll keep that other woman from my sight. +I know not if her face be foul or bright; +I only know that it was his delight-- + +As his was mine; I only know he stands +Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands, +Then to a flickering smile his lips commands, + +Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. +He need not. When the ship's gone down, I trow, +We little reck whatever wind may blow. + +And so my silent moan begins and ends, +No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends +Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. + +None knows,--none heeds. I have a little pride; +Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side, +With the same smile as when I was his bride. + +And I shall take his children to my arms; +They will not miss these fading, worthless charms; +Their kiss--ah! unlike his--all pain disarms. + +And haply as the solemn years go by, +He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh, +The other woman was less true than I. + +DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. + + + +DOROTHY IN THE GARRET. + + +In the low-raftered garret, stooping + Carefully over the creaking boards, +Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping + Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards; +Seeking some bundle of patches, hid + Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage, +Or satchel hung on its nail, amid + The heirlooms of a bygone age. + +There is the ancient family chest, + There the ancestral cards and hatchel; +Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest, + Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. +Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom + Of the chimney, where with swifts and reel, +And the long-disused, dismantled loom, + Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel. + +She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen, + A part of her girlhood's little world; +Her mother is there by the window, stitching; + Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled +With many a click: on her little stool + She sits, a child, by the open door, +Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool + Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor + +Her sisters are spinning all day long; + To her wakening sense the first sweet warning +Of daylight come is the cheerful song + To the hum of the wheel in the early morning. +Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy. + On his way to school, peeps in at the gate; +In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy, + She reaches a hand to her bashful mate; + +And under the elms, a prattling pair. + Together they go, through glimmer and gloom:-- +It all comes back to her, dreaming there + In the low-raftered garret room; +The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather. + The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning, +Are all in her memory linked together; + And now it is she herself that is spinning. + +With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip. + Turning the spokes with the flashing pin, +Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip, + Stretching it out and winding it in. +To and fro, with a blithesome tread, + Singing she goes, and her heart is full, +And many a long-drawn golden thread + Of fancy is spun with the shining wool. + +Her father sits in his favorite place, + Puffing his pipe by the chimney-side; +Through curling clouds his kindly face + Glows upon her with love and pride. +Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair + Her mother is musing, cat in lap, +With beautiful drooping head, and hair + Whitening under her snow-white cap. + +One by one, to the grave, to the bridal, + They have followed her sisters from the door; +Now they are old, and she is their idol:-- + It all comes back on her heart once more. +In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly, + The wheel is set by the shadowy wall,-- +A hand at the latch,--'tis lifted lightly, + And in walks Benjie, manly and tall. + +His chair is placed; the old man tips + The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit; +Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips, + And tells his story, and joints his flute: +O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter! + They fill the hour with a glowing tide; +But sweeter the still, deep moments after, + When she is alone by Benjie's side. + +But once with angry words they part: + O, then the weary, weary days! +Ever with restless, wretched heart, + Plying her task, she turns to gaze +Far up the road; and early and late + She harks for a footstep at the door, +And starts at the gust that swings the gate, + And prays for Benjie, who comes no more. + +Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel + Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?-- +Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel, + In duty and love that lighten woe; +Striving with labor, not in vain, + To drive away the dull day's dreariness,-- +Blessing the toil that blunts the pain + Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness. + +Proud and petted and spoiled was she: + A word, and all her life is changed! +His wavering love too easily + In the great, gay city grows estranged: +One year: she sits in the old church pew; + A rustle, a murmur,--O Dorothy! hide +Your face and shut from your soul the view-- + 'Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride! + +Now father and mother have long been dead, + And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone, +And a bent old man with a grizzled head + Walks up the long dim aisle alone. +Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy + Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems, +And the phantom of youth, more real than she, + That meets her there in that haunt of dreams. + +Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter, + Sought by many a youthful adorer, +Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water, + Shining an endless vista before her! +Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray, + Groping under the farm-house eaves,-- +And life was a brief November day + That sets on a world of withered leaves! + +Yet faithfulness in the humblest part + Is better at last than proud success, +And patience and love in a chastened heart + Are pearls more precious than happiness; +And in that morning when she shall wake + To the spring-time freshness of youth again, +All trouble will seem but a flying flake, + And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane. + +JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. + + + +THE NUN AND HARP. + + +What memory fired her pallid face, + What passion stirred her blood, +What tide of sorrow and desire + Poured its forgotten flood +Upon a heart that ceased to beat, +Long since, with thought that life was sweet, +When nights were rich with vernal dusk, + And the rose burst its bud? + +Had not the western glory then + Stolen through the latticed room, +Her funeral raiment would have shed + A more heart-breaking gloom; +Had not a dimpled convent-maid +Hung in the doorway, half afraid, +And left the melancholy place + Bright with her blush and bloom! + +Beside the gilded harp she stood, + And through the singing strings +Wound those wan hands of folded prayer + In murmurous preludings. +Then, like a voice, the harp rang high +Its melody, as climb the sky, +Melting against the melting blue, + Some bird's vibrating wings. + +Ah, why, of all the songs that grow + Forever tenderer, +Chose she that passionate refrain + Where lovers 'mid the stir +Of wassailers that round them pass +Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas, +In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled, + What meant that song to her! + +Slowly the western ray forsook + The statue in its shrine; +A sense of tears thrilled all the air + Along the purpling line. +Earth seemed a place of graves that rang +To hollow footsteps, while she sang, +"Drink to me only with thine eyes. + And I will pledge with mine!" + +HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. + + + +FIDELITY IN DOUBT. + + + Come, lady, to my song incline, + The last that shall assail thine ear. + None other cares my strains to hear, +And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted! +Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted; +But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet, +That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet! + Yea, I will yield this life of mine + In every deed, if cause appear, + Without another boon to cheer. +Honor it is to be by thee incited +To any deed; and I, when most benighted +By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet, +And brave men still do their occasion meet. + +From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX. +Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON. + + + +FAITH. + + +Better trust all and be deceived, +And weep that trust and that deceiving, +Than doubt one heart that, if believed, +Had blessed one's life with true believing. + +O, in this mocking world too fast +The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; +Better be cheated to the last +Than lose the blessed hope of truth. + +FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE-BUTLER. + + * * * * * + + + + +II. PARTING AND ABSENCE + + + +PARTING. + + +If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, +But for one night though that farewell may be, +Press thou his hand in thine. +How canst thou tell how far from thee +Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes? +Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street, +And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years, +Ere they have looked in loving eyes again. +Parting, at best, is underlaid +With tears and pain. +Therefore, lest sudden death should come between. +Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm +The hand of him who goeth forth; +Unseen, Fate goeth too. +Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest word +Between the idle talk, +Lest with thee henceforth, +Night and day, regret should walk. + +COVENTRY PATMORE. + + + +TO LUCASTA. + + ON GOING TO THE WARS. + + +Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, + That from the nunnerie +Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, + To warre and armes I flee. + +True, a new mistresse now I chase.-- + The first foe in the field; +And with a stronger faith imbrace + A sword, a horse, a shield. + +Yet this inconstancy is such + As you, too, shall adore; +I could not love thee, deare, so much, + Loved I not honour more. + +RICHARD LOVELACE. + + + +GOOD-BYE. + + +"Farewell! farewell!" is often heard + From the lips of those who part: +'Tis a whispered tone,--'tis a gentle word, + But it springs not from the heart. +It may serve for the lover's closing lay, + To be sung 'neath a summer sky; +But give to me the lips that say + The honest words, "Good-bye!" +"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear, + In the guise of courtly speech: +But when we leave the kind and dear, + 'Tis not what the soul would teach. +Whene'er we grasp the hands of those + We would have forever nigh, +The flame of Friendship bursts and glows + In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye." + +The mother, sending forth her child + To meet with cares and strife, +Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears + For the loved one's future life. +No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives + Within her choking sigh, +But the deepest sob of anguish gives, + "God bless thee, boy! Good-bye!" + +Go, watch the pale and dying one, + When the glance hast lost its beam; +When the brow is cold as the marble stone, + And the world a passing dream; +And the latest pressure of the hand, + The look of the closing eye, +Yield what the heart _must_ understand, + A long, a last Good-bye. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART. + + +Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; +Ae fareweel, alas, forever! +Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; +Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. +Who shall say that fortune grieves him, +While the star of hope she leaves him? +Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; +Dark despair around benights me. + +I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy-- +Naething could resist my Nancy: +But to see her was to love her, +Love but her, and love forever. +Had we never loved sae kindly, +Had we never loved sae blindly, +Never met--or never parted, +We had ne'er been broken-hearted. + +Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! +Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! +Thine be ilka joy and treasure, +Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! +Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; +Ae fareweel, alas, forever! +Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, +Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. + + +O, my Luve's like a red, red rose + That's newly sprung in June: +O, my Luve's like the melodie + That's sweetly played in tune. + +As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, + So deep in luve am I: +And I will luve thee still, my dear, + Till a' the seas gang dry: + +Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. + And the rocks melt wi' the sun: +And I will luve thee still, my dear, + While the sands o' life shall run. + +And fare thee weel, my only Luve! + And fare thee weel awhile! +And I will come again, my Luve, + Tho' it were ten thousand mile. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. + + +Maid of Athens, ere we part, +Give, O, give me back my heart! +Or, since that has left my breast, +Keep it now, and take the rest! +Hear my vow before I go, + [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.][2] + +By those tresses unconfined, +Wooed by each Ægean wind; +By those lids whose jetty fringe +Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; +By those wild eyes like the roe, + [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.] + +By that lip I long to taste; +By that zone-encircled waist; +By all the token-flowers that tell +What words can never speak so well; +By love's alternate joy and woe, + [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.] + +Maid of Athens! I am gone. +Think of me, sweet! when alone. +Though I fly to Istambol, +Athens holds my heart and soul: +Can I cease to love thee? No! + [Greek: Zôê moy sas hagapô.] + +LORD BYRON. + + [2] _Zóë mou, sas ágap[-o]_; My life. I love thee. + + + +SONG. + + OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE + BY THE "FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU." + + FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE." + + +The heath this night must be my bed, +The bracken curtain for my head, +My lullaby the warder's tread, + Far, far from love and thee, Mary; +To-morrow eve, more stilly laid +My couch may be my bloody plaid, +My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! + It will not waken me, Mary! + +I may not, dare not, fancy now +The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, +I dare not think upon thy vow, + And all it promised me, Mary. +No fond regret must Norman know; +When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, +His heart must be like bended bow, + His foot like arrow free, Mary! + +A time will come with feeling fraught! +For, if I fall in battle fought, +Thy hapless lover's dying thought + Shall be a thought on thee. Mary. +And if returned from conquered foes, +How blithely will the evening close, +How sweet the linnet sing repose, + To my young bride and me, Mary! + +SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + +BLACK-EYED SUSAN. + + +All in the Downs the fleet was moored, + The streamers waving in the wind, +When black-eyed Susan came aboard; + "O, where shall I my true-love find? +Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true +If my sweet William sails among the crew." + +William, who high upon the yard + Rocked with the billow to and fro, +Soon as her well-known voice he heard + He sighed, and cast his eyes below: +The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, +And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. + +So the sweet lark, high poised in air, + Shuts close his pinions to his breast +If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, + And drops at once into her nest:-- +The noblest captain in the British fleet +Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. + +"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, + My vows shall ever true remain; +Let me kiss off that falling tear; + We only part to meet again. +Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be +The faithful compass that still points to thee. + +"Believe not what the landmen say + Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; +They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, + In every port a mistress find; +Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, +For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. + +"If to fair India's coast we sail, + Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, +Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, + Thy skin is ivory so white. +Thus every beauteous object that I view +Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. + +"Though battle call me from thy arms, + Let not my pretty Susan mourn; +Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms + William shall to his dear return. +Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, +Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." +The boatswain gave the dreadful word, + The sails their swelling bosom spread; +No longer must she stay aboard: + They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. +Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; + "Adieu!" she cried; and waved her lily hand. + + +JOHN GAY. + + + +THE PARTING LOVERS. + + +She says, "The cock crows,--hark!" +He says, "No! still 'tis dark." + +She says, "The dawn grows bright," +He says, "O no, my Light." + +She says, "Stand up and say, +Gets not the heaven gray?" + +He says, "The morning star +Climbs the horizon's bar." + +She says, "Then quick depart: +Alas! you now must start; + +But give the cock a blow +Who did begin our woe!" + +ANONYMOUS. From the Chinese. +Translation of WILLIAM. R. ALGER. + + + +LOCHABER NO MORE. + + +Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean, +Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been; +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more! +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, +And no for the dangers attending on wear, +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. + +Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, +And I must deserve it before I can crave. + +Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; +Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, +And without thy favor I'd better not be. +I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. + +ALLAN RAMSAY. + + + +AS SLOW OUR SHIP. + + +As slow our ship her foamy track + Against the wind was cleaving. +Her trembling pennant still looked back + To that dear isle 'twas leaving. +So loath we part from all we love, + From all the links that bind us; +So turn our hearts, as on we rove, + To those we've left behind us! + +When, round the bowl, of vanished years + We talk with joyous seeming,-- +With smiles that might as well be tears, + So faint, so sad their beaming; +While memory brings us back again + Each early tie that twined us, +O, sweet's the cup that circles then + To those we've left behind us! + +And when, in other climes, we meet + Some isle or vale enchanting, +Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, + And naught but love is wanting; +We think how great had been our bliss + If Heaven had but assigned us +To live and die in scenes like this, + With some we've left behind us! + +As travellers oft look back at eve + When eastward darkly going, +To gaze upon that light they leave + Still faint behind, them glowing,-- +So, when the close of pleasure's day + To gloom hath near consigned us, +We turn to catch one fading ray + Of joy that's left behind us. + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +QUA CURSUM VENTUS. + + +As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay + With canvas drooping, side by side, +Two towers of sail at dawn of day + Are scarce long leagues apart descried. + +When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, + And all the darkling hours they plied, +Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas + By each was cleaving, side by side: + +E'en so,--but why the tale reveal + Of those whom, year by year unchanged, +Brief absence joined anew to feel, + Astounded, soul from soul estranged? + +At dead of night their sails were filled, + And onward each rejoicing steered;-- +Ah! neither blame, for neither willed + Or wist what first with dawn appeared. + +To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, + Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, +Through winds and tides one compass guides; + To that and your own selves be true. + +But O blithe breeze! and O great seas! + Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, +On your wide plain they join again,-- + Together lead them home at last. + +One port, methought, alike they sought,-- + One purpose hold where'er they fare; +O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, + At last, at last, unite them there! + +ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. + + + +ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE. + + +Adieu, adieu! my native shore + Fades o'er the waters blue; +The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, + And shrieks the wild sea-mew. +Yon sun that sets upon the sea + We follow in his flight; +Farewell awhile to him and thee, + My native Land--Good Night! + +A few short hours, and he will rise + To give the morrow birth; +And I shall hail the main and skies, + But not my mother earth. +Deserted is my own good hall, + Its hearth is desolate; +Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; + My dog howls at the gate. + +LORD BYRON. + + + +FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. + + +Fare thee well! and if forever, + Still forever, fare thee well; +Even though unforgiving, never + 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. + +Would that breast were bared before thee + Where thy head so oft hath lain, +While that placid sleep came o'er thee + Which thou ne'er canst know again: + +Would that breast, by thee glanced over, + Every inmost thought could show! +Then thou wouldst at last discover + 'Twas not well to spurn it so. + +Though the world for this commend thee,-- + Though it smile upon the blow, +Even its praises must offend thee, + Founded on another's woe: + +Though my many faults defaced me, + Could no other arm be found +Than the one which once embraced me, + To inflict a cureless wound? + +Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not: + Love may sink by slow decay; +But by sudden wrench, believe not + Hearts can thus be torn away: + +Still thy own its life retaineth,-- + Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; +And the undying thought which paineth + Is--that we no more may meet. + +These are words of deeper sorrow + Than the wail above the dead; +Both shall live, but every morrow + Wake us from a widowed bed. + +And when thou wouldst solace gather, + When our child's first accents flow, +Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" + Though his care she must forego? + +When her little hands shall press thee, + When her lip to thine is pressed, +Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, + Think of him thy love had blessed! + +Should her lineaments resemble + Those thou nevermore mayst see, +Then thy heart will softly tremble + With a pulse yet true to me. + +All my faults perchance thou knowest, + All my madness none can know; +All my hopes, where'er thou goest, + Wither, yet with _thee_ they go. +Every feeling hath been shaken; + Pride, which not a world could bow, +Bows to thee,--by thee forsaken, + Even my soul forsakes me now; + +But 't is done; all words are idle,-- + Words from me are vainer still; +But the thoughts we cannot bridle + Force their way without the will. + +Fare thee well!--thus disunited, + Torn from every nearer tie, +Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, + More than this I scarce can die. + +LORD BYRON. + + + +COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE. + + +Since there's no helpe,--come, let us kisse and parte, + Nay, I have done,--you get no more of me; +And I am glad,--yea, glad with all my hearte, + That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. +Shake hands forever!--cancel all our vows; + And when we meet at any time againe, +Be it not seene in either of our brows, + That we one jot of former love retaine. + +Now--at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath-- + When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; +When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, + And Innocence is closing up his eyes, +Now! if thou wouldst--when all have given him over-- + From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. + +MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + + +FAREWELL! THOU ART TOO DEAR. + + SONNET LXXXVII. + + +Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, +And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: +The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; +My bonds in thee are all determinate. +For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? +And for that riches where is my deserving? +The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, +And so my patent back again is swerving. +Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing? +Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; +So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, +Comes home again, on better judgment making. +Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter; +In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. + + +Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, + The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; +The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,-- + Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still? + +Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? + Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? +It may be for years, and it may be forever! + Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? +Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen? + +Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! + The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; +Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? + Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night! + +Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, + To think that from Erin and thee I must part! +It may be for years, and it may be forever! + Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? +Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen? + +JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD. + + + +WE PARTED IN SILENCE. + + +We parted in silence, we parted by night, + On the banks of that lonely river; +Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, + We met--and we parted forever! +The night-bird sung, and the stars above + Told many a touching story, +Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, + Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. + +We parted in silence,--our cheeks were wet + With the tears that were past controlling; +We vowed we would never, no, never forget, + And those vows at the time were consoling; +But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine + Are as cold as that lonely river; +And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, + Has shrouded its fires forever. + +And now on the midnight sky I look, + And my heart grows full of weeping; +Each star is to me a sealèd book, + Some tale of that loved one keeping. +We parted in silence,--we parted in tears, + On the banks of that lonely river: +But the odor and bloom of those bygone years + Shall hang o'er its waters forever. + +JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD. + + + +AUF WIEDERSEHEN. + + SUMMER. + + +The little gate was reached at last, + Half hid in lilacs down the lane; +She pushed it wide, and, as she past, +A wistful look she backward cast, + And said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" +With hand on latch, a vision white + Lingered reluctant, and again +Half doubting if she did aright, +Soft as the dews that fell that night, + She said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; + I linger in delicious pain; +Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air +To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, + Thinks she,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +'Tis thirteen years; once more I press + The turf that silences the lane; +I hear the rustle of her dress, +I smell the lilacs, and--ah, yes, + I hear,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! + The English words had seemed too fain, +But these--they drew us heart to heart, +Yet held us tenderly apart; + She said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + +PALINODE. + + AUTUMN. + + +Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now + On field and hill, in heart and brain; +The naked trees at evening sough; +The leaf to the forsaken bough + Sighs not,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, + That now is void, and dank with rain, +And one,--oh, hope more frail than foam! +The bird to his deserted home + Sings not,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +The loath gate swings with rusty creak; + Once, parting there, we played at pain; +There came a parting, when the weak +And fading lips essayed to speak + Vainly,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, + Though thou in outer dark remain; +One sweet sad voice ennobles death, +And still, for eighteen centuries saith + Softly,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +If earth another grave must bear, + Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, +And something whispers my despair, +That, from an orient chamber there, + Floats down,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + +FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER. + + +Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour +That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. +Then think of the friend that once welcomed it too. +And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. +His griefs may return--not a hope may remain +Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain-- +But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw +Its enchantment around him while lingering with you! + +And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up +To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, +Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, +My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night; +Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, +And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-- +Too blest if it tell me that, 'mid the gay cheer, +Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!" + +Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, +Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; +Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, +And bring back the features which joy used to wear. +Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! +Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled-- +You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, +But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. + + FROM "THE ILIAD," BOOK VI. + + + "Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run? +Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son! +And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, +A widow I, a helpless orphan he! +For sure such courage length of life denies, +And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. +Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; +Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain! +Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, +All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! +So shall my days in one sad tenor run, +And end with sorrows as they first begun. +No parent now remains, my griefs to share, +No father's aid, no mother's tender care. +The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, +Laid Thebè waste, and slew my warlike sire! +His fate compassion in the victor bred; +Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, +His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, +And laid him decent on the funeral pile; +Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned; +The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned; +Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow +A barren shade, and in his honor grow. + + "Yet while my Hector still survives, I see +My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee. +Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all, +Once more will perish if my Hector fall. +Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share; +Oh prove a husband's and a father's care! +That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy, +Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy: +Thou, from this tower defend th'important post; +There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, +That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, +And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. +Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, +Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. +Let others in the field their arms employ, +But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy." + + The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, +Nor that alone, but all the works of war. +[How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, +And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, +Attaint the lustre of my former name, +Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? +My early youth was bred to martial pains, +My soul impels me to th'embattled plains: +Let me be foremost to defend the throne, +And guard my father's glories, and my own. +Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; +(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates) +The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, +And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. +And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, +My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, +Not Priam's hoary hairs denied with gore, +Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; +As thine, Andromachè! thy griefs I dread; +I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!] +In Argive looms our battles to design, +And woes of which so large a part was thine! +To bear the victor's hard commands or bring +The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. +There, while you groan beneath the load of life, +They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife! +Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, +Embitters all thy woes by naming me. +The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, +A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! +May I lie cold before that dreadful day, +Pressed with a load of monumental clay! +Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep, +Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." + + Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy +Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. +The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, +Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. +With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, +And Hector hastèd to relieve his child; +The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, +And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. +Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, +Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer: + + "O thou whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, +And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! +Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, +To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, +Against his country's foes the war to wage, +And rise the Hector of the future age! +So when, triumphant from successful toils, +Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, +Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, +And say, This chief transcends his father's fame: +While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, +His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." + + He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms +Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; +Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, +Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. +The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, +She mingled with the smile a tender tear. +The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, +And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: + + "Andromachè! my soul's far better part, +Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? +No hostile hand can antedate my doom, +Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. +Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, +And such the hard condition of our birth. +No force can then resist, no flight can save; +All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. +No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, +There guide the spindle, and direct the loom: +Me glory summons to the martial scene, +The field of combat is the sphere for men. +Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, +The first in danger as the first in fame." + + Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes +His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. +His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, +Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, +That streamed at every look: then, moving slow, +Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. +There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, +Through all her train the soft infection ran; +The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, +And mourn the living Hector as the dead. + +From the Greek of HOMER. +Translation of ALEXANDER POPE. + + + + +HECTOR TO HIS WIFE. + + FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI. + +[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of +translation. It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from +Pope's version.] + + +I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproaches +Both of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja, +If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat: +Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant, +Fighting aye 'mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle, +Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted. +Well, too well, do I know,--both my mind and my spirit agreeing, +That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish. +Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed. +Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction, +No, nor for Hecuba's self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father, +Nor for my brothers' fate, who, though they be many and valiant, +All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia, +As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed Achæans +Weeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom. + +Translation of E.C. HAWTREY. + + + +TO LUCASTA. + + + If to be absent were to be + Away from thee; + Or that, when I am gone, + You or I were alone; + Then, my Lucasta, might I crave +Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. + + But I'll not sigh one blast or gale + To swell my sail, + Or pay a tear to 'suage + The foaming blue-god's rage; + For, whether he will let me pass +Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. + + Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, + Our faith and troth, + Like separated souls, + All time and space controls: + Above the highest sphere we meet, +Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet. + + So, then, we do anticipate + Our after-fate, + And are alive i' the skies, + If thus our lips and eyes + Can speak like spirits unconfined +In heaven,--their earthly bodies left behind. + +RICHARD LOVELACE. + + + +TO HER ABSENT SAILOR. + + FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH." + + +Her window opens to the bay, +On glistening light or misty gray, +And there at dawn and set of day + In prayer she kneels: +"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home +From wind and wave the wanderers come; +I only see the tossing foam + Of stranger keels. + +"Blown out and in by summer gales, +The stately ships, with crowded sails, +And sailors leaning o'er their rails, + Before me glide; +They come, they go, but nevermore, +Spice-laden from the Indian shore, +I see his swift-winged Isidore + The waves divide. + +"O Thou! with whom the night is day +And one the near and far away, +Look out on yon gray waste, and say + Where lingers he. +Alive, perchance, on some lone beach +Or thirsty isle beyond the reach +Of man, he hears the mocking speech + Of wind and sea. + +"O dread and cruel deep, reveal +The secret which thy waves conceal, +And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel + And tell your tale. +Let winds that tossed his raven hair +A message from my lost one bear,-- +Some thought of me, a last fond prayer + Or dying wail! + +"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out +The fears that haunt me round about; +O God! I cannot bear this doubt + That stifles breath. +The worst is better than the dread; +Give me but leave to mourn my dead +Asleep in trust and hope, instead + Of life in death!" + +It might have been the evening breeze +That whispered in the garden trees, +It might have been the sound of seas + That rose and fell; +But, with her heart, if not her ear, +The old loved voice she seemed to hear: +"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, + For all is well!" + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + + +I LOVE MY JEAN. + + +Of a' the airts[3] the wind can blaw, + I dearly like the west; +For there the bonnie lassie lives, + The lassie I lo'e best. +There wild woods grow, and rivers row, + And monie a hill's between; +But day and night my fancy's flight + Is ever wi' my Jean. + +I see her in the dewy flowers, + I see her sweet and fair; +I hear her in the tunefu' birds, + I hear her charm the air; +There's not a bonnie flower that springs + By fountain, shaw, or green; +There's not a bonnie bird that sings, + But minds me of my Jean. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + [3] The points of the compass. + + + +JEANIE MORRISON. + + +I've wandered east, I've wandered west, + Through mony a weary way; +But never, never can forget + The luve o' life's young day! +The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en + May weel be black gin Yule; +But blacker fa' awaits the heart + Where first fond luve grows cule. + +O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, + The thochts o' bygane years +Still fling their shadows ower my path, + And blind my een wi' tears: +They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, + And sair and sick I pine, +As memory idly summons up + The blithe blinks o' langsyne. + +'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, + 'Twas then we twa did part; +Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at scule, + Twa bairns, and but ae heart! +'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, + To leir ilk ither lear; +And tones and looks and smiles were shed, + Remembered evermair. + +I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, + When sitting on that bink, +Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, + What our wee heads could think. +When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, + Wi' ae buik on our knee, +Thy lips were on thy lesson, but + My lesson was in thee. + +O, mind ye how we hung our heads, + How cheeks brent red wi' shame, +Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said + We cleeked thegither hame? +And mind ye o' the Saturdays, + (The scule then skail't at noon,) +When we ran off to speel the braes,-- + The broomy braes o' June? + +My head rins round and round about,-- + My heart flows like a sea, +As ane by ane the thochts rush back + O' scule-time, and o' thee. +O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! + O lichtsome days and lang, +When hinnied hopes around our hearts + Like simmer blossoms sprang! + +O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left + The deavin', dinsome toun, +To wander by the green burnside, + And hear its waters croon? +The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, + The flowers burst round our feet, +And in the gloamin' o' the wood + The throssil whusslit sweet; + +The throssil whusslit in the woods, + The burn sang to the trees,-- +And we, with nature's heart in tune, + Concerted harmonies; +And on the knowe abune the burn, + For hours thegither sat +In the silentness o' joy, till baith + Wi' very gladness grat. + +Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, + Tears trickled doun your cheek +Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane + Had ony power to speak! +That was a time, a blessed time, + When hearts were fresh and young, +When freely gushed all feelings forth, + Unsyllabled--unsung! + +I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, + Gin I hae been to thee +As closely twined wi' earliest thochts + As ye hae been to me? +O, tell me gin their music fills + Thine ear as it does mine! +O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit + Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? + +I've wandered east, I've wandered west, + I've borne a weary lot; +But in my wanderings, far or near, + Ye never were forgot. +The fount that first burst frae this heart + Still travels on its way; +And channels deeper, as it rins, + The luve o' life's young day. + +O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, + Since we were sindered young +I've never seen your face nor heard + The music o' your tongue; +But I could hug all wretchedness, + And happy could I dee, +Did I but ken your heart still dreamed + O' bygane days and me! + +WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. + + + +O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE? + + +O, saw ye bonnie Leslie + As she gaed o'er the border? +She's gane, like Alexander, + To spread her conquests farther. + +To see her is to love her, + And love but her forever; +For nature made her what she is, + And ne'er made sic anither! + +Thou art a queen, fair Leslie, + Thy subjects we, before thee; +Thou art divine, fair Leslie, + The hearts o' men adore thee. + +The deil he could na scaith thee, + Or aught that wad belang thee; +He'd look into thy bonnie face, + And say, "I canna wrang thee!" + +The Powers aboon will tent thee; + Misfortune sha' na steer[4] thee; +Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely + That ill they 'll ne'er let near thee. + +Return again, fair Leslie, + Return to Caledonie! +That we may brag we hae a lass + There's nane again sae bonnie. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + [4] Harm. + + + +THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN. + +O, wad that my time were owre but, + Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw, +That I might see our house again, + I' the bonnie birken shaw! +For this is no my ain life, + And I peak and pine away +Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers, + In the glad green month of May. + +I used to wauk in the morning + Wi' the loud sang o' the lark, +And the whistling o' the ploughman lads, + As they gaed to their wark; +I used to wear the bit young lambs + Frae the tod and the roaring stream; +But the warld is changed, and a' thing now + To me seems like a dream. + +There are busy crowds around me, + On ilka lang dull street; +Yet, though sae mony surround me, + I ken na are I meet: +And I think o' kind kent faces, + And o' blithe an' cheery days, +When I wandered out wi' our ain folk, + Out owre the simmer braes. + +Waes me, for my heart is breaking! + I think o' my brither sma', +And on my sister greeting, + When I cam frae hame awa. +And O, how my mither sobbit, + As she shook me by the hand, +When I left the door o' our auld house, + To come to this stranger land. + +There's nae hame like our ain hame-- + O, I wush that I were there! +There's nae hame like our ain hame + To be met wi' onywhere; +And O that I were back again, + To our farm and fields sae green; +And heard the tongues o' my ain folk, + And were what I hae been! + +DAVID MACBETH MOIR. + + + +ABSENCE. + + +What shall I do with all the days and hours + That must be counted ere I see thy face? +How shall I charm the interval that lowers + Between this time and that sweet time of grace? + +Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, + Weary with longing?--shall I flee away +Into past days, and with some fond pretence + Cheat myself to forget the present day? + +Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin + Of casting from me God's great gift of time? +Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, + Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? + +O, how or by what means may I contrive + To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? +How may I teach my drooping hope to live + Until that blessèd time, and thou art here? + +I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold + Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, + +In worthy deeds, each moment that is told + While thou, belovèd one! art far from me. + +For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try + All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; +For thy dear sake I will walk patiently + Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. + +I will this dreary blank of absence make + A noble task-time; and will therein strive +To follow excellence, and to o'ertake + More good than I have won since yet I live. + +So may this doomèd time build up in me + A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; +So may my love and longing hallowed be, + And thy dear thought an influence divine. + +FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. + + + +ROBIN ADAIR. + + +What's this dull town to me? + Robin's not near,-- +He whom I wished to see, + Wished for to hear; +Where's all the joy and mirth +Made life a heaven on earth, +O, they're all fled with thee, + Robin Adair! + +What made the assembly shine? + Robin Adair: +What made the ball so fine? + Robin was there: +What, when the play was o'er, +What made my heart so sore? +O, it was parting with + Robin Adair! + +But now thou art far from me, + Robin Adair; +But now I never see + Robin Adair; +Yet him I loved so well +Still in my heart shall dwell; +O, I can ne'er forget + Robin Adair! + +Welcome on shore again, + Robin Adair! +Welcome once more again, + Robin Adair! +I feel thy trembling hand; +Tears in thy eyelids stand, +To greet thy native land, + Robin Adair! + +Long I ne'er saw thee, love, + Robin Adair; +Still I prayed for thee, love, + Robin Adair; +When thou wert far at sea, +Many made love to me, +But still I thought on thee, + Robin Adair. + +Come to my heart again, + Robin Adair; +Never to part again, + Robin Adair; +And if thou still art true, +I will be constant too, +And will wed none but you, + Robin Adair! + +LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL. + + + +DAISY. + + +Where the thistle lifts a purple crown + Six foot out of the turf, +And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- + O the breath of the distant surf!-- + +The hills look over on the South, + And southward dreams the sea; +And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, + Came innocence and she. + +Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry + Red for the gatherer springs, +Two children did we stray and talk + Wise, idle, childish things. + +She listened with big-lipped surprise, + Breast-deep mid flower and spine: +Her skin was like a grape, whose veins + Run snow instead of wine. + +She knew not those sweet words she spake. + Nor knew her own sweet way; +But there's never a bird, so sweet a song + Thronged in whose throat that day! + +Oh, there were flowers in Storrington + On the turf and on the sprays; +But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills + Was the Daisy-flower that day! + +Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! + She gave me tokens three:-- +A look, a word of her winsome mouth, + And a wild raspberry. + +A berry red, a guileless look, + A still word,--strings of sand! +And yet they made my wild, wild heart + Fly down to her little hand. + +For standing artless as the air, + And candid as the skies, +She took the berries with her hand, + And the love with her sweet eyes. + +The fairest things have fleetest end: + Their scent survives their close, +But the rose's scent is bitterness + To him that loved the rose! + +She looked a little wistfully, + Then went her sunshine way:-- +The sea's eye had a mist on it, + And the leaves fell from the day. + +She went her unremembering way, + She went and left in me +The pang of all the partings gone, + And partings yet to be. + +She left me marvelling why my soul + Was sad that she was glad; +At all the sadness in the sweet, + The sweetness in the sad. + +Still, still I seemed to see her, still + Look up with soft replies, +And take the berries with her hand, + And the love with her lovely eyes. + +Nothing begins, and nothing ends, + That is not paid with moan; +For we are born in others' pain, + And perish in our own. + +FRANCIS THOMPSON. + + + +SONG OF EGLA. + + +Day, in melting purple dying; +Blossoms, all around me sighing; +Fragrance, from the lilies straying; +Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; + Ye but waken my distress; + I am sick of loneliness! + +Thou, to whom I love to hearken, +Come, ere night around me darken; +Though thy softness but deceive me, +Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee; + Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, + Let me think it innocent! + +Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; +All I ask is friendship's pleasure; +Let the shining ore lie darkling,-- +Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; + Gifts and gold are naught to me, + I would only look on thee! + +Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, +Ecstasy but in revealing; +Paint to thee the deep sensation, +Rapture in participation; + Yet but torture, if comprest + In a lone, unfriended breast. + +Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! +Let these eyes again caress thee. +Once in caution, I could fly thee; +Now, I nothing could deny thee. + In a look if death there be, + Come, and I will gaze on thee! + +MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (_Maria del Occidente_). + + + +WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? + + +What ails this heart o' mine? + What ails this watery ee? +What gars me a' turn pale as death + When I take leave o' thee? +Whea thou art far awa', + Thou'lt dearer grow to me; +But change o' place and change o' folk + May gar thy fancy jee. + +When I gae out at e'en, + Or walk at morning air, +Ilk rustling bush will seem to say + I used to meet thee there: +Then I'll sit down and cry, + And live aneath the tree, +And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, + I'll ca't a word frae thee. + +I'll hie me to the bower + That thou wi' roses tied, +And where wi' mony a blushing bud + I strove myself to hide. +I'll doat on ilka spot + Where I ha'e been wi' thee; +And ca' to mind some kindly word + By ilka burn and tree. + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE. + + + +LOVE'S MEMORY. + + FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I. + + +I am undone: there is no living, none, +If Bertram be away. It were all one, +That I should love a bright particular star, +And think to wed it, he is so above me: +In his bright radiance and collateral light +Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. +The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: +The hind that would be mated by the lion +Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague, +To see him every hour; to sit and draw +His archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls, +In our heart's table,--heart too capable +Of every line and trick of his sweet favor: +But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy +Must sanctify his relics. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +ABSENCE. + + +When I think on the happy days + I spent wi' you, my dearie; +And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + +How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! +It was na sae ye glinted by + When I was wi' my dearie. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THINKIN' LONG. + + +Oh thinkin' long's the weary work! +It breaks my heart from dawn +Till all the wee, wee, friendly stars +Come out at dayli'gone. +An' thinkin' long's the weary work, +When I must spin and spin, +To drive the fearsome fancies out, +An' hold the hopeful in! + +Ah, sure my lad is far away! +My lad who left our glen +When from the soul of Ireland came +A call for fightin' men; +I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright, +I miss his liltin' song, +And that is why, the lonesome day, +I'm always thinkin' long. + +May God's kind angels guard him +When the fray is fierce and grim, +And blunt the point of every sword +That turns its hate on him. +Where round the torn yet dear green flag +The brave and lovin' throng-- +But the lasses of Glenwherry smile +At me for thinkin' long. + +ANNA MAC MANUS (_Ethna Carbery_). + + + +"TEARS, IDLE TEARS." + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + + Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, +Tears from the depth of some divine despair +Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, +In looking on the happy autumn fields, +And thinking of the days that are no more. +Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, +That brings our friends up from the under world; +Sad as the last which reddens over one +That sinks with all we love below the verge,-- +So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. + + Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns +The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds +To dying ears, when unto dying eyes +The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; +So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. + + Dear as remembered kisses after death, +And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned +On lips that are for others; deep as love, +Deep as first love and wild with all regret,-- +O Death in Life, the days that are no more. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. + + +I have had playmates, I have had companions, +In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I have been laughing, I have been carousing, +Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I loved a Love once, fairest among women: +Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,-- +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. +I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: +Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; +Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. + +Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, +Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, +Seeking to find the old familiar faces. + +Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, +Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? +So might we talk of the old familiar faces. + +How some they have died, and some they have left me, +And some are taken from me; all are departed; +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +CHARLES LAMB. + + + +COME TO ME, DEAREST. + + +Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, +Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; +Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee; +Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. +Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, +Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; +Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, +Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. + +Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, +Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; +And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, +Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. +O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, +Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; +The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, +And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. + +Figure that moves like a song through the even; +Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; +Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, +Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; +Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, +Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;-- +thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming +Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. + +You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened; +Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened? +Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, +As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: +I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, +You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; +I would not die without you at my side, love, +You will not linger when I shall have died, love. + +Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, +Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow; +Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, +With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. +Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,-- +Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,-- +Come to the arms which alone should caress thee. +Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! + +JOSEPH BRENAN. + + + +THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. + + +Linger not long. Home is not home without thee: + Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. +O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, + Gently compel and hasten thy return! + +Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, + Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, +Compensate for the grief thy long delaying + Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? + +Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, + As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; +When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, + And silence hangs on all things like a spell! + +How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, +As night grows dark and darker on the hill! +How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! + Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still? + +Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth me + Gazeth through tears that makes its splendor dull; +For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, + My cup of happiness is all too full. + +Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling, + Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest! +Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, + Flies to its haven of securest rest! + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. + + NEGRO SONG. + + +The sun shines bright on our old Kentucky home; + 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; +The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom, + While the birds make music all the day; +The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, + All merry, all happy, all bright; +By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door,-- + Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! + +CHORUS. + +_Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! +We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For our 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 the shadow o'er the heart, + With sorrow where all was delight; +The time has come, when the darkeys have to part, + Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! + + _Weep no more, my lady_, etc. + +The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, + Wherever the darkey may go; +A few more days, and the troubles all will end, + In the field where the sugar-canes grow; +A few more days to tote the weary load, + No matter, it will never be light; +A few more days till we totter on the road, + Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! + +_Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! +We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For our old Kentucky home far away._ + +STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + +OLD FOLKS AT HOME. + + +Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, + Far, far away, +Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber, + Dere's wha de old folks stay. +All up and down de whole creation + Sadly I roam, +Still longing for de old plantation, + And for de old folks at home. + + _All de world am sad and dreary, + Ebery where I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home!_ + +All round de little farm I wandered + When I was young, +Den many happy days I squandered, + Many de songs I sung. +When I was playing wid my brudder + Happy was I; +Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! + Dere let me live and die. + +One little hut among de bushes, + One dat I love, +Still sadly to my memory rushes, + No matter where I rove. +When will I see de bees a-humming + All round de comb? +When will I hear de banjo tumming, + Down in my good old home? + + _All de world am sad and dreary, + Ebery where I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home!_ + +STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + +THE PRESENT GOOD. + + FROM "THE TASK," BOOK VI. + + + Not to understand a treasure's worth +Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, +Is cause of half the poverty we feel, +And makes the world the wilderness it is. + +WILLIAM COWPER. + + * * * * * + + + + +III. ADVERSITY. + + + +MAN. + + +In his own image the Creator made, + His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man! + Thou breathing dial! since the day began +The present hour was ever marked with shade! + +WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. + + + +THE WORLD. + + +The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man + Less than a span: +In his conception wretched, from the womb, + So to the tomb; +Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years + With cares and fears. +Who then to frail mortality shall trust, +But limns on water, or but writes in dust. + +Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, + What life is best? +Courts are but only superficial schools + To dandle fools: +The rural parts are turned into a den + Of savage men: +And where's a city from foul vice so free, +But may be termed the worst of all the three? + +Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, + Or pains his head: +Those that live single, take it for a curse, + Or do things worse: +Some would have children: those that have them, moan + Or wish them gone: +What is it, then, to have or have no wife, +But single thraldom, or a double strife? + +Our own affection still at home to please + Is a disease: +To cross the seas to any foreign soil, + Peril and toil: +Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, + We are worse in peace;-- +What then remains, but that we still should cry +For being born, or, being born, to die? + +FRANCIS, LORD BACON. + + + +MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES. + + +Moan, moan, ye dying gales! +The saddest of your tales + Is not so sad as life; +Nor have you e'er began +A theme so wild as man, + Or with such sorrow rife. + +Fall, fall, thou withered leaf! +Autumn sears not like grief, + Nor kills such lovely flowers; +More terrible the storm, +More mournful the deform, + When dark misfortune lowers. + +Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre, +Silence, ye vocal choir, + And thou, mellifluous lute, +For man soon breathes his last, +And all his hope is past, + And all his music mute. + +Then, when the gale is sighing, +And when the leaves are dying, + And when the song is o'er, +O, let us think of those +Whose lives are lost in woes, + Whose cup of grief runs o'er. + +HENRY NEELE. + + + +THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. + + +False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend + The least delight: +Thy favors cannot gain a friend, + They are so slight: +Thy morning pleasures make an end + To please at night: +Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, +And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st +With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. + +Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales + Of endless treasure; +Thy bounty offers easy sales + Of lasting pleasure; +Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, + And swear'st to ease her; +There's none can want where thou supply'st; +There's none can give where thou deny'st. +Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. + +What well-advisèd ear regards + What earth can say? +Thy words are gold, but thy regards + Are painted clay: +Thy cunning can but pack the cards, + Thou canst not play: +Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; +If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: +Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. + +Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint + Of new-coined treasure; +A paradise, that has no stint, + No change, no measure; +A painted cask, but nothing in 't, + Nor wealth, nor pleasure: +Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st +With man; vain man! that thou rely'st +On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. + +What mean dull souls, in this high measure, + To haberdash +In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure + Is dross and trash? +The height of whose enchanting pleasure + Is but a flash? +Are these the goods that thou supply'st +Us mortals with? Are these the high'st? +Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st. + +FRANCIS QUARLES. + + + +BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. + + FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7. + + +Blow, blow, thou winter wind, +Thou art not so unkind + As man's ingratitude; +Thy tooth is not so keen, +Because thou art not seen, + Although thy breath be rude. +Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; +Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: + Then, heigh-ho, the holly! + This life is most jolly! + +Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, +Thou dost not bite so nigh + As benefits forgot: +Though thou the waters warp, +Thy sting is not so sharp + As friend remembered not. +Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: +Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: + Then, heigh-ho, the holly! + This life is most jolly! + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND. + + FROM "PROMETHEUS." + + +O holy Æther, and swift-winged Winds, +And River-wells, and laughter innumerous +Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all, +And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,-- +Behold me a god, what I endure from gods! + Behold, with throe on throe, + How, wasted by this woe, +I wrestle down the myriad years of Time! + Behold, how fast around me +The new King of the happy ones sublime +Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me! +Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's + I cover with one groan. And where is found me + A limit to these sorrows? + And yet what word do I say? I have fore-known + Clearly all things that should be; nothing done + Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear + What is ordained with patience, being aware + Necessity doth front the universe + With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse + Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave + In silence or in speech. Because I gave + Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul + To this compelling fate. Because I stole + The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went + Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent + Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment, + That sin I expiate in this agony, + Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky. + Ah, ah me! what a sound, +What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen +Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between, +Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound, +To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain-- +Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain! + The god Zeus hateth sore, + And his gods hate again, +As many as tread on his glorified floor, +Because I loved mortals too much evermore. +Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear, + As of birds flying near! + And the air undersings + The light stroke of their wings-- +And all life that approaches I wait for in fear. + +From the Greek of ÆSCHYLUS. +Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +SAMSON ON HIS BLINDNESS. + + FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES." + + +O loss of sight, of thee I must complain! +Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains, +Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age! +Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, +And all her various objects of delight +Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased. +Inferior to the vilest now become +Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me: +They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed +To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, +Within doors or without, still as a fool, +In power of others, never in my own; +Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. +O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of moon, +Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, +Without all hope of day! + +MILTON. + + + +LINES. + +[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution +for treason.] + + +My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, + My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, +My crop of corn is but a field of tares, + And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. +The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; +And now I live, and now my life is done! + +My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, + The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green, +My youth is past, and yet I am but young, + I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. +My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; +And now I live, and now my life is done! + +I sought for death and found it in the wombe, + I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, +I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe, + And now I die, and now I am but made. +The glass is full, and yet my glass is run; + +And now I live, and now my life is done! + +CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE. + + + +HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS. + + FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3. + + +Hence, all ye vain delights, +As short as are the nights + Wherein you spend your folly! + There's naught in this life sweet, + If man were wise to see't + But only melancholy, + O, sweetest melancholy! + +Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes, +A sigh that piercing mortifies, +A look that's fastened to the ground, +A tongue chained up without a sound! + +Fountain-heads and pathless groves, +Places which pale passion loves! +Moonlight walks, when all the fowls +Are warmly housed save bats and owls! +A midnight bell, a parting groan! +These are the sounds we feed upon; +Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: +Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. + +JOHN FLETCHER. + + + +THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. + + FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2. + + +Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear +In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, +Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. +Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; +And--when I am forgotten, as I shall be, +And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention +Of me more must be heard of--say, I taught thee, +Say, Wolsey--that once trod the ways of glory, +And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor-- +Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; +A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. +Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. +Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: +By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, +The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? +Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee: +Corruption wins not more than honesty. +Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, +To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: +Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, +Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell! +Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. +Serve the king; and--pr'ythee, lead me in: +There take an inventory of all I have, +To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe, +And my integrity to heaven, is all +I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! +Had I but served my God with half the zeal +I served my king, he would not in mine age +Have left me naked to mine enemies! + + * * * * * + +Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! +This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth +The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, +And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: +The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; +And--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely +His greatness is a ripening--nips his root, +And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, +Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, +This many summers in a sea of glory; +But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride +At length broke under me; and now has left me, +Weary and old with service, to the mercy +Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. +Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: +I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched +Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! +There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, +That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, +More pangs and fears than wars or women have: +And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, +Never to hope again. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +THE APPROACH OF AGE. + + FROM "TALES OF THE HALL." + + +Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, +When Time began to play his usual tricks: +The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, +Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white; +The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, +And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. +I rode or walked as I was wont before, +But now the bounding spirit was no more; +A moderate pace would now my body heat, +A walk of moderate length distress my feet. +I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, +But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb." +At a friend's mansion I began to dread +The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed; +At home I felt a more decided taste, +And must have all things in my order placed. +I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,-- +My dinner more; I learned to play at chess. +I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute +Was disappointed that I did not shoot. +My morning walks I now could bear to lose, +And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose. +In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; +The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; +Small daily actions into habits grew, +And new dislike to forms and fashions new. +I loved my trees in order to dispose; +I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose; +Told the same story oft,--in short, began to prose. + +GEORGE CRABBE. + + + +STANZAS + + WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. + + + The sun is warm, the sky is clear, + The waves are dancing fast and bright, + Blue isles and snowy mountains wear + The purple noon's transparent light: + The breath of the moist air is light + Around its unexpanded buds; + Like many a voice of one delight,-- + The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',-- +The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. + + I see the Deep's untrampled floor + With green and purple sea-weeds strown; + I see the waves upon the shore + Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown: + I sit upon the sands alone; + The lightning of the noontide ocean + Is flashing round me, and a tone + Arises from its measured motion,-- +How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! + + Alas! I have nor hope nor health, + Nor peace within nor calm around, + Nor that Content surpassing wealth + The sage in meditation found, + And walked with inward glory crowned,-- + Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. + Others I see whom these surround; + Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; +To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. + + Yet now despair itself is mild + Even as the winds and waters are; + I could lie down like a tired child, + And weep away the life of care + Which I have borne, and yet must bear, + Till death like sleep might steal on me, + And I might feel in the warm air + My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea +Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. + + Some might lament that I were cold, + As I, when this sweet day is gone, + Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, + Insults with this untimely moan; + They might lament,--for I am one + Whom men love not,--and yet regret, + Unlike this day, which, when the sun + Shall on its stainless glory set, +Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. + +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + +ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. + +[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, +the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.] + + +My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains + My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, +Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains + One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: +'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, + But being too happy in thy happiness,-- + That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, + In some melodious plot + Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, + Singest of Summer in full-throated ease. + +O for a draught of vintage, that hath been + Cooled a long age in the deep delved earth, + +Tasting of Flora and the country-green, + Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth! +O for a beaker full of the warm South, + Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, + With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, + And purple-stainèd mouth,-- + That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, + And with thee fade away into the forest dim: + +Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget + What thou among the leaves hast never known, +The weariness, the fever, and the fret + Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; +Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, + Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; + Where but to think is to be full of sorrow + And leaden-eyed despairs, + Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, + Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. + +Away! away! for I will fly to thee, + Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, +But on the viewless wings of Poesy, + Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: +Already with thee! tender is the night, + And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, + Clustered around by all her starry Fays; + But here there is no light, + Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown + Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. + +I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, + Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, + But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet + Wherewith the seasonable month endows +The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; + White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; + Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; + And mid-May's eldest child, + The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, + The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. +Darkling I listen; and for many a time + I have been half in love with easeful Death. +Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme, + To take into the air my quiet breath; +Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, + To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. + While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, + In such an ecstasy!-- + Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- + To thy high requiem become a sod. + +Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! + No hungry generations tread thee down; +The voice I hear this passing night was heard + In ancient days by emperor and clown: +Perhaps the self-same song that found a path + Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, + She stood in tears amid the alien corn; + The same that oft-times hath + Charmed magic casements opening on the foam + Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. + +Forlorn! the very word is like a bell, + To toll me back from thee to my sole self! +Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well + As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. +Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades + Past the near meadows, over the still stream, + Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep + In the next valley-glades: + Was it a vision or a waking dream? + Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep? + +JOHN KEATS. + + + +PERISHED. + + CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE. + + +Wave after wave of greenness rolling down +From mountain top to base, a whispering sea +Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze + Murmurs mysteriously. + +And towering up amid the lesser throng, +A giant oak, so desolately grand, +Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven + In agonized demand. + +Smitten by lightning from a summer sky, +Or bearing in its heart a slow decay, +What matter, since inexorable fate + Is pitiless to slay. + +Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about, +Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head, +And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,-- + "Look on me, I am dead!" + +MARY LOUISE RITTER. + + + +BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. + + "_On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year._" + --MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824. + + +'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, + Since others it has ceased to move: +Yet, though I cannot be beloved, + Still let me love! + +My days are in the yellow leaf, + The flowers and fruits of love are gone: +The worm, the canker, and the grief, + Are mine alone. + +The fire that in my bosom preys + Is like to some volcanic isle; +No torch is kindled at its blaze,-- + A funeral pile. + +The hope, the fear, the jealous care, + The exalted portion of the pain +And power of love, I cannot share, + But wear the chain. + +But 'tis not _thus_,--and 'tis not _here_, + Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor _now_, +Where glory decks the hero's bier, + Or binds his brow. + +The sword, the banner, and the field, + Glory and Greece about us see; +The Spartan borne upon his shield + Was not more free. + +Awake!--not Greece,--she is awake! + Awake my spirit! think through whom +Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake, + And then strike home! + +Tread those reviving passions down, + Unworthy manhood! unto thee +Indifferent should the smile or frown + Of beauty be. + +If thou regrett'st thy youth,--why live? + The land of honorable death +Is here:--up to the field, and give + Away thy breath! + +Seek out--less often sought than found-- + A soldier's grave, for thee the best; +Then look around, and choose thy ground, + And take thy rest! + +LORD BYRON. + + + +A DOUBTING HEART. + + +Where are the swallows fled? + Frozen and dead +Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. + O doubting heart! + Far over purple seas + They wait, in sunny ease, + The balmy southern breeze +To bring them to their northern homes once more. + +Why must the flowers die? + Prisoned they lie +In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. + O doubting heart! +They only sleep below + The soft white ermine snow + While winter winds shall blow, +To breathe and smile upon you soon again. + +The sun has hid its rays + These many days; +Will dreary hours never leave the earth? + O doubting heart! + The stormy clouds on high + Veil the same sunny sky + That soon, for spring is nigh, +Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. + +Fair hope is dead, and light + Is quenched in night; +What sound can break the silence of despair? + O doubting heart! + The sky is overcast, + Yet stars shall rise at last, + Brighter for darkness past; +And angels' silver voices stir the air. + +ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. + + + +THE VOICELESS. + + +We count the broken lyres that rest + Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, +But o'er their silent sister's breast + The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? +A few can touch the magic string, + And noisy Fame is proud to win them: +Alas for those that never sing, + But die with all their music in them! + +Nay grieve not for the dead alone + Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- +Weep for the voiceless, who have known + The cross without the crown of glory! +Not where Leucadian breezes sweep + O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, +But where the glistening night-dews weep + On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. + +O hearts that break and give no sign + Save whitening lip and fading tresses, +Till Death pours out his longed-for wine + Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- +If singing breath or echoing chord + To every hidden pang were given, +What endless melodies were poured, + As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + +A LAMENT. + + +O World! O Life! O Time! +On whose last steps I climb, + Trembling at that where I had stood before; +When will return the glory of your prime? + No more,--O nevermore! + +Out of the day and night +A joy has taken flight: + Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar +Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight + No more,--O nevermore! + +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + +"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?" + + + Spring it is cheery, + Winter is dreary, +Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; + When he's forsaken, + Withered and shaken, +What can an old man do but die? + + Love will not clip him, + Maids will not lip him, +Maud and Marian pass him by; + Youth it is sunny, + Age has no honey,-- +What can an old man do but die? + + June it was jolly, + O for its folly! +A dancing leg and a laughing eye! + Youth may be silly, + Wisdom is chilly,-- +What can an old man do but die? + + Friends they are scanty, + Beggars are plenty, +If he has followers, I know why; + Gold's in his clutches + (Buying him crutches!)-- +What can an old man do but die? + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. + + +Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- +I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- +I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, +As many another woman that's only half as old. + +Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! +Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer! +Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, +But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. + +What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? +Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? +True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; +But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. + +I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day +To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; +For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, +If anybody only is willin' to have me round. + +Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul-- +Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; +And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, +For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. + +'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, +But many a house an' home was open then to me; +Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men, +And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. + +And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, +But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; +For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, +And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. + +And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, +With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; +Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, +An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. + +So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; +Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; +Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, +But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them. + +Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-- +I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; +And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, +I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. + +Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, +And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; +When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, +The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me. + +Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- +Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; +And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, +Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. + +She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- +She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; +But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; +But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. + +She had an edication, an' that was good for her; +But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; +An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), +That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic. + +So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- +They was a family of themselves, and I another one; +And a very little cottage one family will do, +But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two. + +An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye, +An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; +But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, +When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go. + +I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, +And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; +And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, +'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. + +An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, +For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; +But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- +And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. + +An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, +And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best; +And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, +And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold. + +So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- +So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; +But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, +Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. + +Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good by! +Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; +And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray +That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. + +WILL CARLETON. + + + +OLD. + + +By the wayside, on a mossy stone, + Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; +Oft I marked him sitting there alone. + All the landscape, like a page perusing; + Poor, unknown, +By the wayside, on a mossy stone. + +Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; + Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding; +Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; + Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding; + There he sat! +Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. + +Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, + No one sympathizing, no one heeding, +None to love him for his thin gray hair, + And the furrows all so mutely pleading + Age and care: +Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. + +It was summer, and we went to school, + Dapper country lads and little maidens; +Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"-- + Its grave import still my fancy ladens,-- + "Here's a fool!" +It was summer, and we went to school. + +When the stranger seemed to mark our play, + Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, +I remember well, too well, that day! + Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, + Would not stay +When the stranger seemed to mark our play. + +One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, + O, to me her name was always Heaven! +She besought him all his grief to tell, + (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) + Isabel! +One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. + +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; + Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; +Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." + Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow, + Down it rolled! +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old. + +"I have tottered here to look once more + On the pleasant scene where I delighted +In the careless, happy days of yore, + Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted + To the core: +I have tottered here to look once more. + +"All the picture now to me how dear! + E'en this old gray rock where I am seated, +Is a jewel worth my journey here; + Ah that such a scene must be completed + With a tear! +All the picture now to me how dear! + +"Old stone school-house! it is still the same; + There's the very step I so oft mounted; +There's the window creaking in its frame, + And the notches that I cut and counted + For the game. +Old stone school-house, it is still the same. + +"In the cottage yonder I was born; + Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; +There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; + There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; + Ah, forlorn! +In the cottage yonder I was born. + +"Those two gateway sycamores you see + Then were planted just so far asunder +That long well-pole from the path to free, + And the wagon to pass safely under; + Ninety-three! +Those two gateway sycamores you see. + +"There's the orchard where we used to climb + When my mates and I were boys together, +Thinking nothing of the flight of time, + Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; + Past its prime! +There's the orchard where we used to climb. + +"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, + Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing +Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails + In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; + Traps and trails! +There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. + +"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; + Pond and river still serenely flowing; +Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, + Where the lily of my heart was blowing,-- + Mary Jane! +There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. + +"There's the gate on which I used to swing, + Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; +But alas! no more the morn shall bring + That dear group around my father's table; + Taken wing! +There's the gate on which I used to swing. + +"I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled. + Yon green meadow was our place for playing +That old tree can tell of sweet things said + When around it Jane and I were straying; + She is dead! +I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled. + +"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, + Tracing silently life's changeful story, +So familiar to my dim eye, + Points me to seven that are now in glory + There on high! +Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. + +"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, + Guided hither by an angel mother; +Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod; + Sire and sisters, and my little brother, + Gone to God! +Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. + +"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; + Bless the holy lesson!--but, ah, never +Shall I hear again those songs of praise, + Those sweet voices silent now forever! + Peaceful days! +There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. + +"There my Mary blessed me with her hand + When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings, +Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, + Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; + Broken band! +There my Mary blessed me with her hand. + +"I have come to see that grave once more, + And the sacred place where we delighted, +Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, + Ere the garden of my heart was blighted + To the care! +I have come to see that grave once more. + +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; + Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, +Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." + In his eye another pearl of sorrow, + Down it rolled! +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." + +By the wayside, on a mossy stone, + Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; +Still I marked him sitting there alone, + All the landscape, like a page, perusing; + Poor, unknown! +By the wayside, on a mossy stone. + +RALPH HOYT. + + + +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 + So forlorn; +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 had 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 the 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. + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + +THE LAST LEAF. + + YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA. + + +I've overlived aspirings, + My fancies I disdain; +The fruit of hollow-heartedness, + Sufferings alone remain. + +'Neath cruel storms of Fate + With my crown of bay, +A sad and lonely life I lead, + Waiting my latest day. + +Thus, struck by latter cold + While howls the wintry wind, +Trembles upon the naked bough + The last leaf left behind. + +From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN. +Translation of JOHN POLLEN. + + + +THE OLD VAGABOND. + + + Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay; + Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. + "He's drunk," the passing crowd will say + 'T is well, for none will need to grieve. + Some turn their scornful heads away, + Some fling an alms in hurrying by;-- + Haste,--'t is the village holyday! +The aged beggar needs no help to die. + + Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age + I die; for hunger slays not all. + I hoped my misery's closing page + To fold within some hospital; + But crowded thick is each retreat, + Such numbers now in misery lie. + Alas! my cradle was the street! +As he was born the aged wretch must die. + + In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er, + I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade." + "Begone!--our business is not more + Than keeps ourselves,--go, beg!" they said. + Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread, + Of bones your tables gave me store, + Your straw has often made my bed;-- +In death I lay no curses at your door. + + Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;-- + No!--better still for alms to pray! +At most, I've plucked some apple, left + To ripen near the public way, + Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid + In the king's name, they let me pine; + They stole the only wealth I had,-- +Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine. + + What country has the poor to claim? + What boots to me your corn and wine, + Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, + The senate where your speakers shine? + Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept, + Saw strangers battening on your land, + Like any puling fool, I wept! +The aged wretch was nourished by their hand. + + Mankind! why trod you not the worm, + The noxious thing, beneath your heel? + Ah! had you taught me to perform + Due labor for the common weal! + Then, sheltered from the adverse wind, + The worm and ant had learned to grow; + Ay,--then I might have loved my kind;-- +The aged beggar dies your bitter foe! + +From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER. + + + +THE BEGGAR. + + +Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! + Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, +Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, + O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. + +These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, + These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; +And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek + Has been the channel to a stream of tears. + +Yon house, erected on the rising ground, + With tempting aspect drew me from my road, +For plenty there a residence has found, + And grandeur a magnificent abode. + +(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) + Here craving for a morsel of their bread, +A pampered menial drove me from the door, + To seek a shelter in the humble shed. + +O, take me to your hospitable dome, + Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! +Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, + For I am poor and miserably old. + +Should I reveal the source of every grief, + If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, +Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, + And tears of pity could not be repressed. + +Heaven sends misfortunes,--why should we repine? + 'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see: +And your condition may be soon like mine, + The child of sorrow and of misery. + +A little farm was my paternal lot, + Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; +But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; + My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. + +My daughter,--once the comfort of my age! + Lured by a villain from her native home, +Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage, + And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. + +My tender wife,--sweet soother of my care!-- + Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, +Fell,--lingering fell, a victim to despair, + And left the world to wretchedness and me. + +Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! + Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door, + Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, + O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. + +THOMAS MOSS. + + + +A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER. + + THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS. + + +The merry brown hares came leaping + Over, the crest of the hill, +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping, + Under the moonlight still. +Leaping late and early, + Till under their bite and their tread, +The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley + Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. + +A poacher's widow sat sighing + On the side of the white chalk bank, +Where, under the gloom of fire-woods, + One spot in the lea throve rank. + +She watched a long tuft of clover, + Where rabbit or hare never ran, +For its black sour haulm covered over + The blood of a murdered man. + +She thought of the dark plantation, + And the hares, and her husband's blood, +And the voice of her indignation + Rose up to the throne of God: + +"I am long past wailing and whining, + I have wept too much in my life: +I've had twenty years of pining + As an English laborer's wife. + +"A laborer in Christian England, + Where they cant of a Saviour's name, +And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's + For a few more brace of game. + +"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, + There's blood on your pointer's feet; +There's blood on the game you sell, squire, + And there's blood on the game you eat. + +"You have sold the laboring man, squire, + Both body and soul to shame, +To pay for your seat in the House, squire, + And to pay for the feed of your game. + +"You made him a poacher yourself, squire, + When you'd give neither work nor meat, +And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden + At our starving children's feet; + +"When, packed in one reeking chamber, + Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; +While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed, + And the walls let in the day; + +"When we lay in the burning fever, + On the mud of the cold clay floor, +Till you parted us all for three months, squire, + At the cursèd workhouse door. + +"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders? + What self-respect could we keep, +Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, + Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep? + +"Our daughters, with base-born babies, + Have wandered away in their shame; +If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, + Your misses might do the same. + +"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, + With handfuls of coals and rice, +Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting + A little below cost price? + +"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, + And take to allotments and schools, +But you 've run up a debt that will never + Be repaid us by penny-club rules. + +"In the season of shame and sadness, + In the dark and dreary day. +When scrofula, gout, and madness + Are eating your race away; + +"When to kennels and liveried varlets + You have cast your daughters' bread, +And, worn out with liquor and harlots, + Your heir at your feet lies dead; + +"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector, + Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, +You will find in your God the protector + Of the freeman you fancied your slave." + +She looked at the tuft of clover, + And wept till her heart grew light; +And at last, when her passion was over, + Went wandering into the night. + +But the merry brown hares came leaping + Over the uplands still, +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping + On the side of the white chalk hill. + +CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME." + + +The farmer's wife sat at the door, + A pleasant sight to see; +And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns + That played around her knee. + +When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, + A poor fish-wife came by, +And, turning from the toilsome road, + Unto the door drew nigh. + +She laid her burden on the green, + And spread its scaly store; +With trembling hands and pleading words, + She told them o'er and o'er. + +But lightly laughed the young guidwife, + "We're no sae scarce o' cheer; +Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,-- + I'll buy nae fish sae dear." + +Bending beneath her load again, + A weary sight to see; +Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife, + "They are dear fish to me! + +"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night, + And when the storm blew o'er, +My husband, and my three brave sons, + Lay corpses on the shore. + +"I've been a wife for thirty years, + A childless widow three; +I maun buy them now to sell again,-- + They are dear fish to me!" + +The farmer's wife turned to the door,-- + What was't upon her cheek? +What was there rising in her breast, + That then she scarce could speak? + +She thought upon her ain guidman, + Her lightsome laddies three; +The woman's words had pierced her heart,-- + "They are dear fish to me!" + +"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, + And pity's gathering tear; +"Come in, come in, my poor woman, + Ye 're kindly welcome here. + +"I kentna o' your aching heart, + Your weary lot to dree; +I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words: + 'They are dear fish to me!'" + +Ay, let the happy-hearted learn + To pause ere they deny +The meed of honest toil, and think + How much their gold may buy,-- + +How much of manhood's wasted strength, + What woman's misery,-- +What breaking hearts might swell the cry: + "They are dear fish to me!" + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. + + THE IRISH FAMINE. + + +Give me three grains of corn, mother,-- + Only three grains of corn; +It will keep the little life I have + Till the coming of the morn. +I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,-- + Dying of hunger and cold; +And half the agony of such a death + My lips have never told. + +It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,-- + A wolf that is fierce for blood; +All the livelong day, and the night beside, + Gnawing for lack of food. +I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, + And the sight was heaven to see, +I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, + But you had no bread for me. + +How could I look to you, mother,-- + How could I look to you +For bread to give to your starving boy, + When you were starving too? +For I read the famine in your cheek, + And in your eyes so wild, +And I felt it in your bony hand, + As you laid it on your child. + +The Queen has lands and gold, mother, + The Queen has lands and gold, +While you are forced to your empty breast + A skeleton babe to hold,-- +A babe that is dying of want, mother, + As I am dying now, +With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, + And famine upon its brow. + +What has poor Ireland done, mother,-- + What has poor Ireland done, +That the world looks on, and sees us starve, + Perishing one by one? +Do the men of England care not, mother,-- + The great men and the high,-- +For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, + Whether they live or die? + +There is many a brave heart here, mother, + Dying of want and cold, +While only across the Channel, mother, + Are many that roll in gold; +There are rich and proud men there, mother, + With wondrous wealth to view, +And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night + Would give life to _me_ and _you_. + +Come nearer to my side, mother. + Come nearer to my side, +And hold me fondly, as you held + My father when _he_ died; +Quick, for I cannot see you, mother, + My breath is almost gone; +Mother! dear mother! ere I die, + Give me three grains of corn. + +AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS. + + + +THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. + + +With fingers weary and worn, + With eyelids heavy and red, +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, + Plying her needle and thread,-- + Stitch! stitch! stitch! +In poverty, hunger, and dirt; + And still with a voice of dolorous pitch +She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" + +"Work! work! work + While the cock is crowing aloof! +And work--work--work + Till the stars shine through the roof! +It's, O, to be a slave + Along with the barbarous Turk, +Where woman has never a soul to save, + If this is Christian work! + +"Work--work--work + Till the brain begins to swim! +Work--work--work + Till the eyes are heavy and dim! +Seam, and gusset, and band, + Band, and gusset, and seam,-- +Till over the buttons I fall asleep, + And sew them on in a dream! + +"O men with sisters dear! + O men with mothers and wives! +It is no linen you're wearing out, + But human creatures' lives! + Stitch! stitch! stitch, + In poverty, hunger, and dirt,-- +Sewing at once, with a double thread, + A shroud as well as a shirt! + +"But why do I talk of death,-- + That phantom of grisly bone? +I hardly fear his terrible shape, + It seems so like my own,-- +It seems so like my own + Because of the fasts I keep; +O God! that bread should be so dear, + And flesh and blood so cheap! + +"Work--work--work + My labor never flags; +And what are its wages? A bed of straw, + A crust of bread--and rags, +That shattered roof--and this naked floor-- + A table--a broken chair-- +And a wall so blank my shadow I thank + For sometimes falling there! + +"Work--work--work + From weary chime to chime! +Work--work--work + As prisoners work for crime! +Band, and gusset, and seam, + Seam, and gusset, and band, +Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, + As well as the weary hand. + +"Work--work--work + In the dull December light! +And work--work--work-- + When the weather is warm and bright! +While underneath the eaves + The brooding swallows cling, +As if to show me their sunny backs, + And twit me with the Spring. + +"O, but to breathe the breath + Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,-- +With the sky above my head, + And the grass beneath my feet! +For only one short hour + To feel as I used to feel, +Before I knew the woes of want + And the walk that costs a meal! + +"O but for one short hour,-- + A respite, however brief! +No blessèd leisure for love or hope, + But only time for grief! +A little weeping would ease my heart; + But in their briny bed +My tears must stop, for every drop + Hinders needle and thread!" + +With fingers weary and worn, + With eyelids heavy and red, +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, + Plying her needle and thread,-- + Stitch! stitch! stitch, + In poverty, hunger, and dirt; +And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- +Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- + She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. + + +There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot-- +To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; +The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; +And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings; + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none, +He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,-- +Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man; +To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns_! + +What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din! +The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! +How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! +The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach +To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! +He's taking a drive in his carriage at last! +But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, +Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! +And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, +You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, +To think that a heart in humanity clad +Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end, +And depart from the light without leaving a friend! + _Bear soft his bones over the stones! + Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!_ + +THOMAS NOEL. + + + +UNSEEN SPIRITS. + + +The shadows lay along Broadway, + 'T was 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! + + +NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. + + + +BEAUTIFUL SNOW. + + +O the snow, the beautiful snow, +Filling the sky and the earth below! +Over the house-tops, over the street, +Over the heads of the people you meet, + Dancing, + Flirting, + Skimming along. +Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong. +Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek; +Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak; +Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, +Pure as an angel and fickle as love! + +O the snow, the beautiful snow! +How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! +Whirling about in its maddening fun, +It plays in its glee with every one. + Chasing, + Laughing, + Hurrying by, +It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye; +And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, +Snap at the crystals that eddy around. +The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, +To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. +How the wild crowd go swaying along, +Hailing each other with humor and song! +How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,-- +Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye! + Ringing, + Swinging, + Dashing they go +Over the crest of the beautiful snow: +Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, +To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; +To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet +Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. + + +Once I was pure as the snows,--but I fell: +Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven--to hell: +Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street: +Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. + Pleading, + Cursing, + Dreading to die, +Selling my soul to whoever would buy, +Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, +Hating the living and fearing the dead. +Merciful God! have I fallen so low? +And yet I was once like this beautiful snow! + +Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, +With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; +Once I was loved for my innocent grace,-- +Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. + Father, + Mother, + Sisters all, +God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. +The veriest wretch that goes shivering by +Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; +For all that is on or about me, I know +There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. + +How strange it should be that this beautiful snow +Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! +How strange it would be, when the night comes again, +If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! + Fainting, + Freezing, + Dying alone, +Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan +To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, +Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down; +To lie and to die in my terrible woe, +With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow! + +JAMES W. WATSON. + + + +LONDON CHURCHES. + + +I stood, one Sunday morning, +Before a large church door, +The congregation gathered, +And carriages a score,-- +From one out stepped a lady +I oft had seen before. + +Her hand was on a prayer-book, +And held a vinaigrette; +The sign of man's redemption +Clear on the book was set,-- +But above the cross there glistened +A golden Coronet. + +For her the obsequious beadle +The inner door flung wide; +Lightly, as up a ball-room, +Her footsteps seemed to glide,-- +There might be good thoughts in her, +For all her evil pride. + +But after her a woman +Peeped wistfully within, +On whose wan face was graven +Life's hardest discipline,-- +The trace of the sad trinity +Of weakness, pain, and sin. + +The few free-seats were crowded +Where she could rest and pray; +With her worn garb contrasted +Each side in fair array,-- +"God's house holds no poor sinners," +She sighed, and crept away. + +RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON.) + + + +THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. + + "Drowned! drowned!"--HAMLET. + + +One more unfortunate, +Weary of breath, +Rashly importunate, +Gone to her death! + +Take her up tenderly, +Lift her with care! +Fashioned so slenderly, +Young, and so fair! + +Look at her garments +Clinging like cerements, +Whilst the wave constantly +Drips from her clothing; +Take her up instantly, +Loving, not loathing! + +Touch her not scornfully! +Think of her mournfully, +Gently and humanly,-- +Not of the stains of her; +All that remains of her +Now is pure womanly. + +Make no deep scrutiny +Into her mutiny, +Rash and undutiful; +Past all dishonor, +Death has left on her +Only the beautiful. + +Still, for all slips of hers,-- +One of Eve's family,-- +Wipe those poor lips of hers, +Oozing so clammily. +Loop up her tresses +Escaped from the comb,-- +Her fair auburn tresses,-- +Whilst wonderment guesses +Where was her home? + +Who was her father? +Who was her mother? +Had she a sister? +Had she a brother? +Or was there a dearer one +Still, and a nearer one +Yet, than all other? + +Alas! for the rarity +Of Christian charity +Under the sun! +O, it was pitiful! +Near a whole city full, +Home she had none. + +Sisterly, brotherly, +Fatherly, motherly +Feelings had changed,-- +Love, by harsh evidence, +Thrown from its eminence; +Even God's providence +Seeming estranged. + +Where the lamps quiver +So far in the river, +With many a light +From window and casement, +From garret to basement, +She stood, with amazement, +Houseless by night. + +The bleak wind of March +Made her tremble and shiver; +But not the dark arch, +Or the black floating river; +Mad from life's history, +Glad to death's mystery, +Swift to be hurled-- +Anywhere, anywhere +Out of the world! + +In she plunged boldly,-- +No matter how coldly +The rough river ran-- +Over the brink of it! +Picture it--think of it, +Dissolute man! +Lave in it, drink of it, +Then, if you can! + +Take her up tenderly, +Lift her with care! +Fashioned so slenderly, +Young, and so fair! + +Ere her limbs, frigidly, +Stiffen too rigidly, +Decently, kindly! +Smooth and compose them; +And her eyes, close them, +Staring so blindly! +Dreadfully staring +Through muddy impurity, +As when with the daring +Last look of despairing +Fixed on futurity. + +Perishing gloomily, +Spurred by contumely, +Cold inhumanity, +Burning insanity, +Into her rest! +Cross her hands humbly, +As if praying dumbly, +Over her breast! + +Owning her weakness, +Her evil behavior, +And leaving, with meekness, +Her sins to her Saviour! + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY? + + +She stood at the bar of justice, + A creature wan and wild, +In form too small for a woman, + In feature too old for a child. +For a look so worn and pathetic + Was stamped on her pale young face, +It seemed long years of suffering + Must have left that silent trace. + +"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her + With kindly look, yet keen, +"Is--?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." + "And your age?" "I am turned fifteen." +"Well, Mary--" And then from a paper + He slowly and gravely read, +"You are charged here--I am sorry to say it-- + With stealing three loaves of bread. + +"You look not like an offender, + And I hope that you can show +The charge to be false. Now, tell me, + Are you guilty of this, or no?" +A passionate burst of weeping + Was at first her sole reply; +But she dried her tears in a moment, + And looked in the judge's eye. + +"I will tell you just how it was, sir; + My father and mother are dead, +And my little brothers and sisters + Were hungry, and asked me for bread. +At first I earned it for them + By working hard all day, +But somehow the times were hard, sir, + And the work all fell away. + +"I could get no more employment; + The weather was bitter cold; +The young ones cried and shivered + (Little Johnnie's but four years old). +So what was I to do, sir? + I am guilty, but do not condemn; +I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?-- + The bread to give to them." + +Every man in the court-room-- + Graybeard and thoughtless youth-- +Knew, as he looked upon her, + That the prisoner spake the truth. +Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, + Out from their eyes sprang tears, +And out from the old faded wallets + Treasures hoarded for years. + +The judge's face was a study, + The strangest you ever saw, +As he cleared his throat and murmured + _Something_ about the _law_. +For one so learned in such matters, + So wise in dealing with men, +He seemed on a simple question + Sorely puzzled just then. + +But no one blamed him, or wondered, + When at last these words they heard, +"The sentence of this young prisoner + Is for the present deferred." +And no one blamed him, or wondered, + When he went to her and smiled, +And tenderly led from the court-room, + Himself, the "guilty" child. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THE FEMALE CONVICT. + + +She shrank from all, and her silent mood +Made her wish only for solitude: +Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook, +For innermost shame, on another's to look; +And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear +Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!-- +She still was young, and she had been fair; +But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care, +That frost and fever that wear the heart, +Had made the colors of youth depart +From the sallow cheek, save over it came +The burning flush of the spirit's shame. + +They were sailing over the salt sea-foam, +Far from her country, far from her home; +And all she had left for her friends to keep +Was a name to hide and a memory to weep! +And her future held forth but the felon's lot,-- +To live forsaken, to die forgot! +She could not weep, and she could not pray, +But she wasted and withered from day to day, +Till you might have counted each sunken vein, +When her wrist was prest by the iron chain; +And sometimes I thought her large dark eye +Had the glisten of red insanity. + +She called me once to her sleeping-place, +A strange, wild look was upon her face, +Her eye flashed over her cheek so white, +Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, +And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,-- +The sound from mine ear hath never gone!-- +"I had last night the loveliest dream: +My own land shone in the summer beam, +I saw the fields of the golden grain, +I heard the reaper's harvest strain; +There stood on the hills the green pine-tree, +And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. +A long and a weary way I had come; +But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home. +I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there, +With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair! +The Bible lay open upon his knee, +But he closed the book to welcome me. +He led me next where my mother lay, +And together we knelt by her grave to pray, +And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, +For it echoed one to my young days dear. +This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, +And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead! +--We have not spoken, but still I have hung +On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue. +To me they are music, to me they recall +The things long hidden by Memory's pall! +Take this long curl of yellow hair, +And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, +My dying prayer, was for him." ... + + Next day +Upon the deck a coffin lay; +They raised it up, and like a dirge +The heavy gale swept over the surge; +The corpse was cast to the wind and wave,-- +The convict has found in the green sea a grave. + +LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. + + + +HOPELESS GRIEF. + + +I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,-- +That only men incredulous of despair, +Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air +Beat upwards to God's throne in loud access +Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, +In souls as countries lieth silent-bare +Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare +Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express +Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death; +Most like a monumental statue set +In everlasting watch and moveless woe, +Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. +Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet-- +If it could weep, it could arise and go. + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + * * * * * + + + + +IV. COMFORT AND CHEER. + + + +TO MYSELF. + + +Let nothing make thee sad or fretful, + Or too regretful; + Be still; +What God hath ordered must be right; +Then find in it thine own delight, + My will. + +Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow + About to-morrow. + My heart? +_One_ watches all with care most true; +Doubt not that he will give thee too + Thy part. + +Only be steadfast; never waver, + Nor seek earth's favor, + But rest: +Thou knowest what God wills must be +For all his creatures, so for thee, + The best. + +From the German of PAUL FLEMING. +Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH. + + + +THE FLOWER. + + + How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean +Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring; + To which, besides their own demean, +The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. + Grief melts away + Like snow in May, + As if there were no such cold thing. + + Who would have thought my shrivelled heart +Could have recovered greenness? It was gone + Quite underground; as flowers depart +To see their mother root, when they have blown; + Where they together + All the hard weather, + Dead to the world, keep house unknown. + + These are thy wonders, Lord of power, +Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell + And up to heaven in an houre; +Making a chiming of a passing-bell. + We say amisse + This or that is: + Thy word is all, if we could spell. + + O that I once past changing were, +Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither! + Many a spring I shoot up fair, +Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groning thither; + Nor doth my flower + Want a spring-showre, + My sinnes and I joining together. + + But, while I grow in a straight line, +Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, + Thy anger comes, and I decline: +What frost to that? what pole is not the zone + Where all things burn, + When thou dost turn, + And the least frown of thine is shown? + + And now in age I bud again; +After so many deaths I live and write; + I once more smell the dew and rain, +And relish versing: O my only light, + It cannot be + That I am he + On whom thy tempests fell all night! + + These are thy wonders, Lord of love, +To make us see we are but flowers that glide; + Which when we once can finde and prove, +Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. + Who would be more, + Swelling through store, + Forfeit their paradise by their pride. + +GEORGE HERBERT. + + + +SONNET. + + TO CYRIACK SKINNER. + + +Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, + To outward view, of blemish or of spot, + Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: +Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear +Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year, + Or man or woman, yet I argue not + Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot +Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer +Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? +The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied +In Liberty's defence, my noble task, +Of which all Europe rings from side to side. +This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, +Content, though blind, had I no better guide. + +MILTON. + + + +INVICTUS. + + +Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud; +Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, + +And yet the menace of the years + Finds and shall find me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate; + I am the captain of my soul. + +WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY. + + + +AFAR IN THE DESERT. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: +When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, +And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; +When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, +From the fond recollections of former years; +And shadows of things that have long since fled +Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,-- +Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon; +Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon; +Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; +Companions of early days lost or left; +And my native land, whose magical name +Thrills to the heart like electric flame; +The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; +All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time +When the feelings were young, and the world was new, +Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; +All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! +And I, a lone exile remembered of none, +My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, +Aweary of all that is under the sun, +With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, +I fly to the desert afar from man. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side! +When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, +With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, +The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, +The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, +And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, +Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; +When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, +And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-- +O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, +Afar in the desert alone to ride! +There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, +And to bound away with the eagle's speed, +With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,-- +The only law of the Desert Land! + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +Away, away from the dwellings of men, +By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen; +By valleys remote where the oribi plays, +Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze, +And the kudu and eland unhunted recline +By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine; +Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, +And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, +And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will +In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry +Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; +And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh +Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; +Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. +With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; +And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste +Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, +Hieing away to the home of her rest, +Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, +Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view +In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride. +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +Away, away, in the wilderness vast +Where the white man's foot hath never passed, +And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan +Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan,-- +A region of emptiness, howling and drear, +Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; +Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, +With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; +Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, +Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; +And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, +Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink; +A region of drought, where no river glides, +Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; +Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, +Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, +Appears, to refresh the aching eye; +But the barren earth and the burning sky, +And the blank horizon, round and round, +Spread,--void of living sight or sound. +And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, +And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, +As I sit apart by the desert stone, +Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, +"A still small voice" comes through the wild +(Like a father consoling his fretful child), +Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, +Saying,--Man is distant, but God is near! + +THOMAS PRINGLE. + + + +SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING. + + +Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, +Crumbling away beneath our very feet; +Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing +In current unperceived, because so fleet; +Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,-- +But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; +Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, +And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet; +And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us +Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; +And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us +A nearer good to cure an older ill; +And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, +Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them! + +AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE. + + + +MY WIFE AND CHILD.[5] + + +The tattoo beats,--the lights are gone, + The camp around in slumber lies, +The night with solemn pace moves on, + The shadows thicken o'er the skies; +But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, + And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. + +I think of thee, O darling one, + Whose love my early life hath blest-- +Of thee and him--our baby son-- + Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. +God of the tender, frail, and lone, + O, guard the tender sleeper's rest! + +And hover gently, hover near + To her whose watchful eye is wet,-- + +To mother, wife,--the doubly dear, + In whose young heart have freshly met +Two streams of love so deep and clear, + And cheer her drooping spirits yet. + +Now, while she kneels before thy throne, + O, teach her, Ruler of the skies, +That, while by thy behest alone + Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise, +No tear is wept to thee unknown, + No hair is lost, no sparrow dies! + +That thou canst stay the ruthless hands + Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; +That only by thy stern commands + The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; +That from the distant sea or land + Thou bring'st the wanderer home again. + +And when upon her pillow lone + Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, +May happier visions beam upon + The brightened current of her breast, +No frowning look or angry tone + Disturb the Sabbath of her rest! + +Whatever fate these forms may show, + Loved with a passion almost wild, +By day, by night, in joy or woe, + By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, +From every danger, every foe, + O God, protect my wife and child! + +HENRY R. JACKSON. + + [5] Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the writer being at that time +Colonel of the 1st regiment of Georgia Volunteers. + + + +THE RAINY DAY. + + +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +The vine still clings to the moldering wall, +But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + +My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past, +But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + +Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; +Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; +Thy fate is the common fate of all, +Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +TIMES GO BY TURNS. + + +The lopped tree in time may grow again; +Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; +The sorest wight may find release of pain, +The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; +Times go by turns and chances change by course, +From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. +The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, +She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; +Her time hath equal times to come and go, +Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; +No joy so great but runneth to an end, +No hap so hard but may in fine amend. + +Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, +No endless night yet not eternal day; +The saddest birds a season find to sing, +The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; +Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, +That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. + +A chance may win that by mischance was lost; +The well that holds no great, takes little fish; +In some things all, in all things none are crossed, +Few all they need, but none have all they wish; +Unmeddled joys here to no man befall, +Who least hath some, who most hath never all. + +ROBERT SOUTHWELL. + + + +COMPENSATION. + + +Tears wash away the atoms in the eye + That smarted for a day; +Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky + The fields with flowers array. + +No chamber of pain but has some hidden door + That promises release; +No solitude so drear but yields its store + Of thought and inward peace. + +No night so wild but brings the constant sun + With love and power untold; +No time so dark but through its woof there run + Some blessèd threads of gold. + +And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn + In changing calm and strife +The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,-- + The unquenched lamps of life. + +O Love supreme! O Providence divine! + What self-adjusting springs +Of law and life, what even scales, are thine, + What sure-returning wings + +Of hopes and joys, that flit like birds away, + When chilling autumn blows, +But come again, long ere the buds of May + Their rosy lips unclose! + +What wondrous play of mood and accident + Through shifting days and years; +What fresh returns of vigor overspent + In feverish dreams and fears! + +What wholesome air of conscience and of thought + When doubts and forms oppress; +What vistas opening to the gates we sought + Beyond the wilderness; + +Beyond the narrow cells, where self-involved, + Like chrysalids, we wait +The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved + Of death and change and fate! + +O Light divine! we need no fuller test + That all is ordered well; +We know enough to trust that all is best + Where love and wisdom dwell. + +CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. + + + +THE CHANGED CROSS. + + +It was a time of sadness, and my heart, +Although it knew and loved the better part, +Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, +And all the needful discipline of life. + +And while I thought on these, as given to me, +My trial-tests of faith and love to be, +It seemed as if I never could be sure +That faithful to the end I should endure. + +And thus, no longer trusting to his might +Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight," +Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, +The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear. + +"Far heavier its weight must surely be +Than those of others which I daily see; +Oh! if I might another burden choose, +Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose." + +A solemn silence reigned on all around, +E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound; +The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, +And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. + +A moment's pause,--and then a heavenly light +Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; +Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, +And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. + +Then One, more fair than all the rest to see, +One to whom all the others bowed the knee, +Came gently to me, as I trembling lay, +And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way." + +Then, speaking thus, he led me far above, +And there, beneath a canopy of love, +Grosses of divers shape and size were seen, +Larger and smaller than my own had been. + +And one there was, most beauteous to behold,-- +A little one, with jewels set in gold. +"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear, +For it will be an easy one to bear." + +And so the little cross I quickly took, +But all at once my frame beneath it shook; +The sparkling jewels, fair were they to _see_, +But far too heavy was their _weight_ for me. + +"This may not be," I cried, and looked again, +To see if there was any here could ease my pain; +But, one by one, I passed them slowly by, +Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. + +Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, +And grace and beauty seemed in it combined. +Wondering, I gazed,--and still I wondered more, +To think so many should have passed it o'er. + +But oh! that form so beautiful to see +Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; +Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; +Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear." + +And so it was with each and all around,-- +Not one to suit my _need_ could there be found; +Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down, +As my Guide gently said, "No cross,--no crown." + +At length to him I raised my saddened heart; +He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart; +"Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me; +My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." + +And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet, +Again I turned my earthly cross to meet; +With forward footsteps, turning not aside, +For fear some hidden evil might betide; + +And there--in the prepared, appointed way, +Listening to hear, and ready to obey-- +A cross I quickly found of plainest form, +With only words of love inscribed thereon. + +With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, +And joyfully acknowledged it the best, +The only one, of all the many there. +That I could feel was good for me to bear. + +And, while I thus my chosen one confessed, +I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; +And as I bent, my burden to sustain, +I recognized _my own old cross_ again. + +But oh! how different did it seem to be, +Now I had learned its preciousness to see! +No longer could I unbelieving say +"Perhaps another is a better way." + +Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be, +That he who knows me best should choose for me; +And so, whate'er his love sees good to send, +I'll trust it's best,--because he knows the end. + +HON. MRS. CHARLES HOBART. + + + +SOMETHING BEYOND. + + +Something beyond! though now, with joy unfound, + The life-task falleth from thy weary hand, +Be brave, be patient! In the fair beyond + Thou'lt understand. + +Thou'lt understand why our most royal hours + Couch sorrowful slaves bound by low nature's greed; +Why the celestial soul's a minion made + To narrowest need. + +In this pent sphere of being incomplete, + The imperfect fragment of a beauteous whole, +For yon rare regions, where the perfect meet, + Sighs the lone soul. + +Sighs for the perfect! Far and fair it lies; + It hath no half-fed friendships perishing fleet, +No partial insights, no averted eyes, + No loves unmeet. + +Something beyond! Light for our clouded eyes! + In this dark dwelling, in its shrouded beams, +Our best waits masked, few pierce the soul's disguise; + How sad it seems! + +Something beyond! Ah, if it were not so, + Darker would be thy face, O brief To-day; +Earthward we 'd bow beneath life's smiting woe, + Powerless to pray. + +Something beyond! The immortal morning stands + Above the night; clear shines her precious brow; +The pendulous star in her transfigured hands + Brightens the Now. + +MARY CLEMMER AMES HUDSON. + + + +DESPONDENCY REBUKED. + + +Say not, the struggle nought availeth, + The labor and the wounds are vain, +The enemy faints not, nor faileth, + And as things have been they remain. + +If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; + It may be, in you smoke concealed, +Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, + And, but for you, possess the field. + +For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, + Seem here no painful inch to gain, +Far back, through creeks and inlets making, + Comes silent, flooding in, the main. + +And not by eastern windows only. + When daylight comes, comes in the light; +In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, + But westward, look, the land is bright. + +ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. + + + +GOD'S SURE HELP IN SORROW. + + + Leave all to God, +Forsaken one, and stay thy tears; + For the Highest knows thy pain, +Sees thy sufferings and thy fears; + Thou shalt not wait his help in vain; + Leave all to God! + + Be still and trust! +For his strokes are strokes of love, + Thou must for thy profit bear; +He thy filial fear would move, + Trust thy Father's loving care, + Be still and trust! + + Know, God is near! +Though thou think him far away, + Though his mercy long have slept, +He will come and not delay, + When his child enough hath wept, + For God is near! + + Oh, teach him not +When and how to hear thy prayers; + Never doth our God forget; +He the cross who longest bears + Finds his sorrows' bounds are set; + Then teach him not! + + If thou love him, +Walking truly in his ways, + Then no trouble, cross, or death +E'er shall silence faith and praise; + All things serve thee here beneath, + If thou love God. + +From the German of ANTON ULEICH, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK, 1667. +Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855. + + + +SONNET. + + +While yet these tears have power to flow + For hours for ever past away; +While yet these swelling sighs allow + My faltering voice to breathe a lay; +While yet my hand can touch the chords, + My tender lute, to wake thy tone; +While yet my mind no thought affords, + But one remembered dream alone, +I ask not death, whate'er my state: + But when my eyes can weep no more, + My voice is lost, my hand untrue. + And when my spirit's fire is o'er, + Nor can express the love it knew, +Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate! + +From the French of LOUISE LABÉ. +Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO. + + + +WAITING. + + +Serene, I fold my hands and wait, + Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; +I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, + For, lo! my own shall come to me. + +I stay my haste, I make delays, + For what avails this eager pace? +I stand amid the eternal ways, + And what is mine shall know my face. + +Asleep, awake, by night or day. + The friends I seek are seeking me; +No wind can drive my bark astray, + Nor change the tide of destiny. + +What matter if I stand alone? + I wait with joy the coming years; +My heart shall reap where it has sown, + And garner up its fruit of tears. + +The waters know their own and draw + The brook that springs in yonder height; + +So flows the good with equal law + Unto the soul of pure delight. + +The stars come nightly to the sky; + The tidal wave unto the sea; +Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, + Can keep my own away from me. + +JOHN BURROUGHS. + + + +AUNT PHILLIS'S GUEST. + + ST. HELENA ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1863. + + +I was young and "Harry" was strong, +The summer was bursting from sky and plain, +Thrilling our blood as we bounded along,-- +When a picture flashed, and I dropped the rein. + +A black sea-creek, with snaky run +Slipping through low green leagues of sedge, +An ebbing tide, and a setting sun; +A hut and a woman by the edge. + +Her back was bent and her wool was gray; +The wrinkles lay close on the withered face; +Children were buried and sold away,-- +The Freedom had come to the last of a race! + +She lived from a neighbor's hominy-pot; +And praised the Lord, if "the pain" passed by; +From the earthen floor the smoke curled out +Through shingles patched with the bright blue sky. + +"Aunt Phillis, you live here all alone?" +I asked, and pitied the gray old head; +Sure as a child, in quiet tone, +"Me and Jesus, Massa," she said. + +I started, for all the place was aglow +With a presence I had not seen before; +The air was full of a music low, +And the Guest Divine stood at the door! + +Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life, +Who seeth the widow give her mite, +Had watched this slave in her weary strife, +And shown himself to her longing sight. + +The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin, +The grovelling want and the darkened mind,-- +I looked on this; but the Lord, within: +I would what he saw was in me to find! + +A childlike soul, whose faith had force +To see what the angels see in bliss: +She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course, +They lived together,--she knew but this. + +And the life that I had almost despised +As something to pity, so poor and low, +Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized +He loved to come near and see it grow. + +No sorrow for her that life was done: +A few more days of the hut's unrest, +A little while longer to sit in the sun,-- +Then--He would be host, and she would be guest! + +And up above, if an angel of light +Should stop on his errand of love some day +To ask, "Who lives in the mansion bright?" +"Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say. + + * * * * * + +A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem? +And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream? + + Friend, surely so! + For this I know,-- +That our faiths are foolish by falling below, +Not coming above, what God will show; +That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast, +To whose beauty our eyes have never passed; +That his face in the present, or in the to-be, +Outshines the best that we think we see. + +WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT. + + + +ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW. + + +Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, +And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind, +Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye 'll win through, +For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been, +Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een, +Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, +For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky +Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry, +The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, +And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie, +And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee, +Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, +But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +JAMES BALLANTINE. + + + +UNCHANGING. + + +In early days methought that all must last; + Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; +But though my soul now grieves for much that's past, +And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, +I yet believe in mind that all will last, +Because the old in new I still am meeting. + +From the German of +FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT. + + + +I HOLD STILL. + + +Pain's furnace heat within me quivers, + God's breath upon the flame doth blow, +And all my heart in anguish shivers, + And trembles at the fiery glow: +And yet I whisper, As God will! +And in his hottest fire hold still. + +He comes and lays my heart, all heated, + On the hard anvil, minded so +Into his own fair shape to beat it + With his great hammer, blow on blow: +And yet I whisper, As God will! +And at his heaviest blows hold still. + +He takes my softened heart and beats it,-- + The sparks fly off at every blow; +He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it, + And lets it cool, and makes it glow: +And yet I whisper, As God will! +And, in his mighty hand, hold still. + +Why should I murmur? for the sorrow + Thus only longer-lived would be; +Its end may come, and will, to-morrow, + When God has done his work in me; +So I say, trusting, As God will! +And, trusting to the end, hold still. + +He kindles for my profit purely + Affliction's glowing fiery brand, +And all his heaviest blows are surely + Inflicted by a Master-hand: +So I say, praying, As God will! +And hope in him, and suffer still. + +From the German of JULIUS STURM. + + + +THE GOOD GREAT MAN. + + +How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits + Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains! +It sounds like stories from the land of spirits. +If any man obtain that which he merits, + Or any merit that which he obtains. + + * * * * * + +For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain! +What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? +Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain-- +Or throne of corses which his sword has slain? +Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! + +Hath he not always treasures, always friends, +The good great man? three treasures,--love, and light, +And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath; +And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- +Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. + +SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. + + + +WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN. + + +Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing, + Where the winds dance and spin; +Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, + Over the breakers' din; +Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, +Out where the blinding fog is drifting, +Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, + My ship is coming in. + +Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching, + Day after weary day; +Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking, + While the long nights ebbed away; +Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, +Could I but know what storms had crossed her, +Could I but know where the winds had lost her, + Out in the twilight gray! + +But though the storms her course have altered, + Surely the port she'll win; +Never my faith in my ship has faltered, + I know she is coming in. +For through the restless ways of her roaming, +Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, +Through the white crest of the billows combing, + My ship is coming in. + +Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying, + Swiftly she's coming in; +Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, + Bravely she's coming in; +Precious the love she will bring to bless me, +Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, +In the proud purple of kings she will dress me. + My ship that is coming in. + +White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, + See, where my ship comes in; +At mast-head and peak her colors streaming, + Proudly she's sailing in; +Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering. +Music will welcome her glad appearing. +And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, + When my ship comes in. + +ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. + + + +NEVER DESPAIR.[6] + + +Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit + Bow like the willow that stoops to the blast. +Droop not in peril! 'T is manhood's true merit + Nobly to struggle and hope to the last. + +When by the sunshine of fortune forsaken + Faint sinks the heart of the feeble with fear, +Stand like the oak of the forest--unshaken, + Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair. + +Never despair! Though adversity rages, + + Fiercely and fell as the surge on the shore, +Firm as the rock of the ocean for ages, + Stem the rude torrent till danger is o'er. +Fate with its whirlwind our joys may all sever, + True to ourselves, we have nothing to fear. +Be this our hope and our anchor for ever-- + Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair. + +WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN. + + [6] These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien, the evening of +Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed +upon him. + +THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. October 12, 1848. + + + +THE SADDEST FATE. + + + To touch a broken lute, + To strike a jangled string, + To strive with tones forever mute + The dear old tunes to sing-- +What sadder fate could any heart befall? +_Alas! dear child, never to sing at all_. + + To sigh for pleasures flown. + To weep for withered flowers, + To count the blessings we have known, + Lost with the vanished hours-- +What sadder fate could any heart befall? +_Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them all_. + + To dream of love and rest, + To know the dream has past, +To bear within an aching breast + Only a void at last-- +What sadder fate could any heart befall? +_Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all_. + + To trust an unknown good, + To hope, but all in vain, + Over a far-off bliss to brood, + Only to find it pain-- +What sadder fate could any soul befall? +_Alas! dear child, never to hope at all_. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS. + + +Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight, + The tumult of her motley throng. +When high and clear upon the night + Rose an inspiring song. +And rang above the city's din +To sound of harp and violin; + A simple but a manly strain, + And ending with the brave refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +And now where rose that song of cheer. + Both old and young stood still for joy; +Or from the windows hung to hear + The children of Savoy: +And many an eye with rapture glowed, +And saddest hearts forgot their load, + And feeble souls grew strong again, + So stirring was the brave refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +Alone, with only silence there, + Awaiting his life's welcome close, +A sick man lay, when on the air + That clarion arose; +So sweet the thrilling cadence rang, +It seemed to him an angel sang, + And sang to him; and he would fain + Have died upon that heavenly strain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +A sorrow-stricken man and wife, + With nothing left them but to pray, +Heard streaming over their sad life + That grand, heroic lay: +And through the mist of happy tears +They saw the promise-laden years; + And in their joy they sang again, + And carolled high the fond refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +Two artists, in the cloud of gloom + Which hung upon their hopes deferred, +Resounding through their garret-room + That noble chanson heard; +And as the night before the day +Their weak misgivings fled away; + And with the burden of the strain + They made their studio ring again-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +Two poets, who in patience wrought + The glory of an aftertime,-- +Lords of an age which knew them not, + Heard rise that lofty rhyme; +And on their hearts it fell, as falls +The sunshine upon prison-walls; + And one caught up the magic strain + And to the other sang again-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +And unto one, who, tired of breath, + And day and night and name and fame, +Held to his lips a glass of death, + That song a savior came; +Beseeching him from his despair, +As with the passion of a prayer; + And kindling in his heart and brain + The valor of its blest refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +O thou, with earthly ills beset, + Call to thy lips those words of joy, +And never in thy life forget + The brave song of Savoy! +For those dear words may have the power +To cheer thee in thy darkest hour; + The memory of that loved refrain + Bring gladness to thy heart again!-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +HENRY AMES BLOOD. + + * * * * * + + + + +V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT. + + + +LIFE. + + +We are born; we laugh; we weep; + We love; we droop; we die! +Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? + Why do we live or die? +Who knows that secret deep? + Alas not I! + +Why doth the violet spring + Unseen by human eye? +Why do the radiant seasons bring + Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? +Why do our fond hearts cling + To things that die? + +We toil--through pain and wrong; + We fight--and fly; +We love; we lose; and then, ere long, + Stone-dead we lie, +O life! is all thy song + "Endure and--die?" + +BRYAN WALLER PROCTER _(Barry Cornwall)._ + + + +SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. + + FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. I. + + +HAMLET.--To be, or not to be,--that is the question +Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer +The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, +Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, +And, by opposing, end them?--To die, to sleep;-- +No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end +The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks +That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation +Devoutly to be wished. To die,--to sleep;-- +To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub; +For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, +When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, +Must give us pause: there's the respect +That makes calamity of so long life; +For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, +The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, +The pains of despised love, the law's delay, +The insolence of office, and the spurns +That patient merit of the unworthy takes, +When he himself might his quietus make +With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, +To grunt and sweat under a weary life, +But that the dread of something after death,-- +The undiscovered country, from whose bourn +No traveller returns,--puzzles the will, +And makes us rather bear those ills we have, +Than fly to others that we know not of? +Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; +And thus the native hue of resolution +Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; +And enterprises of great pith and moment, +With this regard, their currents turn awry, +And lose the name of action. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +SIC VITA.[7] + +Like to the falling of a star, +Or as the flights of eagles are, +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, +Or silver drops of morning dew, + +Or like a wind that chafes the flood, +Or bubbles which on water stood,-- + +E'en such is man, whose borrowed light +Is straight called in, and paid to-night. +The wind blows out, the bubble dies, +The spring entombed in autumn lies, +The dew dries up, the star is shot, +The flight is past,--and man forgot! + +HENRY KING. + + [7] Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities. + + + +DEATH THE LEVELLER. + +[These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.] + + +The glories of our blood and state + Are shadows, not substantial things; +There is no armor against fate; + Death lays his icy hand on kings: + Sceptre and crown + Must tumble down. +And in the dust be equal made +With the poor crooked scythe and spade. + +Some men with swords may reap the field, + And plant fresh laurels where they kill; +But their strong nerves at last must yield; + They tame but one another still: + Early or late, + They stoop to fate. +And must give up their murmuring breath, +When they, pale captives, creep to death. + +The garlands wither on your brow, + Then boast no more your mighty deeds; +Upon death's purple altar now + See where the victor-victim bleeds: + Your heads must come + To the cold tomb; +Only the actions of the just +Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. + +JAMES SHIRLEY. + + + +VIRTUE IMMORTAL. + + +Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, +The bridall of the earth and skie; +The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; + For thou must die. +Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave +Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, +Thy root is ever in its grave, + And all must die. + +Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, +A box where sweets compacted lie, +Thy musick shows ye have your closes, + And all must die. + +Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, +Like seasoned timber, never gives; +But, though the whole world, turn to coal, + Then chiefly lives. + +GEORGE HERBERT. + + + +MAN'S MORTALITY. + + + Like as the damask rose you see, + Or like the blossom on the tree, + Or like the dainty flower in May, + Or like the morning of the day, + Or like the sun, or like the shade, + Or like the gourd which Jonas had,-- + E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, + Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-- +The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, +The flower fades, the morning hasteth, +The sun sets, the shadow flies, +The gourd consumes,--and man he dies! + + Like to the grass that's newly sprung, + Or like a tale that's new begun, +Or like the bird that's here to-day, + Or like the pearled dew of May, + Or like an hour, or like a span, + Or like the singing of a swan,-- + E'en such is man; who lives by breath, + Is here, now there, in life and death.-- +The grass withers, the tale is ended, +The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. +The hour is short, the span is long, +The swan's near death,--man's life is done! + +SIMON WASTELL. + + + +MORTALITY. + + +O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? +Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, +A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, +He passes from life to his rest in the grave. + +The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, +Be scattered around and together be laid; +And the young and the old, and the low and the high, +Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. + +The child that a mother attended and loved, +The mother that infant's affection that proved, +The husband that mother and infant that blessed, +Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. + +The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whose eye, +Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; +And the memory of those that beloved her and praised +Are alike from the minds of the living erased. + +The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, +The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, +The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, +Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. + +The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, +The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, +The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, +Have faded away like the grass that we tread. + +The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, +The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, +The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, +Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. + +So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed +That wither away to let others succeed; +So the multitude comes, even those we behold, +To repeat every tale that hath often been told. + +For we are the same that our fathers have been; +We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- +We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, +And we run the same course that our fathers have run. + +The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; +From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; +To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; +But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. + +They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; +They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; +They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; +They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. + +They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, +Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, +Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, +Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. + +Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, +Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; +And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, +Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. + +'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, +From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, +From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;-- +why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + +WILLIAM KNOX. + + + + +THE HOUR OF DEATH. + + + Leaves have their time to fall, +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, + And stars to set--but all, +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. + + Day is for mortal care, +Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, + Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-- +But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. + + The banquet hath its hour, +Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; + There comes a day of griefs overwhelming power, +A time for softer tears--but all are thine. + + Youth and the opening rose +May look like things too glorious for decay, + And smile at thee--but thou art not of those +That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. + + Leaves have their time to fall, +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, + And stars to set--but all, +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. + + We know when moons shall wane, +When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, + When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-- +But who shall teach us when to look for thee? + + Is it when Spring's first gale +Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? + Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? +They have _one_ season--_all_ are ours to die! + + Thou art where billows foam, +Thou art where music melts upon the air; + Thou art around us in our peaceful home, +And the world calls us forth--and thou art there. + + Thou art where friend meets friend, +Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-- + Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend +The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. + + Leaves have their time to fall, +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, + And stars to set--but all. +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. + +FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. + + + +THE TERM OF DEATH. + + +Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath; + The bird's forsaken nest and her new song +(And this is all the time there is for Death); + The worm and butterfly--it is not long! + +SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT. + + + +A PICTURE OF DEATH. + + FROM "THE GIAOUR." + + + He who hath bent him o'er the dead +Ere the first day of death is fled, +The first dark day of nothingness, +The last of danger and distress, +(Before Decay's effacing fingers +Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) +And marked the mild angelic air, +The rapture of repose, that's there, +The fixed yet tender traits that streak +The languor of the placid cheek, +And--but for that sad shrouded eye, +That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, +And but for that chill, changeless brow, +Where cold Obstruction's apathy +Apalls the gazing mourner's heart, +As if to him it could impart +The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; +Yes, but for these and these alone, +Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, +He still might doubt the tyrant's power; + So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, + The first, last look by death revealed! + Such is the aspect of this shore; + 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! + So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, + We start, for soul is wanting there. + Hers is the loveliness in death, + That parts not quite with parting breath; + But beauty with that fearful bloom, + That hue which haunts it to the tomb, + Expression's last receding ray, + A gilded halo hovering round decay, + The farewell beam of Feeling past away; +Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, +Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth! + +LORD BYRON. + + + +THE TWO MYSTERIES. + + +["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, +the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, +surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his +lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then +inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, +my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'"] + +We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; +The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; +The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; +The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. + +We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; +This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; +We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, +Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. + +But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day-- +Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say. +Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be; +Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see! + +Then might they say--these vanished ones--and blessed is the thought, +"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you nought; +We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death-- +Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." + +The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, +So those who enter death must go as little children sent. +Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; +And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. + +MARY MAPLES DODGE. + + + +THANATOPSIS. + + + To him who, in the love of Nature, holds +Communion with her visible forms, she speaks +A various language: for his gayer hours +She has a voice of gladness, and a smile +And eloquence of beauty; and she glides +Into his darker musings with a mild +And healing sympathy, that steals away +Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts +Of the last bitter hour come like a blight +Over thy spirit, and sad images +Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, +And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, +Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, +Go forth under the open sky, and list +To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- +Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- +Comes a still voice:--Yet a few days, and thee +The all-beholding sun shall see no more +In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, +Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, +Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist +Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim +Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; +And, lost each human trace, surrendering up +Thine individual being, shalt thou go +To mix forever with the elements; +To be a brother to the insensible rock, +And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain +Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak +Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. + Yet not to thine eternal resting-place +Shalt thou retire alone,--nor couldst thou wish +Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down +With patriarchs of the infant world,--with kings, +The powerful of the earth,--the wise, the good, +Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, +All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, +Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales +Stretching in pensive quietness between; +The venerable woods; rivers that move +In majesty, and the complaining brooks, +That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, +Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- +Are but the solemn decorations all +Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, +The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, +Are shining on the sad abodes of death, +Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread +The globe are but a handful to the tribes +That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings +Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, +Or lose thyself in the continuous woods +Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound +Save his own dashings,--yet the dead are there! +And millions in those solitudes, since first +The flight of years began, have laid them down +In their last sleep,--the dead reign there alone! +So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw +In silence from the living, and no friend +Take note of thy departure? All that breathe +Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh +When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care +Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase +His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave +Their mirth and their employments, and shall come +And make their bed with thee. As the long train +Of ages glide away, the sons of men-- +The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes +In the full strength of years, matron and maid, +And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- +Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side +By those who in their turn shall follow them. + + So live, that when thy summons comes to join +The innumerable caravan that moves +To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take +His chamber in the silent halls of death, +Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, +Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed +By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave +Like one who wraps the drappery of his conch +About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + +A MORNING THOUGHT. + + +What if some morning, when the stars were paling, + And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear, +Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence + Of a benignant spirit standing near; + +And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:-- + "This is our earth--most friendly earth, and fair; +Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow + Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air; + +"There is blest living here, loving and serving, + And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear: +But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer-- + His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!" + +And what if then, while the still morning brightened, + And freshened in the elm the summer's breath, +Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel, + And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"? + +EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. + + + +NOW AND AFTERWARDS. + + "Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." + --RUSSIAN PROVERB. + + +"Two hands upon the breast, + And labor's done; +Two pale feet crossed in rest,-- + The race is won; +Two eyes with coin-weights shut, + And all tears cease; +Two lips where grief is mute, + Anger at peace:" +So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; +God in his kindness answereth not. + +"Two hands to work addrest + Aye for his praise; +Two feet that never rest + Walking his ways; +Two eyes that look above + Through all their tears; +Two lips still breathing love, + Not wrath, nor fears:" +So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; +Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these! + +DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK + + + +THE GRAVE OF SOPHOCLES. + + +Tenderly, ivy, on Sophocles' grave--right tenderly--twine +Garlanding over the mound network of delicate green. + +Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine +Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen. + +All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine; +Priest of the gay and profound, sweetest of singers terrene. + +From the Greek of SIMMIAS. +Translation of WILLIAM M. HAUDINGE. + + + +INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE ABBEY. + + +The earth goes on the earth glittering in gold, +The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; +The earth builds on the earth castles and towers, +The earth says to the earth--All this is ours. + + + +ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + +Mortality, behold and fear +What a change of flesh is here! +Think how many royal bones +Sleep within these heaps of stones; +Here they lie, had realms and lands, +Who now want strength to stir their hands, +Where from their pulpits sealed with dust +They preach, "In greatness is no trust." +Here's an acre sown indeed +With the richest royallest seed +That the earth did e'er suck in +Since the first man died for sin: +Here the bones of birth have cried +"Though gods they were, as men they died!" +Here are sands, ignoble things, +Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: +Here's a world of pomp and state +Buried in dust, once dead by fate. + +FRANCIS BEAUMONT. + + + +ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. + + +The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, +The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, + And leaves the world to darkness and to me. + +Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. + And all the air a solemn stillness holds, +Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, + And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: + +Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, + The moping owl does to the moon complain +Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + +[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around + Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; +In still small accents whispering from the ground + The grateful earnest of eternal peace.][8] + +Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. + Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, +Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + +The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, +The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, + No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. + +For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, + Or busy housewife ply her evening care; +No children run to lisp their sire's return, + Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. + +Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, + Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; +How jocund did they drive their team afield! + How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! + +Let not ambition mock their useful toil, + Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; +Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile + The short and simple annals of the poor. + +The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, +Awaits alike the inevitable hour. + The paths of glory lead but to the grave. + +Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, + If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, +Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, + The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. + +Can storied urn or animated bust: + Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? +Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, + Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? + +Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid; + Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; +Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, + Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; + +But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, + Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; +Chill penury repressed their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + +Full many a gem of purest ray serene; + The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; +Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air. + +Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, + The little tryant of his fields withstood, +Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, + Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. + +Th' applause of listening senates to command, + The threats of pain and ruin to despise, +To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, + And read their history in a nation's eyes, + +Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone + Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; +Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, + And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, + +The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, + To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, +Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride + With incense kindled at the muse's flame. + +Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, + Their sober wishes never learned to stray; +Along the cool sequestered vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + +Yet even these bones from insult to protect, + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, +With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + +Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse, + The place of fame and elegy supply; +And many a holy text around she strews, + That teach the rustic moralist to die. + +For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, + This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, +Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? + +On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; +E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. + +For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, + Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, +If chance, by lonely contemplation led, + Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, + +Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, + "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn +Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, + To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. + +"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, + That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, +His listless length at noontide would he stretch, + And pore upon the brook that babbles by. + +"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; +Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + +"One morn I missed him on the customed hill, + Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; +Another came; nor yet beside the rill, + Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; + +"The next, with dirges due in sad array, + Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. +Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay + Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." + + THE EPITAPH. + +Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth + A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; +Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy marked him for her own. + +Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, + Heaven did a recompense as largely send; +He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, + He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. + +No farther seek his merits to disclose, + Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, +(There they alike in trembling hope repose) + The bosom of his Father and his God. + +THOMAS GRAY. + + [8] Removed by the author from the original poem. + + + +GOD'S-ACRE. + + +I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls + The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; +It consecrates each grave within its walls, + And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. + +God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts + Comfort to those who in the grave have sown +The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, + Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. + +Into its furrows shall we all be cast, + In the sure faith that we shall rise again +At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast + Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. + +Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, + In the fair gardens of that second birth; +And each bright blossom mingle its perfume + With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. + +With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, + And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; +This is the field and Acre of our God, + This is the place where human harvests grow! + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +SLEEPY HOLLOW. + + +No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops, + No winding torches paint the midnight air; +Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops + Along the modest pathways, and those fair +Pale asters of the season spread their plumes + Around this field, fit garden for our tombs. + +And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell + Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place, +Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell, + But in its kind and supplicating grace, +It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more + Friend to the friendless than thou wast before; + +Learn from the loved one's rest serenity: + To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound, +And thou repose beneath the whispering tree, + One tribute more to this submissive ground;-- +Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride, + Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride: + +Rather to those ascents of being turn, + Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year +Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn + Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,-- +Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, + God's mercy in thy thought and life confest. + +WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. + + + +THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD. + + +Four straight brick walls, severely plain, + A quiet city square surround; +A level space of nameless graves,-- + The Quakers' burial-ground. + +In gown of gray, or coat of drab, + They trod the common ways of life, +With passions held in sternest leash, + And hearts that knew not strife. + +To yon grim meeting-house they fared, + With thoughts as sober as their speech, +To voiceless prayer, to songless praise, + To hear the elders preach. + +Through quiet lengths of days they came, + With scarce a change to this repose; +Of all life's loveliness they took + The thorn without the rose. + +But in the porch and o'er the graves, + Glad rings the southward robin's glee, +And sparrows fill the autumn air + With merry mutiny; + +While on the graves of drab and gray + The red and gold of autumn lie, +And wilful Nature decks the sod + In gentlest mockery. + +SILAS WEIR MITCHELL. + + + +GREENWOOD CEMETERY. + + +How calm they sleep beneath the shade + Who once were weary of the strife, +And bent, like us, beneath the load + Of human life! + +The willow hangs with sheltering grace + And benediction o'er their sod, +And Nature, hushed, assures the soul + They rest in God. + +O weary hearts, what rest is here, + From all that curses yonder town! +So deep the peace, I almost long + To lay me down. + +For, oh, it will be blest to sleep, + Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, +Till wakened in immortal strength + And heavenly light! + +CRAMMOND KENNEDY. + + + +THE DEAD. + + +The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold +Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still: +They have forged our chains of being for good or ill; +And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. +Our perishable bodies are the mould +In which their strong imperishable will-- +Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil-- +Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold. +Vibrations infinite of life in death, +As a star's travelling light survives its star! +So may we hold our lives, that when we are +The fate of those who then will draw this breath, +They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar, +And curse the heritage which we bequeath. + +MATHILDE BLIND. + + + +ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD. + + +Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow, + For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven, +For a great sign the icy stair shall go + Between the heights to heaven. + +One moment stood he as the angels stand, + High in the stainless eminence of air; +The next, he was not, to his fatherland + Translated unaware. + +FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS. + + + +THE EMIGRANT LASSIE. + + +As I came wandering down Glen Spean, + Where the braes are green and grassy, +With my light step I overtook + A weary-footed lassie. + +She had one bundle on her back, + Another in her hand, +And she walked as one who was full loath + To travel from the land. + +Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"--for she + Had hair of flowing gold, +And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, + Right pleasant to behold-- + +"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee, + On this bright summer day, +To travel sad and shoeless thus + Upon the stony way? + +"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod, + And thou art burdened so; +March lightly now, and let me bear + The bundles as we go." + +"No, no!" she said, "that may not be; + What's mine is mine to bear; +Of good or ill, as God may will, + I take my portioned share." + +"But you have two, and I have none; + One burden give to me; +I'll take that bundle from thy back + That heavier seems to be. + +"No, no!" she said; "_this_, if you will, + _That_ holds--no hand but mine +May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean + 'Cross the Atlantic brine!" + +"Well, well! but tell me what may be + Within that precious load, +Which thou dost bear with such fine care + Along the dusty road? + +"Belike it is some present rare + From friend in parting hour; +Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont, + Thou tak'st with thee thy dower" + +She drooped her head, and with her hand + She gave a mournful wave: +"Oh, do not jest, dear sir!--it is + Turf from my mother's grave!" + +I spoke no word: we sat and wept + By the road-side together; +No purer dew on that bright day + Was dropped upon the heather. + +JOHN STUART BLACKIE. + + + +THE OLD SEXTON. + + +Nigh to a grave that was newly made, +Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; +His work was done, and he paused to wait +The funeral train at the open gate. +A relic of bygone days was he, +And his locks were white as the foamy sea; +And these words came from his lips so thin: +"I gather them in: I gather them in. + +"I gather them in! for man and boy, +Year after year of grief and joy, +I 've builded the houses that lie around, +In every nook of this burial ground; +Mother and daughter, father and son, +Come to my solitude, one by one: +But come they strangers or come they kin-- +I gather them in, I gather them in. + +"Many are with me, but still I'm alone, +I'm king of the dead--and I make my throne +On a monument slab of marble cold; +And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold: +Come they from cottage or come they from hall, +Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! +Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin-- +I gather them in, I gather them in. + +"I gather them in, and their-final rest +Is here, down here, in earth's dark breast!" +And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train +Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain! +And I said to my heart, when time is told, +A mightier voice than that sexton's old +Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din-- +"I gather them in, I gather them in." + +PARK BENJAMIN. + + + +THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. + + +The snow had begun in the gloaming, + And busily all the night +Had been heaping field and highway + With a silence deep and white. +Every pine and fir and hemlock + Wore ermine too dear for an earl, +And the poorest twig on the elm-tree + Was ridged inch deep with pearl. + +From sheds new-roofed with Carrara + Came Chanticleer's muffled crow. +The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, + And still fluttered down the snow. + +I stood and watched by the window + The noiseless work of the sky, +And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, + Like brown leaves whirling by. + +I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn + Where a little headstone stood; +How the flakes were folding it gently, + As did robins the babes in the wood. + +Up spoke our own little Mabel, + Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" +And I told of the good All-father + Who cares for us here below. + +Again I looked at the snow-fall, + And thought of the leaden sky +That arched o'er our first great sorrow, + When that mound was heaped so high. + +I remember the gradual patience + That fell from that cloud like snow, +Flake by flake, healing and hiding + The scar of our deep-plunged woe. + +And again to the child I whispered, + "The snow that husheth all, +Darling, the merciful Father + Alone can make it fall!" + +Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; + And she, kissing back, could not know +That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, + Folded close under deepening snow. + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + +THE MORNING-GLORY. + + +We wreathed about our darling's head + The morning-glory bright; +Her little face looked out beneath + So full of life and light, +So lit as with a sunrise, + That we could only say, +"She is the morning-glory true, + And her poor types are they." + +So always from that happy time + We called her by their name, +And very fitting did it seem,-- + For sure as morning came, +Behind her cradle bars she smiled + To catch the first faint ray, +As from the trellis smiles the flower + And opens to the day. + +But not so beautiful they rear + Their airy cups of blue, +As turned her sweet eyes to the light, + Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; +And not so close their tendrils fine + Round their supports are thrown, +As those dear arms whose outstretched plea + Clasped all hearts to her own. + +We used to think how she had come, + Even as comes the flower, +The last and perfect added gift + To crown Love's morning hour; +And how in her was imaged forth + The love we could not say, +As on the little dewdrops round + Shines back the heart of day. + +We never could have thought, O God, + That she must wither up, +Almost before a day was flown, + Like the morning-glory's cup; +We never thought to see her droop + Her fair and noble head, +Till she lay stretched before our eyes, + Wilted, and cold, and dead! + +The morning-glory's blossoming + Will soon be coming round,-- +We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves + Upspringing from the ground; +The tender things the winter killed + Renew again their birth, +But the glory of our morning + Has passed away from earth. + +Earth! in vain our aching eyes + Stretch over thy green plain! +Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, + Her spirit to sustain; +But up in groves of Paradise + Full surely we shall see +Our morning-glory beautiful + Twine round our dear Lord's knee. + +MARIA WHITE LOWELL. + + + +THE WIDOW'S MITE. + + +A widow--she had only one! +A puny and decrepit son; + But, day and night, +Though fretful oft, and weak and small, +A loving child, he was her all-- + The Widow's Mite. + +The Widow's Mite--ay, so sustained, +She battled onward, nor complained, + Though friends were fewer: +And while she toiled for daily fare, +A little crutch upon the stair + Was music to her. + +I saw her then,--and now I see +That, though resigned and cheerful, she + Has sorrowed much: +She has, He gave it tenderly, +Much faith; and carefully laid by, + The little crutch. + +FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. + + + +ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? + + +Each day, when the glow of sunset + Fades in the western sky, +And the wee ones, tired of playing, + Go tripping lightly by, +I steal away from my husband, + Asleep in his easy-chair, +And watch from the open door-way + Their faces fresh and fair. + +Alone in the dear old homestead + That once was full of life, +Ringing with girlish laughter, + Echoing boyish strife, +We two are waiting together; + And oft, as the shadows come, +With tremulous voice he calls me, + "It is night! are the children home?" + +"Yes, love!" I answer him gently, + "They're all home long ago;"-- +And I sing, in my quivering treble, + A song so soft and low, +Till the old man drops to slumber, + With his head upon his hand, +And I tell to myself the number + At home in the better land. + +At home, where never a sorrow + Shall dim their eyes with tears! +Where the smile of God is on them + Through all the summer years! +I know,--yet my arms are empty, + That fondly folded seven, +And the mother heart within me + Is almost starved for heaven. + +Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, + I only shut my eyes, +And the children are all about me, + A vision from the skies: +The babes whose dimpled fingers + Lost the way to my breast, +And the beautiful ones, the angels, + Passed to the world of the blest. + +With never a cloud upon them, + I see their radiant brows; +My boys that I gave to freedom,-- + The red sword sealed their vows! +In a tangled Southern forest, + Twin brothers bold and brave, +They fell; and the flag they died for, + Thank God! floats over their grave. + +A breath, and the vision is lifted + Away on wings of light, +And again we two are together, + All alone in the night. +They tell me his mind is failing, + But I smile at idle fears; +He is only back with the children, + In the dear and peaceful years. + +And still, as the summer sunset + Fades away in the west, +And the wee ones, tired of playing, + Go trooping home to rest, +My husband calls from his corner, + "Say, love, have the children come?" +And I answer, with eyes uplifted, + "Yes, dear! they are all at home." + +MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER. + + + +JIM'S KIDS. + + +Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill, + Over the beach lived he and his wife, +In a little house--you can see it still-- + An' their two fair boys; upon my life +You never seen two likelier kids, + In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise, + Than them two boys! + +Jim would go out in his boat on the sea, + Just as the rest of us fishermen did, +An' when he come back at night thar'd be, + Up to his knees in the surf, each kid, +A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim; + He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar + Of the waves on the shore. + +But one night Jim came a sailin' home + And the little kids weren't on the sands; +Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come, + And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands, +And he learnt the worst up on the hill, + In the little house, an' he bowed his head, + "The fever," they said. + +'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim, + With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes, +They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him, + For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries +Were about the waves and fisherman Jim + And the little boat a sailin' for shore + Till they spoke no more. + +Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on, + And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, +But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone, + And he never was heard to speak the name +Of the little kids who were buried there, + Upon the hill in sight o' the sea, + Under a willow tree. + +One night they came and told me to haste + To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick, +And they said I hadn't no time to waste, + For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick +An' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like, + An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see, + An' had called for me. + +And fisherman Jim sez he to me, + "It's my last, last cruise, you understand, +I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea, + But off on the further shore, on the sand, +Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name + Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know, + In the long ago." + +No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die, + For all that night he seemed to see +His little boys of the years gone by, + And to hear sweet voices forgot by me; +An' just as the mornin' sun came up, + "They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried, + And so he died. + +EUGENE FIELD. + + + +THE MAY QUEEN. + + +You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; +To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,-- +Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +There's many a black, black eye, they say, but _none_ so bright as mine; +There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; +But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say: +So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, +If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; +But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay; +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see +But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? +He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,-- +But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white; +And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. +They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +They say he's dying all for love,--but that can never be; +They say his heart is breaking, mother,--what is that to me? +There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, +And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; +For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, +And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; +And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, +And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; +There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still, +And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, +And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play, +For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; +To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year; +To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, +For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + + +NEW YEAR'S EVE. + +If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, +For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. +It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,-- +Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me. + +To-night I saw the sun set,--he set and left behind +The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; +And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see +The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. + +Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,-- +Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; +And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, +Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. + +There's not a flower on all the hills,--the frost is on the pane; +I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again. +I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,-- +I long to see a flower so before the day I die. + +The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, +And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, +And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave, +But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave. + +Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine, +In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine, +Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,-- +When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. + +When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light +You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; +When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool +On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. + +You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, +And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. +I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, +With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. + +I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; +You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; +Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; +You should not fret for me, mother--you have another child. + +If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; +Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; +Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say. +And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. + +Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore, +And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, +Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,-- +She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. + +She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor. +Let her take 'em--they are hers; I shall never garden more. +But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set +About the parlor window and the box of mignonette. + +Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born. +All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; +But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,-- +So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. + + +CONCLUSION. + +I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; +And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb. +How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! +To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. + +O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies; +And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise; +And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow; +And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go. + +It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, +And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done! +But still I think it can't be long before I find release; +And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. + +O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair, +And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! +O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! +A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. + +He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin; +Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in. +Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be; +For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. + +I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,-- +There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; +But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, +And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. + + +All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,-- +It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; +The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, +And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. + +For, lying broad awake, T thought of you and Effie dear; +I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; +With all my strength I prayed for both,--and so I felt resigned, +And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. + +I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; +And then did something speak to me,--I know not what was said; +For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, +And up the valley came again the music on the wind. + +But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,--it's mine;" +And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. +And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars; +Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. + +So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know +The blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go. +And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day; +But Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away. +And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; +There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. +If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife; +But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. + +O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow; +He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. +And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,-- +Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. + +O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done +The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,-- +Forever and forever with those just souls and true,-- +And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? + +Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,-- +And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,-- +To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,-- +And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +ON ANNE ALLEN. + + +The wind blew keenly from the Western sea, +And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree-- + Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith-- +Heaping them up before her Father's door +When I saw her whom I shall see no more-- + We cannot bribe thee, Death. + +She went abroad the falling leaves among, +She saw the merry season fade, and sung-- + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +Freely she wandered in the leafless wood, +And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good-- + She knew thee not, O Death. + +She bound her shining hair across her brow, +She went into the garden fading now; + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +And if one sighed to think that it was sere, +She smiled to think that it would bloom next year! + She feared thee not, O Death. + +Blooming she came back to the cheerful room +With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom-- + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +A fragrant knot for each of us she tied, +And placed the fairest at her Father's side-- + She cannot charm thee, Death. + +Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all; +We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall-- + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +We heard her sometimes after evening prayer, +As she went singing softly up the stair-- + No voice can charm thee, Death. + +Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind, +That made sweet music of the winter wind? + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +Idly they gaze upon her empty place, +Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face-- + She is with thee, O Death. + +EDWARD FITZGERALD. + + + +SONNET. + + (SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.) + + +Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear, +And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes; +He stands upon the threshold, quick to close +The gate of happiness ere should appear +Death's dreaded presence--ay, but Death draws near, +And large and gray the towering outline grows, +Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows +Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here. +Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in, +Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread, +Would bar the way--poor Love, whose wings begin +To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead +Already at his feet--but Death must win, +And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread! + +LADY LINDSAY. + + + +JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR. + + +The bier descends, the spotless roses too, + The father's tribute in his saddest hour: +O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,-- + The fair young girl and flower. + +Give them not back unto a world again, + Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,-- +Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,-- + That fair young girl and flower. + +Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now, + Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower; +They both have perished in their morning glow,-- + The fair young girl and flower. + +But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, + Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower, +And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail, + O fair young girl and flower! + +From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND. + + + +THE DEATH-BED. + + +We watched her breathing through the night, + Her breathing soft and low, +As in her breast the wave of life + Kept heaving to and fro. + +So silently we seemed to speak, + So slowly moved about, +As we had lent her half our powers + To eke her living out. + +Our very hopes belied our fears, + Our fears our hopes belied-- +We thought her dying when she slept, + And sleeping when she died. + +For when the morn came, dim and sad, + And chill with early showers, +Her quiet eyelids closed--she had + Another morn than ours. + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +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! + +JAMES ALDRICH. + + + +REQUIESCAT. + + +Strew on her roses, roses, + And never a spray of yew. +In quiet she reposes: + Ah! would that I did too. + +Her mirth the world required: + She bathed it in smiles of glee. +But her heart was tired, tired, + And now they let her be. + +Her life was turning, turning, + In mazes of heat and sound. +But for peace her soul was yearning, + And now peace laps her round. + +Her cabined, ample Spirit, + It fluttered and failed for breath. +To-night it doth inherit + The vasty Hall of Death. + +MATTHEW ARNOLD. + + + +"THE UNILLUMINED VERGE." + + TO A FRIEND DYING. + + +They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road, + That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him, +And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad + Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him. + +I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, + And we'll talk of the way we have come through the valley; +Down below there a bird breaks into a trill, + And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley. + +You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave-- + "Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! +Yet it's joyful to live, and it's hard to be brave + When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going." + +We are almost there--our last walk on this height-- + I must bid you good-bye at that cross on the mountain. +See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light + Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain! + +And it shines in your face and illumines your soul; + We are comrades as ever, right here at your going; +You may rest if you will within sight of the goal, + While I must return to my oar and the rowing. + +We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend; + I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning +Just over the ridge within reach of the end + Of your arduous toil,--the beginning of learning. + +You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge, + "An revoir!" and "Good night!" while the twilight is creeping +Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge? + Yes, I hear your faint voice: "This is rest, and like sleeping!" + +ROBERT BRIDGES (_Droch_). + + + +CORONACH. + + FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO III. + + +He is gone on the mountain, + He is lost to the forest, +Like a summer-dried fountain + When our need was the sorest. +The font, reappearing, + From the rain-drops shall borrow, +But to us comes no cheering, + To Duncan no morrow: + +The hand of the reaper + Takes the ears that are hoary; +But the voice of the weeper + Wails manhood in glory. +The autumn winds rushing + Waft the leaves that are searest, +But our flower was in flushing + When blighting was nearest. + +Fleet foot on the correi, + Sage counsel in cumber, +Red hand in the foray, + How sound is thy slumber! +Like the dew on the mountain, + Like the foam on the river, +Like the bubble on the fountain, + Thou art gone, and forever! + +SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + +EVELYN HOPE. + + +Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! + Sit and watch by her side an hour. +That is her book-shelf, this her bed; + She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, +Beginning to die too, in the glass. + Little has yet been changed, I think; +The shutters are shut,--no light may pass + Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. + +Sixteen years old when she died! + Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,-- +It was not her time to love; beside, + Her life had many a hope and aim, +Duties enough and little cares; + And now was quiet, now astir,-- +Till God's hand beckoned unawares, + And the sweet white brow is all of her. + +Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? + What! your soul was pure and true; +The good stars met in your horoscope, + Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; +And just because I was thrice as old, + And our paths in the world diverged so wide, +Each was naught to each, must I be told? + We were fellow-mortals,--naught beside? + +No, indeed! for God above + Is great to grant as mighty to make, +And creates the love to reward the love; + I claim you still, for my own love's sake! +Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, + Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; +Much is to learn and much to forget + Ere the time be come for taking you. + +But the time will come--at last it will-- + When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, +In the lower earth,--in the years long still,-- + That body and soul so pure and gay? +Why your hair was amber I shall divine, + And your mouth of your own geranium's red,-- +And what you would do with me, in fine, + In the new life come in the old one's stead. + +I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, + Given up myself so many times, +Gained me the gains of various men. + Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; +Yet one thing--one--in my soul's full scope, + Either I missed or itself missed me,-- +And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! + What is the issue? let us see! + +I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; + My heart seemed full as it could hold,-- +There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, + And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. +So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; + See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. +There, that is our secret! go to sleep; + You will wake, and remember, and understand. + +ROBERT BROWNING. + + + +ANNABEL LEE. + + +It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea, +That a maiden 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 high-born kinsmen came, + And bore her away from me, +To shut her up in a sepulchre, + In this kingdom by the sea. + +The angels, not 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 heayen 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. + +EDGAR ALLAN FOE. + + + +THY BRAES WERE BONNY. + + +Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! + When first on them I met my lover; +Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! + When now thy waves his body cover. + +Forever now, O Yarrow stream! + Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; +For never on thy banks shall I + Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. + +He promised me a milk-white steed, + To bear me to his father's bowers; +He promised me a little page, + To 'squire me to his father's towers; +He promised me a wedding-ring,-- + The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; +Now he is wedded to his grave, + Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow! + +Sweet were his words when last we met; + My passion I as freely told him! +Clasped in his arms, I little thought + That I should nevermore behold him! +Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; + It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; +Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, + And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. + +His mother from the window looked + With all the longing of a mother; +His little sister weeping walked + The greenwood path to meet her brother. +They sought him east, they sought him west, + They sought him all the forest thorough, +They only saw the cloud of night, + They only heard the roar of Yarrow! + +No longer from thy window look, + Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! +No longer walk, thou lovely maid; + Alas, thou hast no more a brother! +No longer seek him east or west, + And search no more the forest thorough; +For, wandering in the night so dark, + He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. + +The tear shall never leave my cheek, + No other youth shall be my marrow; +I'll seek thy body in the stream, + And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. + +JOHN LOGAN. + + + +FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER. + + FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." + + +Farewell,--farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! + (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) +No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water + More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. + +O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, + How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, +Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, + And hushed all its music and withered its frame! + +But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, + Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom +Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, + With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb. + +And still, when the merry date-season is burning, + And calls to the palm-grove the young and the old, +The happiest there, from their pastime returning + At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. + +The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses + Her dark flowing-hair for some festival day, +Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, + She mournfully turns from the mirror away. + +Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee-- + Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, +Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, + Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. + +Farewell!--be it ours to embellish thy pillow + With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; +Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow + Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. + +Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber + That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; +With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber, + We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. + +We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, + And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; +We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, + And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. + +Farewell!--farewell!--until pity's sweet fountain + Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, +They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. + They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave. + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. + + +Softly woo away her breath, + Gentle death! +Let her leave thee with no strife, + Tender, mournful, murmuring life! +She hath seen her happy day,-- + She hath had her bud and blossom; +Now she pales and shrinks away, + Earth, into thy gentle bosom! + +She hath done her bidding here, + Angels dear! +Bear her perfect soul above. + Seraph of the skies,--sweet love! +Good she was, and fair in youth; + And her mind was seen to soar. +And her heart was wed to truth: + Take her, then, forevermore,-- + Forever--evermore-- + +BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall._) + + + +SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. + + +She died in beauty,--like a rose + Blown from its parent stem; +She died in beauty,--like a pearl + Dropped from some diadem. + +She died in beauty,--like a lay + Along a moonlit lake; +She died in beauty,--like the song + Of birds amid the brake. + +She died in beauty,--like the snow + On flowers dissolved away; +She died in beauty,--like a star + Lost on the brow of day. + +She lives in glory,--like night's gems + Set round the silver moon; +She lives in glory,--like the sun + Amid the blue of June. + +CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY. + + + +THE DEATH OF MINNEHAHA. + + FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA." + + +All day long roved Hiawatha +In that melancholy forest, +Through the shadows of whose thickets, +In the pleasant days of Summer, +Of that ne'er forgotten Summer. +He had brought his young wife homeward +From the land of the Dacotahs; +When the birds sang in the thickets, +And the streamlets laughed and glistened, +And the air was full of fragrance, +And the lovely Laughing Water +Said with voice that did not tremble, +"I will follow you, my husband!" + In the wigwam with Nokomis, +With those gloomy guests that watched her, +With the Famine and the Fever, +She was lying, the Beloved, +She, the dying Minnehaha. + "Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing, +Hear a roaring and a rushing, +Hear the Falls of Minnehaha +Calling to me from a distance!" +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, +"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!" + "Look!" she said; "I see my father +Standing lonely at his doorway. +Beckoning to me from his wigwam +In the land of the Dacotahs!" +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, +"'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!" + "Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Panguk +Glare upon me in the darkness, +I can feel his icy fingers +Clasping mine amid the darkness! +Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" + And the desolate Hiawatha, +Far away amid the forest, +Miles away among the mountains, +Heard that sudden cry of anguish, +Heard the voice of Minnehaha +Calling to him in the darkness, +"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" + Over snow-fields waste and pathless, +Under snow-encumbered branches, +Homeward hurried Hiawatha, +Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, +Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: +"Wahonowin! Wahonowin! +Would that I had perished for you, +Would that I were dead as you are! +Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" + And he rushed into the wigwam, +Saw the old Nokomis slowly +Rocking to and fro and moaning, +Saw his lovely Minnehaha +Lying dead and cold before him, +And his bursting heart within him +Uttered such a cry of anguish, +That the forest moaned and shuddered, +That the very stars in heaven +Shook and trembled with his anguish. + Then he sat down, still and speechless, +On the bed of Minnehaha, +At the feet of Laughing Water, +At those willing feet, that never +More would lightly run to meet him, +Never more would lightly follow. + With both hands his face he covered, +Seven long days and nights he sat there, +As if in a swoon he sat there, +Speechless, motionless, unconscious +Of the daylight or the darkness. + Then they buried Minnehaha; +In the snow a grave they made her, +In the forest deep and darksome, +Underneath the moaning hemlocks; +Clothed her in her richest garments, +Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, +Covered her with snow, like ermine; +Thus they buried Minnehaha. + And at night a fire was lighted, +On her grave four times was kindled, +For her soul upon its journey +To the Islands of the Blessed. +From his doorway Hiawatha +Saw it burning in the forest, +Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; +From his sleepless bed uprising, +From the bed of Minnehaha, +Stood and watched it at the doorway, +That it might not be extinguished, +Might not leave her in the darkness. + "Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! +Farewell, O my Laughing Water! +All my heart is buried with you, +All my thoughts go onward with you, +Come not back again to labor, +Come not back again to suffer, +Where the Famine and the Fever +Wear the heart and waste the body. +Soon my task will be completed, +Soon your footsteps I shall follow +To the Islands of the Blessèd, +To the Kingdom of Ponemah, +To the Land of the Hereafter!" + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +MOTHER AND POET. + + TURIN,--AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. + + Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were + killed at Ancona and Gaëta. + + +Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east, + And one of them shot in the west by the sea. +Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, + And are wanting a great song for Italy free, + Let none look at me! + +Yet I was a poetess only last year, + And good at my art, for a woman, men said. +But this woman, this, who is agonized here, + The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head + Forever instead. + +What art can a woman be good at? O, vain! + What art is she good at, but hurting her breast +With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? + Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, + And I proud by that test. + +What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees + Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat +Cling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees + And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! + To dream and to dote. + +To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed + Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt, +That a country's a thing men should die for at need. + I prated of liberty, rights, and about + The tyrant turned out. + +And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ... + I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels +Of the guns, and denied not.--But then the surprise, + When one sits quite alone!--Then one weeps, then one kneels! + --God! how the house feels! + +At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled + With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how +They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, + In return would fan off every fly from my brow + With their green laurel-bough. + +Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!" + And some one came out of the cheers in the street +With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. +--My Guido was dead!--I fell down at his feet, + While they cheered in the street. + +I bore it;--friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime + As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained +To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time + When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained + To the height he had gained. + +And letters still came,--shorter, sadder, more strong, + Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. +One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long: + And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint, + Who forbids our complaint." + +My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware + Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprest +It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, + And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, + To live on for the rest." + +On which without pause up the telegraph line + Swept smoothly the next news from Gaëta:--"Shot. +Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine." + No voice says "my mother" again to me. What! + You think Guido forgot? + +Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, + They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? +I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven + Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so + The above and below. + +O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark + To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray. +How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, + Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, + And no last word to say! + +Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all + Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. +'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. + And when Italy's made, for what end is it done + If we have not a son? + +Ah, ah, ah! when Gaëta's taken, what then? + When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport +Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? + When your guns at Cavalli with final retort + Have cut the game short,-- + +When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, + When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, +When you have your country from mountain to sea, + When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, + (And I have my dead,) + +What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, + And burn your lights faintly!--My country is there, +Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, + My Italy's there,--with my brave civic pair, + To disfranchise despair. + +Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, + And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. +But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length + Into such wail as this!--and we sit on forlorn + When the man-child is born. + +Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west, + And one of them shot in the east by the sea! +Both! both my boys!--If in keeping the feast + You want a great song for your Italy free, + Let none look at me! + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN. + + FROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV, SC. 2. + + +Fear no more the heat o' the sun, + Nor the furious winter's rages; +Thou thy worldly task hast done, + Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: +Golden lads and girls all must, +As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. + +Fear no more the frown o' the great, + Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; +Care no more to clothe, and eat; + To thee the reed is as the oak: +The sceptre, learning, physic, must +All follow this and come to dust. + +Fear no more the lightning flash + Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; +Fear not slander, censure rash; + Thou hast finished joy and moan: +All lovers young, all lovers must +Consign to thee, and come to dust. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +HIGHLAND MARY. + + +Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o' Montgomery, +Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie! +There Simmer first unfald her robes + And there she langest tarry! +For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + +How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! + How rich the hawthorn's blossom! +As underneath their fragrant shade + I clasped her to my bosom! +The golden hours, on angel wings, + Flew o'er me and my dearie; +For dear to me as light and life + Was my sweet Highland Mary. + +Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace + Our parting was fu' tender; +And pledging aft to meet again, + We tore ourselves asunder; +But, oh! fell death's untimely frost, + That nipt my flower sae early! +Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, + That wraps my Highland Mary! + +Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips + I aft hae kissed sae fondly! +And closed for aye the sparkling glance + That dwelt on me sae kindly! +And mould'ring now in silent dust + That heart that lo'ed me dearly! +But still within my bosom's core + Shall live my Highland Mary. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +FAIR HELEN. + + +I wish I were where Helen lies; +Night and day on me she cries; +O that I were where Helen lies + On fair Kirconnell lea! + +Curst be the heart that thought the thought, +And curst the hand that fired the shot, +When in my arms burd Helen dropt, + And died to succor me! + +O think na but my heart was sair +When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! +I laid her down wi' meikle care + On fair Kirconnell lea. + +As I went down the water-side, +None but my foe to be my guide, +None but my foe to be my guide, + On fair Kirconnell lea; + +I lighted down my sword to draw, +I hackèd him in pieces sma', +I hackèd him in pieces sma', + For her sake that died for me. + +O Helen fair, beyond compare! +I'll make a garland of thy hair +Shall bind my heart for evermair + Until the day I die. + +O that I were where Helen lies! +Night and day on me she cries; +Out of my bed she bids me rise, + Says, "Haste and come to me!" + +O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! +If I were with thee, I were blest, +Where thou lies low and takes thy rest + On fair Kirconnell lea. + +I wish my grave were growing green, +A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, +And I in Helen's arms lying, + On fair Kirconnell lea. + +I wish I were where Helen lies; +Night and day on me she cries; +And I am weary of the skies, + Since my Love died for me. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +OH THAT 'T WERE POSSIBLE. + + FROM "MAUD." + + +Oh that 't were possible, + After long grief and pain, +To find the arms of my true love + Round me once again! + +When I was wont to meet her + In the silent woody places +Of the laud that gave me birth, + We stood tranced in long embraces +Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter + Than anything on earth. + +A shadow flits before me, + Not thou, but like to thee; +Ah Christ, that it were possible + For one short hour to see +The souls we loved, that they might tell us + What and where they be! + +It leads me forth at evening, + It lightly winds and steals +In a cold white robe before me, + When all my spirit reels +At the shouts, the leagues of lights, + And the roaring of the wheels. + +Half the night I waste in sighs, + Half in dreams I sorrow after +The delight of early skies; + In a wakeful doze I sorrow +For the hand, the lips, the eyes-- + For the meeting of the morrow, + The delight of happy laughter, +The delight of low replies. + +'Tis a morning pure and sweet, + And a dewy splendor falls +On the little flower that clings + To the turrets and the walls; +'T is a morning pure and sweet, +And the light and shadow fleet: + She is walking in the meadow, +And the woodland echo rings. +In a moment we shall meet; + She is singing in the meadow, +And the rivulet at her feet + Ripples on in light and shadow +To the ballad that she sings. + +Do I hear her sing as of old, + My bird with the shining head, +My own dove with the tender eye? +But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry-- + There is some one dying or dead; +And a sullen thunder is rolled; + For a tumult shakes the city, + And I wake--my dream is fled; +In the shuddering dawn, behold, + Without knowledge, without pity, + By the curtains of my bed +That abiding phantom cold! + +Get thee hence, nor come again! + Mix not memory with doubt, +Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, + Pass and cease to move about! +'T is the blot upon the brain +That _will_ show itself without. + +Then I rise; the eave-drops fall, + And the yellow vapors choke +The great city sounding wide; +The day comes--a dull red ball + Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke +On the misty river-tide. + +Through the hubbub of the market + I steal, a wasted frame; +It crosses here, it crosses there, +Through all that crowd confused and loud + The shadow still the same; +And on my heavy eyelids + My anguish hangs like shame. + +Alas for her that met me, + That heard me softly call, +Came glimmering through the laurels + At the quiet evenfall, +In the garden by the turrets + Of the old manorial hall! + +Would the happy spirit descend + From the realms of light and song, +In the chamber or the street. + As she looks among the blest, +Should I fear to greet my friend + Or to say "Forgive the wrong," +Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet, + To the regions of thy rest?" + +But the broad light glares and beats, +And the shadow flits and Meets + And will not let me be; +And I loathe the squares and streets, +And the faces that one meets, + Hearts with no love for me; +Always I long to creep +Into some still cavern deep, +There to weep, and weep, and weep + My whole soul out to thee. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +TOO LATE. + + "Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." + + +Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, + In the old likeness that I knew, +I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + +Never a scornful word should grieve ye, + I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do; +Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + +Oh, to call back the days that are not! + My eyes were blinded, your words were few: +Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? + +I never was worthy of you, Douglas; + Not half worthy the like of you: +Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- + I love you, Douglas, tender and true. + +Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, + Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; +As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! + +DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK. + + + +AFTER SUMMER. + + +We'll not weep for summer over,-- + No, not we: +Strew above his head the clover,-- + Let him be! + +Other eyes may weep his dying, + Shed their tears +There upon him, where he's lying + With his peers. + +Unto some of them he proffered + Gifts most sweet; +For our hearts a grave he offered,-- + Was this meet? + +All our fond hopes, praying, perished + In his wrath,-- +All the lovely dreams we cherished + Strewed his path. + +Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, + Far apart, +Sundered wide as seas can sunder + Heart from heart, + +Dream at all of all the sorrows + That were ours,-- +Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; + Poison-flowers + +Summer gathered, as in madness, + Saying, "See, +These are yours, in place of gladness,-- + Gifts from me"? + +Nay, the rest that will be ours + Is supreme, +And below the poppy flowers + Steals no dream. + +PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. + + + +LAMENT FOR HELIODORE. + + +Tears for my lady dead-- + Heliodore! +Salt tears, and strange to shed, + Over and o'er; +Tears to my lady dead, + Love do we send, +Longed for, rememberèd, + Lover and friend! +Sad are the songs we sing, + Tears that we shed, +Empty the gifts we bring + Gifts to the dead! +Go, tears, and go, lament, + Fare from her tomb, +Wend where my lady went + Down through the gloom! +Ah, for my flower, my love, + Hades hath taken I +Ah, for the dust above + Scattered and shaken! +Mother of blade and grass, + Earth, in thy breast +Lull her that gentlest was + Gently to rest! + +From the Greek of MELEAGER. +Translation of ANDREW LANG. + + + +ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I. + + +'T is done! a father, mother, gone, + A sister, brother, torn away, +My hope is now in God alone, + Whom heaven and earth alike obey. +Above, beneath, to him is known,-- +The world's wide compass is his own. + +I love,--but in the world no more, + Nor in gay hall, or festal bower; +Not the fair forms I prized before,-- + But him, all beauty, wisdom, power, +My Saviour, who has cast a chain +On sin and ill, and woe and pain! + +I from my memory have effaced + All former joys, all kindred, friends; +All honors that my station graced + I hold but snares that fortune sends: +Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast, +That we may be his own at last! + +From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, QUEEN OF NAVARRE. +Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO. + + + +TO MARY IN HEAVEN. + +[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he +heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] + + +Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + That lov'st to greet the early morn, +Again thou usher'st in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn. +O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? +See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + +That sacred hour can I forget,-- + Can I forget the hallowed grove, +Where by the winding Ayr we met + To live one day of parting love? +Eternity will not efface + Those records dear of transports past; +Thy image at our last embrace; + Ah! little thought we 't was our last! + +Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; +The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, + Twined amorous round the raptured scene; +The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, + The birds sang love on every spray,-- +Till soon, too soon, the glowing west + Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day. + +Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! +Time but the impression stronger makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. +My Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? +See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + + +O sing unto my roundelay! + O, drop the briny tear with me! +Dance no more at holiday; + Like a running river be. + _My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree._ + +Black his hair as the winter night, + White his neck as the summer snow, +Ruddy his face as the morning light; + Cold he lies in the grave below. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; + Quick in dance as thought can be; +Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; + O, lie lies by the willow-tree! + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Hark! the raven flaps his wing + In the briered dell below; +Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the nightmares as they go. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my-true-love's shroud, +Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Here, upon my true-love's grave + Shall the barren flowers be laid, +Nor one holy saint to save + All the coldness of a maid. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +With my hands I'll bind the briers + Round his holy corse to gre; +Ouphant fairy, light your fires; + Here my body still shall be. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my heart's blood away; +Life and all its good I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Water-witches, crowned with reytes, + Bear me to your lethal tide. +I die! I come! my true-love waits.... + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + +THOMAS CHATTERTON. + + + +THE PASSAGE. + + +Many a year is in its grave +Since I crossed this restless wave: +And the evening, fair as ever. +Shines on ruin, rock, and river. + +Then in this same boat beside. +Sat two comrades old and tried,-- +One with all a father's truth, +One with all the fire of youth. + +One on earth in silence wrought, +And his grave in silence sought; +But the younger, brighter form +Passed in battle and in storm. + +So, whene'er I turn mine eye +Back upon the days gone by, +Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, +Friends that closed their course before me. + +But what binds us, friend to friend, +But that soul with soul can blend? +Soul-like were those hours of yore; +Let us walk in soul once more. + +Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, +Take, I give it willingly; +For, invisible to thee, +Spirits twain have crossed with me. + +From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND. +Translation of SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN. + + + +LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. + + +I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, + Where we sat side by side +On a bright May mornin' long ago, + When first you were my bride; +The corn was springin' fresh and green. + And the lark sang loud and high-- +And the red was on your lip, Mary, + And the love-light in your eye. + +The place is little changed, Mary; + The day is bright as then; +The lark's loud song is in my ear, + And the corn is green again; +But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, + And your breath, warm on my cheek; +And I still keep list'nin' for the words + You nevermore will speak. + +'Tis but a step down yonder lane, + And the little church stands near-- +The church where we were wed, Mary; + I see the spire from here. +But the graveyard lies between, Mary, + And my step might break your rest-- +For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, + With your baby on your breast. + +I'm very lonely now, Mary. + For the poor make no new friends: +But, oh, they love the better still + The few our Father sends! +And you were all I had, Mary-- + My blessin' and my pride! +There's nothing left to care for now, + Since my poor Mary died. + +Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, + That still kept hoping on. +When the trust in God had left my soul, + And my arm's young strength was gone; +There was comfort ever on your lip, + And the kind look on your brow,-- +I bless you, Mary, for that same, + Though you cannot hear me now. + +I thank you for the patient smile + When your heart was fit to break,-- +When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, + And you hid it for my sake; +I bless you for the pleasant word, + When your heart was sad and sore,-- +O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, + Where grief can't reach you more! + +I'm biddin' you a long farewell, + My Mary--kind and true! +But I'll not forget you, darling, + In the land I'm goin' to; +They say there's bread and work for all, + And the sun shines always there-- +But I'll not forget old Ireland, + Were it fifty times as fair! + +And often in those grand old woods + I'll sit, and shut my eyes, +And my heart will travel back again + To the place where Mary lies; +And I'll think I see the little stile + Where we sat side by side, +And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, + When first you were my bride. + +LADY DUFFERIN. + + + +HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + +Home they brought her warrior dead: + She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; +All her maidens, watching, said, + "She must weep or she will die." + +Then they praised him, soft and low, + Called him worthy to be loved, +Truest friend and noblest foe; + Yet she neither spoke nor moved. + +Stole a maiden from her place, + Lightly to the warrior stept, +Took the face-cloth from the face; + Yet she neither moved nor wept. + +Rose a nurse of ninety years, + Set his child upon her knee,-- +Like summer tempest came her tears, + "Sweet my child, I live for thee." + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. + + +Word was brought to the Danish king + (Hurry!) +That the love of his heart lay suffering, +And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; + (O, ride as though you were flying!) +Better he loves each golden curl +On the brow of that Scandinavian girl +Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl: + And his rose of the isles is dying! + +Thirty nobles saddled with speed; + (Hurry!) +Each one mounting a gallant steed +Which he kept for battle and days of need; + (O, ride as though you were flying!) +Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; +Worn out chargers staggered and sank; +Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; +But ride as they would, the king rode first, + For his rose of the isles lay dying! + +His nobles are beaten, one by one; + (Hurry!) +They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; +His little fair page now follows alone, + For strength and for courage trying! +The king looked back at that faithful child; +Wan was the face that answering smiled; +They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, +Then he dropped; and only the king rode in + Where his rose of the isles lay dying! + +The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; + (Silence!) +No answer came; but faint and forlorn +An echo returned on the cold gray morn, + Like the breath of a spirit sighing. +The castle portal stood grimly wide; +None welcomed the king from that weary ride; +For dead, in the light of the dawning day, +The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, + Who had yearned for his voice while dying! + +The panting steed, with a drooping crest, + Stood weary. +The king returned from her chamber of rest, +The thick sobs choking in his breast; + And, that dumb companion eyeing, +The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; +He bowed his head on his charger's neck: +"O steed, that every nerve didst strain, +Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain + To the halls where my love lay dying!" + +CAROLINE E.S. NORTON. + + + +GRIEF. + + FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2. + + + QUEEN.--Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, +And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. +Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids +Seek for thy noble father in the dust: +Thou know'st 'tis common,--all that live must die, +Passing through nature to eternity. + + HAMLET.--Ay, madam, it is common. + + QUEEN.--If it be, +Why seems it so particular with thee? + + HAMLET.--Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. +'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, +Nor customary suits of solemn black, +Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, +No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, +Nor the dejected havior of the visage, +Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, +That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem, +For they are actions that a man might play: +But I have that within, which passeth show; +These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM." + +[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.] + + +GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE. + + +V. + +I sometimes hold it half a sin + To put in words the grief I feel: + For words, like Nature, half reveal +And half conceal the Soul within. + +But, for the unquiet heart and brain, + A use in measured language lies; + The sad mechanic exercise, +Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. + +In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, + Like coarsest clothes against the cold; + But that large grief which these enfold +Is given in outline and no more. + + +DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND. + + +IX. + +Fair ship, that from the Italian shore + Sailest the placid ocean-plains + With my lost Arthur's loved remains, +Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. + +So draw him home to those that mourn + In vain; a favorable speed + Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead +Through prosperous floods his holy urn. +All night no ruder air perplex + Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright + As our pure love, through early light +Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. + +Sphere all your lights around, above; + Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; + Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, +My friend, the brother of my love; + +My Arthur, whom I shall not see + Till all my widowed race be run; + Dear as the mother to the son, +More than my brothers are to me. + + +THE PEACE OF SORROW + + +XI. + +Calm is the morn without a sound, + Calm as to suit a calmer grief, + And only through the faded leaf +The chestnut pattering to the ground: + +Calm and deep peace on this high wold + And on these dews that drench the furze, + And all the silvery gossamers +That twinkle into green and gold: + +Calm and still light on yon great plain + That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, + And crowded farms, and lessening towers, +To mingle with the bounding main: + +Calm and deep peace in this wide air, + These leaves that redden to the fall; + And in my heart, if calm at all, +If any calm, a calm despair: + +Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, + And waves that sway themselves in rest, + And dead calm in that noble breast +Which heaves but with the heaving deep. + + +TIME AND ETERNITY. + + +XLII. + +If Sleep and Death be truly one, + And every spirit's folded bloom + Through all its intervital gloom +In some long trance should slumber on; + +Unconscious of the sliding hour, + Bare of the body, might it last, + And silent traces of the past +Be all the color of the flower: + +So then were nothing lost to man; + So that still garden of the souls + In many a figured leaf enrolls +The total world since life began; + +And love will last as pure and whole + As when he loved me here in Time, + And at the spiritual prime +Rewaken with the dawning soul. + + +PERSONAL RESURRECTION. + + +XLVI. + +That each, who seems a separate whole, + Should move his rounds, and fusing all + The skirts of self again, should fall +Remerging in the general Soul, + +Is faith as vague as all unsweet: + Eternal form shall still divide + The eternal soul from all beside; +And I shall know him when we meet: + +And we shall sit at endless feast, + Enjoying each the other's good: + What vaster dream can hit the mood +Of Love on earth? He seeks at least + +Upon the last and sharpest height, + Before the spirits fade away, + Some landing-place to clasp and say, +"Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." + + +SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP. + + +XCIII. + +How pure at heart and sound in head, + With what divine affections bold, + Should be the man whose thought would hold +An hour's communion with the dead. + +In vain shalt thou, or any, call + The spirits from their golden day, +Except, like them, thou too canst say, +My spirit is at peace with all. + +They haunt the silence of the breast, + Imaginations calm and fair, + The memory like a cloudless air, +The conscience as a sea at rest: + +But when the heart is full of din, + And doubt beside the portal waits, + They can but listen at the gates, +And hear the household jar within. + + +L. + +Do we indeed desire the dead + Should still be near us at our side? + Is there no baseness we would hide? +No inner vileness that we dread? + +Shall he for whose applause I strove, + I had such reverence for his blame, + See with clear eye some hidden shame, +And I be lessened in his love? + +I wrong the grave with fears untrue: + Shall love be blamed for want of faith? + There must be wisdom with great Death: +The dead shall look me through and through. + +Be near us when we climb or fall: + Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours + With larger other eyes than ours, +To make allowance for us all. + + +DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME. + + +LXXII. + +So many worlds, so much to do, + So little done, such things to be, + How know I what had need of thee? +For thou wert strong as thou wert true. + +The fame is quenched that I foresaw, + The head hath missed an earthly wreath: + I curse not nature, no, nor death; +For nothing is that errs from law. + +We pass; the path that each man trod + Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: + What fame is left for human deeds +In endless age? It rests with God. + +O hollow wraith of dying fame, + Fade wholly, while the soul exults, + And self-enfolds the large results +Of force that would have forged a name. + + +THE POET'S TRIBUTE. + + +LXXVI. + +What hope is here for modern rhyme + To him who turns a musing eye + On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie +Foreshortened in the tract of time? + +These mortal lullabies of pain + May bind a book, may line a box, + May serve to curl a maiden's locks: +Or when a thousand moons shall wane +A man upon a stall may find, + And, passing, turn the page that tells. + A grief, then changed to something else, +Sung by a long-forgotten mind. + +But what of that? My darkened ways + Shall ring with music all the same; + To breathe my loss is more than fame, +To utter love more sweet than praise. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +APRÈS. + + +Down, down, Ellen, my little one, +Climbing so tenderly up to my knee; +Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me, +Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me? + +Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one, +Warbling so fairily close to my ear; +Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me, +This that I made for your mother to hear? + +Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one, +Wailing so wearily under the stars; +Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me +Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars? + +Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one! +Is she not like her whenever she stirs? +Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me, +Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers? + +Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one. +Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave, +Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,-- +Something to cling to and something to crave. + +Love, love, Ellen, my little one! +Love indestructible, love undefiled, +Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me, +Oft as I look on the face of her child. + +ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. + + + +THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. + + Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the + age of twenty-two. + + +To make my lady's obsequies + My love a minster wrought, +And, in the chantry, service there + Was sung by doleful thought; +The tapers were of burning sighs, + That light and odor gave: +And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, + Enluminèd her grave; +And round about, in quaintest guise, +Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies +The fairest thing in mortal eyes." +Above her lieth spread a tomb + Of gold and sapphires blue: +The gold doth show her blessedness, + The sapphires mark her true; +For blessedness and truth in her + Were livelily portrayed, +When gracious God with both his hands + Her goodly substance made. +He framed her in such wondrous wise, +She was, to speak without disguise, +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. + +No more, no more! my heart doth faint + When I the life recall +Of her who lived so free from taint, + So virtuous deemed by all,-- + That in herself was so complete + I think that she was ta'en +By God to deck his paradise, + And with his saints to reign, +Whom while on earth each one did prize +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. + +But naught our tears avail, or cries; + All soon or late in death shall sleep; + Nor living wight long time may keep +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. + +From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS. +Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY. + + + +BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. + + +Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O sea! +And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + +O well for the fisherman's boy + That he shouts with his sister at play! +O well for the sailor lad + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + +And the stately ships go on, + To the haven under the hill; +But O for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + +Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O sea! +But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +LAVENDER. + + +How prone we are to hide and hoard +Each little treasure time has stored, + To tell of happy hours! +We lay aside with tender care +A tattered book, a lock of hair, + A bunch of faded flowers. + +When death has led with silent hand +Our darlings to the "Silent Land," + Awhile we sit bereft; +But time goes on; anon we rise, +Our dead are buried from our eyes, + We gather what is left. + +The books they loved, the songs they sang, +The little flute whose music rang + So cheerily of old; +The pictures we had watched them paint, +The last plucked flower, with odor faint, + That fell from fingers cold. + +We smooth and fold with reverent care +The robes they living used to wear; + And painful pulses stir +As o'er the relics of our dead, +With bitter rain of tears, we spread + Pale purple lavender. + +And when we come in after years, +With only tender April tears + On cheeks once white with care, +To look on treasures put away +Despairing on that far-off day, + A subtile scent is there. + +Dew-wet and fresh we gather them, +These fragrant flowers; now every stem + Is bare of all its bloom: +Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here +To lend our relics, sacred, dear, + Their beautiful perfume. + +The scent abides on book and lute, +On curl and flower, and with its mute + But eloquent appeal + It wins from us a deeper sob +For our lost dead, a sharper throb +Than we are wont to feel. + +It whispers of the "long ago;" +Its love, its loss, its aching woe, + And buried sorrows stir; +And tears like those we shed of old +Roll down our cheeks as we behold + Our faded lavender. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +WHAT OF THE DARKNESS? + + TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE. + + +What of the darkness? Is it very fair? +Are there great calms? and find we silence there? +Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow +With some strange peace our faces never know, +With some strange faith our faces never dare,-- +Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there? + +Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie? +Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry? +Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap? +Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep? +Day shows us not such comfort anywhere-- +Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there? + +Out of the Day's deceiving light we call-- +Day that shows man so great, and God so small, +That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass-- +O is the Darkness too a lying glass! +Or undistracted, do you find truth there? +What of the Darkness? Is it very fair? + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. + + + +VAN ELSEN. + + +God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul; +He spake by sickness first and made him whole; + Van Elsen heard him not, + Or soon forgot. + +God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured +Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord; + Van Elsen's heart grew fat + And proud thereat. + +God spake the third time when the great world smiled, +And in the sunshine slew his little child; + Van Elsen like a tree + Fell hopelessly. + +Then in the darkness came a voice which said, +"As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled, + As I have need of thee, + Thou needest me." + +That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, +And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet, + Praised Him with fervent breath + Who conquered death. + +FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT. + + + + +WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED. + + [THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.] + + +1. + +When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed, +And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night, +I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. + +Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, +Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, +And thought of him I love. + + +2. + +O powerful western fallen star! +O shades of night--O moody, tearful night! +O great star disappeared--O the black murk that hides the star! +O cruel hands that hold me powerless--O helpless soul of me! +O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul! + + +3. + +In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed + palings, +Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich + green, +With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I + love, +With every leaf a miracle;--and from this bush in the door-yard, +With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, +A sprig with its flower I break. + + +4. + +In the swamp in secluded recesses, +A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. + +Solitary the thrush, +The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, +Sings by himself a song.-- + +Song of the bleeding throat, +Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know, +If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die). + + +5. + +Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, +Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from + the ground, spotting the gray débris, +Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless + grass, +Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the + dark-brown fields up-risen, +Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, +Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, +Night and day journeys a coffin. + + +6. + +Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, +Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, +With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black, +With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing, +With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, +With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the + unbared heads, +With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, +With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong + and solemn, +With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin, +The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--where amid these you + journey, +With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang, +Here, coffin that slowly passes, +I give you my sprig of lilac. + + +7. + +(Nor for you, for one alone,-- +Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring; +For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and + sacred death. +All over bouquets of roses, +O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, +But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, +Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, +With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, +For you and the coffins all of you, O death.) + + +8. + +O western orb sailing the heaven, +Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked, +As I walked in silence the transparent shadowy night, +As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, +As you drooped from the sky low down as if to my side (while the other + stars all looked on), +As we wandered together the solemn night (for something, I know not + what, kept me from sleep), +As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you + were of woe, +As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent + night, +As I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward black of + the night, +As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad orb. +Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. + + +9. + +Sing on there in the swamp, +O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes, I hear your call, +I hear, I come presently, I understand you; +But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detained me, +The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. + + +10. + +O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? +And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? +And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? + +Sea-winds blown from east and west, +Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on + the prairies meeting, +These and with these and the breath of my chant, +I'll perfume the grave of him I love. + + +11. + +O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? +And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, +To adorn the burial-house of him I love? +Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, +With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, +With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, + burning, expanding the air, +With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of + the trees prolific, +In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a + wind-dapple here and there, +With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and + shadows, +And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, +And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward + returning. + + +12. + +Lo, body and soul--this land, +My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and + the ships, +The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's + shores and flashing Missouri, +And ever the far-spreading prairies covered with grass and corn. +Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, +The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, +The gentle soft-born measureless light, +The miracle spreading, bathing all, the fulfilled noon, +The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, +Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. + + +13. + +Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird! +Sing from the swamps, the recesses; pour your chant from the bushes, +Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. + +Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song, +Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. + +O liquid and free and tender! +O wild and loose to my soul--O wondrous singer! +You only I hear--yet the star holds me (but will soon depart), +Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. + + +14. + +Now while I sat in the day and looked forth, +In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the + farmers preparing their crops, +In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests. +In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturbed winds and the storms), +Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices + of children and women, +The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sailed, +And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with + labor, +And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its + meals and minutia of daily usages, +And the streets how their throbbings throbbed, and the cities pent--lo, + then and there, +Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, +Appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail, +And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. + +Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, +And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, +And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of + companions, +I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, +Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, +To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. + +And the singer so shy to the rest received me, +The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three, +And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. + +From deep secluded recesses, +From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, +Came the carol of the bird. + +And the charm of the carol rapt me, +As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, +And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. + +_Come, lovely and soothing death. +Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, +In the, day, in the night, to all, to each, +Sooner or later, delicate death_. + +_Praised be the fathomless universe, +For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, +And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! +For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death_. + +_Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, +Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? +Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, +I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly._ + +_Approach, strong deliveress! +When it is so, when thou, hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead, +Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, +Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death_. + +_From me to thee glad serenades, +Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for + thee; +And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, +And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night--_ + +_The night in silence under many a star, +The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, +And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death, +And the body gratefully nestling close to thee_. + +_Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, +Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the + prairies wide, +Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, +I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O death_. + + +15. + +To the tally of my soul, +Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, +With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night, + +Loud in the pines and cedars dim. +Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, +And I with my comrades there in the night. + +While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, +As to long panoramas of visions. + +And I saw askant the armies, +I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, +Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles I saw + them, +And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody. +And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence), +And the staffs all splintered and broken. + +I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, +And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them; +I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, +But I saw they were not as was thought, +They themselves were fully at rest, they suffered not: +The living remained and suffered, the mother suffered, +And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered, +And the armies that remained suffered. + + +16. + +Passing the visions, passing the night, +Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, +Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, +Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, +As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding + the night, +Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting + with joy, +Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, +As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, +Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, +I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. + +I cease from my song for thee, +From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, +O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night. +Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, +The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird, +And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul, +With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe. +With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, +Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the + dead I loved so well. +For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands--and this for his + dear sake, +Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, +There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim. + +WALT WHITMAN. + + + +IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. + + + If I should die to-night, +My friends would look upon my quiet face +Before they laid it in its resting-place, +And deem that death had left it almost fair; +And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair. +Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, +And fold my hands with lingering caress-- +Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! + + If I should die to-night, +My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, +Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought; +Some gentle word the frozen lips had said; +Errands on which the willing feet had sped; +The memory of my selfishness and pride, +My hasty words, would all be put aside, +And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. + + If I should die to-night, +Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, +Recalling other days remorsefully; +The eyes that chill me with averted glance +Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, +And soften, in the old familiar way; +For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay? +So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. + + Oh, friends, I pray to-night, +Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow-- +The way is lonely; let me feel them now. +Think gently of me; I am travel-worn; +My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. +Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! +When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need +The tenderness for which I long to-night. + +BELLE E. SMITH. + + + +AWAKENING. + + +Down to the borders of the silent land + He goes with halting feet; +He dares not trust; he cannot understand + The blessedness complete +That waits for God's beloved at his right hand. + +He dreads to see God's face, for though the pure + Beholding him are blest, +Yet in his sight no evil can endure; + And still with fear oppressed +He looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?" + +The world beyond is strange; the golden streets, + The palaces so fair, +The seraphs singing in the shining seats, + The glory everywhere,-- +And to his soul he solemnly repeats + +The visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries, + "That world is all too grand; +Among those splendors and those majesties + I would not dare to stand; +For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!" + +Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood + Through service and through pain; +The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good; + Sure, dying must be gain +To one who living hath done what he could. + +The light is fading in the tired eyes, + The weary race is run; +Not as the victor that doth seize the prize. + But as the fainting one, +He nears the verge of the eternities. + +And now the end has come, and now he sees + The happy, happy shore; +O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are these + The things thou fearedst before-- +The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace? + +This land is home; no stranger art thou here; + Sweet and familiar words +From voices silent long salute thine ear; + And winds and songs of birds, +And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near. + +The seraphs--they are men of kindly mien; + The gems and robes--but signs +Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean; + The glory--such as shines +Wherever faith or hope or love is seen. + +And he, O doubting child! the Lord of grace + Whom thou didst fear to see-- +He knows thy sin--but look upon his face! + Doth it not shine on thee +With a great light of love that fills the place? + +O happy soul, be thankful now and rest! + Heaven is a goodly land; +And God is love; and those he loves are blest;-- + Now thou dost understand; +The least thou hast is better than the best + +That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyes + The new life opens fair; +Before thy feet the Blessed journey lies + Through homelands everywhere; +And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise. + +WASHINGTON GLADDEN. + + + +BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. + + +Beyond the smiling and the weeping + I shall be soon; +Beyond the waking and the sleeping, +Beyond the sowing and the reaping, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home! + Sweet hope! + Lord, tarry not, but come._ + +Beyond the blooming and the fading + I shall be soon; +Beyond the shining and the shading, +Beyond the hoping and the dreading, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the rising and the setting + I shall be soon; +Beyond the calming and the fretting, +Beyond remembering and forgetting, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the gathering and the strowing + I shall be soon; +Beyond the ebbing and the flowing. +Beyond the coming and the going, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the parting and the meeting + I shall be soon; +Beyond the farewell and the greeting, +Beyond this pulse's fever beating, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the frost chain and the fever + I shall be soon; +Beyond the rock waste and the river, +Beyond the ever and the never, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home! + Sweet hope! + Lord, tarry not, but come._ + +HORATIUS BONAR. + + + +THE LAND O' THE LEAL. + + +I'm wearing awa', Jean, +Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean; +I'm wearing awa', + To the land o' the leal. +There's nae sorrow there, Jean, +There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, +The day is aye fair + In the land o' the leal. + +Ye were aye leal and true, Jean; +Your task's ended noo, Jean, +And I'll welcome you + To the land o' the leal. +Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, +She was baith guid and fair, Jean: +O, we grudged her right sair + To the land o' the leal! + +Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean, +My soul langs to be free, Jean, +And angels wait on me + To the land o' the leal! +Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, +This warld's care is vain, Jean; +We'll meet and aye be fain + In the land o' the leal. + +CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. + + + +ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. + + "I am dying, Egypt, dying."--SHAKESPEARE'S + _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act iv. Sc. 13. + + +I am dying, Egypt, dying. + Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, +And the dark Plutonian shadows + Gather on the evening blast; +Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, + Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; +Listen to the great heart-secrets, + Thou, and thou alone, must hear. + +Though my scarred and veteran legions + Bear their eagles high no more. +And my wrecked and scattered galleys + Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, +Though no glittering guards surround me, + Prompt to do their master's will, +I must perish like a Roman, + Die the great Triumvir still. + +Let not Caesar's servile minions + Mock the lion thus laid low; +'T was no foeman's arm that felled him, + 'T was his own that struck the blow: +His who, pillowed on thy bosom, + Turned aside from glory's ray, +His who, drunk with thy caresses, + Madly threw a world away. + +Should the base plebeian rabble + Dare assail my name at Rome, +Where my noble spouse, Octavia, + Weeps within her widowed home, +Seek her; say the gods bear witness-- + Altars, augurs, circling wings-- +That her blood, with mine commingled, + Yet shall mount the throne of kings. + +As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! + Glorious sorceress of the Nile! +Light the path to Stygian horrors + With the splendors of thy smile. +Give the Caesar crowns and arches, + Let his brow the laurel twine; +I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, + Triumphing in love like thine. + +I am dying, Egypt, dying; + Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. +They are coming--quick, my falchion! + Let me front them ere I die. +Ah! no more amid the battle + Shall my heart exulting swell; +Isis and Osiris guard thee! + Cleopatra--Rome--farewell! + +WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE. + + + +HABEAS CORPUS.[9] + + +My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? + Why all this tedious pomp of writ? +Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow + For half a century, bit by bit. + +In faith thou knowest more to-day + Than I do, where it can be found! +This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, + To which I now am chained and bound, + +Has not of kith or kin a trace + To the good body once I bore; +Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: + Didst ever see that face before? + +Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; + Thy only fault thy lagging gait, +Mistaken pity in thy heart + For timorous ones that bid thee wait. + +Do quickly all thou hast to do, + Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; +I shall be free when thou art through; + I grudge thee naught that thou must take! + +Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one, + Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,-- +Two members which have faithful done + My will and bidding in the past. + +I grudge thee this right hand of mine; + I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; +They never gave me coward sign, + Nor played me once a traitor's part. + +I see now why in olden days + Men in barbaric love or hate +Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways, + Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state: + +The symbol, sign, and instrument + Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, +Of fires in which are poured and spent + Their all of love, their all of life. + +O feeble, mighty human hand! + O fragile, dauntless human heart! +The universe holds nothing planned + With such sublime, transcendent art! + +Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine + Poor little hand, so feeble now; +Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, + Its veins so pallid and so slow-- + + (_Unfinished here_) + +Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: + I shall be free when thou art through. +Take all there is--take hand and heart: + There must be somewhere work to do. + + HELEN HUNT JACKSON. + + [9] Her last poem: 7 August, 1885. + + + +FAREWELL, LIFE. + + WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845. + + +Farewell, life! my senses swim. +And the world is growing dim; +Thronging shadows cloud the light, +Like the advent of the night,-- +Colder, colder, colder still, +Upward steals a vapor chill; +Strong the earthly odor grows,-- +I smell the mold above the rose! + +Welcome, life! the spirit strives! +Strength returns and hope revives; +Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn +Fly like shadows at the morn,-- +O'er the earth there comes a bloom; +Sunny light for sullen gloom, +Warm perfume for vapor cold,-- +smell the rose above the mold! + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +FOR ANNIE. + + +Thank Heaven! the crisis,-- + The danger is past, +And the lingering illness + Is over at last,-- +And the fever called "Living" + Is conquered at last. + +Sadly, I know, + I am shorn of my strength, +And no muscle I move + As I lie at full length,-- +But no matter!--I feel + I am better at length. + +And I rest so composedly + Now, in my bed, +That any beholder + Might fancy me dead,-- +Might start at beholding me, + Thinking me dead. + +The moaning and groaning, + The sighing and sobbing, +Are quieted now, + With that horrible throbbing +At heart,--ah, that horrible, + Horrible throbbing! + +The sickness, the nausea, + The pitiless pain, +Have ceased, with the fever + That maddened my brain,-- +With the fever called "Living" + That burned in my brain. + +And O, of all tortures + _That_ torture the worst +Has abated,--the terrible + Torture of thirst +For the naphthaline river + Of Passion accurst! +I have drunk of a water + That quenches all thirst, + +Of a water that flows, + With a lullaby sound. +From a spring but a very few + Feet under ground, +From a cavern not very far + Down under ground. + +And ah! let it never + Be foolishly said +That my room it is gloomy + And narrow my bed; +For man never slept + In a different bed,-- +And, to _sleep_ you must slumber + In just such a bed. + +My tantalized spirit + Here blandly reposes, +Forgetting, or never + Regretting, its roses,-- +Its old agitations + Of myrtles and roses: + +For now, while so quietly + Lying, it fancies +A holier odor + About it, of pansies,-- +A rosemary odor, + Commingled with pansies, +With rue and the beautiful + Puritan pansies. + +And so it lies happily, + Bathing in many +A dream of the truth + And the beauty of Annie,-- +Drowned in a bath + Of the tresses of Annie. + +She tenderly kissed me, + She fondly caressed, +And then I fell gently + To sleep on her breast,-- +Deeply to sleep + From the heaven of her breast. + +When the light was extinguished, + She covered me warm, +And she prayed to the angels + To keep me from harm,-- +To the queen of the angels + To shield me from harm. + +And I lie so composedly + Now in my bed, +(Knowing her love,) + That you fancy me dead;-- +And I rest so contentedly + Now in my bed, +(With her love at my breast,) + That you fancy me dead,-- +That you shudder to look at me, + Thinking me dead: + + +But my heart it is brighter + Than all of the many +Stars in the sky; + For it sparkles with Annie,-- +It glows with the light + Of the love of my Annie, +With the thought of the light + Of the eyes of my Annie. + +EDGAR ALLAN POE + + + +THALATTA! THALATTA! + + CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND. + + +I stand upon the summit of my life, +Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove, +The battle, and the burden: vast, afar +Beyond these weary ways. 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 horizon dim-- +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. + +JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN. + + + +THE SLEEP. + + "He giveth his belovèd sleep."--PSALM cxxvii. 2. + + +Of all the thoughts of God that are +Borne inward unto souls afar, +Among the Psalmist's music deep, +Now tell me if that any is, +For gift or grace, surpassing this,-- +"He giveth his belovèd sleep "? + +What would we give to our beloved? +The hero's heart, to be unmoved,-- +The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,-- +The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,-- +The monarch's crown, to light the brows? +"He giveth _his_ belovèd sleep." + +What do we give to our beloved? +A little faith, all undisproved,-- +A little dust to overweep, +And bitter memories, to make +The whole earth blasted for our sake, +"He giveth _his_ belovèd sleep." + +"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, +But have no tune to charm away +Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; +But never doleful dream again +Shall break the happy slumber when +"He giveth _his_ beloved sleep." + +O earth, so full of dreary noise! +O men, with wailing in your voice! +O delved gold the wailers heap! +O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! +God strikes a silence through you all, +"He giveth his beloved sleep." + +His dews drop mutely on the hill, +His cloud above it saileth still. +Though on its slope men sow and reap; +More softly than the dew is shed, +Or cloud is floated overhead, +"He giveth his beloved sleep." + +For me, my heart, that erst did go +Most like a tired child at a show. +That sees through tears the mummers leap, +Would now its wearied vision close, +Would childlike on his love repose +Who "giveth his beloved sleep." + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +PROSPICE + + +Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, + The mist in my face, +When the snows begin, and the blasts denote + I am nearing the place, +The power of the night, the press of the storm, + The post of the foe; +Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, + Yet the strong man must go: +For the journey is done and the summit attained, + And the barriers fall, +Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, + The reward of it all. +I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, + The best and the last! +I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, + And bade me creep past. +No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers + The heroes of old, +Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears + Of pain, darkness and cold. +For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, + The black minute's at end, +And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, + Shall dwindle, shall blend, +Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain. + + Then a light, then thy breast, +O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, + And with God be the rest! + +ROBERT BROWNING. + + + +I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. + + +I would not live alway--live alway below! +Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go: +The days of our pilgrimage granted us here +Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer: +Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God, +Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod? +Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam, +While brethren and friends are all hastening home? + +I would not live alway: I ask not to stay +Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; +Where seeking for rest we but hover around, +Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; +Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. +Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair, +And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, +Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. + +I would not live alway--thus fettered by sin, +Temptation without and corruption within; +In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, +Scarce the victory's mine, ere I'm captive again; +E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, +And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears: +The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, +But my spirit her own _miserere_ prolongs. + +I would not live alway--no, welcome the tomb, +Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom; +Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head, +All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed. +Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night, +The orient gleam of the angels of light, +With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise. +And chant forth their matins, away to the skies. + +Who, who would live alway? away from his God, +Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, +Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, +And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; +Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, +Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, +While the songs of salvation exultingly roll +And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. + +That heavenly music! what is it I hear? +The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear! +And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold, +The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! +Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove, +To adore him--be near him--enwrapt with his love; +I but wait for the summons, I list for the word-- +Alleluia--Amen--evermore with the Lord! + +WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG. + + + +FAREWELL. + + +I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; + Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; +I warmed both hands before the fire of life,-- + It sinks, and I am ready to depart. + +WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. + + + +LOVE AND DEATH. + + +Alas! that men must see + Love, before Death! +Else they content might be + With their short breath; +Aye, glad, when the pale sun +Showed restless day was done, +And endless Rest begun. + +Glad, when with strong, cool hand + Death clasped their own, +And with a strange command + Hushed every moan; +Glad to have finished pain, +And labor wrought in vain, +Blurred by Sin's deepening stain. + +But Love's insistent voice + Bids self to flee-- +"Live that I may rejoice, + Live on, for me!" +So, for Love's cruel mind, +Men fear this Rest to find, +Nor know great Death is kind! + + +MARGARETTA WADE DELAND. + + + +TO DEATH. + + +Methinks it were no pain to die +On such an eve, when such a sky + O'er-canopies the west; +To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, +And, like an infant, fall asleep + On Earth, my mother's breast. + +There's peace and welcome in yon sea +Of endless blue tranquillity: + These clouds are living things; +I trace their veins of liquid gold, +I see them solemnly unfold + Their soft and fleecy wings. + +These be the angels that convey +Us weary children of a day-- + Life's tedious nothing o'er-- +Where neither passions come, nor woes, +To vex the genius of repose + On Death's majestic shore. + +No darkness there divides the sway +With startling dawn and dazzling day; + But gloriously serene +Are the interminable plains: +One fixed, eternal sunset reigns + O'er the wide silent scene. + +I cannot doff all human fear; +I know thy greeting is severe + To this poor shell of clay: +Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kiss +Emancipates! thy rest is bliss! + I would I were away! + +From the German of GLUCK. + + + +ASLEEP, ASLEEP. + + "And so saying, he fell asleep." + + MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN. + + +Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep," +When all adown the silent deep + The shades of night are stealing; +When like a curtain, soft and vast, +The darkness over all is cast, +And sombre stillness comes at last, + To the mute heart appealing. + +Asleep! asleep! when soft and low +The patient watchers come and go, + Their loving vigil keeping; +When from the dear eyes fades the light, +When pales the flush so strangely bright, +And the glad spirit takes its flight, + We speak of death as "sleeping." + +Or when, as dies the orb of day, +The aged Christian sinks away, + And the lone mourner weepeth; +When thus the pilgrim goes to rest, +With meek hands folded on his breast, +And his last sigh a prayer confessed-- + We say of such, "He sleepeth." + +But when amidst a shower of stones, +And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans, + The death-chill slowly creepeth; +When falls at length the dying head, +And streams the life-blood dark and red, +A thousand voices cry, "He's dead"; + But who shall say, "He sleepeth"? + +"He fell asleep." A pen divine +Hath writ that epitaph of thine; + And though the days are hoary, +Yet beautiful thy rest appears-- +Unsullied by the lapse of years-- +And still we read, with thankful tears, + The tale of grace and glory. + +Asleep! asleep! though not for thee +The touch of loving lips might be, + In sadly sweet leave-taking: +Though not for thee the last caress, +The look of untold tenderness, +The love that dying hours can press + From hearts with silence breaking. + +LUCY A. BENNETT. + + + +REST. + + +I lay me down to sleep, + With little 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 the blue be dim; +These stripes as well as stars + Lead after him. + +MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND. + + + +IN HARBOR. + + +I think it is over, over, + I think it is over at last: +Voices of foemen and lover, +The sweet and the bitter, have passed: +Life, like a tempest of ocean +Hath outblown its ultimate blast: +There's but a faint sobbing seaward +While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, +And behold! like the welcoming quiver +Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, + Those lights in the harbor at last, + The heavenly harbor at last! + +I feel it is over! over! + For the winds and the waters surcease; +Ah, few were the days of the rover + That smiled in the beauty of peace, +And distant and dim was the omen +That hinted redress or release! +From the ravage of life, and its riot, +What marvel I yearn for the quiet + Which bides in the harbor at last,-- +For the lights, with their welcoming quiver +That throb through the sanctified river, + Which girdle the harbor at last, + This heavenly harbor at last? + +I know it is over, over, + I know it is over at last! +Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover, +For the stress of the voyage has passed: +Life, like a tempest of ocean, + Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: +There's but a faint sobbing seaward, +While the calm of the tide deepens leeward; +And behold! like the welcoming quiver +Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, + Those lights in the harbor at last, + The heavenly harbor at last! + +PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. + + + +HUSH! + + +Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms! + The sunset glory fadeth in the west; + The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest; +Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms, +Darkness and silence and delicious calms. + Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breast + Lay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest, +Lulled by the music of her evening psalms. + Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars, + Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high, + One far lone night-bird singing from the hill, +And utter rest from Day's discordant jars; + O soul of mine! when the long night draws nigh + Will such deep peace thine inmost being fill? + +JULIA C.R. DORR. + + + +LIFE. + + "Animula, vagula, blandula." + + + Life! I know not what thou art, +But know that thou and I must part; +And when, or how, or where we met +I own to me's a secret yet. +But this I know, when thou art fled, +Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, +No clod so valueless shall be, +As all that then remains of me. +O, whither, whither dost thou fly, +Where bend unseen thy trackless course, + And in this strange divorce, +Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? + +To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, + From whence thy essence came, + Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed + From matter's base uncumbering weed? + Or dost thou, hid from sight, + Wait, like some spell-bound knight, +Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour +To break thy trance and reassume thy power? +Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be? +O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? + +Life! we've been long together, +Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; + 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,-- + Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear: + Then steal away, give little warning, + Choose thine own time; +Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good Morning. + +ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. + + * * * * * + + + + +VI. CONSOLATION. + + + +THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. + + A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. + + +To weary hearts, to mourning homes, +God's meekest Angel gently comes: +No power has he to banish pain, +Or give us back our lost again; +And yet in tenderest love our dear +And heavenly Father sends him here. + +There's quiet in that Angel's glance, +There's rest in his still countenance! +He mocks no grief with idle cheer, +Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; +But ills and woes he may not cure +He kindly trains us to endure. + +Angel of Patience! sent to calm +Our feverish brows with cooling palm; +To lay the storms of hope and fear, +And reconcile life's smile and tear; +The throbs of wounded pride to still, +And make our own our Father's will! + +O thou who mournest on thy way, +With longings for the close of day; +He walks with thee, that Angel kind, +And gently whispers, "Be resigned: +Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell +The dear Lord ordereth all things well!" + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + + +THEY ARE ALL GONE. + + +They are all gone into the world of light, + And I alone sit lingering here! +Their very memory is fair and bright, + And my sad thoughts doth clear; + +It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, + Like stars upon some gloomy grove,-- +Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest + After the sun's remove. + +I see them walking in an air of glory, + Whose light doth trample on my days,-- +My days which are at best but dull and hoary, + Mere glimmering and decays. + +O holy hope! and high humility,-- + High as the heavens above! +These are your walks, and you have showed them me + To kindle my cold love. + +Dear, beauteous death,--the jewel of the just,-- + Shining nowhere but in the dark! +What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, + Could man outlook that mark! + +He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, + At first sight, if the bird be flown; +But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, + That is to him unknown. + +And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams + Call to the soul when man doth sleep, +So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, + And into glory peep. + +If a star were confined into a tomb, + Her captive flames must needs burn there, +But when the hand that locked her up gives room, + She'll shine through all the sphere. + +O Father of eternal life, and all + Created glories under thee! +Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall + Into true liberty. + +Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill + My perspective still as they pass; +Or else remove me hence unto that hill + Where I shall need no glass. + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + + +THE BOTTOM DRAWER. + + +In the best chamber of the house, + Shut up in dim, uncertain light, +There stood an antique chest of drawers, + Of foreign wood, with brasses bright. +One day a woman, frail and gray, + Stepped totteringly across the floor-- +"Let in," said she, "the light of day, + Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer." + +The girl, in all her youth's loveliness, + Knelt down with eager, curious face; +Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks, + Of jewels, and of rare old lace. +But when the summer sunshine fell + Upon the treasures hoarded there, +The tears rushed to her tender eyes, + Her heart was solemn as a prayer. + +"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed, + Lifting a withered rose and palm; +But on the elder face was naught + But sweet content and peaceful calm. +Leaning upon her staff, she gazed + Upon a baby's half-worn shoe; +A little frock of finest lawn; + A hat with tiny bows of blue; + +A ball made fifty years ago; + A little glove; a tasselled cap; +A half-done "long division" sum; + Some school-books fastened with a strap. +She touched them all with trembling lips-- + "How much," she said, "the heart can bear! +Ah, Jean! I thought that I should die + The day that first I laid them there. + +"But now it seems so good to know + That through these weary, troubled years +Their hearts have been untouched by grief, + Their eyes have been unstained by tears. +Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight + When earthly love is almost o'er; +Those children wait me in the skies, + For whom I locked that sacred drawer." + +AMELIA EDITH BARR. + + + +OVER THE RIVER. + + +Over the river they beckon to me, + Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, +The gleam of their snowy robes I see, + But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. +There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, + And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; +He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, + And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. +We saw not the angels who met him there, + The gates of the city we could not see: +Over the river, over the river, + My brother stands waiting to welcome me. + +Over the river the boatman pale + Carried another, the household pet; +Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, + Darling Minnie! I see her yet. +She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, + And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; +We felt it glide from the silver sands, + And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; +We know she is safe on the farther side, + Where all the ransomed and angels be: +Over the river, the mystic river, + My childhood's idol is waiting for me. + +For none returns from those quiet shores, + Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; +We hear the dip of the golden oars, + And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; +And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, + They cross the stream and are gone for aye. +We may not sunder the veil apart + That hides from our vision the gates of day; +We only know that their barks no more + May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; +Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, + They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. + +And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold + Is flushing river and hill and shore, +I shall one day stand by the water cold, + And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; +I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, + I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, +I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, + To the better shore of the spirit land. +I shall know the loved who have gone before, + And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, +When over the river, the peaceful river, + The angel of death shall carry me. + +NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST. + + + +GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. + + +O hearts that never cease to yearn! + O brimming tears that ne'er are dried! +The dead, though they depart, return + As though they had not died! + +The living are the only dead; + The dead live,--nevermore to die; +And often, when we mourn them fled, + They never were so nigh! + +And though they lie beneath the waves, + Or sleep within the churchyard dim, +(Ah! through how many different graves + God's children go to him!)-- + +Yet every grave gives up its dead + Ere it is overgrown with grass; +Then why should hopeless tears be shed, + Or need we cry, "Alas"? + +Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, + And like a sorrowing mourner craped, +Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb, + Whose captives have escaped? + +'Tis but a mound,--and will be mossed + Whene'er the summer grass appears; +The loved, though wept, are never lost; + We only lose--our tears! + +Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead + By bending forward where they are; +But Memory, with a backward tread, + Communes with them afar. + +The joys we lose are but forecast, + And we shall find them all once more; +We look behind us for the Past, + But lo! 'tis all before! + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THE TWO WAITINGS. + + +I. + +Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago + For the glory to be revealed; +You were wondering deeply, with bated breath, + What treasure the days concealed. + +O, would it be this, or would it be that? + Would it be girl or boy? +Would it look like father or mother most? + And what should you do for joy? + +And then, one day, when the time was full, + And the spring was coming fast, +The tender grace of a life outbloomed, + And you saw your baby at last. + +Was it or not what you had dreamed? + It was, and yet it was not; +But O, it was better a thousand times + Than ever you wished or thought. + + +II. + +And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again, + While the spring is coming fast; +For the baby that was a future dream + Is now a dream of the past: + +A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet; + Of all that is pure and bright; +Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day, + And as clear as the stars by night. + +You are waiting again for the fulness of time, + And the glory to be revealed; +You are wondering deeply with aching hearts + What treasure is now concealed. + +O, will she be this, or will she be that? + And what will there be in her face +That will tell you sure that she is your own, + When you meet in the heavenly place? + +As it was before, it will be again, + Fashion your dream as you will; +When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen, + It will more than your hope fulfil. + +JOHN WHITE CHADWICK. + + + +FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. + + +The night is late, the house is still; +The angels of the hour fulfil +Their tender ministries, and move +From couch to couch in cares of love. +They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, +The happiest smile of Charlie's life, +And lay on baby's lips a kiss, +Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; +And, as they pass, they seem to make +A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake." + +My listening heart takes up the strain, +And gives it to the night again, +Fitted with words of lowly praise, +And patience learned of mournful days, +And memories of the dead child's ways. +His will be done, His will be done! +Who gave and took away my son, +In "the far land" to shine and sing +Before the Beautiful, the King, +Who every day does Christmas make, +All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. + +For Charlie's sake I will arise; +I will anoint me where he lies, +And change my raiment, and go in +To the Lord's house, and leave my sin +Without, and seat me at his board, +Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. +For wherefore should I fast and weep, +And sullen moods of mourning keep? +I cannot bring him back, nor he, +For any calling, come to me. +The bond the angel Death did sign, +God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine. + +I'm very poor--this slender stone +Marks all the narrow field I own; +Yet, patient husbandman, I till +With faith and prayers, that precious hill, +Sow it with penitential pains, +And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; +Content if, after all, the spot +Yield barely one forget-me-not-- +Whether or figs or thistle make +My crop content for Charlie's sake. + +I have no houses, builded well-- +Only that little lonesome cell, +Where never romping playmates come, +Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb-- +An April burst of girls and boys, +Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys +Born with their songs, gone with their toys; +Nor ever is its stillness stirred +By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, +Or mother's twilight legend, told +Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, +Or fairy hobbling to the door, +Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, +To bless the good child's gracious eyes, +The good child's wistful charities, +And crippled changeling's hunch to make +Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. + +How is it with the child? 'Tis well; +Nor would I any miracle +Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, +Or plague his painless countenance: +I would not any seer might place +His staff on my immortal's face. +Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, +Charm back his pale mortality. +No, Shunamite! I would not break +God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. + +For Charlie's sake my lot is blest: +No comfort like his mother's breast, +No praise like hers; no charm expressed +In fairest forms hath half her zest. +For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed +That death left lonely in the nest; +For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, +As for its birthday, in its best; +For Charlie's sake we leave the rest. +To Him who gave, and who did take, +And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. + +JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. + + + +WATCHING FOR PAPA. + + +She always stood upon the steps + Just by the cottage door, +Waiting to kiss me when I came + Each night home from the store. +Her eyes were like two glorious stars, + Dancing in heaven's own blue-- +"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird, + "_I's looten out for oo!_" + +Alas! how sadly do our lives + Change as we onward roam! +For now no birdie voice calls out + To bid me welcome home. +No little hands stretched out for me, + No blue eyes dancing bright, +No baby face peeps from the door + When I come home at night. + +And yet there's comfort in the thought + That when life's toil is o'er, +And passing through the sable flood + I gain the brighter shore, +My little angel at the gate, + With eyes divinely blue, +Will call with birdie voice, "Papa, + _I's looten out for oo!_" + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +MY CHILD. + + + I cannot make him dead! + His fair sunshiny head +Is ever bounding round my study chair; + Yet when my eyes, now dim + With tears, I turn to him, +The vision vanishes,--he is not there! + + I walk my parlor floor, + And, through the open door, +I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; + I'm stepping toward the hall + To give the boy a call; +And then bethink me that--he is not there! + + I thread the crowded street; + A satchelled lad I meet, +With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; + And, as he's running by, + Follow him with my eye, +Scarcely believing that--he is not there! + + I know his face is hid + Under the coffin lid; +Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; + My hand that marble felt; + O'er it in prayer I knelt; +Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there! + + I cannot make him dead! + When passing by the bed, +So long watched over with parental care, + My spirit and my eye + Seek him inquiringly, +Before the thought comes, that--he is not there! + + When, at the cool gray break + Of day, from sleep I wake. +With my first breathing of the morning air + My soul goes up, with joy, + To Him who gave my boy; +Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there! + + When at the day's calm close, + Before we seek repose, +I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; + Whate'er I may be saying, + I am in spirit praying +For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there! + + Not there!--Where, then, is he? + The form I used to see +Was but the raiment that he used to wear. + The grave, that now doth press + Upon that cast-off dress, +Is but his wardrobe locked--he is not there! + + He lives!--In all the past + He lives; nor, to the last, +Of seeing him again will I despair; + In dreams I see him now; + And, on his angel brow, +I see it written, "Thou shalt see me _there_!" +Yes, we all live to God! + Father, thy chastening rod +So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, + That, in the spirit land, + Meeting at thy right hand, +'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there! + +JOHN PIERPONT. + + + +SONG. + + +She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, + Her tears are in the falling rain, +She calls me in the wind's soft song, + And with the flowers she comes again. + +Yon bird is but her messenger, + The moon is but her silver car; +Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, + And every wistful waiting star. + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. + + + +THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. + + +There is a Reaper whose name is Death, + And, with his sickle keen, +He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, + And the flowers that grow between. + +"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; + "Have naught but the bearded grain?-- +Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, + I will give them all back again." + +He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, + He kissed their drooping leaves; +It was for the Lord of Paradise + He bound them in his sheaves. + +"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," + The Reaper said, and smiled; +"Dear tokens of the earth are they, + Where he was once a child. + +"They shall all bloom in fields of light, + Transplanted by my care, +And saints, upon their garments white, + These sacred blossoms wear." + +And the mother gave, in tears and pain, + The flowers she most did love; +She knew she should find them all again + In the fields of light above. + +O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, + The Reaper came that day; +'Twas an angel visited the green earth, + And took the flowers away. + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +"ONLY A YEAR." + + +One year ago,--a ringing voice, + A clear blue eye, +And clustering curls of sunny hair, + Too fair to die. + +Only a year,--no voice, no smile, + No glance of eye, +No clustering curls of golden hair, + Fair but to die! + +One year ago,--what loves, what schemes + Far into life! +What joyous hopes, what high resolves, + What generous strife! + +The silent picture on the wall, + The burial-stone, +Of all that beauty, life, and joy, + Remain alone! + +One year,--one year,--one little year, + And so much gone! +And yet the even flow of life + Moves calmly on. + +The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, + Above that head; +No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray + Says he is dead. + +No pause or hush of merry birds + That sing above +Tells us how coldly sleeps below + The form we love. + +Where hast thou been this year, beloved? + What hast thou seen,-- +What visions fair, what glorious life, + Where hast thou been? + +The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! + 'Twixt us and thee; +The mystic veil! when shall it fall, + That we may see? + +Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, + But present still, +And waiting for the coming hour + Of God's sweet will. + +Lord of the living and the dead, + Our Saviour dear! +We lay in silence at thy feet + This sad, sad year. + +HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. + + + +BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN. + + +Oh, deem not they are blest alone + Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; +The Power who pities man, has shown + A blessing for the eyes that weep. + +The light of smiles shall fill again + The lids that overflow with tears; +And weary hours of woe and pain + Are promises of happier years. + +There is a day of sunny rest + For every dark and troubled night; +And grief may bide an evening guest, + But joy shall come with early light. + +And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier + Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, +Hope that a brighter, happier sphere + Will give him to thy arms again. + +Nor let the good man's trust depart, + Though life its common gifts deny,-- +Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, + And spurned of men, he goes to die. + +For God hath marked each sorrowing day + And numbered every secret tear, +And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay + For all his children suffer here. + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + +DE PROFUNDIS. + + +The face which, duly as the sun, +Rose up for me with life begun, +To mark all bright hours of the day +With daily love, is dimmed away-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +The tongue which, like a stream, could run +Smooth music from the roughest stone, +And every morning with "Good day" +Make each day good, is hushed away-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +The heart which, like a staff, was one +For mine to lean and rest upon, +The strongest on the longest day, +With steadfast love is caught away-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +The world goes whispering to its own, +"This anguish pierces to the bone." +And tender friends go sighing round, +"What love can ever cure this wound?" + My days go on, my days go on. + +The past rolls forward on the sun +And makes all night. O dreams begun, +Not to be ended! Ended bliss! +And life, that will not end in this! + My days go on, my days go on. + +Breath freezes on my lips to moan: +As one alone, once not alone, +I sit and knock at Nature's door, +Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, + Whose desolated days go on. + +I knock and cry--Undone, undone! +Is there no help, no comfort--none? +No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains +Where others drive their loaded wains? + My vacant days go on, go on. + +This Nature, though the snows be down, +Thinks kindly of the bird of June. +The little red hip on the tree +Is ripe for such. What is for me, + Whose days so winterly go on? + +No bird am I to sing in June, +And dare not ask an equal boon. +Good nests and berries red are Nature's +To give away to better creatures-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +_I_ ask less kindness to be done-- +Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon +(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet +Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, + Till days go out which now go on. + +Only to lift the turf unmown +From off the earth where it has grown, +Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold, +Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, + Forgetting how the days go on." + +A Voice reproves me thereupon, +More sweet than Nature's, when the drone +Of bees is sweetest, and more deep +Than when the rivers overleap + The shuddering pines, and thunder on. + +God's Voice, not Nature's--night and noon +He sits upon the great white throne, +And listens for the creature's praise. +What babble we of days and days? + The Dayspring he, whose days go on! + +He reigns above, he reigns alone: +Systems burn out and leave his throne: +Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall +Around him, changeless amid all-- + Ancient of days, whose days go on! + +He reigns below, he reigns alone-- +And having life in love forgone +Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, +He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns + Or rules with HIM, while days go on? + +By anguish which made pale the sun, +I hear him charge his saints that none +Among the creatures anywhere +Blaspheme against him with despair, + However darkly days go on. + +Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown: +No mortal grief deserves that crown. +O supreme Love, chief misery, +The sharp regalia are for _Thee_, + Whose days eternally go on! + +For us, ... whatever's undergone, +Thou knowest, willest what is done. +Grief may be joy misunderstood: +Only the Good discerns the good. + I trust Thee while my days go on. + +Whatever's lost, it first was won! +We will not struggle nor impugn. +Perhaps the cup was broken here +That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. + I praise Thee while my days go on. + +I praise Thee while my days go on; +I love Thee while my days go on! +Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, +With emptied arms and treasure lost, + I thank thee while my days go on! + +And, having in thy life-depth thrown +Being and suffering (which are one), +As a child drops some pebble small +Down some deep well, and hears it fall + Smiling--so I! THY DAYS GO ON! + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +BLESSED ARE THEY. + + +To us across the ages borne, + Comes the deep word the Master said: +"Blessèd are they that mourn; + They shall be comforted!" + +Strange mystery! It is better then + To weep and yearn and vainly call, +Till peace is won from pain, + Than not to grieve at all! + +Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet, + Life does not thrill to joy alone. +The harp is incomplete + That has no deeper tone. + +Unclouded sunshine overmuch + Falls vainly on the barren plain; +But fruitful is the touch + Of sunshine after rain! + +Who only scans the heavens by day + Their story but half reads, and mars; +Let him learn how to say, + "The night is full of stars!" + +We seek to know Thee more and more, + Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest, +Since sorrow is the door + Whereby Thou enterest. + +Nor can our hearts so closely come + To Thine in any other place, +As where, with anguish dumb, + We faint in Thine embrace. + +ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND. + + + +LINES + + TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860. + + "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest + thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, + Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast + laid him."--JOHN xx. 15. + + +In the fair gardens of celestial peace + Walketh a gardener in meekness clad; +Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, + And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. + +Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, + Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; +And when he walks, each floweret to his will + With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat. + +Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, + In the mild summer radiance of his eye; +No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost, + Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh. + +And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love + Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; +And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, + Watching the growing of his treasures there. + +We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, + O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; +Forgetful of the high, mysterious right + He holds to bear our cherished plants away. + +But when some sunny spot in those bright fields + Needs the fair presence of an added flower, +Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: + At morn the rose has vanished from our bower. + +Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave! + Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above, +Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, + The angels hail an added flower of love. + +Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, + Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, +Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye + Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief. + +Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast + Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, +That the bleak climate of this lower sphere + Could never waken into form and light. + +Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, + Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; +Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour, + Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day. + +HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. + + + +DEATH IN YOUTH. + + FROM "FESTUS." + + +For to die young is youth's divinest gift; +To pass from one world fresh into another, +Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret, +And feel the immortal impulse from within +Which makes the coming life cry always, On! +And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy. +There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines +When on the wing. So is't with mind. When once +We rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul, +As unto the earth for ever. On it goes, +A rejoicing native of the infinite, +As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven. + +PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. + + + +IN MEMORIAM F.A.S. + + +Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember + How of human days he lived the better part. +April came to bloom and never dim December + Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. +Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a being + Trod the flowery April blithely for a while, +Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing, + Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile. + +Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished, + You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, +Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished + Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. + +All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason, + Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name. +Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season + And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Davos, 1881. + + + +TEARS. + + +Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not +More grief than ye can weep for. That is well-- +That is light grieving! lighter, none befell, +Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. +Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot, +The mother singing; at her marriage bell +The bride weeps; and before the oracle +Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot +Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, +Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, +Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place, +And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run +Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, +And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +RESIGNATION. + + +There is no flock, however watched and tended, + But one dead lamb is there! +There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, + But has one vacant chair! + +The air is full of farewells to the dying, + And mournings for the dead; +The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, + Will not be comforted! + +Let us be patient! These severe afflictions + Not from the ground arise, +But oftentimes celestial benedictions + Assume this dark disguise. + +We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; + Amid these earthly damps +What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers + May be heaven's distant lamps. + +There is no death! What seems so is transition: + This life of mortal breath +Is but a suburb of the life elysian, + Whose portal we call Death. + +She is not dead,--the child of our affection,-- + But gone unto that school +Where she no longer needs our poor protection, + And Christ himself doth rule. + +In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, + By guardian angels led, +Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, + She lives whom we call dead. + +Day after day we think what she is doing + In those bright realms of air; +Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, + Behold her grown more fair. + +Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken + The bond which nature gives, +Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, + May reach her where she lives. + +Not as a child shall we again behold her; + For when with raptures wild +In our embraces we again enfold her, + She will not be a child: + +But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, + Clothed with celestial grace; +And beautiful with all the soul's expansion + Shall we behold her face. + +And though, at times, impetuous with emotion + And anguish long suppressed, +The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, + That cannot be at rest,-- + +We will be patient, and assuage the feeling + We may not wholly stay; +By silence sanctifying, not concealing, + The grief that must have way. + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR. + + +Beside the dead I knelt for prayer, + And felt a presence as I prayed. +Lo! it was Jesus standing there. + He smiled: "Be not afraid!" + +"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know; + Restore again to life," I said, +"This one who died an hour ago." + He smiled: "She is not dead!" + +"Asleep then, as thyself did say; + Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep +Her prisoned eyes from ours away!" + He smiled: "She doth not sleep!" + +"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake, + And look upon some fairer dawn, +Restore her to our hearts that ache!" + He smiled: "She is not gone!" + +"Alas! too well we know our loss, + Nor hope again our joy to touch, +Until the stream of death we cross." + He smiled: "There is no such!" + +"Yet our beloved seem so far, + The while we yearn to feel them near, +Albeit with Thee we trust they are." + He smiled: "And I am here!" + +"Dear Lord, how shall we know that they + Still walk unseen with us and Thee, +Nor sleep, nor wander far away?" + He smiled: "Abide in Me." + +ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND. + + + +COMFORT. + + +Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet +From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, +Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so +Who art not missed by any that entreat. +Speak to me as Mary at thy feet-- +And if no precious gums my hands bestow, +Let my tears drop like amber, while I go +In reach of thy divinest voice complete +In humanest affection--thus in sooth, +To lose the sense of losing! As a child +Whose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore, +Is sung to instead by mother's mouth; +Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, +He sleeps the faster that he wept before. + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +THE SECRET OF DEATH. + +"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; +Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!" + +They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; +On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; + +Over her eyes that gazed too much +They drew the lids with a gentle touch; + +With a tender touch they closed up well +The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; + +About her brows and beautiful face +They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, + +And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes-- +Which were the whitest no eye could choose! + +And over her bosom they crossed her hands. +"Come away!" they said; "God understands!" +And there was silence, and nothing there +But silence, and scents of eglantere, + +And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; +And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." + +And they held their breath till they left the room, +With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. + +But he who loved her too well to dread +The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead, + +He lit his lamp and took the key +And turned it. Alone again--he and she! + +He and she; but she would not speak, +Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. + +He and she; yet she would not smile, +Though he called her the name she loved ere-while. + +He and she; still she did not move +To any one passionate whisper of love. + +Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath, +Is there no voice, no language of death, + +"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, +But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? + +"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; +What was the secret of dying, dear? + +"Was it the infinite wonder of all +That you ever could let life's flower fall? + +"Or was it a greater marvel to feel +The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? + +"Was the miracle greater to find how deep +Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? + +"Did life roll back its records, dear, +And show, as they say it does, past things clear? + +"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss +To find out, so, what a wisdom love is? + +"O perfect dead! O dead most dear, +I hold the breath of my soul to hear! + +"I listen as deep as to horrible hell, +As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. + +"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, +To make you so placid from head to feet! + +"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, +And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,-- + +"I would say, though the angel of death had laid +His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. + +"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, +Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise, + +"The very strangest and suddenest thing +Of all the surprises that dying must bring." + +Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead! +Though he told me, who will believe it was said? + +Who will believe that he heard her say, +With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: + +"The utmost wonder is this,--I hear, +And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; + +"And am your angel, who was your bride, +And know that, though dead, I have never died." + +SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. + + + +PEACE. + + +There is the peace that cometh after sorrow, + Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled; +A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow, + But calmly on a tempest that is stilled. + +A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses, + Nor in the happy life of love secure, +But in the unerring strength the heart possesses, + Of conflicts won, while learning to endure. + +A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded, + A life subdued, from will and passion free; +'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded, + But that which triumphed in Gethsemane. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. + + +When the hours of day are numbered, + And the voices of the night +Wake the better soul that slumbered + To a holy, calm delight,-- + +Ere the evening lamps are lighted, + And, like phantoms grim and tall, +Shadows from the fitful firelight + Dance upon the parlor wall; + +Then the forms of the departed + Enter at the open door,-- +The beloved ones, the true-hearted, + Come to visit me once more: + +He, the young and strong, who cherished + Noble longings for the strife, +By the roadside fell and perished, + Weary with the march of life! + +They, the holy ones and weakly, + Who the cross of suffering bore, +Folded their pale hands so meekly, + Spake with us on earth no more! + +And with them the being beauteous + Who unto my youth was given, +More than all things else to love me, + And is now a saint in heaven. + +With a slow and noiseless footstep, + Comes that messenger divine, +Takes the vacant chair beside me, + Lays her gentle hand in mine; + +And she sits and gazes at me + With those deep and tender eyes, +Like the stars, so still and saint-like, + Looking downward from the skies. + +Uttered not, yet comprehended, + Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, +Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, + Breathing from her lips of air. + +O, though oft depressed and lonely, + All my fears are laid aside +If I but remember only + Such as these have lived and died! + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +HAPPY ARE THE DEAD. + + +I walked the other day, to spend my hour, + Into a field, +Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield + A gallant flower: +But winter now had ruffled all the bower + And curious store + I knew there heretofore. + +Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer + In the face of things, +Thought with myself, there might be other springs + Beside this here, +Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; + And so the flower + Might have some other bower. + +Then taking up what I could nearest spy, + I digged about +That place where I had seen him to grow out; + And by and by +I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, + Where fresh and green + He lived of us unseen. + +Many a question intricate and rare + Did I there strow; +But all I could extort was, that he now + Did there repair +Such losses as befell him in this air, + And would erelong + Come forth most fair and young. + +This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head; + And, stung with fear +Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear + Upon his bed; +Then, sighing, whispered, _Happy are the dead! + What peace doth now + Rock him asleep below!_ + +And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs + From a poor root +Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, + And hath no wings +To raise it to the truth and light of things, + But is still trod + By every wandering clod! + +O thou whose spirit did at first inflame + And warm the dead! +And by a sacred incubation fed + With life this frame, +Which once had neither being, form, nor name! + Grant I may so + Thy steps track here below, + +That in these masks and shadows I may see + Thy sacred way; +And by those hid ascents climb to that day + Which breaks from thee, +Who art in all things, though invisibly: + Show me thy peace, + Thy mercy, love, and ease. + +And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, + Lead me above, +Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move + Without all pain: +There, hid in thee, show me his life again + At whose dumb urn + Thus all the year I mourn. + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + + +THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW. + + +The work of the sun is slow, +But as sure as heaven, we know; + So we'll not forget, + When the skies are wet, +There's green grass under the snow. + +When the winds of winter blow, +Wailing like voices of woe, + There are April showers, + And buds and flowers, +And green grass under the snow. + +We find that it's ever so +In this life's uneven flow; + We've only to wait, + In the face of fate, +For the green grass under the snow. + +ANNIE A. PRESTON. + + + +THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. + + +Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, + And yet the monument proclaims it not, +Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought + The emblems of a fame that never dies, +Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf, +Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. + A simple name alone, + To the great world unknown, +Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, +Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, + Lean lovingly against the humble stone. + +Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart + No man of iron mould and bloody hands, +Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands + The passions that consumed his restless heart: +But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, + Gentlest in mien and mind, + Of gentle womankind, +Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; +One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made + Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, +Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade + Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. + +Nor deem that when the hand that molders here +Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, + And armies mustered at the sign, as when +Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East, + Gray captains leading bands of veteran men +And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. +Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave +The victory to her who fills this grave; + Alone her task was wrought, + Alone the battle fought; +Through that long strife her constant hope was staid + On God alone, nor looked for other aid. + +She met the hosts of sorrow with a look + That altered not beneath the frown they wore, +And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, + Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. +Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, + And calmly broke in twain + The fiery shafts of pain, +And rent the nets of passion from her path. + By that victorious hand despair was slain. +With love she vanquished hate and overcame +Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. + +Her glory is not of this shadowy state, + Glory that with the fleeting season dies; +But when she entered at the sapphire gate + What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! +How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, +And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! + And He who, long before, + Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, +The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, +Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; +He who returning, glorious, from the grave, +Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. + +See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; + Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. +Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go + Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. + Brief is the time, I know, + The warfare scarce begun; +Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. +Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee; + The victors' names are yet too few to fill +Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory, + That ministered to thee, is open still. + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + +THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. + + +Thou art gone to the grave--but we will not deplore thee, + Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; +The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, + And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. + +Thou art gone to the grave--we no longer behold thee, + Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; +But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, + And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died. + +Thou art gone to the grave--and, its mansion forsaking, + Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, +But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, + And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song. + +Thou art gone to the grave--but 't were wrong to deplore thee, + When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; +He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, + Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. + +REGINALD HEBER. + + + +LYCIDAS. + +Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more +Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, +I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude +And with forced fingers rude +Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year, +Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, +Compels me to disturb your season due; +For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, +Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. +Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew +Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. +He must not float upon his watery bier +Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, +Without the meed of some melodious tear. + Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, +That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, +Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. +Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse; +So may some gentle muse +With lucky words favor my destined urn, +And as he passes turn, +And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud; +For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, +Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. +Together both, ere the high lawns appeared +Under the opening eyelids of the morn, +We drove a-field, and both together heard +What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, +Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, +Oft till the star that rose at evening bright +Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. +Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, +Tempered to the oaten flute; +Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel +From the glad song would not be absent long, +And old Damætas loved to hear our song. + But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone-- +Now thou art gone, and never must return! +Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, +With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, +And all their echoes, mourn; +The willows, and the hazel copses green, +Shall now no more be seen, +Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. +As killing as the canker to the rose, +Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, +Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, +When first the white-thorn blows; +Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. + Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep +Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? +For neither were ye playing on the steep, +Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, +Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, +Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream-- +Ay me! I fondly dream, +Had ye been there; for what could that have done? +What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, +The muse herself for her enchanting son, +Whom universal nature did lament, +When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, +His gory visage down the stream was sent, +Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? + Alas! what boots it with incessant care +To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, +And strictly meditate the thankless muse? +Were it not better done, as others use, +To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, +Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? +Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise +(That last infirmity of noble minds) +To scorn delights, and live laborious days; +But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, +And think to burst out into sudden blaze, +Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, +And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, +Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; +Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, +Nor in the glistering foil +Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; +But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes +And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; +As he pronounces lastly on each deed, +Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. + O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, +Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, +That strain I heard was of a higher mood; +But now my oat proceeds, +And listens to the herald of the sea +That came in Neptune's plea; +He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, +What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? +And questioned every gust of rugged winds +That blows from off each beakèd promontory; +They knew not of his story; +And sage Hippotades their answer brings, +That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; +The air was calm, and on the level brine +Sleek Panopè with all her sisters played. +It was that fatal and perfidious bark, +Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, +That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. + Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, +His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, +Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, +Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. +Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? +Last came, and last did go, +The pilot of the Galilean Lake; +Two massy keys he bore of metals twain +(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); +He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: +How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, +Enow of such as for their bellies' sake +Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? +Of other care they little reckoning make, +Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, +And shove away the worthy bidden guest; +Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold +A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least +That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs! +What recks it them? what need they? they are sped; +And when they list, their lean and flashy songs +Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; +The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, +But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw, +Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; +Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw +Daily devours apace, and nothing said; +But that two-handed engine at the door, +Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. + Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, +That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse, +And call the vales, and bid them hither cast +Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. +Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use +Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, +On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, +Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, +That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, +And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. +Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, +The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, +The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, +The glowing violet, +The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, +With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, +And every flower that sad embroidery wears. +Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, +And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, +To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies, +For so to interpose a little ease, +Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. +Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas +Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled, +Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, +Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide +Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; +Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, +Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, +Where the great vision of the guarded mount +Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold; +Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth! +And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! + Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more! +For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, +Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. +So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, +And yet anon repairs his drooping head, +And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore +Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; +So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, +Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, +Where, other groves and other streams along, +With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, +And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, +In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. +There entertain him all the saints above, +In solemn troops and sweet societies, +That sing, and singing in their glory move, +And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. +Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; +Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, +In thy large recompense, and shalt be good +To all that wander in that perilous flood. + Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, +While the still morn went out with sandals gray; +He touched the tender stops of various quills, +With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. +And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, +And now was dropt into the western bay; +At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: +To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new. + +MILTON. + + + +AFTER DEATH. + + FROM "PEARLS OF THE FAITH." + + _He made life--and He takes it--but instead + Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!_ + + +He who dies at Azan[11] sends +This to comfort faithful friends:-- + +Faithful friends! it lies, I know, +Pale and white and cold as snow; +And ye says, "Abdullah's dead!" +Weeping at my feet and head. +I can see your falling tears, +I can hear your cries and prayers, +Yet I smile and whisper this:-- +"I am not that thing you kiss; +Cease your tears and let it lie: +It was mine, it is not I." + +Sweet friends! what the women lave +For its last bed in the grave +Is a tent which I am quitting, +Is a garment no more fitting, +Is a cage from which at last +Like a hawk my soul hath passed. +Love the inmate, not the room; +The wearer, not the garb; the plume +Of the falcon, not the bars +Which kept him from the splendid stars. +Loving friends! be wise, and dry +Straightway every weeping eye: +What ye lift upon the bier +Is not worth a wistful tear. +'Tis an empty sea-shell, one +Out of which the pearl is gone. +The shell is broken, it lies there; +The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. +'Tis an earthen jar whose lid +Allah sealed, the while it hid +That treasure of His treasury, +A mind which loved him: let it lie! +Let the shard be earth's once more, +Since the gold shines in His store! + +Allah Mu'hid, Allah most good! +Now thy grace is understood: +Now my heart no longer wonders +What Al-Barsakh is, which sunders +Life from death, and death from heaven: +Nor the "Paradises Seven" +Which the happy dead inherit; +Nor those "birds" which bear each spirit +Toward the Throne, "green birds and white," +Radiant, glorious, swift their flight! +Now the long, long darkness ends. +Yet ye wail, my foolish friends, +While the man whom ye call "dead" +In unbroken bliss instead +Lives, and loves you: lost, 'tis true +By any light which shines for you; +But in light ye cannot see +Of unfulfilled felicity, +And enlarging Paradise; +Lives the life that never dies. + +Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; +Where I am, ye too shall dwell. +I am gone before your face +A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace. +When ye come where I have stepped, +Ye will marvel why ye wept; +Ye will know, by true love taught, +That here is all, and there is naught. +Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-- +Sunshine still must follow rain! +Only not at death, for death-- +Now I see--is that first breath +Which our souls draw when we enter +Life, that is of all life center. + +Know ye Allah's law is love, +Viewed from Allah's Throne above; +Be ye firm of trust, and come +Faithful onward to your home! +"_La Allah ilia Allah!_ Yea, +Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say! + +_He who died at Asan gave +This to those that made his grave._ + +SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. + + [11] The hour of prayer; esteemed a blessed time to die. + + + +IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. + + +It is not death to die, + To leave this weary road, +And, midst the brotherhood on high, + To be at home with God. + +It is not death to close + The eye long dimmed by tears, +And wake in glorious repose, + To spend eternal years. + +It is not death to bear + The wrench that sets us free +From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air + Of boundless liberty. + +It is not death to fling + Aside this sinful dust, +And rise on strong, exulting wing, + To live among the just. + +Jesus, thou Prince of Life, + Thy chosen cannot die! +Like Thee they conquer in the strife, + To reign with Thee on high. + +GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE. + + + +THERE IS NO DEATH. + + +There is no death! the stars go down + To rise upon some other shore, +And bright in heaven's jewelled crown + They shine forever more. + +There is no death! the forest leaves + Convert to life the viewless air; +The rocks disorganize to feed + The hungry moss they bear. + +There is no death! the dust we tread + Shall change, beneath the summer showers, +To golden grain, or mellow fruit, + Or rainbow-tinted flowers. + +There is no death! the leaves may fall. + The flowers may fade and pass away-- +They only wait, through wintry hours, + The warm sweet breath of May. + +There is no death! the choicest gifts + That heaven hath kindly lent to earth +Are ever first to seek again + The country of their birth. + +And all things that for growth of joy + Are worthy of our love or care, +Whose loss has left us desolate, + Are safely garnered there. + +Though life become a dreary waste, + We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, +Transplanted into paradise, + Adorn immortal bowers. + +The voice of bird-like melody + That we have missed and mourned so long +Now mingles with the angel choir + In everlasting song. + +There is no death! although we grieve + When beautiful, familiar forms +That we have learned to love are torn + From our embracing arms; + +Although with bowed and breaking heart, + With sable garb and silent tread, +We bear their senseless dust to rest, + And say that they are "dead." + +They are not dead! they have but passed + Beyond the mists that blind us here +Into the new and larger life + Of that serener sphere. + +They have but dropped their robe of clay + To put their shining raiment on; +They have not wandered far away-- + They are not "lost" or "gone." + +Though disenthralled and glorified, + They still are here and love us yet; +The dear ones they have left behind + They never can forget. + +And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint + Amid temptations fierce and deep, +Or when the wildly raging waves + Of grief or passion sweep, + +We feel upon our fevered brow + Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; +Their arms enfold us, and our hearts + Grow comforted and calm. + +And ever near us, though unseen, + The dear, immortal spirits tread; +For all the boundless universe + Is life--there are no dead. + +JAMES L. M'CREERY. + +1863. + + + +GOING AND COMING. + + +Going--the great round Sun, + Dragging the captive Day +Over behind the frowning hill, + Over beyond the bay,-- + Dying: +Coming--the dusky Night, + Silently stealing in, +Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch + Where the golden-haired Day hath been + Lying. + +Going--the bright, blithe Spring; + Blossoms! how fast ye fall, +Shooting out of your starry sky + Into the darkness all + Blindly! +Coming--the mellow days: + Crimson and yellow leaves; +Languishing purple and amber fruits + Kissing the bearded sheaves + Kindly! + +Going--our early friends; + Voices we loved are dumb; +Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; + Fainter the echoes come + Ringing: +Coming to join our march,-- + Shoulder to shoulder pressed,-- +Gray-haired veterans strike their tents + For the far-off purple West-- + Singing! + +Going--this old, old life; + Beautiful world, farewell! +Forest and meadow! river and hill! + Ring ye a loving knell + O'er us! +Coming--a nobler life; + Coming--a better land; +Coming--a long, long, nightless day; + Coming--the grand, grand + Chorus! + +EDWARD A. JENKS. + + + +BLIND. + + +Laughing, the blind boys +Run 'round their college lawn, +Playing such games of buff +Over its dappled grass! + +See the blind frolicsome +Girls in blue pinafores, +Turning their skipping ropes! + +How full and rich a world +Theirs to inhabit is! +Sweet scent of grass and bloom, +Playmates' glad symphony. +Cool touch of western wind, +Sunshine's divine caress. +How should they know or feel +They are in darkness? + +But--O the miracle! +If a Redeemer came, +Laid fingers on their eyes-- +One touch--and what a world +New born in loveliness! + +Spaces of green and sky, +Hulls of white cloud adrift, +Ivy-grown college walls, +Shining loved faces! + +What a dark world--who knows? +Ours to inhabit is! +One touch, and what a strange +Glory might burst on us! +What a hid universe! + +Do we sport carelessly, +Blindly, upon the verge +Of an Apocalypse? + +ISRAEL ZANGWILL. + + + +THE DEATH OF DEATH. + + SONNET CXLVI. + + +Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, +Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array, +Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, +Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? +Why so large cost, having so short a lease, +Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? +Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, +Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? +Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, +And let that pine to aggravate thy store; +Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; +Within be fed, without be rich no more. + So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, + And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + * * * * * + + + + +INDEX: TITLES AND AUTHORS + +_For occupation, nativity, etc., of Authors, and the American publishers +of the American poetical works, see General Index of Authors, Volume X._ + + + +ÆSCHYLUS. PAGE. + Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (_Mrs. Browning's Translation_) 156 + +AGATHIAS. + Time's Revenge (_Bland's Translation_) 72 + +ALDRICH, JAMES. + Death-Bed, A 306 + +ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE. + Parting Lovers, The (_From the Chinese_) 104 + +ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. + Dirty Old Man, The 55 + +ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN. + After Death in Arabia. 452 + Secret of Death, The 434 + +ARNOLD, MATTHEW. + Requiescat 307 + +AUSTIN, ALFRED. + Agatha 13 + +AUSTIN, SARAH TAYLOR. + Passage, the (_German of Uhland_) 342 + +AYTON OR AYTOUN, SIR ROBERT. + Woman's Inconstancy 71 + + +BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM. + World, The 151 + +BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. + Death in Youth (_Festus_) 428 + +BALLANTINE, JAMES. + "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew" 241 + +BARBAULD, ANNA LÆTITIA. + Life 400 + +BARNARD, LADY ANNE. + Auld Robin Gray 32 + +BARR, AMELIA EDITH. + Bottom Drawer, The 405 + +BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. + On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 269 + +BENJAMIN, PARK. + Old Sexton, The 282 + +BENNETT, LUCY A. + "Asleep! asleep!" 396 + +BÉRANGER, PIERRE-JEAN DE. + Old Vagabond, The (_Translation_) 188 + +BETHUNE, GEORGE WASHINGTON. + "It is not death to die" 455 + +BJÖRNSON, BJÖRSTJERNE. + Princess, The (_Dole's Translation_) 9 + +BLACKIE, JOHN STUART. + Emigrant Lassie, The 280 + +BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. + "What ails this heart o' mine" 139 + +BLAND, ROBERT. + Time's Revenge (_Greek of Agathias_) 72 + +BLOOD, HENRY AMES. + Song of Savoyards 248 + +BODENSTEDT, FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON. + Unchanging (_Translation_) 242 + +BONAR, HORATIUS. + "Beyond the smiling and the weeping" + +BRENAN, JOSEPH. + "Come to me, dearest" 144 + +BRIDGES, ROBERT (_Droch_). + Unillumined Verge, The 308 + +BONAR, HORATIUS. + "Beyond the smiling and the weeping" 378 + +BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN (_Maria del Occidente_). + Song of Egla 138 + +BROWN, JOSEPH BROWNLEE. + Thalatta! Thalatta! 388 + +BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. + Comfort 433 + De Profundis 421 + Hopeless Grief 217 + Mother and Poet 323 + Sleep, The 389 + Tears 429 + Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (_Greek of Æschylus_) 156 + +BROWNING, ROBERT. + Evelyn Hope 310 + Prospice 391 + +BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. + Blessed are They that Mourn 420 + Conqueror's Grave, The 442 + Thanatopsis 264 + +BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES. + "When my ship comes in" 245 + +BURNS, ROBERT. + "Ae fond kiss, and then we sever" 98 + Banks o' Doon, The 12 + Highland Mary 329 + "I love my Jean" 126 + Mary in Heaven, To 339 + "O my Luve's like a red, red rose" 99 + "O, saw ye bonnie Leslie" 130 + +BURROUGHS, JOHN. + Waiting 238 + +BYRON, GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD. + "Adieu, adieu, my native shore" 108 + Dream, The 73 + Farewell to his Wife 109 + Latest Verses 169 + "Maid of Athens, ere we part" 100 + Picture of Death, A (The Giaour) 261 + + +CAMOËNS, LUIS DE. + Blighted Love (_Strongford's Translation_) 81 + +CARLETON, WILL. + "Over the hill to the poor-house" 175 + +CARY, HENRY FRANCIS. + "The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (_French of Duke of Orleans_) 356 + +CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE. + Two Waitings, The 409 + +CHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY. + Sleepy Hollow 277 + +CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE. + Jeune Fille et Jeune Fleur (_Translation_) 305 + +CHATTERTON, THOMAS. + Minstrel's Song 340 + +CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. + Despondency Rebuked 235 + Qua Cursum Ventus 107 + +COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. + Good, Great Man, The 244 + +COSTELLO, LOUISE STUART. + On the Death of Francis I. (_French of Marguerite_) 338 + Sonnet (_French of Labé) 237 + To Diane de Poitiers (_French of Marat_) 69 + +COWPER, WILLIAM. + Present Good, The (_The Task_) 150 + +CRABBE, GEORGE. + Approach of Age, The (_Tales of the Hall_) 163 + +CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. + Now and Afterwards 268 + Only a Woman 86 + Too Late 335 + +CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. + Compensation 229 + +CRAWFORD, JULIA (or LOUISA MACARTNEY). + Kathleen Mavourneen 112 + "We parted in silence" 113 + + +DELAND, MARGARETTA WADE. + Love and Death 394 + +DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS. + "Sad is our youth, for it is ever going" 225 + +DE VERE, MARY AINGE (_Madeline Bridges_). + Spinner, The 70 + +DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON. + Home, Wounded 58 + +DOBSON, AUSTIN. + Sun-Dial, The 15 + +DODGE, MARY ELIZABETH MAPES. + Two Mysteries, The (_Along the Way_) 262 + +DOLE, NATHAN HASKELL. + Princess, The (_Norwegian of Bjornson_) 9 + +DORR, JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY. + Hush! (_After glow_) 400 + +DRAYTON, MICHAEL. + "Come, let us kisse and parte" 111 + +DUFFERIN, HELEN BELINDA SHERIDAN, LADY (_afterwards_ LADY GIFFORD). + Lament of the Irish Emigrant 343 + + +EASTMAN, ELAINE GOODALE. + Ashes of Roses 51 + +EDWARDS, AMELIA BLANDFORD. + "Give me three grains of corn, mother" 197 + + +FIELD, EUGENE. + Jim's Kids 290 + +FITZGERALD, EDWARD. + Anne Allen, On 303 + +FLEMING, PAUL. + Myself, To (_Winkworth's Translation_) 218 + +FLETCHER, JOHN. + "Hence, all ye vain delights" 160 + "Take, O, take those lips away" (_Bloody Brother_) 71 + +FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS. + My Old Kentucky Home 147 + Old Folks at Home 148 + + +GANNETT, WILLIAM CHANNING. + Aunt Phillis's Guest 239 + +GAY, JOHN. + Black-Eyed Susan 102 + +GLADDEN, WASHINGTON. + Awakening 375 + +GLUCK, ---- + To Death (_Translation_) 395 + +GRAY, THOMAS. + Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 270 + + +HARDINGE, WILLIAM M. + Grave of Sophocles (_Greek of Simmias_) 200 + +HAWTREY, E.C. + Hector to his Wife (_Greek of Homer_) 122 + +HAY, JOHN. + Woman's Love, A 52 + +HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. + In Harbor 398 + +HEBER, REGINALD. + "Thou art gone to the grave" 445 + +HEINE, HEINRICH. + Palm and the Pine, The (_Houghton's Translation_) 40 + +HEMANS. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE. + Hour of Death, The 259 + +HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST. + Invictus 221 + +HERBERT, GEORGE. + Flower, The 219 + Virtue Immortal 254 + +HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. + Changed Cross, The 231 + +HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. + Last Leaf, The 185 + Voiceless, The 172 + +HOMER. + Hector to his Wife (_Hawtrey's Translation_) 122 + Parting of Hector and Andromache (_Pope's Translation_) 118 + +HOOD, THOMAS. + Bridge of Sighs, The 208 + Death-Bed, The 300 + "Farewell, Life" 384 + Song of the Shirt, The 199 + "What can an old man do but die" 174 + +HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD. + London Churches 207 + Palm and the Pine, The (_German of Heine_) 40 + +HOWLAND, MARY WOOLSEY. + Rest 397 + +HOYT, RALPH. + Old 180 + +HUDSON, MARY CLEMMER AMES. + Something Beyond 234 + + +INGELOW, JEAN. + Divided 64 + + +JACKSON, HELEN FISKE HUNT (_H.H._). + Habeas Corpus 382 + +JACKSON, HENRY R. + My Wife and Child 226 + +JENKS, EDWARD A. + Going and Coming 458 + + +KEATS, JOHN. + Nightingale, Ode to a 166 + +KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. + Absence 133 + Faith 95 + +KENNEDY, CRAMMOND. + Greenwood Cemetery 279 + +KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE. + Robin Adair 134 + +KING, HENRY. + Sic Vita 253 + +KINGSLEY, CHARLES. + Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter, A 191 + +KNOX, WILLIAM. + Mortality 256 + + +LABE, LOUISE. + Sonnet (_Costello's Translation_) 237 + +LAMB, CHARLES. + Old Familiar Faces, The 143 + +LANDON, LETITIA ELIZABETH (_later_ MRS. MACLEAN). + Female Convict, The 215 + +LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. + Farewell 394 + Man 151 + +LANG, ANDREW. + Lament for Heliodore (_Greek of Meleager_) 337 + +LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. + Song (_Robert Louis Stevenson an Elegy and other Poems_) 417 + What of the Darkness (_English_ Poems) 360 + +LE ROUX, GUIRAUD. + Fidelity in Doubt (_Preston's Translation_) 95 + +LINDSAY, BLANCHE ELIZABETH FITZROY, LADY. + Sonnet 304 + +LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK. + Widow's Mite, The 287 + +LOGAN, JOHN. + "Thy braes were bonny" 314 + +LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. + Death of Minnehaha, The (Song of Hiawatha) 319 + Footsteps of Angels 438 + God's Acre 276 + Rainy Day, The 228 + Reaper and the Flowers, The 417 + Resignation 430 + +LOVELACE, COLONEL RICHARD. + Lucasta, To 123 + Lucasta, on Going to the Wars, To 97 + +LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. + Auf Wiedersehen 114 + First Snow-Fall, The 283 + Palinode 115 + +LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. + Morning-Glory, The 285 + +LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES. + Antony and Cleopatra 380 + +LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF (_Owen Meredith_). + Portrait, The 82 + + +MCCLEERY, J.L. + "There is no death" 456 + +MACMANUS, ANNA JOHNSTON (MRS. SEUMAS) (_Ethna Carbery_). + Thinkin' Long 141 + +MARGUERITE DE VALOIS. + On the Death of Francis I. (_Costello's Translation_) 338 + +MAROT, CLEMENT. + To Diane de Poitiers (_Costello's Translation_) 69 + +MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE. + After Summer 336 + +MELEAGER. + Lament for Heliodore (_Lang's Translation_) 337 + +MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. + Cumnor Hall 41 + +MILTON, JOHN. + Lycidas 446 + Samson on his Blindness (_Samson Agonistes_) 158 + Sonnet: To Cyriack Skinner 220 + +MITCHELL, SILAS WEIR. + Quaker Graveyard, The 278 + +MOIR, DAVID MACBETH. + Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town, The 131 + +MOORE, THOMAS. + "Alas, how light a cause" (_The Light of the Harem_) 80 + "As slow our ship" 106 + "Farewell!--but whenever" 116 + "Farewell to thee, Araby's daughter" (_Fire Worshippers_) 316 + Linda to Hafed (_Fire Worshippers_) 6 + +MOSS, THOMAS. + Beggar, The 189 + +MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. + Jeanie Morrison 127 + "My heid is like to rend, Willie" 49 + +MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS. + "I would not live alway" 392 + +MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH. + Apres 355 + + +NAIRNE, CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY. + Land o' the Leal, The 379 + +NEELE, HENRY. + "Moan, moan, ye dying gales" 152 + +NOEL, THOMAS. + Pauper's Drive, The 202 + +NORTON, CAROLINE E.S. SHERIDAN (LADY STIRLING MAXWELL). + King of Denmark's Ride, The 340 + "Love not" 8 + + +O'BRIEN, WILLIAM SMITH. + Never Despair 246 + +ORLEANS, CHARLES, DUKE OF. + "The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (_Cary's Trans._) 356 + +O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR. + "Has summer come without the rose?" 54 + + +PALMER, JOHN WILLIAMSON. + For Charlie's Sake 411 + +PATMORE, COVENTRY [KEARSEY DEIGHTON]. + Parting 96 + +PIATT, SARAH MORGAN BRYAN. + Term of Death, The 261 + +PIERPONT, JOHN. + My Child 415 + +POE, EDGAR ALLAN. + Annabel Lee 312 + For Annie 385 + +POLLEN, JOHN. + Last Leaf, The (_Russian of Poushkin_) 187 + +POPE, ALEXANDER. + Parting of Hector and Andromache (_Greek of Homer_) 118 + +POUSHKIN, ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH. + Last Leaf, The (_Pollen's Translation_) 187 + +PRESTON, ANNIE A. + "The green grass under the snow" 442 + +PRESTON, HARRIET WATERS. + Fidelity in Doubt (_French of Le Roux_) 95 + +PRIEST, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY. + Over the River 406 + +PRINGLE, THOMAS. + Afar in the Desert 222 + +PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. + Doubting Heart, A 171 + +PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (_Barry Cornwall_). + Life 251 + "Softly woo away her breath" 318 + + +QUARLES, FRANCIS. + Vanity of the World, The 153 + + +RAMSAY, ALLAN. + Lochaber no More 105 + +RAYMOND, ROSSITER WORTHINGTON. + "Blessed are They" 425 + Christus Consolator 432 + +RITTER, MARY LOUISE. + Perished 169 + +ROGERS, ROBERT CAMERON. + Shadow Rose, The 53 + +ROSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. + Nevermore, The 82 + + +SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON. + "Are the children at home?" 288 + +SCOTT, FREDERICK GEORGE. + Van Elsen 361 + +SCOTT, SIR WALTER. + Coronach (_Lady of the Lake_) 309 + Song 31 + Song of the Young Highlander 101 + +SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. + "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" (_As You Like It_) 155 + Course of True Love, The (_Midsummer Night's Dream_) 3 + Death of Death 460 + Fall of Cardinal Wolsey, The (_Henry VIII._) 161 + "Farewell! thou art too dear" 112 + "Fear no more the heat o' the sun" (_Gymbeline_) 328 + Grief (_Hamlet_) 348 + Love's Memory (_All's Well that ends Well_) 140 + Soliloquy on Death (_Hamlet_) 252 + "Take, O, take those lips away" 71 + Unrequited Love (_Twelfth Night_) 9 + +SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. + Lament, A 173 + "The sun is warm, the sky is clear" 164 + +SHIRLEY, JAMES. + Death the Leveler 253 + +SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. + "With how sad steps" (_Astrophel and Stella_) 13 + +SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND. + Morning Thought, A 267 + +SILLERY, CHARLES DOYNE. + "She died in beauty" 319 + +SIMMIAS. + Grave of Sophocles, The (_Hardinge's Translation_) 269 + +SMITH, BELLE E. + "If I should die to-night" 374 + +SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. + "Times go by turns" 228 + +SPOFFORD, HARRIET ELIZABETH PRESCOTT. + Nun and Harp, The 93 + +STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR. + In Memoriam F.A.S. 428 + +STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. + Lines to the Memory of "Annie" 426 + "Only a year" 418 + +STRANGFORD, LORD. + Blighted Love (_Portuguese of Camoens_) 81 + +STURM. JULIUS. + I Hold Still (_Translation_) 243 + +SYMONS, ARTHUR. + Portrait, To a 34 + + +TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD. + "Break, break, break" 358 + "Home they brought her warrior dead" (_Princess_) 345 + Lady Clare Vere de Vere 4 + Locksley Hall 17 + May Queen, The 292 + "Oh that 'twere possible" (_Maud_) 331 + Selections from "In Memoriam" 340 + "Tears, idle tears" 142 + +THOMPSON, FRANCIS. + Daisy 130 + +TICHEBORNE, CHEDIOCK. + Lines written in the Tower 159 + +TIMROD, HENRY. + At Magnolia Cemetery 279 + +TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. + Dorothy in the Garret 89 + + +UHLAND, LUDWIG. + Passage, The (_Austin's Translation_) 342 + +ULRICH, ANTON, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK. + God's Sure Help in Sorrow (_Winkworth's Translation_) 236 + +VAUGHAN, HENRY. + "Happy are the dead" 439 + "They are all gone" 403 + + +WASTELL, SIMON. + Man's Mortality 255 + +WATSON, JOHN WHITTAKER. + Beautiful Snow 205 + +WHITMAN, WALT. + "When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed" 362 + +WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. + Absent Sailor, To her (_The Tent on the Beach_) 124 + Angel of Patience, The 402 + Maud Muller 35 + +WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. + Unseen Spirits 204 + +WINKWORTH, CATHARINE. + God's Sure Help in Sorrow (_German of Ulrich_) 236 + Myself, To (_German of Flemming_) 218 + + +ZANGWILL, ISRAEL. + Blind 461 + + +ANONYMOUS. + Absence 141 + Fair Helen 330 + Good Bye 97 + Grief for the Dead 408 + Guilty or Not Guilty 212 + Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament 47 + Lavender 355 + Parting Lovers, The 104 + Peace 437 + Saddest Fate, The 247 + "They are dear fish to me" 195 + "Waly, waly" 45 + Watching for Papa 414 + Wife to her Husband, The 146 + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The World's Best Poetry, Volume 3, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 16786-8.txt or 16786-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/7/8/16786/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Victoria Woosley and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 World's Best Poetry, Volume 3 + Sorrow and Consolation + +Author: Various + +Commentator: Lyman Abbott + +Editor: Bliss Carman + +Release Date: October 1, 2005 [EBook #16786] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Victoria Woosley and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="center"><img src="./images/img01s.png" alt="Original Title Page" /></div> +<h1><br /><br /> THE<br /> WORLD'S<br />BEST POETRY<br /></h1> <h2><br /> IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED<br /> + +<br /></h2> +<br /> +<hr /> + +<h1> VOLUME III<br /><br />SORROW AND CONSOLATION<br /><br /></h1> +<h2><i>AN<br /> +INTERPRETER OF<br /> +LIFE</i> +</h2> +<h3>By<br /> +<i>LYMAN ABBOTT</i> +</h3> + +<div class="center"><a name="il01"></a> +<a href="./images/front.jpg"><img src="./images/front_th.jpg" alt="Portrait of Longfellow" title="Henry Wadswirth Longfellow" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW<br /> +<i>Photogravure from photograph by Hanstaingl, after portrait by Kramer.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="toc"> +<h2>TABLE OF CONTENTS</h2> +<ul> +<li><a href="#NOTICE_OF_COPYRIGHTS">NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS</a></li> +<li>INTRODUCTORY ESSAY: +<ul> +<li><a href='#AN_INTERPRETER_OF_LIFE'>"AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE." By <i>Lyman Abbot</i></a> +</li></ul></li> +<li>POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION: +<div class="indent"> +<ol> + <li><a href='#I_DISAPPOINTMENT_IN_LOVE'>DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE.</a></li> + <li><a href='#II_PARTING_AND_ABSENCE'>PARTING AND ABSENCE</a></li> + <li><a href='#III_ADVERSITY'>ADVERSITY.</a></li> + + <li><a href='#IV_COMFORT_AND_CHEER'>COMFORT AND CHEER.</a></li> + <li><a href='#V_DEATH_AND_BEREAVEMENT'>DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT.</a></li> + <li><a href='#VI_CONSOLATION'>CONSOLATION.</a></li> +</ol> +</div> +</li> +<li><a href="#INDEX_AUTHORS_AND_TITLES">INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES</a></li> + +<li><a href="#LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS">LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</a></li> +</ul> +</div> +<hr /> + + +<h1><br /> THE<br /> WORLD'S<br /> BEST POETRY<br /><br /><br /> IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED</h1> +<br /><br /> +<h3> Editor-in-Chief</h3><br /> +<p class="center">BLISS CARMAN</p> +<h3> Associate Editors</h3> +<br /> <p class="center">John Vance Cheney<br /> Charles G.D. Roberts<br /> Charles F. Richardson<br /> Francis H. Stoddard</p> +<h3>Managing Editor</h3> +<p class="center">John R. Howard</p> + +<div class="center"> +<img src="./images/img02.png" alt="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center">J.D. Morris and Company<br /> Philadelphia<br /> +COPYRIGHT, 1904, by<br />J.D. Morris & Company +</p> +<hr class="full" /> + +<div class="center"><img src="./images/img04.png" alt="" /></div> +<hr class="full" /> + +<h3><a name="Page_vii"></a><a name="NOTICE_OF_COPYRIGHTS">NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS</a></h3> + +<h4>I.</h4> + +<p>American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright +are used by the courteous permission of the owners,—either the +publishers named in the following list or the authors or their +representatives in the subsequent one,—who reserve all their rights. So +far as practicable, permission has been secured also for poems out of +copyright.</p> + +<p class="blkquot"><span class="smcap">Publishers of THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.</span></p> +<p>1904.</p> + +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">D. Appleton & Co.</span>, New York.—<i>W.C. Bryant</i>: "Blessed are They +that Mourn," "The Conqueror's Grave," "Thanatopsis."</p> + +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">E.P. Dutton & Co.</span>, New York.—<i>Mary W. Howland</i>: "Rest."</p> + +<p>The <span class="smcap">Funk & Wagnalls Company</span>, New York.—<i>John W. Palmer</i>: "For Charlie's +Sake."</p> + +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span>, New York.—<i>Will Carleton</i>: "Over the Hill to +the Poor House."</p> + +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Houghton, Mifflin & Co.</span>, Boston.—<i>Margaret Deland</i>: "Love and Death;" <i>John Hay</i>: "A Woman's Love;" <i>O.W. Holmes</i>: "The Last Leaf," +"The Voiceless;" <i>Mary Clemmer A. Hudson</i>: "Something Beyond;" <i>H.W. Longfellow</i>: "Death of Minnehaha," "Footsteps of Angels," "God's Acre," +"The Rainy Day," "The Reaper and the Flowers," "Resignation;" <i>J.R. Lowell</i>: "Auf Wiedersehen," "First Snow Fall," "Palinode;" <i>Harriet W. +Preston</i>: "Fidelity in Doubt;" <i>Margaret E. Sangster</i>: "Are the Children at Home?" <i>E.R. Sill</i>: "A Morning Thought;" <i>Harriet E. Spofford</i>: "The +Nun and Harp;" <i>Harriet B. Stowe</i>: "Lines to the Memory of Annie." "Only a Year;" <i>J.T. Trowbridge</i>: "Dorothy in the Garret;" <i>J.G. Whittier</i>: "To Her Absent Sailor," "Angel of Patience," "Maud Muller."</p> + +<p>Mr. <span class="smcap">John Lane</span>, New York.—<i>R. Le Gallienne</i>: "Song," "What of the +Darkness?"</p> + +<p><a name="Page_viii"></a>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Little, Brown & Co.</span>, Boston.—<i>J.W. Chadwick</i>: "The Two Waitings;" <i>Helen Hunt Jackson</i>: "Habeas Corpus."</p> + +<p>The <span class="smcap">Lothrop Publishing Company</span>, Boston.—<i>Paul H. Hayne</i>: "In Harbor."</p> + +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">G.P. Putnam's Sons</span>, New York.—<i>Elaine Goodale Eastman</i>: "Ashes +of Roses;" <i>R.C. Rogers</i>: "The Shadow Rose."</p> + +<p>Messrs. <span class="smcap">Charles Scribner's Sons</span>, New York.—<i>R. Bridges (Droch)</i>: "The +Unillumined Verge;" <i>Mary Mapes Dodge</i>: "The Two Mysteries;" <i>Julia C.R. +Dorr</i>: "Hush" (Afterglow).</p> + +<h4>II.</h4> + +<p>American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given below +are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their representatives +named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without their permission, +which for the present work has been courteously granted.</p> + +<p class="blkquot"><span class="smcap">Publishers of THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY.</span></p> +<p>1904.</p> + +<p><i>W.R. Alger; Mrs. Amelia E. Barr; Henry A. Blood</i> (Mrs. R.E. Whitman); +<i>Robert J. Burdette; John Burroughs; Mary A. De Vere; Nathan H. Dole; +William C. Gannett; Dr. Silas W. Mitchell; Mrs. Sarah M. Piatt; Walt +Whitman</i> (H. Traubel, Literary Executor).</p> + + +<hr class="full" /> +<h2><a name="AN_INTERPRETER_OF_LIFE"></a><a name="Page_ix"></a>AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE.</h2> + +<p class="center"><strong>BY LYMAN ABBOTT.</strong></p> + +<p>Poetry, music, and painting are three correlated arts, connected not +merely by an accidental classification, but by their intrinsic nature. +For they all possess the same essential function, namely, to interpret +the uninterpretable, to reveal the undiscoverable, to express the +inexpressible. They all attempt, in different forms and through +different languages, to translate the invisible and eternal into +sensuous forms, and through sensuous forms to produce in other souls +experiences akin to those in the soul of the translator, be he poet, +musician, or painter. That they are three correlated arts, attempting, +each in its own way and by its own language, to express the same +essential life, is indicated by their co-operation in the musical drama. +This is the principle which Wagner saw so clearly, and has used to such +effective purpose in his so-called operas, whose resemblance to the +Italian operas which preceded them is more superficial than real. In the +drama Wagner wishes you to consider neither the music apart from the +scenery, nor the scenery apart from the acting, nor the three apart from +the poetry. Poetry, music, and art combine with the actor to interpret +truths of life which transcend philosophic definition. Thus in the first +act <a name="Page_x"></a>of "Parsifal," innocence born of ignorance, remorse born of the +experience of temptation and sin, and reverence bred in an atmosphere +not innocent yet free from the experience of great temptation, mingle in +a drama which elevates all hearts, because in some one of these three +phases it touches every heart. And yet certain of the clergy condemned +the presentation as irreverent, because it expresses reverence in a +symbolism to which they were unaccustomed.</p> + +<p>But while it is true that these three arts are correlative and +co-operative, they do not duplicate one another. Each not only speaks in +a language of its own, but expresses in that language a life which the +others cannot express. As color and fragrance combine to make the +flower, but the color expresses what the fragrance cannot express, and +the fragrance expresses what the color cannot express, so in the musical +drama, music, poetry, and painting combine, not by duplicating but by +supplementing each other. One may describe in language a symphony; but +no description will produce the effect which the symphony produces. One +may describe a painting; but no description will produce the effect +which the painting will produce. So neither music, nor painting, nor +both combined, can produce the same effect on the soul as poetry. The +"Midsummer Night's Dream" enacted in pantomime, with Mendelssohn's +music, would no more produce the same effect on the auditors which would +be produced by the interpretation of the play in spoken words, than +would the reading of the play at home <a name="Page_xi"></a>produce the same effect as the +enacting of the play with what are miscalled the accessories of music +and scenery. The music and scenery are no more accessories to the words +than the words are accessories to the music and scenery. The three +combine in a triple language to express and produce one life, and it can +be expressed and produced in no other way than by the combination of the +three arts in harmonious action. This is the reason why no parlor +readings can ever take the place of the theatre, and no concert +performance can ever take the place of the opera. This is the reason why +all attempts to suppress the theatre and opera are and always will be in +vain. They are attempts to suppress the expression and awakening of a +life which can neither be expressed nor awakened in any other way; and +suppression of life, however successfully it may be accomplished for a +time, is never permanently possible.</p> + +<p>These arts do not truly create, they interpret. Man is not a creator, he +is only a discoverer. The imagination is not creative, it is only +reportorial. Ideals are realities; imagination is seeing. The musician, +the artist, the poet, discover life which others have not discovered, +and each with his own instrument interprets that life to those less +sensitive than himself. Observe a musician composing. He writes; stops; +hesitates; meditates; perhaps hums softly to himself; perhaps goes to +the piano and strikes a chord or two. What is he doing? He is trying to +express to himself a beauty which he has heard in the world of infinite +phenomena, and to reproduce it as well as sensuous <a name="Page_xii"></a>sounds can reproduce +it, that those with duller hearing than himself may hear it also. +Observe a painter before his easel. He paints; looks to see the effect; +erases; adds; modifies; reexamines; and repeats this operation over and +over again. What is he doing? He is copying a beauty which he has seen +in the invisible world, and which he is attempting to bring out from its +hiding so that the men who have no eyes except for the sensuous may also +see it. In my library is an original sonnet by John G. Whittier. In +almost every line are erasures and interlineations. In some cases the +careful poet has written a new line and pasted it over the rejected one. +What does this mean? It means that he has discovered a truth of moral +beauty and is attempting to interpret his discovery to the world. His +first interpretation of his vision did not suit him, nor his second, nor +his third, and he has revised and re-revised in the attempt to make his +verse a true interpretation of the truth which he had seen. He did not +make the truth; it eternally was. Neither did the musician make the +truth of harmony, nor the painter the truth of form and color. They also +eternally were. Poet, musician, painter, have seen, heard, felt, +realized in their own souls some experience of life, some potent reality +which philosophy cannot formulate, nor creed contain, nor eloquence +define; and each in his own way endeavors to give it to the world of +men; each in his own way endeavors to lift the gauzy curtain, +impenetrable to most souls, which hides the invisible, the inaudible, +the eternal, the <a name="Page_xiii"></a>divine from men; and he gives them a glimpse of that of +which he himself had but a glimpse.</p> + +<p>In one sense and in one only can art be called creative: the artist, +whether he be painter, musician, or poet, so interprets to other men the +experience which has been created in him by his vision of the +supersensible and eternal, that he evokes in them a similar experience. +He is a creator only as he conveys to others the life which has been +created in himself. As the electric wire creates light in the home; as +the band creates the movement in the machinery; thus and only thus does +the artist create life in those that wait upon him. He is in truth an +interpreter and transmitter, not a creator. Nor can he interpret what he +has not first received, nor transmit what he has not first experienced. +The music, the painting, the poem are merely the instruments which he +uses for that purpose. The life must first be in him or the so-called +music, painting, poem are but dead simulacra; imitations of art, not +real art. This is the reason why no mechanical device, be it never so +skillfully contrived, can ever take the place of the living artist. The +pianola can never rival the living performer; nor the orchestrion the +orchestra; nor the chromo the painting. No mechanical device has yet +been invented to produce poetry; even if some shrewd Yankee should +invent a printing machine which would pick out rhymes as some printing +machines seem to pick out letters, the result would not be a poem. This +is the reason too why mere perfection of execution never really +satisfies. "She <a name="Page_xiv"></a>sings like a bird." Yes! and that is exactly the +difficulty with her. We want one who sings like a woman. The popular +criticism of the mere musical expert that he has no soul, is profound +and true. It is soul we want; for the piano, the organ, the violin, the +orchestra, are only instruments for the transmission of soul. This is +also the reason why the most flawless conductor is not always the best. +He must have a soul capable of reading the soul of the composer; and the +orchestra must receive the life of the composer as that is interpreted +to them through the life of the conductor, or the performance will be a +soulless performance.</p> + +<p>Into each of these arts, therefore—music, painting, poetry—enter two +elements: the inner and the outer, the truth and the language, the +reality and the symbol, the life and the expression. Without the +electric current the carbon is a mere blank thread; the electric current +is not luminous if there be no carbon. The life and the form are alike +essential. So the painter must have something to express, but he must +also have skill to express it; the musician must have music in his soul, +but he must also have a power of instrumentation; the poet must feel the +truth, or he is no poet, but he must also have power to express what he + +feels in such forms as will create a similar feeling in his readers, or +he is still no poet. Multitudes of women send to the newspapers poetical +effusions which are not poems. The feeling of the writer is excellent, +but the expression is bad. The writer has seen, but <a name="Page_xv"></a>she cannot tell what +she has seen; she has felt, but she cannot express her experience so as +to enkindle a like experience in others. These poetical utterances of +inarticulate poets are sometimes whimsical but oftener pathetic; +sometimes they are like the prattle of little children who exercise +their vocal organs before they have anything to say; but oftener they +seem to me like the beseeching eyes of a dumb animal, full of affection +and entreaty for which he has no vocal expression. It is just as +essential that poetical feeling should have poetical expression in order +to constitute poetry as it is that musical feeling should have musical +expression in order to constitute music. And, on the other hand, as +splashes of color without artistic feeling which they interpret are not +art, as musical, sounds without musical feeling which they interpret are +not music, so poetical forms without poetical feeling are not poetry. +Poetical feeling in unpoetical forms may be poetical prose, but it is +still prose. And on the other hand, rhymes, however musical they may be +to the ear, are only rhymes, not poetry, unless they express a true +poetical life.</p> + +<p>But these two elements are separable only in thought, not in reality. +Poetry is not common thought expressed in an uncommon manner; it is not +an artificial phrasing of even the higher emotions. The higher emotions +have a phrasing of their own; they fall naturally—whether as the result +of instinct or of habit need not here be considered—into fitting forms. +The form may be rhyme; it may be blank verse; it may be the <a name="Page_xvi"></a>old Hebrew +parallelism; it may even be the indescribable form which Walt Whitman +has adopted. What is noticeable is the fact that poetical thought, if it +is at its best, always takes on, by a kind of necessity, some poetical +form. To illustrate if not to demonstrate this, it is only necessary to +select from literature any fine piece of poetical expression of a higher +and nobler emotion, or of clear and inspiring vision, and attempt to put +it into prose form. The reader will find, if he be dealing with the +highest poetry, that translating it into prose impairs its power to +express the feeling, and makes the expression not less but more +artificial. If he doubt this statement, let him turn to any of the finer +specimens of verse in this volume and see whether he can express the +life in prose as truly, as naturally, as effectively, as it is there +expressed in rhythmical form.</p> + +<p>These various considerations may help to explain why in all ages of the +world the arts have been the handmaidens of religion. Not to amplify +too much, I have confined these considerations to the three arts of +music, painting, and poetry; but they are also applicable to sculpture +and architecture. All are attempts by men of vision to interpret to the +men who are not equally endowed with vision, what the invisible world +about us and within us has for the enrichment of our lives. This is +exactly the function of religion: to enrich human lives by making them +acquainted with the infinite. It is true that at times the arts have +been sensualized, the emphasis has been <a name="Page_xvii"></a>put on the form of expression, +not on the life expressed; and then reformers, like the Puritans and the +Quakers, have endeavored to exclude the arts from religion, lest they +should contaminate it. But the exclusion has been accomplished with +difficulty, and to maintain it has been impossible. It is neither an +accident, nor a sign of decadence, that painting and sculpture are +creeping back into the Protestant churches, to combine with poetry and +music in expressing the religious life of man. For the intellect alone +is inadequate either to express that life as it exists, or to call it +into existence where it does not exist. The tendency to ritual in our +time is a tendency not to substitute æsthetic for spiritual life, though +there is probably always a danger that such a substitution may be +unconsciously made, but to express a religious life which cannot be +expressed without the aid of æsthetic symbols. The work of the intellect +is to analyze and define. But the infinite is in the nature of the case +indefinable, and it is with the infinite religion has to do. All that +theology can hope to accomplish is to define certain provinces in the +illimitable realm of truth; to analyze certain experiences in a life +which transcends all complete analysis. The Church must learn to regard +not with disfavor or suspicion, but with eager acceptance, the +co-operation of the arts in the interpretation of infinite truth and the +expression of infinite life. Certainly we are not to turn our churches +into concert rooms or picture and sculpture galleries, and imagine that +æsthetic <a name="Page_xviii"></a>enjoyment is synonymous with piety. But as surely we are not to +banish the arts from our churches, and think that we are religious +because we are barren. All language, whether of painting, sculpture, +architecture, music, poetry, or oratory, is legitimately used to express +the divine life, as all the faculties, whether of painter, sculptor, +architect, musician, poet, orator, and philosopher, are to be used in +reaching after a more perfect knowledge of Him who always transcends and +always will transcend our perfect knowing.</p> + +<p>Thus the study of poetry is the study of life, because poetry is the +interpretation of life. Poetry is not a mere instrument for promoting +enjoyment; it does not merely dazzle the imagination and excite the +emotions. Through the emotions and the imagination it both interprets +life and ministers to life. When the critic attempts to express that +truth, that is, to interpret the interpreter, which he can do only by +translating the poetry into prose, and the language of imagination and +emotion into that of philosophy, he destroys the poem in the process, +much as the botanist destroys the flower in analyzing it, or the musical +critic the composition in disentangling its interwoven melodies and +explaining the mature of its harmonic structure. The analysis, whether +of music, art, or poetry, must be followed by a synthesis, which, in the +nature of the case, can be accomplished only by the hearer or reader for +himself. All that I can do here is to illustrate this revelatory +character of poetry by some references <a name="Page_xix"></a>to the poems which this volume +contains. I do not attempt to explain the meaning of these poems; that is a task +quite impossible. I only attempt to show that they have a meaning, that +beneath their beauty of form is a depth of truth which philosophical +statement in prose cannot interpret, but the essence of which such +statement may serve to suggest. I do not wish to expound the truth of +life which is contained in the poet's verse; I only wish to show that +the poet by his verse reveals a truth of life which the critic cannot +express, and that it is for this reason pre-eminently that such a +collection of poetry as this is deserving of the reader's study.</p> + +<p>If for example the student turns to such a volume as Newman Smyth's +"Christian Ethics," he will find there a careful though condensed +discussion of the right and wrong of suicide. It is cool, deliberate, +philosophical. But it gives no slightest hint of the real state of the +man who is deliberating within himself whether he will commit suicide +or no; no hint of the real arguments that pass in shadow through his +mind:—the weariness of life which summons him to end all; the nameless, +indefinable dread of the mystery and darkness and night into which death +carries us, which makes him hesitate. If we would really understand the +mind of the suicide, not merely the mind of the philosopher coolly +debating suicide, we must turn to the poet.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>"To be, or not to be: that is the question:<br /> +Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer<br /> +The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,<br /> +<a name="Page_xx"></a>Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,<br /> +And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;<br /> +No more; and by a sleep to say we end<br /> +The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks<br /> +That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation<br /> +Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep;<br /> +To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;<br /> +For in that sleep of death what dreams may come<br /> +When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,<br /> +Must give us pause: there's the respect<br /> +That makes calamity of so long life;<br /> +For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,<br /> +The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,<br /> +The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,<br /> +The insolence of office, and the spurns<br /> +That patient merit of the unworthy takes,<br /> +When he himself might his quietus make<br /> +With a bare bodkin! Who would fardels bear,<br /> +To grunt and sweat under a weary life,<br /> +But that the dread of something after death,<br /> +The undiscovered country from whose bourne<br /> +No traveller returns, puzzles the will<br /> +And makes us rather bear those ills we have<br /> +Than fly to others that we know not of?<br /> +Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;<br /> +And thus the native hue of resolution<br /> +Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,<br /> +And enterprises of great pith and moment<br /> +With this regard their currents turn awry,<br /> +And lose the name of action." </p> +</div> + +<p>This first the poet does: he draws aside the veil which hides the +working of men's hearts, and lets us see their hidden life. But he does +more. Not merely does he afford us knowledge, he imparts life. For we +know feeling only by participating in the feeling; and the poet has the +art not merely to describe the experiences of men but so to describe +them that for the moment we share <a name="Page_xxi"></a>them, and so truly know them by the +only process by which they can be known. Who, for instance, can read +Thomas Hood's "The Bridge of Sighs" and not, as he reads, stand by the +despairing one as she waits a moment upon the bridge just ready to take +her last leap out of the cruelty of this world into, let us hope, the +mercy of a more merciful world beyond?</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="stanza">"Where the lamps quiver<br /> +So far in the river,<br /> +With many a light<br /> +From window and casement,<br /> +From garret to basement,<br /> +She stood, with amazement,<br /> +Homeless by night.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"The bleak wind of March<br /> +Made her tremble and shiver;<br /> +But not the dark arch,<br /> +Or the black flowing river:<br /> +Mad from life's history,<br /> +Glad to death's mystery<br /> +Swift to be hurled—<br /> +Anywhere, anywhere<br /> +Out of the world.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"In she plunged boldly—<br /> +No matter how coldly<br /> +The rough river ran,—<br /> +Over the brink of it!<br /> +Picture it—think of it,<br /> +Dissolute man!<br /> +Lave in it, drink of it,<br /> +Then, if you can.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"Take her up tenderly,<br /> +Lift her with care;<br /> +Fashioned so slenderly,<br /> +Young, and so fair!"</p></div> + +<p><a name="Page_xxii"></a>No analysis of philosophy can make us acquainted with the tragedy of +this life as the poet can; no exhortation of preacher can so effectively +arouse in us the spirit of a Christian charity for the despairing +wanderer as the poet.</p> + +<p>Would you know the tragedy of a careless and supercilious coquetry which +plays with the heart as the fisherman plays with the salmon? Read "Clara +Vere de Vere." Would you know the dull heartache of a loveless married +life, growing at times into an intolerable anguish which no marital +fidelity can do much to medicate? Read "Auld Robin Gray." Who but a poet +can interpret the pain of a parting between loving hearts, with its +remorseful recollections of the wholly innocent love's joys that are +past?</p> + +<div class="poem"><p class="stanza">"Had we never loved sae kindly,<br /> +Had we never loved sae blindly,<br /> +Never met—or never parted,<br /> +We had ne'er been broken hearted."</p> +</div> + +<p>Who but a poet can depict the perils of an unconscious drifting apart, +such as has destroyed many a friendship and wrecked many a married life, +as Clough has depicted it in "Qua Cursum Ventus"? If you would know the +life-long sorrow of the blind man at your side, would enter into his +life and for a brief moment share his captivity, read Milton's +interpretation of that sorrow in Samson's Lament. If you would find some +message to cheer the blind man in his darkness and illumine his +captivity, read the same poet's ode on his own blindness:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_xxiii"></a><span class="i10">"God doth not need,</span> +Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best<br /> +Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state<br /> +Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,<br /> +And post o'er land and ocean without rest;<br /> +They also serve who only stand and wait."</p></div> + +<p>No prison statistics, no police reports, no reformer's documents, no +public discussions of the question, What to do with the tramp, will ever +so make the student of life participant of the innermost experience of +the tramp, his experience of dull despair, his loss of his grip on life, +as Béranger's "The Old Vagabond." No expert in nervous diseases, no +psychological student of mental states, normal and abnormal, can give +the reader so clear an understanding of that deep and seemingly +causeless dejection, which because it seems to be causeless seems also +to be well-nigh incurable, as Percy Bysshe Shelley has given in his +"Stanzas written near Naples." No critical expounder of the Stoical +philosophy can interpret the stoical temper which interposes a sullen +but dauntless pride to attacking sorrow as William Ernest Henley has +done:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="stanza">"Out of the night that covers me,<br /> +Black as the pit from pole to pole,<br /> +I thank whatever gods may be<br /> +For my unconquerable soul.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"In the fell clutch of circumstance<br /> +I have not winced nor cried aloud.<br /> +Under the bludgeonings of chance<br /> +My head is bloody, but unbowed."</p></div> + +<p>Nor can any preacher put in so vital a contrast to this despairing +defiance with which pride challenges <a name="Page_xxiv"></a>sorrow, the joyous victory which a +trusting love wins over it by submitting to it, as John Greenleaf +Whittier has done in "The Eternal Goodness":</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="stanza">"I know not what the future hath<br /> +<span class="i2">Of marvel or surprise,</span> +Assured alone that life and death<br /> +<span class="i2">His mercy underlies.</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">"I know not where His islands lift<br /> +<span class="i2">Their fronded palms in air:</span> +I only know I cannot drift<br /> +<span class="i2">Beyond His love and care."</span></p></div> + +<p>No philosophical treatise can interpret bereavement as the great poets +have interpreted it. The mystery of sorrow, the bewilderment it causes, +the wonder whether there is any God or any good, the silence that is the +only answer to our call for help, the tumult of emotion, the strange +perplexity of mind, the dull despair, the inexplicable paralysis of +feeling, intermingling in one wholly inconsistent and incongruous +experience: where, in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such +an exposition and echo and interpretation of this experience as in that +great Hebrew epic—the Book of Job? And where in all the literature of +Philosophy can we find such interpreters of the two great comforters of the soul, faith and hope, as one finds in the poets? They do not argue; +they simply sing. And, as a note struck upon one of a chime of bells +will set the neighboring bell vibrating, so the strong note of faith and +hope sounded by the poet, sets a like note vibrating in the mourner's +heart. The mystery is not solved, <a name="Page_xxv"></a>but the silence is broken. First we +listen to the poet, then we listen to the same song sung in our own +hearts,—the same, for it is God who has sung to him and who sings to +us. And when the bereaved has found God, he has found light in his +darkness, peace in his tempest, a ray in his night.</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i10">"As a child,</span> +Whose song-bird seeks the wood forevermore,<br /> +Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth;<br /> +Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,<br /> +He sleep the faster that he wept before."</p> +</div> + +<p>The visitor to the island of Catalina, off the coast of California, is +invited to go out in a glass-bottomed boat upon the sea. If he accepts +the invitation and looks about him with careless curiosity, he will +enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean wave, and the architectural +beauty of the island hills; but if he turns his gaze downward and looks +through the glass bottom of the boat in which he is sailing, he will +discover manifold phases of beauty in the life beneath the sea waves: in +goldfish darting hither and thither, in umbrella-shaped jellyfish lazily +swimming by, in starfish and anemones of infinite variety, in +sea-urchins brilliant in color, and in an endless forest of water-weeds +exquisitely delicate in their structure. Perhaps he will try to +photograph them; but in vain: his camera will render him no report of +the wealth of life which he has seen. So he who takes up such a volume +of poetry as this will find ample repayment in the successive pictures +which it presents to his imagination, and <a name="Page_xxvi"></a>the transient emotions which +it will excite in him. But besides this there is a secret life which the +careless reader will fail to see, and which the critic cannot report, +but which will be revealed to the thoughtful, patient, meditative +student. In this power to reveal an otherwise unknown world, lies the +true glory of poetry. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the +poet has to say to him.</p> + +<div class="center"><img src="./images/img03.png" alt=""/></div> + + +<h3><a name="Page_xxix"></a><a name="LIST_OF_ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.</h3> + +<p><a href="#il01">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW <i>Frontispiece</i></a></p> + +<p class="blkquot"><i>Photogravure from photograph by Hanfstaengl after portrait by Kramer.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il02">PENELOPE AWAITING ULYSSES</a></p> + +<p class="blkquot"><i>The patient grief and endurance of Absence: while the tapestry woven by day stands on the frame to be unravelled by night, as the +loyal wife puts off her suitors. <br /><br />Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il03">ABSENCE</a></p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +<p>"What shall I do with all the days and hours<br /> +That must be counted ere I see thy face?"</p> + +<p><i>From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after a painting by R. Pötzelberger.</i></p> +</div> +<p><a href="#il04">WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND</a></p> + +<div class="blkquot"> +<p>"Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods!<br /> +Behold, with throe on throe,<br /> +How, wasted by this woe,<br /> +I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!"</p> + +<p><i>From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.</i></p> +</div> +<p><a href="#il05">PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER</a></p> + +<p class="blkquot"><i>From lithograph after a crayon-drawing by H. Alophe.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il06">THOMAS HOOD</a></p> + +<p class="blkquot"><i>After an engraving from contemporary portrait.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il07">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING</a></p> + +<p class="blkquot"><i>After a photograph from life by Talfourd, London.</i></p> +<br /> + +<p><a name="Page_xxx"></a><a href="#il08">THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD</a></p> + +<p class="blkquot">"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,<br /> +Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,<br /> +Each in his narrow cell forever laid,<br /> +The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." +<br /><i>After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il09">LOVE AND DEATH</a></p> +<div class="blkquot"> +<p><span style="margin-left: 15em;">Death comes in,</span><br /> +Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,<br /> +Would bar the way."</p> +<p><i>From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.</i></p> +</div> + +<p><a href="#il10">WALT WHITMAN</a></p> +<p class="blkquot"><i>After a life-photograph by Rockwood, New York.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il11">HARRIET BEECHER STOWE</a></p> +<p class="blkquot"><i>From an engraving after the drawing by George Richmond.</i></p> + +<p><a href="#il12">SIR EDWIN ARNOLD</a></p> +<p class="blkquot"><i>After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London.</i></p> + + +<hr class="full"/> + +<div class="center"><a name="il02"></a> +<a href="./images/color001.jpg"><img src="./images/color001_th.jpg" alt="Penelope" title="Henry Wadswirth Longfellow" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">PENELOPE WAITING FOR ULYSSES<br /><i>The patient grief and endurance of Absence: while the tapestry woven by day stands on the frame to be unravelled by night, as the +loyal wife puts off her suitors. <br />Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch.</i></span> +</div> + +<h1>POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION.</h1> + + +<hr class="full" /> +<h2><a name="Page_3"></a><a name="I_DISAPPOINTMENT_IN_LOVE"></a>I. DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE.</h2> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="THE_COURSE_OF_TRUE_LOVE"></a>THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1.</p> + +<p class="stanza">For aught that ever I could read, <br /> +Could ever hear by tale or history,<br /> +The course of true love never did run smooth:<br /> +But, either it was different in blood,<br /> +Or else misgraffèd in respect of years,<br /> +Or else it stood upon the choice of friends;<br /> +Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,<br /> +War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,<br /> +Making it momentary as a sound,<br /> +Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;<br /> +Brief as the lightning in the collied night,<br /> +That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,<br /> +And ere a man hath power to say,—Behold!<br /> +The jaws of darkness do devour it up:<br /> +So quick bright things come to confusion.</p> + +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_4"></a> +<a name="LADY_CLARA_VERE_DE_VERE"></a> +LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Lady Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">Of me you shall not win renown;</span> +You thought to break a country heart<br /> +<span class="i2">For pastime, ere you went to town.</span> +At me you smiled, but unbeguiled<br /> +<span class="i2">I saw the snare, and I retired:</span> +The daughter of a hundred Earls,<br /> +<span class="i2">You are not one to be desired.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Lady Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">I know you proud to bear your name;</span> +Your pride is yet no mate for mine,<br /> +<span class="i2">Too proud to care from whence I came.</span> +Nor would I break for your sweet sake<br /> +<span class="i2">A heart that dotes on truer charms.</span> +A simple maiden in her flower<br /> +<span class="i2">Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Lady Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some meeker pupil you must find,</span> +For were you queen of all that is,<br /> +<span class="i2">I could not stoop to such a mind.</span> +You sought to prove how I could love,<br /> +<span class="i2">And my disdain is my reply.</span> +The lion on your old stone gates<br /> +<span class="i2">Is not more cold to you than I.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Lady Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">You put strange memories in my head.</span> +<a name="Page_5"></a>Not thrice your branching lines have blown<br /> +<span class="i2">Since I beheld young Laurence dead.</span> +O your sweet eyes, your low replies:<br /> +<span class="i2">A great enchantress you may be;</span> +But there was that across his throat<br /> +<span class="i2">Which you had hardly cared to see.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Lady Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">When thus he met his mother's view,</span> +She had the passions of her kind,<br /> +<span class="i2">She spake some certain truths of you.</span> +Indeed I heard one bitter word<br /> +<span class="i2">That scarce is fit for you to hear;</span> +Her manners had not that repose<br /> +<span class="i2">Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Lady Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">There stands a spectre in your hall:</span> +The guilt of blood is at your door:<br /> +<span class="i2">You changed a wholesome heart to gall.</span> +You held your course without remorse,<br /> +<span class="i2">To make him trust his modest worth,</span> +And, last, you fixed a vacant stare,<br /> +<span class="i2">And slew him with your noble birth.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">From yon blue heavens above us bent</span> +The grand old gardener and his wife<br /> +<span class="i2">Smile at the claims of long descent.</span> +Howe'er it be, it seems to me,<br /> +<span class="i2">'T is only noble to be good.</span> +Kind hearts are more than coronets,<br /> +<span class="i2">And simple faith than Norman blood.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<a name="Page_6"></a> +I know you, Clara Vere de Vere:<br /> +<span class="i2">You pine among your halls and towers:</span> +The languid light of your proud eyes<br /> +<span class="i2">Is wearied of the rolling hours.</span> +In glowing health, with boundless wealth,<br /> +<span class="i2">But sickening of a vague disease,</span> +You know so ill to deal with time,<br /> +<span class="i2">You needs must play such pranks as these.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Clara, Clara Vere de Vere,<br /> +<span class="i2">If Time be heavy on your hands,</span> +Are there no beggars at your gate.<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor any poor about your lands?</span> +Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or teach the orphan-girl to sew,</span> +Pray Heaven for a human heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">And let the foolish yeoman go.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LINDA_TO_HAFED"></a>LINDA TO HAFED.</p> + +<p class="subt">FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."</p> + +<p class="stanza">"How sweetly," said the trembling maid,<br /> +Of her own gentle voice afraid,<br /> +So long had they in silence stood,<br /> +Looking upon that moonlight flood,—<br /> +"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile<br /> +To-night upon yon leafy isle!<br /> +Oft in my fancy's wanderings,<br /> +I've wished that little isle had wings,<br /> +<a name="Page_7"></a>And we, within its fairy bowers,<br /> +<span class="i2">Were wafted off to seas unknown,</span> +Where not a pulse should beat but ours,<br /> +<span class="i2">And we might live, love, die alone!</span> +Far from the cruel and the cold,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Where the bright eyes of angels only</span> +Should come around us, to behold<br /> +<span class="i2">A paradise so pure and lonely!</span> +Would this be world enough for thee?"—<br /> +Playful she turned, that he might see<br /> +<span class="i2">The passing smile her cheek put on;</span> +But when she marked how mournfully<br /> +<span class="i2">His eyes met hers, that smile was gone;</span> +And, bursting into heartfelt tears,<br /> +"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears,<br /> +My dreams, have boded all too right,—<br /> +We part—forever part—to-night!<br /> +I knew, I knew it <i>could</i> not last,—<br /> +'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past!<br /> +O, ever thus, from childhood's hour,<br /> +<span class="i2">I've seen my fondest hopes decay;</span> +I never loved a tree or flower<br /> +<span class="i2">But 't was the first to fade away.</span> +I never nursed a dear gazelle,<br /> +<span class="i2">To glad me with its soft black eye,</span> +But when it came to know me well,<br /> +<span class="i2">And love me, it was sure to die!</span> +Now, too, the joy most like divine<br /> +<span class="i2">Of all I ever dreamt or knew,</span> +To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,—<br /> +<span class="i2">O misery! must I lose <i>that</i> too?"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS MOORE.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="Page_8"></a><a name="LOVE_NOT"></a>LOVE NOT.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! <br /> +Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers,—<br /> +Things that are made to fade and fall away<br /> +Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours.<br /> +<span class="i10">Love not!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Love not! the thing ye love may change; <br /> +The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, <br /> +The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, <br /> +The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true.<br /> +<span class="i10">Love not!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Love not! the thing you love may die,— <br /> +May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; <br /> +The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, <br /> +Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth.<br /> +<span class="i10">Love not!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Love not! O warning vainly said<br /> +In present hours as in years gone by! <br /> +Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, <br /> +Faultless, immortal, till they change or die.<br /> +<span class="i10">Love not!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">CAROLINE ELIZABETH SHERIDAN.(HON. MRS. NORTON.)</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"> +<a name="THE_PRINCESS"></a><a name="Page_9"></a>THE PRINCESS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The Princess sat lone in her maiden bower, <br /> +The lad blew his horn at the foot of the tower. <br /> +"Why playest thou alway? Be silent, I pray, <br /> +It fetters my thoughts that would flee far away.<br /> +<span class="i10">As the sun goes down."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, <br /> +The lad had ceased to play on his horn. <br /> +"Oh, why art thou silent? I beg thee to play! <br /> +It gives wings to my thought that would flee far away,<br /> +<span class="i10">As the sun goes down."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, <br /> +Once more with delight played the lad on his horn. <br /> +She wept as the shadows grew long, and she sighed: <br /> +"Oh, tell me, my God, what my heart doth betide,<br /> +<span class="i10">Now the sun has gone down."</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">From the Norwegian of BJÖRNSTJERNE BJÖRNSON.<br /> +Translation of NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="UNREQUITED_LOVE"></a>UNREQUITED LOVE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">VIOLA.—Ay, but I know,—</span> +<span class="i2">DUKE.—What dost thou know?</span> +<span class="i2">VIOLA.—Too well what love women to men may owe:</span> +<a name="Page_10"></a>In faith, they are as true of heart as we.<br /> +My father had a daughter loved a man,<br /> +As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman,<br /> +I should your lordship.<br /> +<span class="i2">DUKE.—And what's her history?</span> +<span class="i2">VIOLA.—A blank, my lord. She never told her love,</span> +But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud,<br /> +Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought;<br /> +And, with a green and yellow melancholy,<br /> +She sat like Patience on a monument,<br /> +Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed?<br /> +We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed,<br /> +Our shows are more than will; for still we prove<br /> +Much in our vows, but little in our love.</p> + +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FAIR_INES"></a>FAIR INES.</p> + +<p class="fullst"> +O saw ye not fair Ines? she's gone into the west,<br /> +To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest;<br /> +She took our daylight with her, the smiles that we love best,<br /> +With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her breast. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O turn again, fair Ines, before the fall of night,<br /> +For fear the moon should shine alone, and stars unrivalled bright;<br /> +And blessèd will the lover be that walks beneath their light,<br /> +<a name="Page_11"></a>And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Would I had been, fair Ines, that gallant cavalier<br /> +Who rode so gayly by thy side and whispered thee so near!<br /> +Were there no bonny dames at home, or no true lovers here,<br /> +That he should cross the seas to win the dearest of the dear? +</p> +<p class="fullst">I saw thee, lovely Ines, descend along the shore,<br /> +With bands of noble gentlemen, and banners waved before;<br /> +And gentle youth and maidens gay, and snowy plumes they wore;—<br /> +It would have been a beauteous dream—if it had been no more! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Alas! alas! fair Ines! she went away with song,<br /> +With music waiting on her steps, and shoutings of the throng;<br /> +But some were sad, and felt no mirth, but only Music's wrong,<br /> +In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell to her you've loved so long. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! that vessel never bore<br /> +So fair a lady on its deck, nor danced so light before—<br /> +Alas for pleasure on the sea, and sorrow on the shore!<br /> +The smile that blest one lover's heart has broken many more!</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS HOOD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_BANKS_O_DOON"></a><a name="Page_12"></a>THE BANKS O' DOON.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,<br /> +<span class="i2">How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair?</span> +How can ye chant, ye little birds,<br /> +<span class="i2">And I sae weary, fu' o' care?</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird,<br /> +<span class="i2">That wantons through the flowering thorn;</span> +Thou minds me o' departed joys,<br /> +<span class="i2">Departed—never to return.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird,<br /> +<span class="i2">That sings beside thy mate;</span> +For sae I sat, and sae I sang,<br /> +<span class="i2">And wistna o' my fate.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon,<br /> +<span class="i2">To see the rose and woodbine twine;</span> +And ilka bird sang o' its luve,<br /> +<span class="i2">And, fondly, sae did I o' mine.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose,<br /> +<span class="i2">Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;</span> +And my fause luver stole my rose,<br /> +<span class="i2">But ah! he left the thorn wi' me.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_13"></a><a name="SONNET"></a>SONNET.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "ASTROPHEL AND STELLA."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies,<br /> +How silently, and with how wan a face!<br /> +What may it be, that even in heavenly place<br /> +That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?<br /> +Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes<br /> +Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;<br /> +I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace<br /> +To me, that feel the like, thy state descries.<br /> +Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me,<br /> +Is constant love deemed there but want of wit?<br /> +Are beauties there as proud as here they be?<br /> +Do they above love to be loved, and yet<br /> +Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess?<br /> +Do they call virtue there ungratefulness?</p> +<p class="signature">SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.</p> +</div> + +<a name="AGATHA"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">AGATHA.</p> + +<p class="stanza">She wanders in the April woods,<br /> +<span class="i2">That glisten with the fallen shower;</span> +She leans her face against the buds,<br /> +<span class="i2">She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower.</span> +<span class="i2">She feels the ferment of the hour:</span> +She broodeth when the ringdove broods;<br /> +<span class="i2">The sun and flying clouds have power</span> +<a name="Page_14"></a>Upon her cheek and changing moods.<br /> +<span class="i2">She cannot think she is alone,</span> +<span class="i4">As over her senses warmly steal</span> +<span class="i2">Floods of unrest she fears to own</span> +<span class="i4">And almost dreads to feel.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Among the summer woodlands wide<br /> +<span class="i2">Anew she roams, no more alone;</span> +The joy she feared is at her side,<br /> +<span class="i2">Spring's blushing secret now is known.</span> +<span class="i2">The primrose and its mates have flown,</span> +The thrush's ringing note hath died;<br /> +<span class="i2">But glancing eye and glowing tone</span> +Fall on her from her god, her guide.<br /> +<span class="i2">She knows not, asks not, what the goal,</span> +<span class="i4">She only feels she moves towards bliss,</span> +<span class="i2">And yields her pure unquestioning soul</span> +<span class="i4">To touch and fondling kiss.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +And still she haunts those woodland ways,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though all fond fancy finds there now</span> +To mind of spring or summer days,<br /> +<span class="i2">Are sodden trunk and songless bough.</span> +<span class="i2">The past sits widowed on her brow,</span> +Homeward she wends with wintry gaze,<br /> +<span class="i2">To walls that house a hollow vow,</span> +To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze;<br /> +<span class="i2">Watches the clammy twilight wane,</span> +<span class="i4">With grief too fixed for woe or tear;</span> +<span class="i2">And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane,</span> +<span class="i4">Envies the dying year.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ALFRED AUSTIN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="THE_SUN_DIAL"></a><a name="Page_15"></a> +<p class="title">THE SUN-DIAL.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +'T is an old dial, dark with many a stain;<br /> +<span class="i2">In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom,</span> +Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain,<br /> +<span class="i2">And white in winter like a marble tomb.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +And round about its gray, time-eaten brow<br /> +<span class="i2">Lean letters speak,—a worn and shattered row:</span> +<b>I am a Shade; a Shadowe too art thou:</b><br /> +<span class="i2"><b>I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?</b></span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head;<br /> +<span class="i2">And here the snail a silver course would run,</span> +Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread<br /> +<span class="i2">His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +The tardy shade moved forward to the noon;<br /> +<span class="i2">Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept,</span> +That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed;<br /> +<span class="i2">About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone;</span> +And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed,<br /> +<span class="i2">Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +She leaned upon the slab a little while,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone,</span> +Scribbled a something with a frolic smile,<br /> +<span class="i2">Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"><a name="Page_16"></a> +The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail;<br /> +<span class="i2">There came a second lady to the place,</span> +Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale,—<br /> +<span class="i2">An inner beauty shining from her face.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +She, as if listless with a lonely love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Straying among the alleys with a book,—</span> +Herrick or Herbert,—watched the circling dove,<br /> +<span class="i2">And spied the tiny letter in the nook.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Then, like to one who confirmation found<br /> +<span class="i2">Of some dread secret half-accounted true,—</span> +Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound,<br /> +<span class="i2">And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,—</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +She bent her fair young forehead on the stone;<br /> +<span class="i2">The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head;</span> +And 'twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone<br /> +<span class="i2">The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom;<br /> +<span class="i2">Then came a soldier gallant in her stead,</span> +Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume,<br /> +<span class="i2">A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow,<br /> +<span class="i2">Scar-seamed a little, as the women love;</span> +So kindly fronted that you marvelled how<br /> +<span class="i2">The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove;</span> +</p><p class="stanza"><a name="Page_17"></a> +Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun;<br /> +<span class="i2">Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge;</span> +And standing somewhat widely, like to one<br /> +<span class="i2">More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +As courtiers do, but gentleman withal,<br /> +<span class="i2">Took out the note;—held it as one who feared</span> +The fragile thing he held would slip and fall;<br /> +<span class="i2">Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard;</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast;<br /> +<span class="i2">Laughed softly in a flattered, happy way,</span> +Arranged the broidered baldrick on his crest,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sauntered past, singing a roundelay.</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +<span class="i6"> · · · · · ·</span> +</p><p class="stanza"> +The shade crept forward through the dying glow;<br /> +<span class="i2">There came no more nor dame nor cavalier;</span> +But for a little time the brass will show<br /> +<span class="i2">A small gray spot,—the record of a tear.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">AUSTIN DOBSON.</p> +</div> + +<a name="LOCKSLEY_HALL"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">LOCKSLEY HALL.</p> + +<p class="fullst">Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn,—<br /> +Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. +</p> +<p class="fullst">'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,<br /> +Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall: +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_18"></a>Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,<br /> +And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest,<br /> +Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade,<br /> +Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime<br /> +With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time; +</p> +<p class="fullst">When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed;<br /> +When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed; +</p> +<p class="fullst">When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,—<br /> +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. +</p> +<p class="fullst">In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast;<br /> +In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_19"></a>In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove;<br /> +In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. +</p> + +<p class="fullst">Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young,<br /> +And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. +</p> +<p class="fullst">And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me;<br /> +Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." +</p> +<p class="fullst">On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light,<br /> +As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. +</p> +<p class="fullst">And she turned,—her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs;<br /> +All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes,— +</p> +<p class="fullst">Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;" <br/> +Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long." +</p> +<p class="fullst">Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands;<br /> +Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_20"></a>Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might;<br /> +Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring,<br /> +And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Many an evening by the water did we watch the stately ships,<br /> +And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more!<br /> +O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,—<br /> +Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Is it well to wish thee happy?—having known me; to decline<br /> +On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day,<br /> +What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_21"></a>As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown,<br /> +And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. +</p> +<p class="fullst">He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,<br /> +Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. +</p> +<p class="fullst">What is this? his eyes are heavy,—think not they are glazed with wine.<br /> +Go to him; it is thy duty,—kiss him; take his hand in thine. +</p> +<p class="fullst">It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over wrought,—<br /> +Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. +</p> +<p class="fullst">He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand,—<br /> +Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hand. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,<br /> +Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!<br /> +Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_22"></a>Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule<br /> +Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Well—'t is well that I should bluster!—Hadst thou less unworthy proved,<br /> +Would to God—for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit?<br /> + from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Never! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come<br /> +As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind?<br /> +Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? +</p> +<p class="fullst">I remember one that perished; sweetly did she speak and move;<br /> +Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore?<br /> +No,—she never loved me truly; love is love forevermore. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_23"></a>Comfort? comfort scorned of devils; this is truth the poet sings,<br /> +That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof,<br /> +In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art staring at the wall,<br /> +Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep,<br /> +To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years,<br /> +And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; +</p> +<p class="fullst">And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain.<br /> +Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Nay, but nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry;<br /> +'Tis a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_24"></a>Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest,—<br /> +Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due.<br /> +Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part,<br /> +With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. +</p> +<p class="fullst">"They were dangerous guides, the feelings—she herself was not exempt—<br /> +Truly, she herself had suffered"—Perish in thy self-contempt! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Overlive it—lower yet—be happy! wherefore should I care?<br /> +I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. +</p> +<p class="fullst">What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these?<br /> +Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow.<br /> +I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_25"></a>I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground,<br /> +When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. +</p> +<p class="fullst">But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels,<br /> +And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page.<br /> +Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous mother-age! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife,<br /> +When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; +</p> +<p class="fullst"> +Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield,<br /> +Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, +</p> +<p class="fullst">And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn,<br /> +Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; +</p> +<p class="fullst">And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then,<br /> +Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men; +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_26"></a>Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new:<br /> +That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: +</p> +<p class="fullst">For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,<br /> +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails,<br /> +Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew<br /> +From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm,<br /> +With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-storm; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled<br /> +In the parliament of man, the federation of the world. +</p> +<p class="fullst">There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe,<br /> +And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_27"></a>So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry,<br /> +Left me with a palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint.<br /> +Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: +</p> +<p class="fullst">Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher,<br /> +Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs,<br /> +And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. +</p> +<p class="fullst">What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys,<br /> +Though the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's? +</p> +<p class="fullst">Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I linger on the shore<br /> +And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast,<br /> +Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness of his rest. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_28"></a>Hark! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle horn,—<br /> +They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string?<br /> +I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. +</p> +<p class="fullst"> +Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain—<br /> +Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain; +</p> +<p class="fullst">Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine,<br /> +Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine— +</p> +<p class="fullst">Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah for some retreat<br /> +Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starred;<br /> +I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Or to burst all links of habit,—there to wander far away,<br /> +On from island unto island at the gateways of the day, +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_29"></a>Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies,<br /> +Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,—<br /> +Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag,— +</p> +<p class="fullst">Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree,—<br /> +Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. +</p> +<p class="fullst">There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind—<br /> +In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. +</p> +<p class="fullst">There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing-space;<br /> +I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run,<br /> +Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun, +</p> +<p class="fullst">Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks,<br /> +Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books— +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_30"></a>Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild,<br /> +But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I, to herd with narrow foreheads vacant of our glorious gains,<br /> +Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Mated with a squalid savage,—what to me were sun or clime?<br /> +I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time,— +</p> +<p class="fullst">I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one,<br /> +Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range;<br /> +Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day:<br /> +Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun,—<br /> +Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun, +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_31"></a>O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set;<br /> +Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall!<br /> +Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt,<br /> +Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow;<br /> +For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go.</p> +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONG"></a>SONG.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"A weary lot is thine, fair maid,<br /> +<span class="i2">A weary lot is thine!</span> +To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,<br /> +<span class="i2">And press the rue for wine!</span> +A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,<br /> +<span class="i2">A feather of the blue,</span> +A doublet of the Lincoln green—<br /> +<span class="i2">No more of me you knew,</span> +<span class="i10">My love!</span> +<span class="i2">No more of me you knew.</span> +</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_32"></a>"The morn is merry June, I trow—<br /> +<span class="i2">The rose is budding fain;</span> +But she shall bloom in winter snow<br /> +<span class="i2">Ere we two meet again."</span> +He turned his charger as he spake,<br /> +<span class="i2">Upon the river shore;</span> +He gave his bridle-rein a shake,<br /> +<span class="i2">Said, "Adieu for evermore,</span> +<span class="i10">My love!</span> +<span class="i2">And adieu for evermore."</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SIR WALTER SCOTT.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AULD_ROBIN_GRAY"></a>AULD ROBIN GRAY.</p> + +<p class="stanza">When the sheep are in the fauld and the kye a' at hame,<br /> +When a' the weary world to sleep are gane,<br /> +The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e,<br /> +While my gudeman lies sound by me.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride;<br /> +But saving a crown, he had naething else beside.<br /> +To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea;<br /> +And the crown and the pound, they were baith for me!</p> + +<p class="stanza">He hadna been awa' a week but only twa,<br /> +When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa;<br /> +My father brak his arm—my Jamie at the sea—<br /> +And Auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_33"></a>My father couldna work,—my mither couldna spin;<br /> +I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win;<br /> +And Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e,<br /> +Said, "Jennie for their sakes, will you marry me?"</p> + +<p class="stanza">My heart it said na, for I looked for Jamie back;<br /> +But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack;<br /> +His ship was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee?<br /> +Or why was I spared to cry, Wae is me!</p> + +<p class="stanza">My father argued sair—my mither didna speak,<br /> +But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break;<br /> +They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea;<br /> +And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I hadna been his wife, a week but only four,<br /> +When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door,<br /> +I saw my Jamie's ghaist—I couldna think it he,<br /> +Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, for to marry thee!"</p> + +<p class="stanza">O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say:<br /> +Ae kiss we took—nae mair—I bad him gang away.<br /> +I wish that I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee,<br /> +And why do I live to say, Wae is me!</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_34"></a>I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin;<br /> +I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin.<br /> +But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be,<br /> +For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind unto me.</p> + +<p class="signature">LADY ANNE BARNARD.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TO_A_PORTRAIT"></a>TO A PORTRAIT.</p> + +<p class="stanza">A pensive photograph<br /> +<span class="i2">Watches me from the shelf—</span> +Ghost of old love, and half<br /> +<span class="i2">Ghost of myself!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +How the dear waiting eyes<br /> +<span class="i2">Watch me and love me yet—</span> +Sad home of memories,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her waiting eyes!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Ghost of old love, wronged ghost,<br /> +<span class="i2">Return: though all the pain</span> +Of all once loved, long lost,<br /> +<span class="i2">Come back again.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Forget not, but forgive!<br /> +<span class="i2">Alas, too late I cry.</span> +We are two ghosts that had their chance to live,<br /> +<span class="i2">And lost it, she and I.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ARTHUR SYMONS.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_35"></a><a name="MAUD_MULLER"></a>MAUD MULLER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Maud Muller, on a summer's day,<br /> +Raked the meadow sweet with hay.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth<br /> +Of simple beauty and rustic health.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee<br /> +The mock-bird echoed from his tree.</p> + +<p class="stanza">But, when she glanced to the far-off town,<br /> +White from its hill-slope looking down,</p> + +<p class="stanza">The sweet song died, and a vague unrest<br /> +And a nameless longing filled her breast,—</p> + +<p class="stanza">A wish, that she hardly dared to own,<br /> +For something better than she had known.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The Judge rode slowly down the lane,<br /> +Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.</p> + +<p class="stanza">He drew his bridle in the shade<br /> +Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,</p> + +<p class="stanza">And ask a draught from the spring that flowed<br /> +Through the meadow, across the road.</p> + +<p class="stanza">She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,<br /> +And filled for him her small tin cup,</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_36"></a>And blushed as she gave it, looking down<br /> +On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught<br /> +From a fairer hand was never quaffed."</p> + +<p class="stanza">He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,<br /> +Of the singing birds and the humming bees;</p> + +<p class="stanza">Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether<br /> +The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.</p> + +<p class="stanza">And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,<br /> +And her graceful ankles, bare and brown,</p> + +<p class="stanza">And listened, while a pleased surprise<br /> +Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.</p> + +<p class="stanza">At last, like one who for delay<br /> +Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!<br /> +That I the Judge's bride might be!</p> + +<p class="stanza">"He would dress me up in silks so fine,<br /> +And praise and toast me at his wine.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"My father should wear a broadcloth coat,<br /> +My brother should sail a painted boat.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay,<br /> +And the baby should have a new toy each day.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,<br /> +And all should bless me who left our door."</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_37"></a>The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,<br /> +And saw Maud Muller standing still:</p> + +<p class="stanza">"A form more fair, a face more sweet,<br /> +Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"And her modest answer and graceful air<br /> +Show her wise and good as she is fair.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"Would she were mine, and I to-day,<br /> +Like her, a harvester of hay.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,<br /> +Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,</p> + +<p class="stanza">"But low of cattle, and song of birds,<br /> +And health, and quiet, and loving words."</p> + +<p class="stanza">But he thought of his sister, proud and cold,<br /> +And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.</p> + +<p class="stanza">So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,<br /> +And Maud was left in the field alone.</p> + +<p class="stanza">But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,<br /> +When he hummed in court an old love tune;</p> + +<p class="stanza">And the young girl mused beside the well,<br /> +Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.</p> + +<p class="stanza">He wedded a wife of richest dower,<br /> +Who lived for fashion, as he for power.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_38"></a>Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,<br /> +He watched a picture come and go;</p> + +<p class="stanza">And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes<br /> +Looked out in their innocent surprise.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,<br /> +He longed for the wayside well instead,</p> + +<p class="stanza">And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,<br /> +To dream of meadows and clover blooms;</p> + +<p class="stanza">And the proud man sighed with a secret pain,<br /> +"Ah, that I were free again!</p> + +<p class="stanza">"Free as when I rode that day<br /> +Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay."</p> + +<p class="stanza">She wedded a man unlearned and poor,<br /> +And many children played round her door.</p> + +<p class="stanza">But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain,<br /> +Left their traces on heart and brain.</p> + +<p class="stanza">And oft, when the summer sun shone hot<br /> +On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,</p> + +<p class="stanza">And she heard the little spring brook fall<br /> +Over the roadside, through the wall,</p> + +<p class="stanza">In the shade of the apple-tree again<br /> +She saw a rider draw his rein,</p> + +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_39"></a>And, gazing down with a timid grace,<br /> +She felt his pleased eyes read her face.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls<br /> +Stretched away into stately halls;</p> + +<p class="stanza">The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,<br /> +The tallow candle an astral burned;</p> + +<p class="stanza">And for him who sat by the chimney lug,<br /> +Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,</p> + +<p class="stanza">A manly form at her side she saw,<br /> +And joy was duty and love was law.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Then she took up her burden of life again,<br /> +Saying only, "It might have been."</p> + +<p class="stanza">Alas for maiden, alas for judge,<br /> +For rich repiner and household drudge!</p> + +<p class="stanza">God pity them both! and pity us all,<br /> +Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;</p> + +<p class="stanza">For of all sad words of tongue or pen,<br /> +The saddest are these: "It might have been!"</p> + +<p class="stanza">Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies<br /> +Deeply buried from human eyes;</p> + +<p class="stanza">And, in the hereafter, angels may<br /> +Roll the stone from its grave away!</p> + +<p class="signature">JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_40"></a><a name="THE_PALM_AND_THE_PINE"></a>THE PALM AND THE PINE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Beneath an Indian palm a girl<br /> +<span class="i2">Of other blood reposes;</span> +Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl<br /> +<span class="i2">Amid that wild of roses.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Beside a northern pine a boy<br /> +<span class="i2">Is leaning fancy-bound.</span> +Nor listens where with noisy joy<br /> +<span class="i2">Awaits the impatient hound.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Cool grows the sick and feverish calm,<br /> +<span class="i2">Relaxed the frosty twine.—</span> +The pine-tree dreameth of the palm,<br /> +<span class="i2">The palm-tree of the pine.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +As soon shall nature interlace<br /> +<span class="i2">Those dimly-visioned boughs,</span> +As these young lovers face to face<br /> +<span class="i2">Renew their early vows.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">From the German of HEINRICH HEINE.<br /> +Translation of RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_41"></a><a name="CUMNOR_HALL"></a>CUMNOR HALL.</p> +<p class="cmt">[SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE SUGGESTIVE ORIGIN OF SCOTT'S "KENILWORTH."]</p> + +<p class="stanza">The dews of summer night did fall;<br /> +<span class="i2">The moon, sweet regent of the sky,</span> +Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,<br /> +<span class="i2">And many an oak that grew thereby.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Now naught was heard beneath the skies,<br /> +<span class="i2">The sounds of busy life were still,</span> +Save an unhappy lady's sighs,<br /> +<span class="i2">That issued from that lonely pile.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love<br /> +<span class="i2">That thou so oft hast sworn to me,</span> +To leave me in this lonely grove,<br /> +<span class="i2">Immured in shameful privity?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"No more thou com'st with lover's speed,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy once belovèd bride to see;</span> +But be she alive, or be she dead,<br /> +<span class="i2">I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Not so the usage I received<br /> +<span class="i2">When happy in my father's hall;</span> +No faithless husband then me grieved,<br /> +<span class="i2">No chilling fears did me appal.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"I rose up with the cheerful morn,<br /> +<span class="i2">No lark more blithe, no flower more gay</span> +<a name="Page_42"></a>And like the bird that haunts the thorn,<br /> +<span class="i2">So merrily sung the livelong day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"If that my beauty is but small,<br /> +<span class="i2">Among court ladies all despised,</span> +Why didst thou rend it from that hall,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"And when you first to me made suit,<br /> +<span class="i2">How fair I was, you oft would say!</span> +And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then left the blossom to decay.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Yes! now neglected and despised,<br /> +<span class="i2">The rose is pale, the lily's dead;</span> +But he, that once their charms so prized,<br /> +<span class="i2">Is sure the cause those charms are fled.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey,<br /> +<span class="i2">And tender love's repaid with scorn,</span> +The sweetest beauty will decay,—<br /> +<span class="i2">What floweret can endure the storm?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where every lady's passing rare,</span> +That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun,<br /> +<span class="i2">Are not so glowing, not so fair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds<br /> +<span class="i2">Where roses and where lilies vie,</span> +To seek a primrose, whose pale shades<br /> +<span class="i2">Must sicken when those gauds are by?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_43"></a> +"'Mong rural beauties I was one,<br /> +<span class="i2">Among the fields wild flowers are fair;</span> +Some country swain might me have won,<br /> +<span class="i2">And thought my beauty passing rare.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,)<br /> +<span class="i2">Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows;</span> +Rather ambition's gilded crown<br /> +<span class="i2">Makes thee forget thy humble spouse.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead,<br /> +<span class="i2">(The injured surely may repine,)—</span> +Why didst thou wed a country maid,<br /> +<span class="i2">When some fair princess might be thine?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Why didst thou praise my humble charms,<br /> +<span class="i2">And, oh! then leave them to decay?</span> +Why didst thou win me to thy arms,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then leave to mourn the livelong day?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"The village maidens of the plain<br /> +<span class="i2">Salute me lowly as they go;</span> +Envious they mark my silken train,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor think a Countess can have woe.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"The simple nymphs! they little know<br /> +<span class="i2">How far more happy 's their estate;</span> +To smile for joy than sigh for woe<br /> +<span class="i2">To be content—than to be great.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"How far less blest am I than them<br /> +<span class="i2">Daily to pine and waste with care!</span> +<a name="Page_44"></a>Like the poor plant, that, from its stem<br /> +<span class="i2">Divided, feels the chilling air.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy<br /> +<span class="i2">The humble charms of solitude;</span> +Your minions proud my peace destroy,<br /> +<span class="i2">By sullen frowns or pratings rude.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray,<br /> +<span class="i2">The village death-bell smote my ear;</span> +They winked aside, and seemed to say,<br /> +<span class="i2">'Countess, prepare, thy end is near.'</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"And now, while happy peasants sleep,<br /> +<span class="i2">Here I sit lonely and forlorn;</span> +No one to soothe me as I weep,<br /> +<span class="i2">Save Philomel on yonder thorn.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"My spirits flag—my hopes decay—<br /> +<span class="i2">Still that dread death-bell smites my ear,</span> +And many a boding seems to say,<br /> +<span class="i2">'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Thus sore and sad that lady grieved,<br /> +<span class="i2">In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear,</span> +And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved,<br /> +<span class="i2">And let fall many a bitter tear.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And ere the dawn of day appeared,<br /> +<span class="i2">In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear,</span> +Full many a piercing scream was heard,<br /> +<span class="i2">And many a cry of mortal fear.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_45"></a> +The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,<br /> +<span class="i2">An aerial voice was heard to call,</span> +And thrice the raven flapped its wing<br /> +<span class="i2">Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The mastiff bowled at village door,<br /> +<span class="i2">The oaks were shattered on the green;</span> +Woe was the hour, for nevermore<br /> +<span class="i2">That hapless Countess e'er was seen.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And in that manor now no more<br /> +<span class="i2">Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball;</span> +For ever since that dreary hour<br /> +<span class="i2">Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The village maids, with fearful glance,<br /> +<span class="i2">Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall,</span> +Nor ever lead the merry dance,<br /> +<span class="i2">Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Full many a traveller oft hath sighed,<br /> +<span class="i2">And pensive wept the Countess' fall,</span> +As wandering onward they've espied<br /> +<span class="i2">The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="WALY_WALY"></a>WALY, WALY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O waly, waly, up the bank,<br /> +<span class="i2">O waly, waly, doun the brae,</span> +And waly, waly, yon burn-side,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where I and my love were wont to gae!</span> +<a name="Page_46"></a>I leaned my back unto an aik,<br /> +<span class="i2">I thocht it was a trustie tree,</span> +But first it bowed and syne it brak',—<br /> +<span class="i2">Sae my true love did lichtlie me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O waly, waly, but love be bonnie<br /> +<span class="i2">A little time while it is new!</span> +But when it's auld it waxeth cauld,<br /> +<span class="i2">And fadeth awa' like the morning dew.</span> +O wherefore should I busk my heid.<br /> +<span class="i2">Or wherefore should I kame my hair?</span> +For my true love has me forsook,<br /> +<span class="i2">And says he'll never lo'e me mair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed,<br /> +<span class="i2">The sheets sall ne'er be pressed by me;</span> +Saint Anton's well sall be my drink;<br /> +<span class="i2">Since my true love's forsaken me.</span> +Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw,<br /> +<span class="i2">And shake the green leaves off the tree?</span> +O gentle death, when wilt thou come?<br /> +<span class="i2">For of my life I am wearie.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +'Tis not the frost that freezes fell,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie,</span> +'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry;<br /> +<span class="i2">But my love's heart grown cauld to me.</span> +When we cam' in by Glasgow toun,<br /> +<span class="i2">We were a comely sicht to see;</span> +My love was clad in the black velvet,<br /> +<span class="i2">An' I mysel' in cramasie.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But had I wist before I kissed<br /> +<span class="i2">That love had been so ill to win,</span> +<a name="Page_47"></a>I 'd locked my heart in a case o' goud,<br /> +<span class="i2">And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin.</span> +Oh, oh! if my young babe were born,<br /> +<span class="i2">And set upon the nurse's knee;</span> +And I mysel' were dead and gane,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the green grass growing over me!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LADY_ANN_BOTHWELLS_LAMENT"></a>LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT.</p> +<p class="subt">A SCOTTISH SONG.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! <br /> +It grieves me sair to see thee weipe;<br /> +If thoust be silent, Ise be glad,<br /> +Thy maining maks my heart ful sad.<br /> +Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy!<br /> +Thy father breides me great annoy.<br /> +<span class="i4"><i>Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe!<br /> +It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +When he began to court my luve,<br /> +And with his sugred words to muve,<br /> +His faynings fals and flattering cheire<br /> +To me that time did not appeire: <br /> +But now I see, most cruell hee,<br /> +Cares neither for my babe nor mee.<br /> +<span class="i10"><i>Balow</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile,<br /> +And when thou wakest sweitly smile: <br /> +But smile not, as thy father did,<br /> +To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! <br /> +<a name="Page_48"></a>But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire,<br /> +Thy fatheris hart and face to beire.<br /> +<span class="i10"><i>Balow</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I cannae chuse, but ever will<br /> +Be luving to thy father stil:<br /> +Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde,<br /> +My luve with him maun stil abyde:<br /> +In weil or wae, whaireir he gae,<br /> +Mine hart can neir depart him frae.<br /> +<span class="i10"><i>Balow</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But doe not, doe not, prettie mine,<br /> +To faynings fals thine hart incline;<br /> +Be loyal to thy luver trew,<br /> +And nevir change hir for a new;<br /> +If gude or faire, of hir have care,<br /> +For womens banning's wonderous sair.<br /> +<span class="i10"><i>Balow</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane,<br /> +Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine;<br /> +My babe and I 'll together live,<br /> +He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve;<br /> +My babe and I right saft will ly,<br /> +And quite forgeit man's cruelty.<br /> +<span class="i10"><i>Balow</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth<br /> +That ever kist a woman's mouth! <br /> +I wish all maids be warned by mee,<br /> +Nevir to trust man's curtesy;<br /> +<a name="Page_49"></a>For if we doe but chance to bow,<br /> +They'll use us then they care not how.<br /> +<span class="i4"><i>Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe!<br /> +It grieves me sair to see thee weipe.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MY_HEID_IS_LIKE_TO_REND_WILLIE"></a> +MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +My heid is like to rend, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">My heart is like to break;</span> +I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">I'm dyin' for your sake!</span> +O, say ye'll think on me, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">Your hand on my briest-bane,—</span> +O, say ye'll think of me, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">When I am deid and gane!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">It's vain to comfort me, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sair grief maun ha'e its will;</span> +But let me rest upon your briest<br /> +<span class="i2">To sab and greet my fill.</span> +Let me sit on your knee, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">Let me shed by your hair,</span> +And look into the face, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">I never sall see mair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">For the last time in my life,—</span> +A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">A mither, yet nae wife.</span> +Ay, press your hand upon my heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">And press it mair and mair,</span> +<a name="Page_50"></a>Or it will burst the silken twine,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sae strang is its despair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, wae's me for the hour, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">When we thegither met,—</span> +O, wae's me for the time, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">That our first tryst was set!</span> +O, wae's me for the loanin' green<br /> +<span class="i2">Where we were wont to gae,—</span> +And wae's me for the destinie<br /> +<span class="i2">That gart me luve thee sae!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, dinna mind my words, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">I downa seek to blame;</span> +But O, it's hard to live, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">And dree a warld's shame!</span> +Het tears are hailin' ower our cheek,<br /> +<span class="i2">And hailin' ower your chin:</span> +Why weep ye sae for worthlessness,<br /> +<span class="i2">For sorrow, and for sin?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I'm weary o' this warld, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sick wi' a' I see,</span> +I canna live as I ha'e lived,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or be as I should be.</span> +But fauld unto your heart, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">The heart that still is thine,</span> +And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek<br /> +<span class="i2">Ye said was red langsyne.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">A sair stoun' through my heart;</span> +<a name="Page_51"></a>O, haud me up and let me kiss<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy brow ere we twa pairt.</span> +Anither, and anither yet!—<br /> +<span class="i2">How fast my life-strings break!—</span> +Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard<br /> +<span class="i2">Step lichtly for my sake!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The lav'rock in the lift, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">That lifts far ower our heid,</span> +Will sing the morn as merrilie<br /> +<span class="i2">Abune the clay-cauld deid;</span> +And this green turf we're sittin' on,<br /> +<span class="i2">Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen,</span> +Will hap the heart that luvit thee<br /> +<span class="i2">As warld has seldom seen.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But O, remember me, Willie,<br /> +<span class="i2">On land where'er ye be;</span> +And O, think on the leal, leal heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">That ne'er luvit ane but thee!</span> +And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools<br /> +<span class="i2">That file my yellow hair,</span> +That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin<br /> +<span class="i2">Ye never sall kiss mair!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ASHES_OF_ROSES"></a>ASHES OF ROSES.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Soft on the sunset sky<br /> +<span class="i2">Bright daylight closes,</span> +Leaving, when light doth die,<br /> +Pale hues that mingling lie,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Ashes of roses.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_52"></a>When love's warm sun is set,<br /> +<span class="i2">Love's brightness closes;</span> +Eyes with hot tears are wet,<br /> +In hearts there linger yet<br /> +<span class="i2">Ashes of roses.</span></p> +<p class="signature">ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN.</p> +</div> + +<a name="A_WOMANS_LOVE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">A WOMAN'S LOVE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory,<br /> +Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory:<br /> +"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I loved,—and, blind with passionate love, I fell.<br /> +Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell;<br /> +For God is just, and death for sin is well. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I do not rage against his high decree,<br /> +Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be;<br /> +But for my love on earth who mourns for me. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again<br /> +And comfort him one hour, and I were fain<br /> +To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent<br /> +That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent<br /> +Down to the last hour of thy punishment!" +</p> +<p class="stanza">But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go!<br /> +I cannot rise to peace and leave him so.<br /> +O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!" +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_53"></a>The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar,<br /> +And upwards, joyous, like a rising star,<br /> +She rose and vanished in the ether far. +</p> +<p class="stanza">But soon adown the dying sunset sailing,<br /> +And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing,<br /> +She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. +</p> +<p class="stanza">She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea<br /> +Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,—<br /> +She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!" +</p> +<p class="stanza">She wept, "Now let my punishment begin!<br /> +I have been fond and foolish. Let me in<br /> +To expiate my sorrow and my sin." +</p> +<p class="stanza">The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher!<br /> +To be deceived in your true heart's desire<br /> +Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!"</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN HAY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_SHADOW_ROSE"></a>THE SHADOW ROSE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">A noisette on my garden path<br /> +<span class="i2">An ever-swaying shadow throws;</span> +But if I pluck it strolling by,<br /> +<span class="i2">I pluck the shadow with the rose.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Just near enough my heart you stood<br /> +<span class="i2">To shadow it,—but was it fair</span> +In him, who plucked and bore you off,<br /> +<span class="i2">To leave your shadow lingering there?</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_54"></a><a name="HAS_SUMMER_COME_WITHOUT_THE_ROSE"></a>HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE?</p> + +<p class="stanza">Has summer come without the rose,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or left the bird behind?</span> +Is the blue changed above thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">O world! or am I blind?</span> +Will you change every flower that grows,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or only change this spot,</span> +Where she who said, I love thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Now says, I love thee not?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The skies seemed true above thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">The rose true on the tree;</span> +The bird seemed true the summer through,<br /> +<span class="i2">But all proved false to me.</span> +World, is there one good thing in you,<br /> +<span class="i2">Life, love, or death—or what?</span> +Since lips that sang, I love thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Have said, I love thee not?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall<br /> +<span class="i2">Into one flower's gold cup;</span> +I think the bird will miss me,<br /> +<span class="i2">And give the summer up.</span> +O sweet place, desolate in tall<br /> +<span class="i2">Wild grass, have you forgot</span> +How her lips loved to kiss me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Now that they kiss me not?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Be false or fair above me;<br /> +<span class="i2">Come back with any face,</span> +<a name="Page_55"></a>Summer!—do I care what you do?<br /> +<span class="i2">You cannot change one place,—</span> +The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew,<br /> +<span class="i2">The grave I make the spot,—</span> +Here, where she used to love me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Here, where she loves me not.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_DIRTY_OLD_MAN"></a>THE DIRTY OLD MAN.</p> +<p class="subt">A LAY OF LEADENHALL.</p> +<p class="cmt">[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of +business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These +verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.]</p> + +<p class="stanza">In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man;<br /> +Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan.<br /> +For forty long years, as the neighbors declared,<br /> +His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. +</p> +<p class="stanza">'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street,<br /> +One terrible blot in a ledger so neat:<br /> +The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse,<br /> +And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain,<br /> +Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain;<br /> +<a name="Page_56"></a>The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass,<br /> +And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. +</p> +<p class="stanza">On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell<br /> +The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell;<br /> +But for house and for man a new title took growth,<br /> +Like a fungus,—the Dirt gave its name to them both. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust,<br /> +The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust.<br /> +Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof;<br /> +'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof. +</p> +<p class="stanza">There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man<br /> +Lives busy and dirty as ever he can;<br /> +With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face,<br /> +For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. +</p> +<p class="stanza">From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt,<br /> +His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt;<br /> +The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,—<br /> +Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair,<br /> +Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare;<br /> +And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful,<br /> +The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_57"></a>Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom,<br /> +To peep at the door of the wonderful room<br /> +Such stories are told about, none of them true!—<br /> +The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. +</p> +<p class="stanza">That room,—forty years since, folk settled and decked it.<br /> +The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected,<br /> +The handsome young host he is gallant and gay,<br /> +For his love and her friends will be with him today. +</p> +<p class="stanza">With solid and dainty the table is drest,<br /> +The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best;<br /> +Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear,<br /> +For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Full forty years since turned the key in that door.<br /> +'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar.<br /> +The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread,<br /> +May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go;<br /> +The seats are in order, the dishes a-row:<br /> +<a name="Page_58"></a>But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse<br /> +Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust;<br /> +The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust;<br /> +A nosegay was laid before one special chair,<br /> +And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The old man has played out his part in the scene.<br /> +Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean.<br /> +Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban<br /> +To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man.</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM ALLINGHAM.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="HOME_WOUNDED"></a>HOME, WOUNDED.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Wheel me into the sunshine,<br /> +Wheel me into the shadow.<br /> +There must be leaves on the woodbine,<br /> +Is the kingcup crowned in the meadow? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Wheel me down to the meadow,<br /> +Down to the little river,<br /> +In sun or in shadow<br /> +I shall not dazzle or shiver,<br /> +I shall be happy anywhere,<br /> +Every breath of the morning air<br /> +Makes me throb and quiver. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_59"></a>Stay wherever you will,<br /> +By the mount or under the hill,<br /> +Or down by the little river:<br /> +Stay as long as you please,<br /> +Give me only a bud from the trees,<br /> +Or a blade of grass in morning dew,<br /> +Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue,<br /> +I could look on it forever. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Wheel, wheel through the sunshine,<br /> +Wheel, wheel through the shadow;<br /> +There must be odors round the pine,<br /> +There must be balm of breathing kine,<br /> +Somewhere down in the meadow.<br /> +Must I choose? Then anchor me there<br /> +Beyond the beckoning poplars, where<br /> +The larch is snooding her flowery hair<br /> +With wreaths of morning shadow. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Among the thickest hazels of the brake<br /> +Perchance some nightingale doth shake<br /> +His feathers, and the air is full of song;<br /> +In those old days when I was young and strong,<br /> +He used to sing on yonder garden tree,<br /> +Beside the nursery.<br /> +Ah, I remember how I loved to wake,<br /> +And find him singing on the self-same bough<br /> +(I know it even now)<br /> +Where, since the flit of bat,<br /> +In ceaseless voice he sat,<br /> +Trying the spring night over, like a tune,<br /> +Beneath the vernal moon;<br /> +And while I listed long,<br /> +<a name="Page_60"></a>Day rose, and still he sang,<br /> +And all his stanchless song,<br /> +As something falling unaware,<br /> +Fell out of the tall trees he sang among,<br /> +Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,—<br /> +Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">· · · · · ·</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My soul lies out like a basking hound,—<br /> +A hound that dreams and dozes;<br /> +Along my life my length I lay,<br /> +I fill to-morrow and yesterday,<br /> +I am warm with the suns that have long since set,<br /> +I am warm with the summers that are not yet,<br /> +And like one who dreams and dozes<br /> +Softly afloat on a sunny sea,<br /> +Two worlds are whispering over me,<br /> +And there blows a wind of roses<br /> +From the backward shore to the shore before,<br /> +From the shore before to the backward shore,<br /> +And like two clouds that meet and pour<br /> +Each through each, till core in core<br /> +A single self reposes,<br /> +The nevermore with the evermore<br /> +Above me mingles and closes;<br /> +As my soul lies out like the basking hound,<br /> +And wherever it lies seems happy ground,<br /> +And when, awakened by some sweet sound,<br /> +A dreamy eye uncloses,<br /> +I see a blooming world around,<br /> +And I lie amid primroses,—<br /> +Years of sweet primroses,<br /> +Springs of fresh primroses,<br /> +<a name="Page_61"></a>Springs to be, and springs for me<br /> +Of distant dim primroses. +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,<br /> +To feel I may dream and to know you deem<br /> +My work is done forever,<br /> +And the palpitating fever,<br /> +That gains and loses, loses and gains,<br /> +And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains,<br /> +Cooled at once by that blood-let<br /> +Upon the parapet;<br /> +And all the tedious taskèd toil of the difficult long endeavor<br /> +Solved and quit by no more fine<br /> +Than these limbs of mine,<br /> +Spanned and measured once for all<br /> +By that right-hand I lost,<br /> +Bought up at so light a cost<br /> +As one bloody fall<br /> +On the soldier's bed,<br /> +And three days on the ruined wall<br /> +Among the thirstless dead. +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, to think my name is crost<br /> +From duty's muster-roll;<br /> +That I may slumber though the clarion call,<br /> +And live the joy of an embodied soul<br /> +Free as a liberated ghost.<br /> +O, to feel a life of deed<br /> +Was emptied out to feed<br /> +That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,—<br /> +That fire from which I come, as the dead come<br /> +<a name="Page_62"></a>Forth from the irreparable tomb,<br /> +Or as a martyr on his funeral pile<br /> +Heaps up the burdens other men do bear<br /> +Through years of segregated care,<br /> +And takes the total load<br /> +Upon his shoulders broad,<br /> +And steps from earth to God. +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, to think, through good or ill,<br /> +Whatever I am you'll love me still;<br /> +O, to think, though dull I be,<br /> +You that are so grand and free,<br /> +You that are so bright and gay,<br /> +Will pause to hear me when I will,<br /> +As though my head were gray;<br /> +A single self reposes,<br /> +The nevermore with the evermore<br /> +Above me mingles and closes;<br /> +As my soul lies out like the basking hound,<br /> +And wherever it lies seems happy ground,<br /> +And when, awakened by some sweet sound,<br /> +A dreamy eye uncloses,<br /> +I see a blooming world around,<br /> +And I lie amid primroses,—<br /> +Years of sweet primroses,<br /> +Springs of fresh primroses.<br /> +Springs to be, and springs for me<br /> +Of distant dim primroses. +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, to lie a-dream, a-dream,<br /> +To feel I may dream and to know you deem<br /> +My work is done forever,<br /> +And the palpitating fever,<br /> +<a name="Page_63"></a>That gains and loses, loses and gains,<br /> +And she,<br /> +Perhaps, O even she<br /> +May look as she looked when I knew her<br /> +In those old days of childish sooth,<br /> +Ere my boyhood dared to woo her.<br /> +I will not seek nor sue her,<br /> +For I'm neither fonder nor truer<br /> +Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth,<br /> +My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth,<br /> +And I only lived to rue her.<br /> +But I'll never love another,<br /> +And, in spite of her lovers and lands,<br /> +She shall love me yet, my brother! +</p> +<p class="stanza">As a child that holds by his mother,<br /> +While his mother speaks his praises,<br /> +Holds with eager hands,<br /> +And ruddy and silent stands<br /> +In the ruddy and silent daisies,<br /> +And hears her bless her boy,<br /> +And lifts a wondering joy,<br /> +So I'll not seek nor sue her,<br /> +But I'll leave my glory to woo her,<br /> +And I'll stand like a child beside,<br /> +And from behind the purple pride<br /> +I'll lift my eyes unto her,<br /> +And I shall not be denied.<br /> +And you will love her, brother dear,<br /> +And perhaps next year you'll bring me here<br /> +All through the balmy April tide,<br /> +And she will trip like spring by my side,<br /> +And be all the birds to my ear. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_64"></a>And here all three we'll sit in the sun,<br /> +And see the Aprils one by one,<br /> +Primrosed Aprils on and on,<br /> +Till the floating prospect closes<br /> +In golden glimmers that rise and rise,<br /> +And perhaps are gleams of Paradise,<br /> +And perhaps too far for mortal eyes,<br /> +New springs of fresh primroses,<br /> +Springs of earth's primroses,<br /> +Springs to be, and springs for me<br /> +Of distant dim primroses.</p> +<p class="signature">SYDNEY DOBELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="DIVIDED"></a>DIVIDED.</p> + +<p class="subt">I.</p> + +<p class="stanza">An empty sky, a world of heather,<br /> +<span class="i2">Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom:</span> +We two among them wading together,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shaking out honey, treading perfume.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Crowds of bees are giddy with clover,<br /> +<span class="i2">Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet:</span> +Crowds of larks at their matins hang over,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Flusheth the rise with her purple favor,<br /> +<span class="i2">Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring,</span> +'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lightly settle, and sleepily swing.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We two walk till the purple dieth,<br /> +<span class="i2">And short dry grass under foot is brown,</span> +<a name="Page_65"></a>But one little streak at a distance lieth<br /> +<span class="i2">Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down.</span> +</p> + +<p class="subt">II.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Over the grass we stepped unto it,<br /> +<span class="i2">And God, He knoweth how blithe we were!</span> +Never a voice to bid us eschew it;<br /> +<span class="i2">Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it,<br /> +<span class="i2">We parted the grasses dewy and sheen:</span> +Drop over drop there filtered and slided<br /> +<span class="i2">A tiny bright beck that trickled between.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us,<br /> +<span class="i2">Light was our talk as of faery bells—</span> +Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us,<br /> +<span class="i2">Down in their fortunate parallels.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Hand in hand, while the sun peered over,<br /> +<span class="i2">We lapped the grass on that youngling spring,</span> +Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover,<br /> +<span class="i2">And said, "Let us follow it westering."</span> +</p> +<p class="subt">III.</p> + +<p class="stanza">A dappled sky, a world of meadows;<br /> +<span class="i2">Circling above us the black rooks fly,</span> +Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadows<br /> +<span class="i2">Flit on the blossoming tapestry—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Flit on the beck—for her long grass parteth,<br /> +<span class="i2">As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back;</span> +<a name="Page_66"></a>And lo, the sun like a lover darteth<br /> +<span class="i2">His flattering smile on her wayward track.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather,<br /> +<span class="i2">Till one steps over the tiny strand,</span> +So narrow, in sooth, that still together<br /> +<span class="i2">On either brink we go hand in hand.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The beck grows wider, the hands must sever,<br /> +<span class="i2">On either margin, our songs all done,</span> +We move apart, while she singeth ever,<br /> +<span class="i2">Taking the course of the stooping sun.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">He prays, "Come over"—I may not follow;<br /> +<span class="i2">I cry, "Return"—but he cannot come:</span> +We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow;<br /> +<span class="i2">Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb.</span> +</p> + +<p class="subt">IV.</p> + +<p class="stanza">A breathing sigh—a sigh for answer;<br /> +<span class="i2">A little talking of outward things:</span> +The careless beck is a merry dancer,<br /> +<span class="i2">Keeping sweet time to the air she sings.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A little pain when the beck grows wider—<br /> +<span class="i2">"Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:"</span> +"I may not cross" and the voice beside her<br /> +<span class="i2">Faintly reacheth, though heeded well.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No backward path; ah! no returning:<br /> +<span class="i2">No second crossing that ripple's flow:</span> +<a name="Page_67"></a>"Come to me now, for the west is burning:<br /> +<span class="i2">Come ere it darkens."—"Ah, no! ah, no!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching—<br /> +<span class="i2">The beck grows wider and swift and deep;</span> +Passionate words as of one beseeching—<br /> +<span class="i2">The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep.</span> +</p> +<p class="subt">V.</p> +<p class="stanza">A yellow moon in splendor drooping,<br /> +<span class="i2">A tired queen with her state oppressed,</span> +Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lies she soft on the waves at rest.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The desert heavens have felt her sadness;<br /> +<span class="i2">Her earth will weep her some dewy tears;</span> +The wild beck ends her tune of gladness,<br /> +<span class="i2">And goeth stilly as soul that fears.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We two walk on in our grassy places,<br /> +<span class="i2">On either marge of the moonlit flood,</span> +With the moon's own sadness in our faces,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where joy is withered, blossom and bud.</span> +</p> +<p class="subt">VI.</p> + +<p class="stanza">A shady freshness, chafers whirring,<br /> +<span class="i2">A little piping of leaf-hid birds;</span> +A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring,<br /> +<span class="i2">A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined;</span> +<a name="Page_68"></a>Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered,<br /> +<span class="i2">Swell high in their freckled robes behind.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver,<br /> +<span class="i2">When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide;</span> +A flashing edge for the milk-white river,<br /> +<span class="i2">The beck, a river—with still sleek tide.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Broad and white, and polished as silver,<br /> +<span class="i2">On she goes under fruit-laden trees;</span> +Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver,<br /> +<span class="i2">And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Glitters the dew, and shines the river;<br /> +<span class="i2">Up comes the lily and dries her bell;</span> +But two are walking apart forever,<br /> +<span class="i2">And wave their hands for a mute farewell.</span> +</p> +<p class="subt">VII.</p> +<p class="stanza">A braver swell, a swifter sliding;<br /> +<span class="i2">The river hasteth, her banks recede;</span> +Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding<br /> +<span class="i2">Bear down the lily, and drown the reed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Stately prows are rising and bowing—<br /> +<span class="i2">(Shouts of mariners winnow the air)—</span> +And level sands for banks endowing<br /> +<span class="i2">The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">While, O my heart! as white sails shiver,<br /> +<span class="i2">And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide,</span> +<a name="Page_69"></a>How hard to follow, with lips that quiver,<br /> +<span class="i2">That moving speck on the far-off side!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Farther, farther—I see it—know it—<br /> +<span class="i2">My eyes brim over, it melts away:</span> +Only my heart to my heart shall show it,<br /> +<span class="i2">As I walk desolate day by day.</span> +</p> +<p class="subt">VIII.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And yet I know past all doubting, truly,—<br /> +<span class="i2">A knowledge greater than grief can dim—</span> +I know, as he loved, he will love me duly—<br /> +<span class="i2">Yea, better—e'en better than I love him:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And as I walk by the vast calm river,<br /> +<span class="i2">The awful river so dread to see,</span> +I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever<br /> +<span class="i2">Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me."</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JEAN INGELOW.</p> +</div> + +<a name="TO_DIANE_DE_POITIERS"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">TO DIANE DE POITIERS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Farewell! since vain is all my care,<br /> +<span class="i2">Far, in some desert rude,</span> +I'll hide my weakness, my despair:<br /> +<span class="i2">And, 'midst my solitude,</span> +I'll pray, that, should another move thee,<br /> +He may as fondly, truly love thee. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven!<br /> +<span class="i2">Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms!</span> +<a name="Page_70"></a>Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given,<br /> +<span class="i2">Which Love inhabits and illumes!</span> +Your rays have fallen but coldly on me:<br /> +One far less fond, perchance, had won ye!</p> +<p class="signature">From the French of CLEMENT MAROT.<br /> +Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_SPINNER"></a>THE SPINNER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The spinner twisted her slender thread<br /> +As she sat and spun:<br /> +"The earth and the heavens are mine," she said,<br /> +"And the moon and sun;<br /> +Into my web the sunlight goes,<br /> +And the breath of May,<br /> +And the crimson life of the new-blown rose<br /> +That was born to-day." +</p> +<p class="stanza">The spinner sang in the hush of noon<br /> +And her song was low:<br /> +"Ah, morning, you pass away too soon,<br /> +You are swift to go.<br /> +My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup<br /> +With its hopes and fears.<br /> +Love, come and drink the sweetness up<br /> +Ere it turn to tears." +</p> +<p class="stanza">The spinner looked at the falling sun:<br /> +"Is it time to rest?<br /> +My hands are weary,—my work is done,<br /> +I have wrought my best;<br /> +I have spun and woven with patient eyes<br /> +And with fingers fleet.<br /> +Lo! where the toil of a lifetime lies<br /> +In a winding-sheet!"</p> +<p class="signature">MARY AINGE DE VERE (<i>Madeline Bridges</i>).</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TAKE_O_TAKE_THOSE_LIPS_AWAY"></a><a name="Page_71"></a>TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.*</p> + +<p class="stanza">Take, O, take those lips away,<br /> +<span class="i2">That so sweetly were forsworn;</span> +And those eyes, like break of day,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lights that do mislead the morn;</span> +But my kisses bring again,<br /> +Seals of love, but sealed in vain. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Hide, O, hide those hills of snow<br /> +<span class="i2">Which thy frozen bosom bears,</span> +On whose tops the pinks that grow<br /> +<span class="i2">Are yet of those that April wears!</span> +But first set my poor heart free,<br /> +Bound in those icy chains by thee.</p> + +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER.</p> + +<p>* The first stanza of this song appears in Shakespeare's "Measure for +Measure," Activ. Sc. I.; the same, with the second, stanza added, is +found in Beaumont and Fletcher's "Bloody Brother," Act v. Sc. 2.</p> +</div> + +<a name="WOMANS_INCONSTANCY"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I loved thee once, I'll love no more,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thine be the grief as is the blame;</span> +Thou art not what thou wast before,<br /> +<span class="i2">What reason I should be the same?</span> +<span class="i4">He that can love unloved again,</span> +<span class="i4">Hath better store of love than brain:</span> +<span class="i2">God sends me love my debts to pay,</span> +<span class="i2">While unthrifts fool their love away.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_72"></a>Nothing could have my love o'erthrown,<br /> +<span class="i2">If thou hadst still continued mine;</span> +Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own,<br /> +<span class="i2">I might perchance have yet been thine.</span> +<span class="i4">But thou thy freedom didst recall,</span> +<span class="i4">That if thou might elsewhere inthrall;</span> +<span class="i2">And then how could I but disdain</span> +<span class="i2">A captive's captive to remain?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When new desires had conquered thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">And changed the object of thy will,</span> +It had been lethargy in me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Not constancy, to love thee still.</span> +<span class="i4">Yea, it had been a sin to go</span> +<span class="i4">And prostitute affection so,</span> +<span class="i2">Since we are taught no prayers to say</span> +<span class="i2">To such as must to others pray.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet do thou glory in thy choice.<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy choice of his good fortune boast;</span> +I'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice,<br /> +<span class="i2">To see him gain what I have lost;</span> +<span class="i4">The height of my disdain shall be,</span> +<span class="i4">To laugh at him, to blush for thee;</span> +<span class="i2">To love thee still, but go no more</span> +<span class="i2">A begging to a beggar's door.</span></p> +<p class="signature">SIR ROBERT AYTON.</p> +</div> + +<a name="TIMES_REVENGE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">TIME'S REVENGE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen,<br /> +Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien—<br /> +<a name="Page_73"></a>Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears,<br /> +Now sheds her graces in the waste of years.<br /> +Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow,<br /> +And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow;<br /> +And querulous the voice by time repressed,<br /> +Whose artless music stole me from my rest.<br /> +Age gives redress to love; and silvery hair<br /> +And earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair.</p> + +<p class="signature">From the Greek of AGATHIAS.<br /> +Translation of ROBERT BLAND.</p> +</div> + +<a name="THE_DREAM"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">THE DREAM.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world,<br /> +A boundary between the things misnamed<br /> +Death and existence: sleep hath its own world,<br /> +And a wide realm of wild reality,<br /> +And dreams in their development have breath,<br /> +And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy;<br /> +They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts,<br /> +They take a weight from off our waking toils,<br /> +They do divide our being; they become<br /> +A portion of ourselves as of our time,<br /> +And look like heralds of eternity;<br /> +They pass like spirits of the past,—they speak<br /> +Like sibyls of the future; they have power,—<br /> +The tyranny of pleasure and of pain;<br /> +They make us what we were not,—what they will,<br /> +And shake us with the vision that's gone by.<br /> +The dread of vanished shadows.—Are they so?<br /> +Is not the past all shadow? What are they?<br /> +Creations of the mind?—The mind can make<br /> +<a name="Page_74"></a>Substances, and people planets of its own<br /> +With beings brighter than have been, and give<br /> +A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.<br /> +I would recall a vision which I dreamed<br /> +Perchance in sleep,—for in itself a thought,<br /> +A slumbering thought, is capable of years,<br /> +And curdles a long life into one hour. +</p><p class="stanza"> +I saw two beings in the hues of youth<br /> +Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill,<br /> +Green and of a mild declivity, the last<br /> +As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such,<br /> +Save that there was no sea to lave its base,<br /> +But a most living landscape, and the wave<br /> +Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men<br /> +Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke<br /> +Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill<br /> +Was crowned with a peculiar diadem<br /> +Of trees, in circular array, so fixed,<br /> +Not by the sport of nature, but of man:<br /> +These two, a maiden and a youth, were there<br /> +Gazing,—the one on all that was beneath<br /> +Fair as herself,—but the boy gazed on her;<br /> +And both were young, and one was beautiful;<br /> +And both were young,—yet not alike in youth.<br /> +As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge,<br /> +The maid was on the eve of womanhood;<br /> +The boy had fewer summers, but his heart<br /> +Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye<br /> +There was but one beloved face on earth,<br /> +And that was shining on him; he had looked<br /> +Upon it till it could not pass away;<br /> +He had no breath, no being, but in hers;<br /> +<a name="Page_75"></a>She was his voice; he did not speak to her,<br /> +But trembled on her words; she was his sight,<br /> +For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers,<br /> +Which colored all his objects;—he had ceased<br /> +To live with himself: she was his life,<br /> +The ocean to the river of his thoughts,<br /> +Which terminated all; upon a tone,<br /> +A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow,<br /> +And his cheek change tempestuously;—his heart<br /> +Unknowing of its cause of agony.<br /> +But she in these fond feelings had no share:<br /> +Her sighs were not for him; to her he was<br /> +Even as a brother,—but no more; 'twas much,<br /> +For brotherless she was, save in the name<br /> +Her infant friendship had bestowed on him;<br /> +Herself the solitary scion left<br /> +Of a time-honored race. It was a name<br /> +Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not,—and why?<br /> +Time taught him a deep answer—when she loved<br /> +Another; even <i>now</i> she loved another,<br /> +And on the summit of the hill she stood,<br /> +Looking afar if yet her lover's steed<br /> +Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. +</p><p class="stanza"> +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.<br /> +There was an ancient mansion, and before<br /> +Its walls there was a steed caparisoned;<br /> +Within an antique oratory stood<br /> +The boy of whom I spake;—he was alone,<br /> +And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon<br /> +He sate him down, and seized a pen and traced<br /> +Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned<br /> +<a name="Page_76"></a>His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere<br /> +With a convulsion,—then arose again,<br /> +And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear<br /> +What he had written, but he shed no tears,<br /> +And he did calm himself, and fix his brow<br /> +Into a kind of quiet; as he paused,<br /> +The lady of his love re-entered there;<br /> +She was serene and smiling then, and yet<br /> +She knew she was by him beloved; she knew—<br /> +For quickly comes such knowledge—that his heart<br /> +Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw<br /> +That he was wretched, but she saw not all.<br /> +He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp<br /> +He took her hand; a moment o'er his face<br /> +A tablet of unutterable thoughts<br /> +Was traced, and then it faded, as it came;<br /> +He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps<br /> +Retired, but not as bidding her adieu,<br /> +For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed<br /> +From out the massy gate of that old Hall,<br /> +And mounting on his steed he went his way;<br /> +And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. +</p><p class="stanza"> +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.<br /> +The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wilds<br /> +Of fiery climes he made himself a home,<br /> +And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt<br /> +With strange and dusky aspects; he was not<br /> +Himself like what he had been; on the sea<br /> +And on the shore he was a wanderer;<br /> +There was a mass of many images<br /> +Crowded like waves upon me, but he was<br /> +A part of all; and in the last he lay<br /> +<a name="Page_77"></a>Reposing from the noontide sultriness,<br /> +Couched among fallen columns, in the shade<br /> +Of ruined walls that had survived the names<br /> +Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side<br /> +Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds<br /> +Were fastened near a fountain; and a man,<br /> +Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while,<br /> +While many of his tribe slumbered around:<br /> +And they were canopied by the blue sky,<br /> +So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful,<br /> +That God alone was to be seen in heaven. +</p><p class="stanza"> +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.<br /> +The lady of his love was wed with one<br /> +Who did not love her better: in her home,<br /> +A thousand leagues from his,—her native home,<br /> +She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy,<br /> +Daughters and sons of beauty,—but behold!<br /> +Upon her face there was the tint of grief,<br /> +The settled shadow of an inward strife,<br /> +And an unquiet drooping of the eye,<br /> +As if its lids were charged with unshed tears.<br /> +What could her grief be?—she had all she loved,<br /> +And he who had so loved her was not there<br /> +To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish,<br /> +Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts.<br /> +What could her grief be?—she had loved him not,<br /> +Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved,<br /> +Nor could he be a part of that which preyed<br /> +Upon her mind—a spectre of the past. +</p><p class="stanza"> +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.<br /> +The wanderer was returned.—I saw him stand<br /> +<a name="Page_78"></a>Before an altar—with a gentle bride;<br /> +Her face was fair, but was not that which made<br /> +The starlight of his boyhood;—as he stood<br /> +Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came<br /> +The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock<br /> +That in the antique oratory shook<br /> +His bosom in its solitude; and then—<br /> +As in that hour—a moment o'er his face<br /> +The tablet of unutterable thoughts<br /> +Was traced,—and then it faded as it came,<br /> +And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke<br /> +The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,<br /> +And all things reeled around him; he could see<br /> +Not that which was, nor that which should have been,—<br /> +But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall,<br /> +And the remembered chambers, and the place,<br /> +The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,<br /> +All things pertaining to that place and hour,<br /> +And her who was his destiny, came back<br /> +And thrust themselves between him and the light;<br /> +What business had they there at such a time? +</p><p class="stanza"> +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.<br /> +The lady of his love;—O, she was changed,<br /> +As by the sickness of the soul! her mind<br /> +Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes,<br /> +They had not their own lustre, but the look<br /> +Which is not of the earth; she was become<br /> +The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts<br /> +Were combinations of disjointed things,<br /> +And forms impalpable and unperceived<br /> +Of others' sight familiar were to hers.<br /> +<a name="Page_79"></a>And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise<br /> +Have a far deeper madness, and the glance<br /> +Of melancholy is a fearful gift;<br /> +What is it but the telescope of truth,<br /> +Which strips the distance of its fantasies,<br /> +And brings life near in utter nakedness,<br /> +Making the cold reality too real! +</p><p class="stanza"> +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.<br /> +The wanderer was alone as heretofore,<br /> +The beings which surrounded him were gone,<br /> +Or were at war with him; he was a mark<br /> +For blight and desolation, compassed round<br /> +With hatred and contention; pain was mixed<br /> +In all which was served up to him, until,<br /> +Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,<br /> +He fed on poisons, and they had no power,<br /> +But were a kind of nutriment; he lived<br /> +Through that which had been death to many men,<br /> +And made him friends of mountains: with the stars<br /> +And the quick Spirit of the universe<br /> +He held his dialogues; and they did teach<br /> +To him the magic of their mysteries;<br /> +To him the book of Night was opened wide,<br /> +And voices from the deep abyss revealed<br /> +A marvel and a secret.—Be it so. +</p><p class="stanza"> +My dream was past; it had no further change.<br /> +It was of a strange order, that the doom<br /> +Of these two creatures should be thus traced out<br /> +Almost like a reality,—the one<br /> +To end in madness—both in misery.</p> + +<p class="signature">LORD BYRON.</p> +</div> + + +<a name="ALAS_HOW_LIGHT_A_CAUSE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_80"></a>ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM."</p> + +<p class="stanza">Alas! how light a cause may move<br /> +Dissension between hearts that love!<br /> +Hearts that the world in vain has tried,<br /> +And sorrow but more closely tied;<br /> +That stood the storm when waves were rough,<br /> +Yet in a sunny hour fall off,<br /> +Like ships that have gone down at sea,<br /> +When heaven was all tranquillity! +</p> +<p class="stanza">A something light as air,—a look,<br /> +<span class="i2">A word unkind or wrongly taken,—</span> +O, love that tempests never shook,<br /> +<span class="i2">A breath, a touch like this has shaken!</span> +And ruder words will soon rush in<br /> +To spread the breach that words begin;<br /> +And eyes forget the gentle ray<br /> +They wore in courtship's smiling day;<br /> +And voices lose the tone that shed<br /> +A tenderness round all they said;<br /> +Till fast declining, one by one,<br /> +The sweetnesses of love are gone,<br /> +And hearts, so lately mingled, seem<br /> +Like broken clouds,—or like the stream,<br /> +That smiling left the mountain's brow,<br /> +<span class="i2">As though its waters ne'er could sever,</span> +Yet, ere it reach the plain below,<br /> +<span class="i2">Breaks into floods that part forever.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_81"></a> +O you, that have the charge of Love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Keep him in rosy bondage bound,</span> +As in the Fields of Bliss above<br /> +<span class="i2">He sits, with flowerets fettered round;—</span> +Loose not a tie that round him clings,<br /> +Nor ever let him use his wings;<br /> +For even an hour, a minute's flight<br /> +Will rob the plumes of half their light.<br /> +Like that celestial bird,—whose nest<br /> +<span class="i2">Is found beneath far Eastern skies,—</span> +Whose wings, though radiant when at rest,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lose all their glory when he flies!</span></p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS MOORE.</p> +</div> + + +<a name="BLIGHTED_LOVE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">BLIGHTED LOVE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Flowers are fresh, and bushes green,<br /> +<span class="i2">Cheerily the linnets sing;</span> +Winds are soft, and skies serene;<br /> +<span class="i2">Time, however, soon shall throw</span> +<span class="i6">Winter's snow</span> +O'er the buxom breast of Spring! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Hope, that buds in lover's heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lives not through the scorn of years;</span> +Time makes love itself depart;<br /> +<span class="i2">Time and scorn congeal the mind,—</span> +<span class="i6">Looks unkind</span> +Freeze affection's warmest tears. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Time shall make the bushes green;<br /> +<span class="i2">Time dissolve the winter snow;</span> +<a name="Page_82"></a>Winds be soft, and skies serene;<br /> +<span class="i2">Linnets sing their wonted strain:</span> +<span class="i6">But again</span> +Blighted love shall never blow!</p> + +<p class="signature">From the Portuguese of LUIS DE CAMOENS.<br /> +Translation of LORD STRANGFORD.</p> +</div> + +<a name="THE_NEVERMORE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">THE NEVERMORE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been;<br /> +<span class="i2">I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;</span> +<span class="i2">Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell</span> +Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;<br /> +Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen<br /> +<span class="i2">Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell</span> +<span class="i2">Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,</span> +Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart<br /> +<span class="i2">One moment through my soul the soft surprise</span> +<span class="i2">Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,—</span> +Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart<br /> +Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart<br /> +<span class="i2">Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.</p> +</div> + +<a name="THE_PORTRAIT"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">THE PORTRAIT.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Midnight past! Not a sound of aught<br /> +<span class="i2">Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.</span> +<a name="Page_83"></a>I sat by the dying fire, and thought<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the dear dead woman upstairs.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A night of tears! for the gusty rain<br /> +<span class="i2">Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet;</span> +And the moon looked forth, as though in pain,<br /> +<span class="i2">With her face all white and wet:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nobody with me, my watch to keep,<br /> +<span class="i2">But the friend of my bosom, the man I love:</span> +And grief had sent him fast to sleep<br /> +<span class="i2">In the chamber up above.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nobody else, in the country place<br /> +<span class="i2">All round, that knew of my loss beside,</span> +But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face,<br /> +<span class="i2">Who confessed her when she died.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">That good young Priest is of gentle nerve,<br /> +<span class="i2">And my grief had moved him beyond control;</span> +For his lips grew white, as I could observe,<br /> +<span class="i2">When he speeded her parting soul.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I sat by the dreary hearth alone:<br /> +<span class="i2">I thought of the pleasant days of yore:</span> +I said, "The staff of my life is gone:<br /> +<span class="i2">The woman I loved is no more.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies,<br /> +<span class="i2">Which next to her heart she used to wear—</span> +Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes<br /> +<span class="i2">When my own face was not there.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_84"></a>"It is set all round with rubies red,<br /> +<span class="i2">And pearls which a Peri, might have kept.</span> +For each ruby there my heart hath bled:<br /> +<span class="i2">For each pearl my eyes have wept."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And I said—"The thing is precious to me:<br /> +<span class="i2">They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay;</span> +It lies on her heart, and lost must be<br /> +<span class="i2">If I do not take it away."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I lighted my lamp at the dying flame,<br /> +<span class="i2">And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright,</span> +Till into the chamber of death I came,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where she lay all in white.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The moon shone over her winding-sheet,<br /> +<span class="i2">There stark she lay on her carven bed:</span> +Seven burning tapers about her feet,<br /> +<span class="i2">And seven about her head.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">As I stretched my hand, I held my breath;<br /> +<span class="i2">I turned as I drew the curtains apart:</span> +I dared not look on the face of death:<br /> +<span class="i2">I knew where to find her heart.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I thought at first, as my touch fell there,<br /> +<span class="i2">It had warmed that heart to life, with love;</span> +For the thing I touched was warm, I swear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And I could feel it move.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow<br /> +<span class="i2">O'er the heart of the dead,—from the other side:</span> +<a name="Page_85"></a>And at once the sweat broke over my brow.<br /> +<span class="i2">"Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Opposite me by the tapers' light,<br /> +<span class="i2">The friend of my bosom, the man I loved,</span> +Stood over the corpse, and all as white,<br /> +<span class="i2">And neither of us moved.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man<br /> +<span class="i2">Looked first at me, and then at the dead.</span> +"There is a portrait here," he began;<br /> +<span class="i2">"There is. It is mine," I said.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt,<br /> +<span class="i2">The portrait was, till a month ago,</span> +When this suffering angel took that out,<br /> +<span class="i2">And placed mine there, I know."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"This woman, she loved me well," said I.<br /> +<span class="i2">"A month ago," said my friend to me:</span> +"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"<br /> +<span class="i2">He answered, ... "Let us see."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide:<br /> +<span class="i2">And whosesoever the portrait prove,</span> +His shall it be, when the cause is tried,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where Death is arraigned by Love."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We found the portrait there, in its place:<br /> +<span class="i2">We opened it by the tapers' shine:</span> +The gems were all unchanged: the face<br /> +<span class="i2">Was—neither his nor mine.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_86"></a>"One nail drives out another, at least!<br /> +<span class="i2">The face of the portrait there," I cried,</span> +"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest,<br /> +<span class="i2">Who confessed her when she died."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The setting is all of rubies red,<br /> +<span class="i2">And pearls which a Peri might have kept.</span> +For each ruby there my heart hath bled:<br /> +<span class="i2">For each pearl my eyes have wept.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (<i>Owen Meredith</i>).</p> +</div> + +<a name="ONLY_A_WOMAN"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">ONLY A WOMAN.</p> + + +<p class="cmt"><span class="i4">"She loves with love that cannot tire:</span> +<span class="i6">And if, ah, woe! she loves alone,</span> +<span class="i4">Through passionate duty love flames higher,</span> +<span class="i6">As grass grows taller round a stone."</span> +<span class="i10">—COVENTRY PATMORE.</span></p> + +<p class="stanza"> +So, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake,—<br /> +It will not slay me. My heart shall not break<br /> +Awhile, if only for the children's sake. +</p> +<p class="stanza">For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed;<br /> +None say, he gave me less than honor claimed,<br /> +Except—one trifle scarcely worth being named— +</p> +<p class="stanza">The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be<br /> +As easily raised up, breathing,—fair to see,<br /> +As he could bring his whole heart back to me. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I never sought him in coquettish sport,<br /> +Or courted him as silly maidens court,<br /> +And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_87"></a>I only loved him,—any woman would:<br /> +But shut my love up till he came and sued,<br /> +Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I was so happy I could make him blest!—<br /> +So happy that I was his first and best,<br /> +As he mine,—when he took me to his breast. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah me! if only then he had been true!<br /> +If for one little year, a month or two,<br /> +He had given me love for love, as was my due! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Or had he told me, ere the deed was done,<br /> +He only raised me to his heart's dear throne—<br /> +Poor substitute—because the queen was gone! +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss<br /> +Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss,<br /> +He had kissed another woman even as this,— +</p> +<p class="stanza">It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep<br /> +To be thus cheated, like a child asleep;—<br /> +Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. +</p> +<p class="stanza">So I built my house upon another's ground;<br /> +Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound,—<br /> +A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And when that heart grew colder,—colder still,<br /> +I, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil,<br /> +Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_88"></a>All,—anything but him. It was to be<br /> +The full draught others drink up carelessly<br /> +Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I say again,—he gives me all I claimed,<br /> +I and my children never shall be shamed:<br /> +He is a just man,—he will live unblamed. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Only—O God, O God, to cry for bread.<br /> +And get a stone! Daily to lay my head<br /> +Upon a bosom where the old love's dead! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Dead?—Fool! It never lived. It only stirred<br /> +Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard:<br /> +So let me bury it without a word. +</p> +<p class="stanza">He'll keep that other woman from my sight.<br /> +I know not if her face be foul or bright;<br /> +I only know that it was his delight— +</p> +<p class="stanza">As his was mine; I only know he stands<br /> +Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands,<br /> +Then to a flickering smile his lips commands, +</p> +<p class="stanza">Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show.<br /> +He need not. When the ship 's gone down, I trow,<br /> +We little reck whatever wind may blow. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And so my silent moan begins and ends,<br /> +No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends<br /> +Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_89"></a>None knows,—none heeds. I have a little pride;<br /> +Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side,<br /> +With the same smile as when I was his bride. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And I shall take his children to my arms;<br /> +They will not miss these fading, worthless charms;<br /> +Their kiss—ah! unlike his—all pain disarms. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And haply as the solemn years go by,<br /> +He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh,<br /> +The other woman was less true than I.</p> +<p class="signature">DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.</p> +</div> + +<a name="DOROTHY_IN_THE_GARRET"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">DOROTHY IN THE GARRET.</p> + +<p class="stanza">In the low-raftered garret, stooping<br /> +<span class="i2">Carefully over the creaking boards,</span> +Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping<br /> +<span class="i2">Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards;</span> +Seeking some bundle of patches, hid<br /> +<span class="i2">Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage,</span> +Or satchel hung on its nail, amid<br /> +<span class="i2">The heirlooms of a bygone age.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">There is the ancient family chest,<br /> +<span class="i2">There the ancestral cards and hatchel;</span> +Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest,<br /> +<span class="i2">Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel.</span> +Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the chimney, where with swifts and reel,</span> +And the long-disused, dismantled loom,<br /> +<span class="i2">Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_90"></a>She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen,<br /> +<span class="i2">A part of her girlhood's little world;</span> +Her mother is there by the window, stitching;<br /> +<span class="i2">Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled</span> +With many a click: on her little stool<br /> +<span class="i2">She sits, a child, by the open door,</span> +Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool<br /> +<span class="i2">Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her sisters are spinning all day long;<br /> +<span class="i2">To her wakening sense the first sweet warning</span> +Of daylight come is the cheerful song<br /> +<span class="i2">To the hum of the wheel in the early morning.</span> +Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy.<br /> +<span class="i2">On his way to school, peeps in at the gate;</span> +In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy,<br /> +<span class="i2">She reaches a hand to her bashful mate;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And under the elms, a prattling pair.<br /> +<span class="i2">Together they go, through glimmer and gloom:—</span> +It all comes back to her, dreaming there<br /> +<span class="i2">In the low-raftered garret room;</span> +The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather.<br /> +<span class="i2">The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning,</span> +Are all in her memory linked together;<br /> +<span class="i2">And now it is she herself that is spinning.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip.<br /> +<span class="i2">Turning the spokes with the flashing pin,</span> +Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip,<br /> +<span class="i2">Stretching it out and winding it in.</span> +To and fro, with a blithesome tread,<br /> +<span class="i2">Singing she goes, and her heart is full,</span> +<a name="Page_91"></a>And many a long-drawn golden thread<br /> +<span class="i2">Of fancy is spun with the shining wool.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her father sits in his favorite place,<br /> +<span class="i2">Puffing his pipe by the chimney-side;</span> +Through curling clouds his kindly face<br /> +<span class="i2">Glows upon her with love and pride.</span> +Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair<br /> +<span class="i2">Her mother is musing, cat in lap,</span> +With beautiful drooping head, and hair<br /> +<span class="i2">Whitening under her snow-white cap.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">One by one, to the grave, to the bridal,<br /> +<span class="i2">They have followed her sisters from the door;</span> +Now they are old, and she is their idol:—<br /> +<span class="i2">It all comes back on her heart once more.</span> +In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly,<br /> +<span class="i2">The wheel is set by the shadowy wall,—</span> +A hand at the latch,—'tis lifted lightly,<br /> +<span class="i2">And in walks Benjie, manly and tall.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">His chair is placed; the old man tips<br /> +<span class="i2">The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit;</span> +Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips,<br /> +<span class="i2">And tells his story, and joints his flute:</span> +O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter!<br /> +<span class="i2">They fill the hour with a glowing tide;</span> +But sweeter the still, deep moments after,<br /> +<span class="i2">When she is alone by Benjie's side.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But once with angry words they part:<br /> +<span class="i2">O, then the weary, weary days!</span> +<a name="Page_92"></a>Ever with restless, wretched heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">Plying her task, she turns to gaze</span> +Far up the road; and early and late<br /> +<span class="i2">She harks for a footstep at the door,</span> +And starts at the gust that swings the gate,<br /> +<span class="i2">And prays for Benjie, who comes no more.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel<br /> +<span class="i2">Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?—</span> +Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel,<br /> +<span class="i2">In duty and love that lighten woe;</span> +Striving with labor, not in vain,<br /> +<span class="i2">To drive away the dull day's dreariness,—</span> +Blessing the toil that blunts the pain<br /> +<span class="i2">Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Proud and petted and spoiled was she:<br /> +<span class="i2">A word, and all her life is changed!</span> +His wavering love too easily<br /> +<span class="i2">In the great, gay city grows estranged:</span> +One year: she sits in the old church pew;<br /> +<span class="i2">A rustle, a murmur,—O Dorothy! hide</span> +Your face and shut from your soul the view—<br /> +<span class="i2">'Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Now father and mother have long been dead,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone,</span> +And a bent old man with a grizzled head<br /> +<span class="i2">Walks up the long dim aisle alone.</span> +Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy<br /> +<span class="i2">Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems,</span> +And the phantom of youth, more real than she,<br /> +<span class="i2">That meets her there in that haunt of dreams.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_93"></a>Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sought by many a youthful adorer,</span> +Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shining an endless vista before her!</span> +Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray,<br /> +<span class="i2">Groping under the farm-house eaves,—</span> +And life was a brief November day<br /> +<span class="i2">That sets on a world of withered leaves!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet faithfulness in the humblest part<br /> +<span class="i2">Is better at last than proud success,</span> +And patience and love in a chastened heart<br /> +<span class="i2">Are pearls more precious than happiness;</span> +And in that morning when she shall wake<br /> +<span class="i2">To the spring-time freshness of youth again,</span> +All trouble will seem but a flying flake,<br /> +<span class="i2">And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_NUN_AND_HARP"></a>THE NUN AND HARP.</p> + +<p class="stanza">What memory fired her pallid face,<br /> +<span class="i2">What passion stirred her blood,</span> +What tide of sorrow and desire<br /> +<span class="i2">Poured its forgotten flood</span> +Upon a heart that ceased to beat,<br /> +Long since, with thought that life was sweet,<br /> +When nights were rich with vernal dusk,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the rose burst its bud?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Had not the western glory then<br /> +<span class="i2">Stolen through the latticed room,</span> +<a name="Page_94"></a>Her funeral raiment would have shed<br /> +<span class="i2">A more heart-breaking gloom;</span> +Had not a dimpled convent-maid<br /> +Hung in the doorway, half afraid,<br /> +And left the melancholy place<br /> +<span class="i2">Bright with her blush and bloom!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Beside the gilded harp she stood,<br /> +<span class="i2">And through the singing strings</span> +Wound those wan hands of folded prayer<br /> +<span class="i2">In murmurous preludings.</span> +Then, like a voice, the harp rang high<br /> +Its melody, as climb the sky,<br /> +Melting against the melting blue,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some bird's vibrating wings.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah, why, of all the songs that grow<br /> +<span class="i2">Forever tenderer,</span> +Chose she that passionate refrain<br /> +<span class="i2">Where lovers 'mid the stir</span> +Of wassailers that round them pass<br /> +Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas,<br /> +In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled,<br /> +<span class="i2">What meant that song to her!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Slowly the western ray forsook<br /> +<span class="i2">The statue in its shrine;</span> +A sense of tears thrilled all the air<br /> +<span class="i2">Along the purpling line.</span> +Earth seemed a place of graves that rang<br /> +To hollow footsteps, while she sang,<br /> +"Drink to me only with thine eyes.<br /> +<span class="i2">And I will pledge with mine!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_95"></a><a name="FIDELITY_IN_DOUBT"></a>FIDELITY IN DOUBT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Come, lady, to my song incline,</span> +<span class="i4">The last that shall assail thine ear.</span> +<span class="i4">None other cares my strains to hear,</span> +And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted!<br /> +Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted;<br /> +But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet,<br /> +That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet!<br /> +<span class="i4">Yea, I will yield this life of mine</span> +<span class="i4">In every deed, if cause appear,</span> +<span class="i4">Without another boon to cheer.</span> +Honor it is to be by thee incited<br /> +To any deed; and I, when most benighted<br /> +By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet,<br /> +And brave men still do their occasion meet.</p> +<p class="signature">From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX.<br /> +Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON.</p> +</div> + +<a name="FAITH"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">FAITH.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Better trust all and be deceived,<br /> +And weep that trust and that deceiving,<br /> +Than doubt one heart that, if believed,<br /> +Had blessed one's life with true believing. +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, in this mocking world too fast<br /> +The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;<br /> +Better be cheated to the last<br /> +Than lose the blessed hope of truth.</p> +<p class="signature">FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE-BUTLER.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /> +<h2><a name="Page_96"></a><a name="II_PARTING_AND_ABSENCE"></a>II. PARTING AND ABSENCE</h2> + +<a name="PARTING"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">PARTING.</p> + +<p class="stanza">If thou dost bid thy friend farewell,<br /> +But for one night though that farewell may be,<br /> +Press thou his hand in thine.<br /> +How canst thou tell how far from thee<br /> +Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes?<br /> +Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street,<br /> +And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years,<br /> +Ere they have looked in loving eyes again.<br /> +Parting, at best, is underlaid<br /> +With tears and pain.<br /> +Therefore, lest sudden death should come between.<br /> +Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm<br /> +The hand of him who goeth forth;<br /> +Unseen, Fate goeth too.<br /> +Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest word<br /> +Between the idle talk,<br /> +Lest with thee henceforth,<br /> +Night and day, regret should walk.</p> + +<p class="signature">COVENTRY PATMORE.</p> +</div> + +<a name="TO_LUCASTA_ON_GOING_TO_THE_WARS"></a> +<div class="poem"><a name="Page_97"></a> +<p class="title">TO LUCASTA.</p> +<p class="subt">ON GOING TO THE WARS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde,<br /> +<span class="i2">That from the nunnerie</span> +Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde,<br /> +<span class="i2">To warre and armes I flee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">True, a new mistresse now I chase.—<br /> +<span class="i2">The first foe in the field;</span> +And with a stronger faith imbrace<br /> +<span class="i2">A sword, a horse, a shield.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet this inconstancy is such<br /> +<span class="i2">As you, too, shall adore;</span> +I could not love thee, deare, so much,<br /> +<span class="i2">Loved I not honour more.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">RICHARD LOVELACE.</p> +</div> + + +<a name="GOOD_BYE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">GOOD-BYE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"Farewell! farewell!" is often heard<br /> +<span class="i2">From the lips of those who part:</span> +'Tis a whispered tone,—'tis a gentle word,<br /> +<span class="i2">But it springs not from the heart.</span> +It may serve for the lover's closing lay,<br /> +<span class="i2">To be sung 'neath a summer sky;</span> +But give to me the lips that say<br /> +<span class="i2">The honest words, "Good-bye!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_98"></a>"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the guise of courtly speech:</span> +But when we leave the kind and dear,<br /> +<span class="i2">'Tis not what the soul would teach.</span> +Whene'er we grasp the hands of those<br /> +<span class="i2">We would have forever nigh,</span> +The flame of Friendship bursts and glows<br /> +<span class="i2">In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The mother, sending forth her child<br /> +<span class="i2">To meet with cares and strife,</span> +Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears<br /> +<span class="i2">For the loved one's future life.</span> +No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives<br /> +<span class="i2">Within her choking sigh,</span> +But the deepest sob of anguish gives,<br /> +<span class="i2">"God bless thee, boy! Good-bye!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Go, watch the pale and dying one,<br /> +<span class="i2">When the glance hast lost its beam;</span> +When the brow is cold as the marble stone,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the world a passing dream;</span> +And the latest pressure of the hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">The look of the closing eye,</span> +Yield what the heart <i>must</i> understand,<br /> +<span class="i2">A long, a last Good-bye.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + + +<a name="AE_FOND_KISS_BEFORE_WE_PART"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;<br /> +Ae fareweel, alas, forever!<br /> +Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee;<br /> +Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.<br /> +<a name="Page_99"></a>Who shall say that fortune grieves him,<br /> +While the star of hope she leaves him?<br /> +Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;<br /> +Dark despair around benights me. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy—<br /> +Naething could resist my Nancy:<br /> +But to see her was to love her,<br /> +Love but her, and love forever.<br /> +Had we never loved sae kindly,<br /> +Had we never loved sae blindly,<br /> +Never met—or never parted,<br /> +We had ne'er been broken-hearted. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!<br /> +Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!<br /> +Thine be ilka joy and treasure,<br /> +Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!<br /> +Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;<br /> +Ae fareweel, alas, forever!<br /> +Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,<br /> +Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="O_MY_LUVES_LIKE_A_RED_RED_ROSE"></a>O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O, my Luve's like a red, red rose<br /> +<span class="i2">That's newly sprung in June:</span> +O, my Luve's like the melodie<br /> +<span class="i2">That's sweetly played in tune.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,<br /> +<span class="i2">So deep in luve am I:</span> +<a name="Page_100"></a>And I will luve thee still, my dear,<br /> +<span class="i2">Till a' the seas gang dry:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear.<br /> +<span class="i2">And the rocks melt wi' the sun:</span> +And I will luve thee still, my dear,<br /> +<span class="i2">While the sands o' life shall run.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And fare thee weel, my only Luve!<br /> +<span class="i2">And fare thee weel awhile!</span> +And I will come again, my Luve,<br /> +<span class="i2">Tho' it were ten thousand mile.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MAID_OF_ATHENS_ERE_WE_PART"></a>MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Maid of Athens, ere we part,<br /> +Give, O, give me back my heart!<br /> +Or, since that has left my breast,<br /> +Keep it now, and take the rest!<br /> +Hear my vow before I go,<br /> +<span class="i2"><ins title="Transliteration: Zôê moy sas agapô.">Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω</ins>*</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">By those tresses unconfined,<br /> +Wooed by each Ægean wind;<br /> +By those lids whose jetty fringe<br /> +Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge;<br /> +By those wild eyes like the roe,<br /> +<span class="i2">Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">By that lip I long to taste;<br /> +By that zone-encircled waist;<br /> +<a name="Page_101"></a>By all the token-flowers that tell<br /> +What words can never speak so well;<br /> +By love's alternate joy and woe,<br /> +<span class="i2">Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Maid of Athens! I am gone.<br /> +Think of me, sweet! when alone.<br /> +Though I fly to Istambol,<br /> +Athens holds my heart and soul:<br /> +Can I cease to love thee? No!<br /> +<span class="i2">Zὡῃ μου σἁς ἀγαπω</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LORD BYRON.</p> +<p>* <i>Zóë mou, sas ágap[-o]</i>; My life. I love thee.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONG_OF_THE_YOUNG_HIGHLANDER"></a>SONG.</p> + +<p class="cmt">OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE BY THE "FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU."</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE."</p> + +<p class="stanza">The heath this night must be my bed,<br /> +The bracken curtain for my head,<br /> +My lullaby the warder's tread,<br /> +<span class="i2">Far, far from love and thee, Mary;</span> +To-morrow eve, more stilly laid<br /> +My couch may be my bloody plaid,<br /> +My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!<br /> +<span class="i2">It will not waken me, Mary!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I may not, dare not, fancy now<br /> +The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,<br /> +I dare not think upon thy vow,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all it promised me, Mary.</span> +<a name="Page_102"></a>No fond regret must Norman know;<br /> +When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,<br /> +His heart must be like bended bow,<br /> +<span class="i2">His foot like arrow free, Mary!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A time will come with feeling fraught!<br /> +For, if I fall in battle fought,<br /> +Thy hapless lover's dying thought<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.</span> +And if returned from conquered foes,<br /> +How blithely will the evening close,<br /> +How sweet the linnet sing repose,<br /> +<span class="i2">To my young bride and me, Mary!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SIR WALTER SCOTT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="BLACK_EYED_SUSAN"></a>BLACK-EYED SUSAN.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +All in the Downs the fleet was moored,<br /> +<span class="i2">The streamers waving in the wind,</span> +When black-eyed Susan came aboard;<br /> +<span class="i2">"O, where shall I my true-love find?</span> +Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true<br /> +If my sweet William sails among the crew." +</p> +<p class="stanza">William, who high upon the yard<br /> +<span class="i2">Rocked with the billow to and fro,</span> +Soon as her well-known voice he heard<br /> +<span class="i2">He sighed, and cast his eyes below:</span> +The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands,<br /> +And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. +</p> +<p class="stanza">So the sweet lark, high poised in air,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shuts close his pinions to his breast</span> +<a name="Page_103"></a>If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And drops at once into her nest:—</span> +The noblest captain in the British fleet<br /> +Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,<br /> +<span class="i2">My vows shall ever true remain;</span> +Let me kiss off that falling tear;<br /> +<span class="i2">We only part to meet again.</span> +Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be<br /> +The faithful compass that still points to thee. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Believe not what the landmen say<br /> +<span class="i2">Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind;</span> +They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,<br /> +<span class="i2">In every port a mistress find;</span> +Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,<br /> +For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"If to fair India's coast we sail,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,</span> +Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy skin is ivory so white.</span> +Thus every beauteous object that I view<br /> +Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Though battle call me from thy arms,<br /> +<span class="i2">Let not my pretty Susan mourn;</span> +Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms<br /> +<span class="i2">William shall to his dear return.</span> +Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,<br /> +Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_104"></a>The boatswain gave the dreadful word,<br /> +<span class="i2">The sails their swelling bosom spread;</span> +No longer must she stay aboard:<br /> +<span class="i2">They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head.</span> +Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land;<br /> +<span class="i2">"Adieu!" she cried; and waved her lily hand.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN GAY.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"><a name="THE_PARTING_LOVERS"></a> +<p class="title">THE PARTING LOVERS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">She says, "The cock crows,—hark!"<br /> +He says, "No! still 'tis dark." +</p> +<p class="stanza">She says, "The dawn grows bright,"<br /> +He says, "O no, my Light." +</p> +<p class="stanza">She says, "Stand up and say,<br /> +Gets not the heaven gray?" +</p> +<p class="stanza">He says, "The morning star<br /> +Climbs the horizon's bar." +</p> +<p class="stanza">She says, "Then quick depart:<br /> +Alas! you now must start; +</p> +<p class="stanza">But give the cock a blow<br /> +Who did begin our woe!"</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS. From the Chinese.<br /> +Translation of WILLIAM. R. ALGER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_105"></a> +<a name="LOCHABER_NO_MORE"></a>LOCHABER NO MORE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean,<br /> +Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been;<br /> +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,<br /> +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more!<br /> +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,<br /> +And no for the dangers attending on wear,<br /> +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore,<br /> +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind,<br /> +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind;<br /> +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar,<br /> +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore.<br /> +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained;<br /> +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained;<br /> +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave,<br /> +And I must deserve it before I can crave. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse;<br /> +Since honor commands me, how can I refuse?<br /> +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee,<br /> +And without thy favor I'd better not be.<br /> +I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame,<br /> +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame,<br /> +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er,<br /> +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.</p> +<p class="signature">ALLAN RAMSAY.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_106"></a> +<a name="AS_SLOW_OUR_SHIP"></a>AS SLOW OUR SHIP.</p> + +<p class="stanza">As slow our ship her foamy track<br /> +<span class="i2">Against the wind was cleaving.</span> +Her trembling pennant still looked back<br /> +<span class="i2">To that dear isle 'twas leaving.</span> +So loath we part from all we love,<br /> +<span class="i2">From all the links that bind us;</span> +So turn our hearts, as on we rove,<br /> +<span class="i2">To those we've left behind us!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When, round the bowl, of vanished years<br /> +<span class="i2">We talk with joyous seeming,—</span> +With smiles that might as well be tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">So faint, so sad their beaming;</span> +While memory brings us back again<br /> +<span class="i2">Each early tie that twined us,</span> +O, sweet's the cup that circles then<br /> +<span class="i2">To those we've left behind us!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And when, in other climes, we meet<br /> +<span class="i2">Some isle or vale enchanting,</span> +Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,<br /> +<span class="i2">And naught but love is wanting;</span> +We think how great had been our bliss<br /> + +<span class="i2">If Heaven had but assigned us</span> +To live and die in scenes like this,<br /> +<span class="i2">With some we've left behind us!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">As travellers oft look back at eve<br /> +<span class="i2">When eastward darkly going,</span> +<a name="Page_107"></a>To gaze upon that light they leave<br /> +<span class="i2">Still faint behind, them glowing,—</span> +So, when the close of pleasure's day<br /> +<span class="i2">To gloom hath near consigned us,</span> +We turn to catch one fading ray<br /> +<span class="i2">Of joy that's left behind us.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS MOORE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="QUA_CURSUM_VENTUS"></a>QUA CURSUM VENTUS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay<br /> +<span class="i2">With canvas drooping, side by side,</span> +Two towers of sail at dawn of day<br /> +<span class="i2">Are scarce long leagues apart descried.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When fell the night, up sprang the breeze,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all the darkling hours they plied,</span> +Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas<br /> +<span class="i2">By each was cleaving, side by side:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">E'en so,—but why the tale reveal<br /> +<span class="i2">Of those whom, year by year unchanged,</span> +Brief absence joined anew to feel,<br /> +<span class="i2">Astounded, soul from soul estranged?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">At dead of night their sails were filled,<br /> +<span class="i2">And onward each rejoicing steered;—</span> +Ah! neither blame, for neither willed<br /> +<span class="i2">Or wist what first with dawn appeared.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">To veer, how vain! On, onward strain,<br /> +<span class="i2">Brave barks! In light, in darkness too,</span> +<a name="Page_108"></a>Through winds and tides one compass guides;<br /> +<span class="i2">To that and your own selves be true.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But O blithe breeze! and O great seas!<br /> +<span class="i2">Though ne'er, that earliest parting past,</span> +On your wide plain they join again,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Together lead them home at last.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">One port, methought, alike they sought,—<br /> +<span class="i2">One purpose hold where'er they fare;</span> +O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,<br /> +<span class="i2">At last, at last, unite them there!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ADIEU_ADIEU_MY_NATIVE_SHORE"></a>ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Adieu, adieu! my native shore<br /> +<span class="i2">Fades o'er the waters blue;</span> +The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,<br /> +<span class="i2">And shrieks the wild sea-mew.</span> +Yon sun that sets upon the sea<br /> +<span class="i2">We follow in his flight;</span> +Farewell awhile to him and thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">My native Land—Good Night!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A few short hours, and he will rise<br /> +<span class="i2">To give the morrow birth;</span> +And I shall hail the main and skies,<br /> +<span class="i2">But not my mother earth.</span> +Deserted is my own good hall,<br /> +<span class="i2">Its hearth is desolate;</span> +<a name="Page_109"></a>Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;<br /> +<span class="i2">My dog howls at the gate.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LORD BYRON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FAREWELL_TO_HIS_WIFE"></a>FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Fare thee well! and if forever,<br /> +<span class="i2">Still forever, fare thee well;</span> +Even though unforgiving, never<br /> +<span class="i2">'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Would that breast were bared before thee<br /> +<span class="i2">Where thy head so oft hath lain,</span> +While that placid sleep came o'er thee<br /> +<span class="i2">Which thou ne'er canst know again:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Would that breast, by thee glanced over,<br /> +<span class="i2">Every inmost thought could show!</span> +Then thou wouldst at last discover<br /> +<span class="i2">'Twas not well to spurn it so.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Though the world for this commend thee,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Though it smile upon the blow,</span> +Even its praises must offend thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Founded on another's woe:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Though my many faults defaced me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Could no other arm be found</span> +Than the one which once embraced me,<br /> +<span class="i2">To inflict a cureless wound?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not:<br /> +<span class="i2">Love may sink by slow decay;</span> +<a name="Page_110"></a>But by sudden wrench, believe not<br /> +<span class="i2">Hearts can thus be torn away:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Still thy own its life retaineth,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;</span> +And the undying thought which paineth<br /> +<span class="i2">Is—that we no more may meet.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">These are words of deeper sorrow<br /> +<span class="i2">Than the wail above the dead;</span> +Both shall live, but every morrow<br /> +<span class="i2">Wake us from a widowed bed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And when thou wouldst solace gather,<br /> +<span class="i2">When our child's first accents flow,</span> +Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!"<br /> +<span class="i2">Though his care she must forego?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When her little hands shall press thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">When her lip to thine is pressed,</span> +Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Think of him thy love had blessed!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Should her lineaments resemble<br /> +<span class="i2">Those thou nevermore mayst see,</span> +Then thy heart will softly tremble<br /> +<span class="i2">With a pulse yet true to me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">All my faults perchance thou knowest,<br /> +<span class="i2">All my madness none can know;</span> +All my hopes, where'er thou goest,<br /> +<span class="i2">Wither, yet with <i>thee</i> they go.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_111"></a>Every feeling hath been shaken;<br /> +<span class="i2">Pride, which not a world could bow,</span> +Bows to thee,—by thee forsaken,<br /> +<span class="i2">Even my soul forsakes me now;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But 't is done; all words are idle,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Words from me are vainer still;</span> +But the thoughts we cannot bridle<br /> +<span class="i2">Force their way without the will.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fare thee well!—thus disunited,<br /> +<span class="i2">Torn from every nearer tie,</span> +Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted,<br /> +<span class="i2">More than this I scarce can die.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LORD BYRON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="COME_LET_US_KISSE_AND_PARTE"></a>COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Since there's no helpe,—come, let us kisse and parte,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nay, I have done,—you get no more of me;</span> +And I am glad,—yea, glad with all my hearte,<br /> +<span class="i2">That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free.</span> +Shake hands forever!—cancel all our vows;<br /> +<span class="i2">And when we meet at any time againe,</span> +Be it not seene in either of our brows,<br /> +<span class="i2">That we one jot of former love retaine.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Now—at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath—<br /> +<span class="i2">When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;</span> +When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,<br /> +<span class="i2">And Innocence is closing up his eyes,</span> +<a name="Page_112"></a>Now! if thou wouldst—when all have given him over—<br /> +<span class="i2">From death to life thou mightst him yet recover.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MICHAEL DRAYTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FAREWELL_THOU_ART_TOO_DEAR"></a>FAREWELL! THOU ART TOO DEAR.</p> +<p class="subt">SONNET LXXXVII.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,<br /> +And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:<br /> +The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;<br /> +My bonds in thee are all determinate.<br /> +For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?<br /> +And for that riches where is my deserving?<br /> +The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,<br /> +And so my patent back again is swerving.<br /> +Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing?<br /> +Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking;<br /> +So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,<br /> +Comes home again, on better judgment making.<br /> +Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter;<br /> +In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter.</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="KATHLEEN_MAVOURNEEN"></a>KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking,<br /> +<span class="i2">The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill;</span> +<a name="Page_113"></a>The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?<br /> +<span class="i2">Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part?</span> +It may be for years, and it may be forever!<br /> +<span class="i2">Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?</span> +Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers!<br /> +<span class="i2">The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light;</span> +Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers?<br /> +<span class="i2">Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,<br /> +<span class="i2">To think that from Erin and thee I must part!</span> +It may be for years, and it may be forever!<br /> +<span class="i2">Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?</span> +Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen? +</p> +<p class="signature">JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="WE_PARTED_IN_SILENCE"></a>WE PARTED IN SILENCE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">We parted in silence, we parted by night,<br /> +<span class="i2">On the banks of that lonely river;</span> +Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite,<br /> +<span class="i2">We met—and we parted forever!</span> +<a name="Page_114"></a>The night-bird sung, and the stars above<br /> +<span class="i2">Told many a touching story,</span> +Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where the soul wears its mantle of glory.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We parted in silence,—our cheeks were wet<br /> +<span class="i2">With the tears that were past controlling;</span> +We vowed we would never, no, never forget,<br /> +<span class="i2">And those vows at the time were consoling;</span> +But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine<br /> +<span class="i2">Are as cold as that lonely river;</span> +And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine,<br /> +<span class="i2">Has shrouded its fires forever.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And now on the midnight sky I look,<br /> +<span class="i2">And my heart grows full of weeping;</span> +Each star is to me a sealèd book,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some tale of that loved one keeping.</span> +We parted in silence,—we parted in tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">On the banks of that lonely river:</span> +But the odor and bloom of those bygone years<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall hang o'er its waters forever.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AUF_WIEDERSEHEN"></a>AUF WIEDERSEHEN.</p> +<p class="subt">SUMMER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The little gate was reached at last,<br /> +<span class="i2">Half hid in lilacs down the lane;</span> +She pushed it wide, and, as she past,<br /> +A wistful look she backward cast,<br /> +<span class="i2">And said,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_115"></a>With hand on latch, a vision white<br /> +<span class="i2">Lingered reluctant, and again</span> +Half doubting if she did aright,<br /> +Soft as the dews that fell that night,<br /> +<span class="i2">She said,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair;<br /> +<span class="i2">I linger in delicious pain;</span> +Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air<br /> +To breathe in thought I scarcely dare,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thinks she,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +'Tis thirteen years; once more I press<br /> +<span class="i2">The turf that silences the lane;</span> +I hear the rustle of her dress,<br /> +I smell the lilacs, and—ah, yes,<br /> +<span class="i2">I hear,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sweet piece of bashful maiden art!<br /> +<span class="i2">The English words had seemed too fain,</span> +But these—they drew us heart to heart,<br /> +Yet held us tenderly apart;<br /> +<span class="i2">She said,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="PALINODE"></a>PALINODE.</p> +<p class="subt">AUTUMN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now<br /> +<span class="i2">On field and hill, in heart and brain;</span> +The naked trees at evening sough; <br /> +The leaf to the forsaken bough<br /> +<span class="i2">Sighs not,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_116"></a>Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome,<br /> +<span class="i2">That now is void, and dank with rain,</span> +And one,—oh, hope more frail than foam! <br /> +The bird to his deserted home<br /> +<span class="i2">Sings not,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The loath gate swings with rusty creak;<br /> +<span class="i2">Once, parting there, we played at pain;</span> +There came a parting, when the weak<br /> +And fading lips essayed to speak<br /> +<span class="i2">Vainly,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though thou in outer dark remain;</span> +One sweet sad voice ennobles death,<br /> +And still, for eighteen centuries saith<br /> +<span class="i2">Softly,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">If earth another grave must bear,<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain,</span> +And something whispers my despair,<br /> +That, from an orient chamber there,<br /> +<span class="i2">Floats down,—"<i>Auf wiedersehen</i>!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FAREWELL_BUT_WHENEVER"></a>FAREWELL!—BUT WHENEVER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Farewell!—but whenever you welcome the hour<br /> +That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower.<br /> +Then think of the friend that once welcomed it too.<br /> +<a name="Page_117"></a>And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you.<br /> +His griefs may return—not a hope may remain<br /> +Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain—<br /> +But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw<br /> +Its enchantment around him while lingering with you! +</p> +<p class="stanza">And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up<br /> +To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup,<br /> +Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright,<br /> +My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night;<br /> +Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles,<br /> +And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles—<br /> +Too blest if it tell me that, 'mid the gay cheer,<br /> +Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!" +</p> +<p class="stanza">Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy,<br /> +Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy;<br /> +Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care,<br /> +And bring back the features which joy used to wear.<br /> +Long, long be my heart with such memories filled!<br /> +Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled—<br /> +You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will,<br /> +But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS MOORE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_118"></a> +<a name="PARTING_OF_HECTOR_AND_ANDROMACHE"></a>PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE ILIAD," BOOK VI.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">"Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run?</span> +Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son!<br /> +And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be,<br /> +A widow I, a helpless orphan he!<br /> +For sure such courage length of life denies,<br /> +And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice.<br /> +Greece in her single heroes strove in vain;<br /> +Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain!<br /> +Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom,<br /> +All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb!<br /> +So shall my days in one sad tenor run,<br /> +And end with sorrows as they first begun.<br /> +No parent now remains, my griefs to share,<br /> +No father's aid, no mother's tender care.<br /> +The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire,<br /> +Laid Thebè waste, and slew my warlike sire!<br /> +His fate compassion in the victor bred;<br /> +Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead,<br /> +His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil,<br /> +And laid him decent on the funeral pile;<br /> +Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned;<br /> +The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned;<br /> +Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow<br /> +A barren shade, and in his honor grow.<br /></p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">· · · · · ·</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2"><a name="Page_119"></a>"Yet while my Hector still survives, I see</span> +My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee.<br /> +Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all,<br /> +Once more will perish if my Hector fall.<br /> +Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share;<br /> +Oh prove a husband's and a father's care!<br /> +That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy,<br /> +Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy:<br /> +Thou, from this tower defend th'important post;<br /> +There Agamemnon points his dreadful host,<br /> +That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain,<br /> +And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train.<br /> +Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given,<br /> +Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven.<br /> +Let others in the field their arms employ,<br /> +But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy."<br /> +<span class="i2">The chief replied: "That post shall be my care,</span> +Nor that alone, but all the works of war.<br /> +[How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned,<br /> +And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground,<br /> +Attaint the lustre of my former name,<br /> +Should Hector basely quit the field of fame?<br /> +My early youth was bred to martial pains,<br /> +My soul impels me to th' embattled plains:<br /> +Let me be foremost to defend the throne,<br /> +And guard my father's glories, and my own.<br /> +Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates;<br /> +(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates)<br /> +The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend,<br /> +And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end.<br /> +And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind,<br /> +<a name="Page_120"></a>My mother's death, the ruin of my kind,<br /> +Not Priam's hoary hairs denied with gore,<br /> +Not all my brothers gasping on the shore;<br /> +As thine, Andromachè! thy griefs I dread;<br /> +I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!]<br /> +In Argive looms our battles to design,<br /> +And woes of which so large a part was thine!<br /> +To bear the victor's hard commands or bring<br /> +The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring.<br /> +There, while you groan beneath the load of life,<br /> +They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife!<br /> +Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see,<br /> +Embitters all thy woes by naming me.<br /> +The thoughts of glory past, and present shame,<br /> +A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name!<br /> +May I lie cold before that dreadful day,<br /> +Pressed with a load of monumental clay!<br /> +Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep,<br /> +Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep."<br /> +<span class="i2">Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy</span> +Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.<br /> +The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast,<br /> +Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest.<br /> +With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled,<br /> +And Hector hastèd to relieve his child;<br /> +The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,<br /> +And placed the beaming helmet on the ground.<br /> +Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air,<br /> +Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer:<br /> +<span class="i2">"O thou whose glory fills th' ethereal throne,</span> +And all ye deathless powers! protect my son!<br /> +Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,<br /> +To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown,<br /> +<a name="Page_121"></a>Against his country's foes the war to wage,<br /> +And rise the Hector of the future age!<br /> +So when, triumphant from successful toils,<br /> +Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,<br /> +Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,<br /> +And say, This chief transcends his father's fame:<br /> +While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy,<br /> +His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy."<br /> +<span class="i2">He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms</span> +Restored the pleasing burden to her arms;<br /> +Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid,<br /> +Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed.<br /> +The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear,<br /> +She mingled with the smile a tender tear.<br /> +The softened chief with kind compassion viewed,<br /> +And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued:<br /> +<span class="i2">"Andromachè! my soul's far better part,</span> +Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart?<br /> +No hostile hand can antedate my doom,<br /> +Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb.<br /> +Fixed is the term to all the race of earth,<br /> +And such the hard condition of our birth.<br /> +No force can then resist, no flight can save;<br /> +All sink alike, the fearful and the brave.<br /> +No more—but hasten to thy tasks at home,<br /> +There guide the spindle, and direct the loom:<br /> +Me glory summons to the martial scene,<br /> +The field of combat is the sphere for men.<br /> +Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim,<br /> +The first in danger as the first in fame."<br /> +<span class="i2">Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes</span> +His towery helmet, black with shading plumes.<br /> +His princess parts with a prophetic sigh,<br /> +<a name="Page_122"></a>Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye,<br /> +That streamed at every look: then, moving slow,<br /> +Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe.<br /> +There, while her tears deplored the godlike man,<br /> +Through all her train the soft infection ran;<br /> +The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed,<br /> +And mourn the living Hector as the dead.</p> +<p class="signature">From the Greek of HOMER.<br /> +Translation of ALEXANDER POPE.</p> +</div> + +<a name="HECTOR_TO_HIS_WIFE"></a> +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">HECTOR TO HIS WIFE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI.</p> + +<p class="cmt">[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of translation. It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from +Pope's version.]</p> + +<p class="fullst">I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproaches<br /> +Both of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja,<br /> +If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat:<br /> +Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant,<br /> +Fighting aye 'mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle,<br /> +Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted.<br /> +Well, too well, do I know,—both my mind and my spirit agreeing,<br /> +<a name="Page_123"></a>That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish.<br /> +Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed.<br /> +Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction,<br /> +No, nor for Hecuba's self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father,<br /> +Nor for my brothers' fate, who, though they be many and valiant,<br /> +All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia,<br /> +As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed Achæans<br /> +Weeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom.</p> +<p class="signature">Translation of E.C. HAWTREY.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TO_LUCASTA"></a>TO LUCASTA.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">If to be absent were to be</span> +<span class="i6">Away from thee;</span> +<span class="i4">Or that, when I am gone,</span> +<span class="i4">You or I were alone;</span> +<span class="i2">Then, my Lucasta, might I crave</span> +Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">But I'll not sigh one blast or gale</span> +<span class="i6">To swell my sail,</span> +<span class="i4">Or pay a tear to 'suage</span> +<span class="i4">The foaming blue-god's rage;</span> +<span class="i2">For, whether he will let me pass</span> +Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2"><a name="Page_124"></a>Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both,</span> +<span class="i6">Our faith and troth,</span> +<span class="i4">Like separated souls,</span> +<span class="i4">All time and space controls:</span> +<span class="i2">Above the highest sphere we meet,</span> +Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">So, then, we do anticipate</span> +<span class="i6">Our after-fate,</span> +<span class="i4">And are alive i' the skies,</span> +<span class="i4">If thus our lips and eyes</span> +<span class="i2">Can speak like spirits unconfined</span> +In heaven,—their earthly bodies left behind.</p> +<p class="signature">RICHARD LOVELACE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TO_HER_ABSENT_SAILOR"></a>TO HER ABSENT SAILOR.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH."</p> + +<p class="stanza">Her window opens to the bay,<br /> +On glistening light or misty gray,<br /> +And there at dawn and set of day<br /> +<span class="i2">In prayer she kneels:</span> +"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home<br /> +From wind and wave the wanderers come;<br /> +I only see the tossing foam<br /> +<span class="i2">Of stranger keels.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Blown out and in by summer gales,<br /> +The stately ships, with crowded sails,<br /> +And sailors leaning o'er their rails,<br /> +<span class="i2">Before me glide;</span> +<a name="Page_125"></a>They come, they go, but nevermore,<br /> +Spice-laden from the Indian shore,<br /> +I see his swift-winged Isidore<br /> +<span class="i2">The waves divide.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"O Thou! with whom the night is day<br /> +And one the near and far away,<br /> +Look out on yon gray waste, and say<br /> +<span class="i2">Where lingers he.</span> +Alive, perchance, on some lone beach<br /> +Or thirsty isle beyond the reach<br /> +Of man, he hears the mocking speech<br /> +<span class="i2">Of wind and sea.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"O dread and cruel deep, reveal<br /> +The secret which thy waves conceal,<br /> +And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel<br /> +<span class="i2">And tell your tale.</span> +Let winds that tossed his raven hair<br /> +A message from my lost one bear,—<br /> +Some thought of me, a last fond prayer<br /> +<span class="i2">Or dying wail!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out<br /> +The fears that haunt me round about;<br /> +O God! I cannot bear this doubt<br /> +<span class="i2">That stifles breath.</span> +The worst is better than the dread;<br /> +Give me but leave to mourn my dead<br /> +Asleep in trust and hope, instead<br /> +<span class="i2">Of life in death!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">It might have been the evening breeze<br /> +That whispered in the garden trees,<br /> +It might have been the sound of seas<br /> +<a name="Page_126"></a><span class="i2">That rose and fell;</span> +But, with her heart, if not her ear,<br /> +The old loved voice she seemed to hear:<br /> +"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer,<br /> +<span class="i2">For all is well!"</span></p> + +<p class="signature">JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="I_LOVE_MY_JEAN"></a>I LOVE MY JEAN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Of a' the airts* the wind can blaw,<br /> +<span class="i2">I dearly like the west;</span> +For there the bonnie lassie lives,<br /> +<span class="i2">The lassie I lo'e best.</span> +There wild woods grow, and rivers row,<br /> +<span class="i2">And monie a hill's between;</span> +But day and night my fancy's flight<br /> +<span class="i2">Is ever wi' my Jean.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I see her in the dewy flowers,<br /> +<span class="i2">I see her sweet and fair;</span> +I hear her in the tunefu' birds,<br /> +<span class="i2">I hear her charm the air;</span> +There's not a bonnie flower that springs<br /> +<span class="i2">By fountain, shaw, or green;</span> +There's not a bonnie bird that sings,<br /> +<span class="i2">But minds me of my Jean.</span></p> + +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +<p>* The points of the compass.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_127"></a><a name="JEANIE_MORRISON"></a>JEANIE MORRISON.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I've wandered east, I've wandered west,<br /> +<span class="i2">Through mony a weary way;</span> +But never, never can forget<br /> +<span class="i2">The luve o' life's young day!</span> +The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en<br /> +<span class="i2">May weel be black gin Yule;</span> +But blacker fa' awaits the heart<br /> +<span class="i2">Where first fond luve grows cule.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,<br /> +<span class="i2">The thochts o' bygane years</span> +Still fling their shadows ower my path,<br /> +<span class="i2">And blind my een wi' tears:</span> +They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sair and sick I pine,</span> +As memory idly summons up<br /> +<span class="i2">The blithe blinks o' langsyne.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel,<br /> +<span class="i2">'Twas then we twa did part;</span> +Sweet time—sad time! twa bairns at scule,<br /> +<span class="i2">Twa bairns, and but ae heart!</span> +'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,<br /> +<span class="i2">To leir ilk ither lear;</span> +And tones and looks and smiles were shed,<br /> +<span class="i2">Remembered evermair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,<br /> +<span class="i2">When sitting on that bink,</span> +<a name="Page_128"></a>Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof,<br /> +<span class="i2">What our wee heads could think.</span> +When baith bent doun ower ae braid page,<br /> +<span class="i2">Wi' ae buik on our knee,</span> +Thy lips were on thy lesson, but<br /> +<span class="i2">My lesson was in thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, mind ye how we hung our heads,<br /> +<span class="i2">How cheeks brent red wi' shame,</span> +Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said<br /> +<span class="i2">We cleeked thegither hame?</span> +And mind ye o' the Saturdays,<br /> +<span class="i2">(The scule then skail't at noon,)</span> +When we ran off to speel the braes,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The broomy braes o' June?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My head rins round and round about,—<br /> +<span class="i2">My heart flows like a sea,</span> +As ane by ane the thochts rush back<br /> +<span class="i2">O' scule-time, and o' thee.</span> +O mornin' life! O mornin' luve!<br /> +<span class="i2">O lichtsome days and lang,</span> +When hinnied hopes around our hearts<br /> +<span class="i2">Like simmer blossoms sprang!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left<br /> +<span class="i2">The deavin', dinsome toun,</span> +To wander by the green burnside,<br /> +<span class="i2">And hear its waters croon?</span> +The simmer leaves hung ower our heads,<br /> +<span class="i2">The flowers burst round our feet,</span> +And in the gloamin' o' the wood<br /> +<span class="i2">The throssil whusslit sweet;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_129"></a>The throssil whusslit in the woods,<br /> +<span class="i2">The burn sang to the trees,—</span> +And we, with nature's heart in tune,<br /> +<span class="i2">Concerted harmonies;</span> +And on the knowe abune the burn,<br /> +<span class="i2">For hours thegither sat</span> +In the silentness o' joy, till baith<br /> +<span class="i2">Wi' very gladness grat.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,<br /> +<span class="i2">Tears trickled doun your cheek</span> +Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane<br /> +<span class="i2">Had ony power to speak!</span> +That was a time, a blessed time,<br /> +<span class="i2">When hearts were fresh and young,</span> +When freely gushed all feelings forth,<br /> +<span class="i2">Unsyllabled—unsung!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I marvel, Jeanie Morrison,<br /> +<span class="i2">Gin I hae been to thee</span> +As closely twined wi' earliest thochts<br /> +<span class="i2">As ye hae been to me?</span> +O, tell me gin their music fills<br /> +<span class="i2">Thine ear as it does mine!</span> +O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit<br /> +<span class="i2">Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I've wandered east, I've wandered west,<br /> +<span class="i2">I've borne a weary lot;</span> +But in my wanderings, far or near,<br /> +<span class="i2">Ye never were forgot.</span> +The fount that first burst frae this heart<br /> +<span class="i2">Still travels on its way;</span> +<a name="Page_130"></a>And channels deeper, as it rins,<br /> +<span class="i2">The luve o' life's young day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,<br /> +<span class="i2">Since we were sindered young</span> +I've never seen your face nor heard<br /> +<span class="i2">The music o' your tongue;</span> +But I could hug all wretchedness,<br /> +<span class="i2">And happy could I dee,</span> +Did I but ken your heart still dreamed<br /> +<span class="i2">O' bygane days and me!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="O_SAW_YE_BONNIE_LESLIE"></a>O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE?</p> + +<p class="stanza">O, saw ye bonnie Leslie<br /> +<span class="i2">As she gaed o'er the border?</span> +She's gane, like Alexander,<br /> +<span class="i2">To spread her conquests farther.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">To see her is to love her, +<span class="i2">And love but her forever;</span> +For nature made her what she is,<br /> +<span class="i2">And ne'er made sic anither!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thou art a queen, fair Leslie,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy subjects we, before thee;</span> +Thou art divine, fair Leslie,<br /> +<span class="i2">The hearts o' men adore thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The deil he could na scaith thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or aught that wad belang thee;</span> +<a name="Page_131"></a>He'd look into thy bonnie face,<br /> +<span class="i2">And say, "I canna wrang thee!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The Powers aboon will tent thee;<br /> +<span class="i2">Misfortune sha' na steer* thee;</span> +Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely<br /> +<span class="i2">That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Return again, fair Leslie,<br /> +<span class="i2">Return to Caledonie!</span> +That we may brag we hae a lass<br /> +<span class="i2">There's nane again sae bonnie.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +<p>* Harm.</p> +</div> + + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_RUSTIC_LADS_LAMENT_IN_THE_TOWN"></a>THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">O, wad that my time were owre but,<br /> +<span class="i2">Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw,</span> +That I might see our house again,<br /> +<span class="i2">I' the bonnie birken shaw!</span> +For this is no my ain life,<br /> +<span class="i2">And I peak and pine away</span> +Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the glad green month of May.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I used to wauk in the morning<br /> +<span class="i2">Wi' the loud sang o' the lark,</span> +And the whistling o' the ploughman lads,<br /> +<span class="i2">As they gaed to their wark;</span> +I used to wear the bit young lambs<br /> +<span class="i2">Frae the tod and the roaring stream;</span> +<a name="Page_132"></a>But the warld is changed, and a' thing now<br /> +<span class="i2">To me seems like a dream.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">There are busy crowds around me,<br /> +<span class="i2">On ilka lang dull street;</span> +Yet, though sae mony surround me,<br /> +<span class="i2">I ken na are I meet:</span> +And I think o' kind kent faces,<br /> +<span class="i2">And o' blithe an' cheery days,</span> +When I wandered out wi' our ain folk,<br /> +<span class="i2">Out owre the simmer braes.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Waes me, for my heart is breaking!<br /> +<span class="i2">I think o' my brither sma',</span> +And on my sister greeting,<br /> +<span class="i2">When I cam frae hame awa.</span> +And O, how my mither sobbit,<br /> +<span class="i2">As she shook me by the hand,</span> +When I left the door o' our auld house,<br /> +<span class="i2">To come to this stranger land.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">There's nae hame like our ain hame—<br /> +<span class="i2">O, I wush that I were there!</span> +There's nae hame like our ain hame<br /> +<span class="i2">To be met wi' onywhere;</span> +And O that I were back again,<br /> +<span class="i2">To our farm and fields sae green;</span> +And heard the tongues o' my ain folk,<br /> +<span class="i2">And were what I hae been!</span></p> + +<p class="signature">DAVID MACBETH MOIR.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il03"></a> +<a href="./images/133.jpg"><img src="./images/133_th.jpg" alt="ABSENCE" title="ABSENCE" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">ABSENCE<br />"What shall I do with all the days and hours<br /> +That must be counted ere I see thy face?"<br /> +<i>From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after a painting by R. Pötzelberger.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_133"></a>ABSENCE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">What shall I do with all the days and hours<br /> +<span class="i2">That must be counted ere I see thy face?</span> +How shall I charm the interval that lowers<br /> +<span class="i2">Between this time and that sweet time of grace?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense,<br /> +<span class="i2">Weary with longing?—shall I flee away</span> +Into past days, and with some fond pretence<br /> +<span class="i2">Cheat myself to forget the present day?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin<br /> +<span class="i2">Of casting from me God's great gift of time?</span> +Shall I, these mists of memory locked within,<br /> +<span class="i2">Leave and forget life's purposes sublime?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, how or by what means may I contrive<br /> +<span class="i2">To bring the hour that brings thee back more near?</span> +How may I teach my drooping hope to live<br /> +<span class="i2">Until that blessèd time, and thou art here?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold<br /> +<span class="i2">Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee,</span> +In worthy deeds, each moment that is told<br /> +<span class="i2">While thou, belovèd one! art far from me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try<br /> +<span class="i2">All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains;</span> +<a name="Page_134"></a>For thy dear sake I will walk patiently<br /> +<span class="i2">Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I will this dreary blank of absence make<br /> +<span class="i2">A noble task-time; and will therein strive</span> +To follow excellence, and to o'ertake<br /> +<span class="i2">More good than I have won since yet I live.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +So may this doomèd time build up in me<br /> +<span class="i2">A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine;</span> +So may my love and longing hallowed be,<br /> +<span class="i2">And thy dear thought an influence divine.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ROBIN_ADAIR"></a>ROBIN ADAIR.</p> + +<p class="stanza">What's this dull town to me?<br /> +<span class="i4">Robin's not near,—</span> +He whom I wished to see,<br /> +<span class="i4">Wished for to hear;</span> +Where's all the joy and mirth<br /> +Made life a heaven on earth,<br /> +O, they're all fled with thee,<br /> +<span class="i4">Robin Adair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What made the assembly shine?<br /> +<span class="i4">Robin Adair:</span> +What made the ball so fine?<br /> +<span class="i4">Robin was there:</span> +What, when the play was o'er,<br /> +What made my heart so sore?<br /> +<a name="Page_135"></a>O, it was parting with<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But now thou art far from me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair;</span> +But now I never see<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair;</span> +Yet him I loved so well<br /> +Still in my heart shall dwell;<br /> +O, I can ne'er forget<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Welcome on shore again,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair!</span> +Welcome once more again,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair!</span> +I feel thy trembling hand;<br /> +Tears in thy eyelids stand,<br /> +To greet thy native land,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Long I ne'er saw thee, love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair;</span> +Still I prayed for thee, love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair;</span> +When thou wert far at sea,<br /> +Many made love to me,<br /> +But still I thought on thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Come to my heart again,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair;</span> +<a name="Page_136"></a>Never to part again,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair;</span> +And if thou still art true,<br /> +I will be constant too,<br /> +And will wed none but you,<br /> +<span class="i2">Robin Adair!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="DAISY"></a>DAISY.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Where the thistle lifts a purple crown<br /> +<span class="i2">Six foot out of the turf,</span> +And the harebell shakes on the windy hill—<br /> +<span class="i2">O the breath of the distant surf!—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The hills look over on the South,<br /> +<span class="i2">And southward dreams the sea;</span> +And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">Came innocence and she.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry<br /> +<span class="i2">Red for the gatherer springs,</span> +Two children did we stray and talk<br /> +<span class="i2">Wise, idle, childish things.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She listened with big-lipped surprise,<br /> +<span class="i2">Breast-deep mid flower and spine:</span> +Her skin was like a grape, whose veins<br /> +<span class="i2">Run snow instead of wine.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She knew not those sweet words she spake.<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor knew her own sweet way;</span> +<a name="Page_137"></a>But there's never a bird, so sweet a song<br /> +<span class="i2">Thronged in whose throat that day!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Oh, there were flowers in Storrington<br /> +<span class="i2">On the turf and on the sprays;</span> +But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills<br /> +<span class="i2">Was the Daisy-flower that day!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face!<br /> +<span class="i2">She gave me tokens three:—</span> +A look, a word of her winsome mouth,<br /> +<span class="i2">And a wild raspberry.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A berry red, a guileless look,<br /> +<span class="i2">A still word,—strings of sand!</span> +And yet they made my wild, wild heart<br /> +<span class="i2">Fly down to her little hand.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For standing artless as the air,<br /> +<span class="i2">And candid as the skies,</span> +She took the berries with her hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the love with her sweet eyes.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The fairest things have fleetest end:<br /> +<span class="i2">Their scent survives their close,</span> +But the rose's scent is bitterness<br /> +<span class="i2">To him that loved the rose!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She looked a little wistfully,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then went her sunshine way:—</span> +The sea's eye had a mist on it,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the leaves fell from the day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_138"></a>She went her unremembering way,<br /> +<span class="i2">She went and left in me</span> +The pang of all the partings gone,<br /> +<span class="i2">And partings yet to be.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She left me marvelling why my soul<br /> +<span class="i2">Was sad that she was glad;</span> +At all the sadness in the sweet,<br /> +<span class="i2">The sweetness in the sad.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Still, still I seemed to see her, still<br /> +<span class="i2">Look up with soft replies,</span> +And take the berries with her hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the love with her lovely eyes.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nothing begins, and nothing ends,<br /> +<span class="i2">That is not paid with moan;</span> +For we are born in others' pain,<br /> +<span class="i2">And perish in our own.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">FRANCIS THOMPSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONG_OF_EGLA"></a>SONG OF EGLA.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Day, in melting purple dying;<br /> +Blossoms, all around me sighing;<br /> +Fragrance, from the lilies straying;<br /> +Zephyr, with my ringlets playing;<br /> +<span class="i4">Ye but waken my distress;</span> +<span class="i4">I am sick of loneliness!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thou, to whom I love to hearken,<br /> +Come, ere night around me darken;<br /> +<a name="Page_139"></a>Though thy softness but deceive me,<br /> +Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee;<br /> +<span class="i4">Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent,</span> +<span class="i4">Let me think it innocent!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure;<br /> +All I ask is friendship's pleasure;<br /> +Let the shining ore lie darkling,—<br /> +Bring no gem in lustre sparkling;<br /> +<span class="i4">Gifts and gold are naught to me,</span> +<span class="i4">I would only look on thee!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling,<br /> +Ecstasy but in revealing;<br /> +Paint to thee the deep sensation,<br /> +Rapture in participation;<br /> +<span class="i4">Yet but torture, if comprest</span> +<span class="i4">In a lone, unfriended breast.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Absent still! Ah! come and bless me!<br /> +Let these eyes again caress thee.<br /> +Once in caution, I could fly thee;<br /> +Now, I nothing could deny thee.<br /> +<span class="i4">In a look if death there be,</span> +<span class="i4">Come, and I will gaze on thee!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (<i>Maria del Occidente</i>).</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="WHAT_AILS_THIS_HEART_O_MINE"></a>WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE?</p> +<p class="stanza"> +What ails this heart o' mine?<br /> +<span class="i2">What ails this watery ee?</span> +What gars me a' turn pale as death<br /> +<span class="i2">When I take leave o' thee?</span> +<a name="Page_140"></a>Whea thou art far awa',<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou'lt dearer grow to me;</span> +But change o' place and change o' folk<br /> +<span class="i2">May gar thy fancy jee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When I gae out at e'en,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or walk at morning air,</span> +Ilk rustling bush will seem to say<br /> +<span class="i2">I used to meet thee there:</span> +Then I'll sit down and cry,<br /> +<span class="i2">And live aneath the tree,</span> +And when a leaf fa's i' my lap,<br /> +<span class="i2">I'll ca't a word frae thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I'll hie me to the bower<br /> +<span class="i2">That thou wi' roses tied,</span> +And where wi' mony a blushing bud<br /> +<span class="i2">I strove myself to hide.</span> +I'll doat on ilka spot<br /> +<span class="i2">Where I ha'e been wi' thee;</span> +And ca' to mind some kindly word<br /> +<span class="i2">By ilka burn and tree.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SUSANNA BLAMIRE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LOVES_MEMORY"></a>LOVE'S MEMORY.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I am undone: there is no living, none,<br /> +If Bertram be away. It were all one,<br /> +That I should love a bright particular star,<br /> +And think to wed it, he is so above me:<br /> +<a name="Page_141"></a>In his bright radiance and collateral light<br /> +Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.<br /> +The ambition in my love thus plagues itself:<br /> +The hind that would be mated by the lion<br /> +Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,<br /> +To see him every hour; to sit and draw<br /> +His archèd brows, his hawking eye, his curls,<br /> +In our heart's table,—heart too capable<br /> +Of every line and trick of his sweet favor:<br /> +But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy<br /> +Must sanctify his relics. +</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ABSENCE"></a>ABSENCE.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +When I think on the happy days<br /> +<span class="i2">I spent wi' you, my dearie;</span> +And now what lands between us lie,<br /> +<span class="i2">How can I be but eerie!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,<br /> +<span class="i2">As ye were wae and weary!</span> +It was na sae ye glinted by<br /> +<span class="i2">When I was wi' my dearie.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THINKIN_LONG"></a>THINKIN' LONG.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Oh thinkin' long's the weary work!<br /> +It breaks my heart from dawn<br /> +Till all the wee, wee, friendly stars<br /> +Come out at dayli'gone.<br /> +<a name="Page_142"></a>An' thinkin' long's the weary work,<br /> +When I must spin and spin,<br /> +To drive the fearsome fancies out,<br /> +An' hold the hopeful in! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah, sure my lad is far away!<br /> +My lad who left our glen<br /> +When from the soul of Ireland came<br /> +A call for fightin' men;<br /> +I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright,<br /> +I miss his liltin' song,<br /> +And that is why, the lonesome day,<br /> +I'm always thinkin' long. +</p> +<p class="stanza">May God's kind angels guard him<br /> +When the fray is fierce and grim,<br /> +And blunt the point of every sword<br /> +That turns its hate on him.<br /> +Where round the torn yet dear green flag<br /> +The brave and lovin' throng—<br /> +But the lasses of Glenwherry smile<br /> +At me for thinkin' long. +</p> +<p class="signature">ANNA MAC MANUS (<i>Ethna Carbery</i>).</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TEARS_IDLE_TEARS"></a>"TEARS, IDLE TEARS."</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE PRINCESS."</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,</span> +Tears from the depth of some divine despair<br /> +Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,<br /> +In looking on the happy autumn fields,<br /> +And thinking of the days that are no more. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_143"></a><span class="i2">Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,</span> +That brings our friends up from the under world;<br /> +Sad as the last which reddens over one<br /> +That sinks with all we love below the verge,—<br /> +So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns</span> +The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds<br /> +To dying ears, when unto dying eyes<br /> +The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;<br /> +So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Dear as remembered kisses after death,</span> +And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned<br /> +On lips that are for others; deep as love,<br /> +Deep as first love and wild with all regret,—<br /> +O Death in Life, the days that are no more. +</p> +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_OLD_FAMILIAR_FACES"></a>THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I have had playmates, I have had companions,<br /> +In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days;<br /> +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I have been laughing, I have been carousing,<br /> +Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies;<br /> +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I loved a Love once, fairest among women:<br /> +Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,—<br /> +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_144"></a>I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man:<br /> +Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;<br /> +Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood,<br /> +Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse,<br /> +Seeking to find the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,<br /> +Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?<br /> +So might we talk of the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="stanza">How some they have died, and some they have left me,<br /> +And some are taken from me; all are departed;<br /> +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. +</p> +<p class="signature">CHARLES LAMB.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="COME_TO_ME_DEAREST"></a>COME TO ME, DEAREST.</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee,<br /> +Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee;<br /> +Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee;<br /> +Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee.<br /> +Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten,<br /> +Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten;<br /> +Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly,<br /> +Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin,<br /> +Telling of spring and its joyous renewing;<br /> +<a name="Page_145"></a>And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure,<br /> +Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure.<br /> +O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom,<br /> +Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom;<br /> +The waste of my life has a rose-root within it,<br /> +And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Figure that moves like a song through the even;<br /> +Features lit up by a reflex of heaven;<br /> +Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother,<br /> +Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other;<br /> +Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple,<br /> +Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;—<br /> +O, thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming<br /> +Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. +</p> +<p class="stanza">You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened;<br /> +Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened?<br /> +Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love,<br /> +As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love:<br /> +I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing,<br /> +You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing;<br /> +I would not die without you at my side, love,<br /> +You will not linger when I shall have died, love. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow,<br /> +Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow;<br /> +Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love,<br /> +<a name="Page_146"></a>With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love.<br /> +Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,—<br /> +Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,—<br /> +Come to the arms which alone should caress thee.<br /> +Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! +</p> +<p class="signature">JOSEPH BRENAN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_WIFE_TO_HER_HUSBAND"></a>THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Linger not long. Home is not home without thee:<br /> +<span class="i2">Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn.</span> +O, let its memory, like a chain about thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Gently compel and hasten thy return!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear,</span> +Compensate for the grief thy long delaying<br /> +<span class="i2">Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming,<br /> +<span class="i2">As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell;</span> +When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming,<br /> +<span class="i2">And silence hangs on all things like a spell!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger,<br /> +As night grows dark and darker on the hill!<br /> +<a name="Page_147"></a>How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer!<br /> +<span class="i2">Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth me<br /> +<span class="i2">Gazeth through tears that makes its splendor dull;</span> +For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me,<br /> +<span class="i2">My cup of happiness is all too full.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling,<br /> +<span class="i2">Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest!</span> +Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling,<br /> +<span class="i2">Flies to its haven of securest rest!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MY_OLD_KENTUCKY_HOME"></a>MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME.</p> +<p class="subt">NEGRO SONG.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The sun shines bright on our old Kentucky home;<br /> +<span class="i2">'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay;</span> +The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom,<br /> +<span class="i2">While the birds make music all the day;</span> +The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,<br /> +<span class="i2">All merry, all happy, all bright;</span> +By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!</span> +</p> +<p class="center"><a name="Page_148"></a>CHORUS.</p> +<p class="stanza"><i>Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!<br /> +We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,</i><br /> +<span class="i2"><i>For our old Kentucky home far away.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,<br /> +<span class="i2">On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;</span> +They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,<br /> +<span class="i2">On the bench by the old cabin door;</span> +The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">With sorrow where all was delight;</span> +The time has come, when the darkeys have to part,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4"><i>Weep no more, my lady</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The head must bow, and the back will have to bend,<br /> +<span class="i2">Wherever the darkey may go;</span> +A few more days, and the troubles all will end,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the field where the sugar-canes grow;</span> +A few more days to tote the weary load,<br /> +<span class="i2">No matter, it will never be light;</span> +A few more days till we totter on the road,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, my old Kentucky home, good night!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><i>Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day!<br /> +We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,</i><br /> +<span class="i2"><i>For our old Kentucky home far away.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="signature">STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_149"></a><a name="OLD_FOLKS_AT_HOME"></a>OLD FOLKS AT HOME.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Way down upon de Swanee Ribber,<br /> +<span class="i2">Far, far away,</span> +Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dere's wha de old folks stay.</span> +All up and down de whole creation<br /> +<span class="i2">Sadly I roam,</span> +Still longing for de old plantation,<br /> +<span class="i2">And for de old folks at home.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4"><i>All de world am sad and dreary,</i></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Ebery where I roam;</i></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,</i></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Far from de old folks at home!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">All round de little farm I wandered<br /> +<span class="i2">When I was young,</span> +Den many happy days I squandered,<br /> +<span class="i2">Many de songs I sung.</span> +When I was playing wid my brudder<br /> +<span class="i2">Happy was I;</span> +Oh, take me to my kind old mudder!<br /> +<span class="i2">Dere let me live and die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">One little hut among de bushes,<br /> +<span class="i2">One dat I love,</span> +Still sadly to my memory rushes,<br /> +<span class="i2">No matter where I rove.</span> +When will I see de bees a-humming<br /> +<span class="i2">All round de comb?</span> +<a name="Page_150"></a>When will I hear de banjo tumming,<br /> +<span class="i2">Down in my good old home?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4"><i>All de world am sad and dreary,</i></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Ebery where I roam;</i></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary,</i></span> +<span class="i6"><i>Far from de old folks at home!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="signature">STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_PRESENT_GOOD"></a>THE PRESENT GOOD.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE TASK," BOOK VI.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Not to understand a treasure's worth</span> +Till time has stol'n away the slighted good,<br /> +Is cause of half the poverty we feel,<br /> +And makes the world the wilderness it is.</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM COWPER.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /> + +<a name="III_ADVERSITY"></a><h2><a name="Page_151"></a>III. ADVERSITY.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MAN"></a>MAN.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +In his own image the Creator made,<br /> +<span class="i2">His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man!</span> +<span class="i2">Thou breathing dial! since the day began</span> +The present hour was ever marked with shade!</p> +<p class="signature">WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_WORLD"></a>THE WORLD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man<br /> +<span class="i6">Less than a span:</span> +In his conception wretched, from the womb,<br /> +<span class="i6">So to the tomb;</span> +Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years<br /> +<span class="i6">With cares and fears.</span> +Who then to frail mortality shall trust,<br /> +But limns on water, or but writes in dust. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest,<br /> +<span class="i6">What life is best?</span> +Courts are but only superficial schools<br /> +<span class="i6">To dandle fools:</span> +<a name="Page_152"></a>The rural parts are turned into a den<br /> +<span class="i6">Of savage men:</span> +And where's a city from foul vice so free,<br /> +But may be termed the worst of all the three? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,<br /> +<span class="i6">Or pains his head:</span> +Those that live single, take it for a curse,<br /> +<span class="i6">Or do things worse:</span> +Some would have children: those that have them, moan<br /> +<span class="i6">Or wish them gone:</span> +What is it, then, to have or have no wife,<br /> +But single thraldom, or a double strife? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Our own affection still at home to please<br /> +<span class="i6">Is a disease:</span> +To cross the seas to any foreign soil,<br /> +<span class="i6">Peril and toil:</span> +Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,<br /> +<span class="i6">We are worse in peace;—</span> +What then remains, but that we still should cry<br /> +For being born, or, being born, to die?</p> + +<p class="signature">FRANCIS, LORD BACON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MOAN_MOAN_YE_DYING_GALES"></a>MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Moan, moan, ye dying gales!<br /> +The saddest of your tales<br /> +<span class="i2">Is not so sad as life;</span> +<a name="Page_153"></a>Nor have you e'er began<br /> +A theme so wild as man,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or with such sorrow rife.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fall, fall, thou withered leaf!<br /> +Autumn sears not like grief,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor kills such lovely flowers;</span> +More terrible the storm,<br /> +More mournful the deform,<br /> +<span class="i2">When dark misfortune lowers.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre,<br /> +Silence, ye vocal choir,<br /> +<span class="i2">And thou, mellifluous lute,</span> +For man soon breathes his last,<br /> +And all his hope is past,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all his music mute.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then, when the gale is sighing,<br /> +And when the leaves are dying,<br /> +<span class="i2">And when the song is o'er,</span> +O, let us think of those<br /> +Whose lives are lost in woes,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose cup of grief runs o'er.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY NEELE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_VANITY_OF_THE_WORLD"></a>THE VANITY OF THE WORLD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend<br /> +<span class="i6">The least delight:</span> +Thy favors cannot gain a friend,<br /> +<span class="i6">They are so slight:</span> +<a name="Page_154"></a>Thy morning pleasures make an end<br /> +<span class="i6">To please at night:</span> +Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,<br /> +And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st<br /> +With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales<br /> +<span class="i6">Of endless treasure;</span> +Thy bounty offers easy sales<br /> +<span class="i6">Of lasting pleasure;</span> +Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,<br /> +<span class="i6">And swear'st to ease her;</span> +There's none can want where thou supply'st;<br /> +There's none can give where thou deny'st.<br /> +Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. +</p> +<p class="stanza">What well-advisèd ear regards<br /> +<span class="i6">What earth can say?</span> +Thy words are gold, but thy regards<br /> +<span class="i6">Are painted clay:</span> +Thy cunning can but pack the cards,<br /> +<span class="i6">Thou canst not play:</span> +Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st;<br /> +If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:<br /> +Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint<br /> +<span class="i6">Of new-coined treasure;</span> +A paradise, that has no stint,<br /> +<span class="i6">No change, no measure;</span> +<a name="Page_155"></a>A painted cask, but nothing in 't,<br /> +<span class="i6">Nor wealth, nor pleasure:</span> +Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st<br /> +With man; vain man! that thou rely'st<br /> +On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. +</p> +<p class="stanza">What mean dull souls, in this high measure,<br /> +<span class="i6">To haberdash</span> +In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure<br /> +<span class="i6">Is dross and trash?</span> +The height of whose enchanting pleasure<br /> +<span class="i6">Is but a flash?</span> +Are these the goods that thou supply'st<br /> +Us mortals with? Are these the high'st?<br /> +Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st. +</p> +<p class="signature">FRANCIS QUARLES.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="BLOW_BLOW_THOU_WINTER_WIND"></a>BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Blow, blow, thou winter wind,</span> +<span class="i2">Thou art not so unkind</span> +<span class="i6">As man's ingratitude;</span> +<span class="i2">Thy tooth is not so keen,</span> +<span class="i2">Because thou art not seen,</span> +<span class="i6">Although thy breath be rude.</span> +Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly;<br /> +Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, heigh-ho, the holly!</span> +<span class="i4">This life is most jolly!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,</span> +<span class="i2">Thou dost not bite so nigh</span> +<span class="i6">As benefits forgot:</span> +<span class="i2">Though thou the waters warp,</span> +<span class="i2">Thy sting is not so sharp</span> +<span class="i6">As friend remembered not.</span> +Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly:<br /> +<a name="Page_156"></a>Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly:<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, heigh-ho, the holly!</span> +<span class="i4">This life is most jolly!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il04"></a> +<a href="./images/156.jpg"><img src="./images/156_th.jpg" alt="Wail of Prometheus Bound" title="Henry Wadswirth Longfellow" /></a><br /> +<div class="caption"><p class="center">THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND</p> +<p class="indent">"Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods!<br /> +Behold, with throe on throe,<br /> +How, wasted by this woe,<br /> +I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!"</p> + +<p class="center"><i>From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff.</i></p></div> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_WAIL_OF_PROMETHEUS_BOUND"></a>THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "PROMETHEUS."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O holy Æther, and swift-winged Winds,<br /> +And River-wells, and laughter innumerous<br /> +Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all,<br /> +And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,—<br /> +Behold me a god, what I endure from gods!<br /> +<span class="i6">Behold, with throe on throe,</span> +<span class="i6">How, wasted by this woe,</span> +I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!<br /> +<span class="i6">Behold, how fast around me</span> +The new King of the happy ones sublime<br /> +<a name="Page_157"></a>Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me!<br /> +Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's<br /> +<span class="i2">I cover with one groan. And where is found me</span> +<span class="i6">A limit to these sorrows?</span> +<span class="i2">And yet what word do I say? I have fore-known</span> +<span class="i2">Clearly all things that should be; nothing done</span> +<span class="i2">Comes sudden to my soul—and I must bear</span> +<span class="i2">What is ordained with patience, being aware</span> +<span class="i2">Necessity doth front the universe</span> +<span class="i2">With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse</span> +<span class="i2">Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave</span> +<span class="i2">In silence or in speech. Because I gave</span> +<span class="i2">Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul</span> +<span class="i2">To this compelling fate. Because I stole</span> +<span class="i2">The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went</span> +<span class="i2">Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent</span> +<span class="i2">Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment,</span> +<span class="i2">That sin I expiate in this agony,</span> +<span class="i2">Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky.</span> +<span class="i6">Ah, ah me! what a sound,</span> +What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen<br /> +Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between,<br /> +Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound,<br /> +To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain—<br /> +Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain!<br /> +<span class="i6">The god Zeus hateth sore,</span> +<span class="i6">And his gods hate again,</span> +As many as tread on his glorified floor,<br /> +Because I loved mortals too much evermore.<br /> +<a name="Page_158"></a>Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear,<br /> +<span class="i6">As of birds flying near!</span> +<span class="i6">And the air undersings</span> +<span class="i6">The light stroke of their wings—</span> +And all life that approaches I wait for in fear. +</p> +<p class="signature">From the Greek of ÆSCHYLUS.<br /> +Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SAMSON_ON_HIS_BLINDNESS"></a>SAMSON ON HIS BLINDNESS.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O loss of sight, of thee I must complain!<br /> +Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains,<br /> +Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age!<br /> +Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct,<br /> +And all her various objects of delight<br /> +Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased.<br /> +Inferior to the vilest now become<br /> +Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me:<br /> +They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed<br /> +To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong,<br /> +Within doors or without, still as a fool,<br /> +In power of others, never in my own;<br /> +Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half.<br /> +O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of moon,<br /> +Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse,<br /> +Without all hope of day! +</p> +<p class="signature">MILTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_159"></a><a name="LINES"></a>LINES.</p> +<p class="cmt">[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution for treason.] +</p> +<p class="stanza">My prime of youth is but a frost of cares,<br /> +<span class="i2">My feast of joy is but a dish of pain,</span> +My crop of corn is but a field of tares,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain.</span> +The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;<br /> +And now I live, and now my life is done! +</p> +<p class="stanza">My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung,<br /> +<span class="i2">The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green,</span> +My youth is past, and yet I am but young,<br /> +<span class="i2">I saw the world, and yet I was not seen.</span> +My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;<br /> +And now I live, and now my life is done! +</p> +<p class="stanza">I sought for death and found it in the wombe,<br /> +<span class="i2">I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade,</span> +I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe,<br /> +<span class="i2">And now I die, and now I am but made.</span> +The glass is full, and yet my glass is run;<br /> +And now I live, and now my life is done!</p> +<p class="signature">CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_160"></a><a name="HENCE_ALL_YE_VAIN_DELIGHTS"></a>HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Hence, all ye vain delights,<br /> +As short as are the nights<br /> +<span class="i2">Wherein you spend your folly!</span> +<span class="i2">There's naught in this life sweet,</span> +<span class="i2">If man were wise to see't</span> +<span class="i6">But only melancholy,</span> +<span class="i6">O, sweetest melancholy!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Welcome, folded arms, and fixèd eyes,<br /> +A sigh that piercing mortifies,<br /> +A look that's fastened to the ground,<br /> +A tongue chained up without a sound! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fountain-heads and pathless groves,<br /> +Places which pale passion loves!<br /> +Moonlight walks, when all the fowls<br /> +Are warmly housed save bats and owls!<br /> +A midnight bell, a parting groan!<br /> +These are the sounds we feed upon;<br /> +Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley:<br /> +Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy.</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN FLETCHER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_161"></a><a name="THE_FALL_OF_CARDINAL_WOLSEY"></a>THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear<br /> +In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,<br /> +Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.<br /> +Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;<br /> +And—when I am forgotten, as I shall be,<br /> +And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention<br /> +Of me more must be heard of—say, I taught thee,<br /> +Say, Wolsey—that once trod the ways of glory,<br /> +And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor—<br /> +Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;<br /> +A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.<br /> +Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me.<br /> +Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:<br /> +By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,<br /> +The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?<br /> +Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee:<br /> +Corruption wins not more than honesty.<br /> +Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,<br /> +To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:<br /> +Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,<br /> +Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell!<br /> +Thou fall'st a blessed martyr.<br /> +Serve the king; and—pr'ythee, lead me in:<br /> +There take an inventory of all I have,<br /> +To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,<br /> +<a name="Page_162"></a>And my integrity to heaven, is all<br /> +I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!<br /> +Had I but served my God with half the zeal<br /> +I served my king, he would not in mine age<br /> +Have left me naked to mine enemies!</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">· · · · · ·</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness!<br /> +This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth<br /> +The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,<br /> +And bears his blushing honors thick upon him:<br /> +The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;<br /> +And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely<br /> +His greatness is a ripening—nips his root,<br /> +And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,<br /> +Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,<br /> +This many summers in a sea of glory;<br /> +But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride<br /> +At length broke under me; and now has left me,<br /> +Weary and old with service, to the mercy<br /> +Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.<br /> +Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:<br /> +I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched<br /> +Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors!<br /> +There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,<br /> +That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,<br /> +More pangs and fears than wars or women have:<br /> +And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,<br /> +Never to hope again.</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_163"></a><a name="THE_APPROACH_OF_AGE"></a>THE APPROACH OF AGE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "TALES OF THE HALL."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,<br /> +When Time began to play his usual tricks:<br /> +The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,<br /> +Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;<br /> +The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,<br /> +And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.<br /> +I rode or walked as I was wont before,<br /> +But now the bounding spirit was no more;<br /> +A moderate pace would now my body heat,<br /> +A walk of moderate length distress my feet.<br /> +I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,<br /> +But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb."<br /> +At a friend's mansion I began to dread<br /> +The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;<br /> +At home I felt a more decided taste,<br /> +And must have all things in my order placed.<br /> +I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,—<br /> +My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.<br /> +I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute<br /> +Was disappointed that I did not shoot.<br /> +My morning walks I now could bear to lose,<br /> +And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.<br /> +In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;<br /> +The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;<br /> +Small daily actions into habits grew,<br /> +And new dislike to forms and fashions new.<br /> +<a name="Page_164"></a>I loved my trees in order to dispose;<br /> +I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose;<br /> +Told the same story oft,—in short, began to prose. +</p> +<p class="signature">GEORGE CRABBE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="STANZAS"></a>STANZAS</p> +<p class="cmt">WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">The sun is warm, the sky is clear,</span> +<span class="i2">The waves are dancing fast and bright,</span> +<span class="i2">Blue isles and snowy mountains wear</span> +<span class="i2">The purple noon's transparent light:</span> +<span class="i2">The breath of the moist air is light</span> +<span class="i2">Around its unexpanded buds;</span> +<span class="i2">Like many a voice of one delight,—</span> +<span class="i2">The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',—</span> +The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">I see the Deep's untrampled floor</span> +<span class="i2">With green and purple sea-weeds strown;</span> +<span class="i2">I see the waves upon the shore</span> +<span class="i2">Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:</span> +<span class="i2">I sit upon the sands alone;</span> +<span class="i2">The lightning of the noontide ocean</span> +<span class="i2">Is flashing round me, and a tone</span> +<span class="i2">Arises from its measured motion,—</span> +How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Alas! I have nor hope nor health,</span> +<span class="i2">Nor peace within nor calm around,</span> +<a name="Page_165"></a><span class="i2">Nor that Content surpassing wealth</span> +<span class="i2">The sage in meditation found,</span> +<span class="i2">And walked with inward glory crowned,—</span> +<span class="i2">Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.</span> +<span class="i2">Others I see whom these surround;</span> +<span class="i2">Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;</span> +To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Yet now despair itself is mild</span> +<span class="i2">Even as the winds and waters are;</span> +<span class="i2">I could lie down like a tired child,</span> +<span class="i2">And weep away the life of care</span> +<span class="i2">Which I have borne, and yet must bear,</span> +<span class="i2">Till death like sleep might steal on me,</span> +<span class="i2">And I might feel in the warm air</span> +<span class="i2">My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea</span> +Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Some might lament that I were cold,</span> +<span class="i2">As I, when this sweet day is gone,</span> +<span class="i2">Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,</span> +<span class="i2">Insults with this untimely moan;</span> +<span class="i2">They might lament,—for I am one</span> +<span class="i2">Whom men love not,—and yet regret,</span> +<span class="i2">Unlike this day, which, when the sun</span> +<span class="i2">Shall on its stainless glory set,</span> +Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. +</p> +<p class="signature">PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_166"></a><a name="ODE_TO_A_NIGHTINGALE"></a>ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE.</p> + +<p class="cmt">[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.]</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains<br /> +<span class="i2">My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,</span> +Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains<br /> +<span class="i2">One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:</span> +'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,<br /> +<span class="i2">But being too happy in thy happiness,—</span> +<span class="i4">That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,</span> +<span class="i6">In some melodious plot</span> +<span class="i2">Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,</span> +<span class="i4">Singest of Summer in full-throated ease.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O for a draught of vintage, that hath been<br /> +<span class="i2">Cooled a long age in the deep delvèd earth,</span> +Tasting of Flora and the country-green,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!</span> +O for a beaker full of the warm South,<br /> +<span class="i2">Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,</span> +<span class="i4">With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,</span> +<span class="i6">And purple-stainèd mouth,—</span> +<span class="i2">That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,</span> +<span class="i4">And with thee fade away into the forest dim:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget<br /> +<span class="i2">What thou among the leaves hast never known,</span> +<a name="Page_167"></a>The weariness, the fever, and the fret<br /> +<span class="i2">Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;</span> +Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;</span> +<span class="i4">Where but to think is to be full of sorrow</span> +<span class="i6">And leaden-eyed despairs,</span> +<span class="i2">Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,</span> +<span class="i4">Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Away! away! for I will fly to thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,</span> +But on the viewless wings of Poesy,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:</span> +Already with thee! tender is the night,<br /> +<span class="i2">And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,</span> +<span class="i4">Clustered around by all her starry Fays;</span> +<span class="i6">But here there is no light,</span> +<span class="i2">Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown</span> +<span class="i4">Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,</span> +But in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet<br /> +<span class="i2">Wherewith the seasonable month endows</span> +The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;<br /> +<span class="i2">White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;</span> +<span class="i4">Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves;</span> +<span class="i6">And mid-May's eldest child,</span> +<span class="i2">The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,</span> +<span class="i4">The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_168"></a>Darkling I listen; and for many a time +<span class="i2">I have been half in love with easeful Death.</span> +Called him soft names in many a musèd rhyme,<br /> +<span class="i2">To take into the air my quiet breath;</span> +Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die,<br /> +<span class="i2">To cease upon the midnight, with no pain.</span> +<span class="i4">While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad,</span> +<span class="i6">In such an ecstasy!—</span> +<span class="i2">Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—</span> +<span class="i4">To thy high requiem become a sod.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!<br /> +<span class="i2">No hungry generations tread thee down;</span> +The voice I hear this passing night was heard<br /> +<span class="i2">In ancient days by emperor and clown:</span> +Perhaps the self-same song that found a path<br /> +<span class="i2">Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,</span> +<span class="i2">She stood in tears amid the alien corn;</span> +<span class="i6">The same that oft-times hath</span> +<span class="i2">Charmed magic casements opening on the foam</span> +<span class="i4">Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Forlorn! the very word is like a bell,<br /> +<span class="i2">To toll me back from thee to my sole self!</span> +Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well<br /> +<span class="i2">As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.</span> +Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades<br /> +<span class="i2">Past the near meadows, over the still stream,</span> +<span class="i4">Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep</span> +<span class="i6">In the next valley-glades:</span> +<span class="i2">Was it a vision or a waking dream?</span> +<span class="i4">Fled is that music:—do I wake or sleep?</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN KEATS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_169"></a><a name="PERISHED"></a>PERISHED.</p> +<p class="subt">CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Wave after wave of greenness rolling down<br /> +From mountain top to base, a whispering sea<br /> +Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze<br /> +<span class="i6">Murmurs mysteriously.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And towering up amid the lesser throng,<br /> +A giant oak, so desolately grand,<br /> +Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven<br /> +<span class="i6">In agonized demand.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Smitten by lightning from a summer sky,<br /> +Or bearing in its heart a slow decay,<br /> +What matter, since inexorable fate<br /> +<span class="i6">Is pitiless to slay.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about,<br /> +Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head,<br /> +And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,—<br /> +<span class="i6">"Look on me, I am dead!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MARY LOUISE RITTER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LATEST_VERSES"></a>BYRON'S LATEST VERSES.</p> +<p class="cmt"><span class="i2">"<i>On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.</i>"</span> +<span class="i6">—MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,<br /> +<span class="i2">Since others it has ceased to move:</span> +<a name="Page_170"></a>Yet, though I cannot be beloved,<br /> +<span class="i6">Still let me love!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My days are in the yellow leaf,<br /> +<span class="i2">The flowers and fruits of love are gone:</span> +The worm, the canker, and the grief,<br /> +<span class="i6">Are mine alone.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The fire that in my bosom preys<br /> +<span class="i2">Is like to some volcanic isle;</span> +No torch is kindled at its blaze,—<br /> +<span class="i6">A funeral pile.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The hope, the fear, the jealous care,<br /> +<span class="i2">The exalted portion of the pain</span> +And power of love, I cannot share,<br /> +<span class="i6">But wear the chain.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But 'tis not <i>thus</i>,—and 'tis not <i>here</i>,<br /> +<span class="i2">Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor <i>now</i>,</span> +Where glory decks the hero's bier,<br /> +<span class="i6">Or binds his brow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The sword, the banner, and the field,<br /> +<span class="i2">Glory and Greece about us see;</span> +The Spartan borne upon his shield<br /> +<span class="i6">Was not more free.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Awake!—not Greece,—she is awake!<br /> +<span class="i2">Awake my spirit! think through whom</span> +Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake,<br /> +<span class="i6">And then strike home!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_171"></a>Tread those reviving passions down,<br /> +<span class="i2">Unworthy manhood! unto thee</span> +Indifferent should the smile or frown<br /> +<span class="i6">Of beauty be.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">If thou regrett'st thy youth,—why live?<br /> +<span class="i2">The land of honorable death</span> +Is here:—up to the field, and give<br /> +<span class="i6">Away thy breath!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Seek out—less often sought than found—<br /> +<span class="i2">A soldier's grave, for thee the best;</span> +Then look around, and choose thy ground,<br /> +<span class="i6">And take thy rest!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LORD BYRON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="A_DOUBTING_HEART"></a>A DOUBTING HEART.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Where are the swallows fled?<br /> +<span class="i8">Frozen and dead</span> +Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore.<br /> +<span class="i8">O doubting heart!</span> +<span class="i6">Far over purple seas</span> +<span class="i6">They wait, in sunny ease,</span> +<span class="i6">The balmy southern breeze</span> +To bring them to their northern homes once more. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Why must the flowers die?<br /> +<span class="i8">Prisoned they lie</span> +In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.<br /> +<span class="i8">O doubting heart!</span> +<a name="Page_172"></a><span class="i6">They only sleep below</span> +<span class="i6">The soft white ermine snow</span> +<span class="i6">While winter winds shall blow,</span> +To breathe and smile upon you soon again. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The sun has hid its rays<br /> +<span class="i8">These many days;</span> +Will dreary hours never leave the earth?<br /> +<span class="i8">O doubting heart!</span> +<span class="i6">The stormy clouds on high</span> +<span class="i6">Veil the same sunny sky</span> +<span class="i6">That soon, for spring is nigh,</span> +Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fair hope is dead, and light<br /> +<span class="i8">Is quenched in night;</span> +What sound can break the silence of despair?<br /> +<span class="i8">O doubting heart!</span> +<span class="i6">The sky is overcast,</span> +<span class="i6">Yet stars shall rise at last,</span> +<span class="i6">Brighter for darkness past;</span> +And angels' silver voices stir the air. +</p> +<p class="signature">ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_VOICELESS"></a>THE VOICELESS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +We count the broken lyres that rest<br /> +<span class="i2">Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,</span> +But o'er their silent sister's breast<br /> +<span class="i2">The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?</span> +A few can touch the magic string,<br /> +<span class="i2">And noisy Fame is proud to win them:</span> +<a name="Page_173"></a>Alas for those that never sing,<br /> +<span class="i2">But die with all their music in them!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nay grieve not for the dead alone<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,—</span> +Weep for the voiceless, who have known<br /> +<span class="i2">The cross without the crown of glory!</span> +Not where Leucadian breezes sweep<br /> +<span class="i2">O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,</span> +But where the glistening night-dews weep<br /> +<span class="i2">On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O hearts that break and give no sign<br /> +<span class="i2">Save whitening lip and fading tresses,</span> +Till Death pours out his longed-for wine<br /> +<span class="i2">Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,—</span> +If singing breath or echoing chord<br /> +<span class="i2">To every hidden pang were given,</span> +What endless melodies were poured,<br /> +<span class="i2">As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="A_LAMENT"></a>A LAMENT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O World! O Life! O Time!<br /> +On whose last steps I climb,<br /> +<span class="i2">Trembling at that where I had stood before;</span> +When will return the glory of your prime?<br /> +<span class="i4">No more,—O nevermore!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Out of the day and night<br /> +A joy has taken flight:<br /> +<span class="i2">Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar</span> +<a name="Page_174"></a>Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight<br /> +<span class="i4">No more,—O nevermore!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.</p> +</div> + +<a name="WHAT_CAN_AN_OLD_MAN_DO_BUT_DIE"></a> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title">"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?"</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Spring it is cheery,</span> +<span class="i4">Winter is dreary,</span> +Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;<br /> +<span class="i4">When he's forsaken,</span> +<span class="i4">Withered and shaken,</span> +What can an old man do but die? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Love will not clip him,</span> +<span class="i4">Maids will not lip him,</span> +Maud and Marian pass him by;<br /> +<span class="i4">Youth it is sunny,</span> +<span class="i4">Age has no honey,—</span> +What can an old man do but die? +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">June it was jolly,</span> +<span class="i4">O for its folly!</span> +A dancing leg and a laughing eye!<br /> +<span class="i4">Youth may be silly,</span> +<span class="i4">Wisdom is chilly,—</span> +What can an old man do but die? +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Friends they are scanty,</span> +<span class="i4">Beggars are plenty,</span> +<a name="Page_175"></a>If he has followers, I know why;<br /> +<span class="i4">Gold's in his clutches</span> +<span class="i4">(Buying him crutches!)—</span> +What can an old man do but die? +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS HOOD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="OVER_THE_HILL_TO_THE_POORHOUSE"></a>OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.</p> + +<p class="fullst"> +Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way—<br /> +I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray—<br /> +I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,<br /> +As many another woman that's only half as old. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Over the hill to the poor-house—I can't quite make it clear!<br /> +Over the hill to the poor-house—it seems so horrid queer!<br /> +Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,<br /> +But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. +</p> +<p class="fullst">What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?<br /> +Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?<br /> +True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout;<br /> +But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day<br /> +To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;<br /> +<a name="Page_176"></a>For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,<br /> +If anybody only is willin' to have me round. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Once I was young an' han'some—I was, upon my soul—<br /> +Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;<br /> +And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,<br /> +For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. +</p> +<p class="fullst">'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,<br /> +But many a house an' home was open then to me;<br /> +Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men,<br /> +And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. +</p> +<p class="fullst">And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart,<br /> +But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;<br /> +For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,<br /> +And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. +</p> +<p class="fullst">And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay,<br /> +With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way;<br /> +<a name="Page_177"></a>Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,<br /> +An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. +</p> +<p class="fullst">So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one;<br /> +Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;<br /> +Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn,<br /> +But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!—<br /> +I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons;<br /> +And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,<br /> +I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown,<br /> +And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone;<br /> +When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,<br /> +The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_178"></a>Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—<br /> +Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;<br /> +And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown,<br /> +Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. +</p> +<p class="fullst">She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile—<br /> +She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;<br /> +But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;<br /> +But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. +</p> +<p class="fullst">She had an edication, an' that was good for her;<br /> +But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur;<br /> +An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),<br /> +That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic. +</p> +<p class="fullst">So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done—<br /> +They was a family of themselves, and I another one;<br /> +And a very little cottage one family will do,<br /> +But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_179"></a>An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye,<br /> +An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;<br /> +But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,<br /> +When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,<br /> +And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;<br /> +And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three,<br /> +'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. +</p> +<p class="fullst">An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,<br /> +For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot;<br /> +But all the child'rn was on me—I couldn't stand their sauce—<br /> +And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. +</p> +<p class="fullst">An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West,<br /> +And to Isaac, not far from her—some twenty miles at best;<br /> +And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old,<br /> +<a name="Page_180"></a>And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold. +</p> +<p class="fullst">So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about—<br /> +So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;<br /> +But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,<br /> +Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Over the hill to the poor-house—my child'rn dear, good by!<br /> +Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;<br /> +And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray<br /> +That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. +</p> +<p class="signature">WILL CARLETON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="OLD"></a>OLD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +By the wayside, on a mossy stone,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;</span> +Oft I marked him sitting there alone.<br /> +<span class="i2">All the landscape, like a page perusing;</span> +<span class="i8">Poor, unknown,</span> +By the wayside, on a mossy stone. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat;<br /> +<span class="i2">Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding;</span> +<a name="Page_181"></a>Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat;<br /> +<span class="i2">Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;</span> +<span class="i8">There he sat!</span> +Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,<br /> +<span class="i2">No one sympathizing, no one heeding,</span> +None to love him for his thin gray hair,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the furrows all so mutely pleading</span> +<span class="i8">Age and care:</span> +Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. +</p> +<p class="stanza">It was summer, and we went to school,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dapper country lads and little maidens;</span> +Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"—<br /> +<span class="i2">Its grave import still my fancy ladens,—</span> +<span class="i8">"Here's a fool!"</span> +It was summer, and we went to school. +</p> +<p class="stanza">When the stranger seemed to mark our play,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,</span> +I remember well, too well, that day!<br /> +<span class="i2">Oftentimes the tears unbidden started,</span> +<span class="i8">Would not stay</span> +When the stranger seemed to mark our play. +</p> +<p class="stanza">One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,<br /> +<span class="i2">O, to me her name was always Heaven!</span> +She besought him all his grief to tell,<br /> +<span class="i2">(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)</span> +<span class="i8">Isabel!</span> +One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_182"></a>"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;<br /> +<span class="i2">Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;</span> +Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told."<br /> +<span class="i2">Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow,</span> +<span class="i8">Down it rolled!</span> +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I have tottered here to look once more<br /> +<span class="i2">On the pleasant scene where I delighted</span> +In the careless, happy days of yore,<br /> +<span class="i2">Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted</span> +<span class="i8">To the core:</span> +I have tottered here to look once more. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"All the picture now to me how dear!<br /> +<span class="i2">E'en this old gray rock where I am seated,</span> +Is a jewel worth my journey here;<br /> +<span class="i2">Ah that such a scene must be completed</span> +<span class="i8">With a tear!</span> +All the picture now to me how dear! +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Old stone school-house! it is still the same;<br /> +<span class="i2">There's the very step I so oft mounted;</span> +There's the window creaking in its frame,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the notches that I cut and counted</span> +<span class="i8">For the game.</span> +Old stone school-house, it is still the same. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"In the cottage yonder I was born;<br /> +<span class="i2">Long my happy home, that humble dwelling;</span> +There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn;<br /> +<span class="i2">There the spring with limpid nectar swelling;</span> +<span class="i8">Ah, forlorn!</span> +In the cottage yonder I was born. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_183"></a>"Those two gateway sycamores you see<br /> +<span class="i2">Then were planted just so far asunder</span> +That long well-pole from the path to free,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the wagon to pass safely under;</span> +<span class="i8">Ninety-three!</span> +Those two gateway sycamores you see. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There's the orchard where we used to climb<br /> +<span class="i2">When my mates and I were boys together,</span> +Thinking nothing of the flight of time,<br /> +<span class="i2">Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;</span> +<span class="i8">Past its prime!</span> +There's the orchard where we used to climb. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing</span> +Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails<br /> +<span class="i2">In the crops of buckwheat we were raising;</span> +<span class="i8">Traps and trails!</span> +There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;<br /> +<span class="i2">Pond and river still serenely flowing;</span> +Cot there nestling in the shaded lane,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where the lily of my heart was blowing,—</span> +<span class="i8">Mary Jane!</span> +There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There's the gate on which I used to swing,<br /> +<span class="i2">Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;</span> +But alas! no more the morn shall bring<br /> +<span class="i2">That dear group around my father's table;</span> +<span class="i8">Taken wing!</span> +There's the gate on which I used to swing. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_184"></a>"I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled.<br /> +<span class="i2">Yon green meadow was our place for playing</span> +That old tree can tell of sweet things said<br /> +<span class="i2">When around it Jane and I were straying;</span> +<span class="i8">She is dead!</span> +I am fleeing,—all I loved have fled. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,<br /> +<span class="i2">Tracing silently life's changeful story,</span> +So familiar to my dim eye,<br /> +<span class="i2">Points me to seven that are now in glory</span> +<span class="i8">There on high!</span> +Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,<br /> +<span class="i2">Guided hither by an angel mother;</span> +Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;<br /> +<span class="i2">Sire and sisters, and my little brother,</span> +<span class="i8">Gone to God!</span> +Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;<br /> +<span class="i2">Bless the holy lesson!—but, ah, never</span> +Shall I hear again those songs of praise,<br /> +<span class="i2">Those sweet voices silent now forever!</span> +<span class="i8">Peaceful days!</span> +There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There my Mary blessed me with her hand<br /> +<span class="i2">When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings,</span> +Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,<br /> +<span class="i2">Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;</span> +<span class="i8">Broken band!</span> +There my Mary blessed me with her hand. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_185"></a>"I have come to see that grave once more,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the sacred place where we delighted,</span> +Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,<br /> +<span class="i2">Ere the garden of my heart was blighted</span> +<span class="i8">To the care!</span> +I have come to see that grave once more. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;<br /> +<span class="i2">Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,</span> +Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."<br /> +<span class="i2">In his eye another pearl of sorrow,</span> +<span class="i8">Down it rolled!</span> +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." +</p> +<p class="stanza">By the wayside, on a mossy stone,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;</span> +Still I marked him sitting there alone,<br /> +<span class="i2">All the landscape, like a page, perusing;</span> +<span class="i8">Poor, unknown!</span> +By the wayside, on a mossy stone. +</p> +<p class="signature">RALPH HOYT.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_LAST_LEAF"></a>THE LAST LEAF.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +I saw him once before,<br /> +As he passed by the door;<br /> +<span class="i4">And again</span> +The pavement-stones resound<br /> +As he totters o'er the ground<br /> +<span class="i4">With his cane.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">They say that in his prime,<br /> +Ere the pruning-knife of time<br /> +<span class="i4">Cut him down,</span> +<a name="Page_186"></a>Not a better man was found<br /> +By the crier on his round<br /> +<span class="i4">Through the town.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But now he walks the streets,<br /> +And he looks at all he meets<br /> +<span class="i4">So forlorn;</span> +And he shakes his feeble head,<br /> +That it seems as if he said,<br /> +<span class="i4">"They are gone."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The mossy marbles rest<br /> +On the lips that he had pressed<br /> +<span class="i4">In their bloom;</span> +And the names he loved to hear<br /> +Have been carved for many a year<br /> +<span class="i4">On the tomb.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My grandmamma has said—<br /> +Poor old lady! she is dead<br /> +<span class="i4">Long ago—</span> +That he had a Roman nose,<br /> +And his cheek was like a rose<br /> +<span class="i4">In the snow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But now his nose is thin,<br /> +And it rests upon his chin<br /> +<span class="i4">Like a staff;</span> +And a crook is in his back,<br /> +And the melancholy crack<br /> +<span class="i4">In his laugh.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I know it is a sin<br /> +For me to sit and grin<br /> +<span class="i4">At him here,</span> +<a name="Page_187"></a>But the old three-cornered hat,<br /> +And the breeches,—and all that,<br /> +<span class="i4">Are so queer!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And if I should live to be<br /> +The last leaf upon the tree<br /> +<span class="i4">In the spring,</span> +Let them smile, as I do now,<br /> +At the old forsaken bough<br /> +<span class="i4">Where I cling.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_LAST_LEAF_2"></a>THE LAST LEAF.</p> +<p class="subt">YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +I've overlived aspirings,<br /> +<span class="i2">My fancies I disdain;</span> +The fruit of hollow-heartedness,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sufferings alone remain.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">'Neath cruel storms of Fate<br /> +<span class="i2">With my crown of bay,</span> +A sad and lonely life I lead,<br /> +<span class="i2">Waiting my latest day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thus, struck by latter cold<br /> +<span class="i2">While howls the wintry wind,</span> +Trembles upon the naked bough<br /> +<span class="i2">The last leaf left behind.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.<br /> +Translation of JOHN POLLEN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il05"></a> +<a href="./images/188.jpg"><img src="./images/188_th.jpg" alt="PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER" title="Portrait of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER<br /><i>From lithograph after a crayon-drawing by H. Alophe.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_188"></a><a name="THE_OLD_VAGABOND"></a>THE OLD VAGABOND.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay;</span> +<span class="i4">Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave.</span> +<span class="i2">"He's drunk," the passing crowd will say</span> +<span class="i4">'T is well, for none will need to grieve.</span> +<span class="i2">Some turn their scornful heads away,</span> +<span class="i4">Some fling an alms in hurrying by;—</span> +<span class="i2">Haste,—'t is the village holyday!</span> +The aged beggar needs no help to die. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age</span> +<span class="i4">I die; for hunger slays not all.</span> +<span class="i2">I hoped my misery's closing page</span> +<span class="i4">To fold within some hospital;</span> +<span class="i2">But crowded thick is each retreat,</span> +<span class="i4">Such numbers now in misery lie.</span> +<span class="i2">Alas! my cradle was the street!</span> +As he was born the aged wretch must die. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,</span> +<span class="i4">I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade."</span> +<span class="i2">"Begone!—our business is not more</span> +<span class="i4">Than keeps ourselves,—go, beg!" they said.</span> +<span class="i2">Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,</span> +<span class="i4">Of bones your tables gave me store,</span> +<span class="i2">Your straw has often made my bed;—</span> +In death I lay no curses at your door. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;—</span> +<span class="i4">No!—better still for alms to pray!</span> +At most, I've plucked some apple, left<br /> +<span class="i4">To ripen near the public way,</span> +<span class="i2">Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid</span> +<span class="i4">In the king's name, they let me pine;</span> +<span class="i2">They stole the only wealth I had,—</span> +Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">What country has the poor to claim?</span> +<span class="i4">What boots to me your corn and wine,</span> +<span class="i2">Your busy toil, your vaunted fame,</span> +<span class="i4">The senate where your speakers shine?</span> +<span class="i2">Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept,</span> +<span class="i4">Saw strangers battening on your land,</span> +<span class="i2">Like any puling fool, I wept!</span> +The aged wretch was nourished by their hand. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Mankind! why trod you not the worm,</span> +<span class="i4">The noxious thing, beneath your heel?</span> +<span class="i2">Ah! had you taught me to perform</span> +<span class="i4">Due labor for the common weal!</span> +<span class="i2">Then, sheltered from the adverse wind,</span> +<span class="i4">The worm and ant had learned to grow;</span> +<span class="i2">Ay,—then I might have loved my kind;—</span> +The aged beggar dies your bitter foe!</p> +<p class="signature">From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BÉRANGER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_BEGGAR"></a>THE BEGGAR.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,</span> +<a name="Page_190"></a>Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,<br /> +<span class="i2">O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak,<br /> +<span class="i2">These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years;</span> +And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek<br /> +<span class="i2">Has been the channel to a stream of tears.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yon house, erected on the rising ground,<br /> +<span class="i2">With tempting aspect drew me from my road,</span> +For plenty there a residence has found,<br /> +<span class="i2">And grandeur a magnificent abode.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)<br /> +<span class="i2">Here craving for a morsel of their bread,</span> +A pampered menial drove me from the door,<br /> +<span class="i2">To seek a shelter in the humble shed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, take me to your hospitable dome,<br /> +<span class="i2">Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold!</span> +Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,<br /> +<span class="i2">For I am poor and miserably old.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Should I reveal the source of every grief,<br /> +<span class="i2">If soft humanity e'er touched your breast,</span> +Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,<br /> +<span class="i2">And tears of pity could not be repressed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Heaven sends misfortunes,—why should we repine?<br /> +<span class="i2">'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see:</span> +<a name="Page_191"></a>And your condition may be soon like mine,<br /> +<span class="i2">The child of sorrow and of misery.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A little farm was my paternal lot,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn;</span> +But ah! oppression forced me from my cot;<br /> +<span class="i2">My cattle died, and blighted was my corn.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My daughter,—once the comfort of my age!<br /> +<span class="i2">Lured by a villain from her native home,</span> +Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,<br /> +<span class="i2">And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My tender wife,—sweet soother of my care!—<br /> +<span class="i2">Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree,</span> +Fell,—lingering fell, a victim to despair,<br /> +<span class="i2">And left the world to wretchedness and me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Pity the sorrows of a poor old man!<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door,</span> +<span class="i2">Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,</span> +<span class="i2">O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS MOSS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ROUGH_RHYME_ON_A_ROUGH_MATTER"></a>A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER.</p> +<p class="subt">THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The merry brown hares came leaping<br /> +<span class="i2">Over, the crest of the hill,</span> +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping,<br /> +<span class="i2">Under the moonlight still.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_192"></a>Leaping late and early,<br /> +<span class="i2">Till under their bite and their tread,</span> +The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley<br /> +<span class="i2">Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A poacher's widow sat sighing<br /> +<span class="i2">On the side of the white chalk bank,</span> +Where, under the gloom of fire-woods,<br /> +<span class="i2">One spot in the lea throve rank.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She watched a long tuft of clover,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where rabbit or hare never ran,</span> +For its black sour haulm covered over<br /> +<span class="i2">The blood of a murdered man.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She thought of the dark plantation,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the hares, and her husband's blood,</span> +And the voice of her indignation<br /> +<span class="i2">Rose up to the throne of God:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I am long past wailing and whining,<br /> +<span class="i2">I have wept too much in my life:</span> +I've had twenty years of pining<br /> +<span class="i2">As an English laborer's wife.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"A laborer in Christian England,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where they cant of a Saviour's name,</span> +And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's<br /> +<span class="i2">For a few more brace of game.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire,<br /> +<span class="i2">There's blood on your pointer's feet;</span> +<a name="Page_193"></a>There's blood on the game you sell, squire,<br /> +<span class="i2">And there's blood on the game you eat.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"You have sold the laboring man, squire,<br /> +<span class="i2">Both body and soul to shame,</span> +To pay for your seat in the House, squire,<br /> +<span class="i2">And to pay for the feed of your game.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"You made him a poacher yourself, squire,<br /> +<span class="i2">When you'd give neither work nor meat,</span> +And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden<br /> +<span class="i2">At our starving children's feet;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"When, packed in one reeking chamber,<br /> +<span class="i2">Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay;</span> +While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the walls let in the day;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"When we lay in the burning fever,<br /> +<span class="i2">On the mud of the cold clay floor,</span> +Till you parted us all for three months, squire,<br /> +<span class="i2">At the cursèd workhouse door.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders?<br /> +<span class="i2">What self-respect could we keep,</span> +Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers,<br /> +<span class="i2">Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Our daughters, with base-born babies,<br /> +<span class="i2">Have wandered away in their shame;</span> +If your misses had slept, squire, where they did,<br /> +<span class="i2">Your misses might do the same.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_194"></a>"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking,<br /> +<span class="i2">With handfuls of coals and rice,</span> +Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting<br /> +<span class="i2">A little below cost price?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse,<br /> +<span class="i2">And take to allotments and schools,</span> +But you 've run up a debt that will never<br /> +<span class="i2">Be repaid us by penny-club rules.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"In the season of shame and sadness,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the dark and dreary day.</span> +When scrofula, gout, and madness<br /> +<span class="i2">Are eating your race away;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"When to kennels and liveried varlets<br /> +<span class="i2">You have cast your daughters' bread,</span> +And, worn out with liquor and harlots,<br /> +<span class="i2">Your heir at your feet lies dead;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave,</span> +You will find in your God the protector<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the freeman you fancied your slave."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She looked at the tuft of clover,<br /> +<span class="i2">And wept till her heart grew light;</span> +And at last, when her passion was over,<br /> +<span class="i2">Went wandering into the night.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But the merry brown hares came leaping<br /> +<span class="i2">Over the uplands still,</span> +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping<br /> +<span class="i2">On the side of the white chalk hill.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">CHARLES KINGSLEY.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_195"></a><a name="THEY_ARE_DEAR_FISH_TO_ME"></a>"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The farmer's wife sat at the door,<br /> +<span class="i2">A pleasant sight to see;</span> +And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns<br /> +<span class="i2">That played around her knee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When, bending 'neath her heavy creel,<br /> +<span class="i2">A poor fish-wife came by,</span> +And, turning from the toilsome road,<br /> +<span class="i2">Unto the door drew nigh.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She laid her burden on the green,<br /> +<span class="i2">And spread its scaly store;</span> +With trembling hands and pleading words,<br /> +<span class="i2">She told them o'er and o'er.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But lightly laughed the young guidwife,<br /> +<span class="i2">"We're no sae scarce o' cheer;</span> +Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,—<br /> +<span class="i2">I'll buy nae fish sae dear."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Bending beneath her load again,<br /> +<span class="i2">A weary sight to see;</span> +Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife,<br /> +<span class="i2">"They are dear fish to me!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night,<br /> +<span class="i2">And when the storm blew o'er,</span> +My husband, and my three brave sons,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lay corpses on the shore.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_196"></a>"I've been a wife for thirty years,<br /> +<span class="i2">A childless widow three;</span> +I maun buy them now to sell again,—<br /> +<span class="i2">They are dear fish to me!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The farmer's wife turned to the door,—<br /> +<span class="i2">What was't upon her cheek?</span> +What was there rising in her breast,<br /> +<span class="i2">That then she scarce could speak?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She thought upon her ain guidman,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her lightsome laddies three;</span> +The woman's words had pierced her heart,—<br /> +<span class="i2">"They are dear fish to me!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice,<br /> +<span class="i2">And pity's gathering tear;</span> +"Come in, come in, my poor woman,<br /> +<span class="i2">Ye 're kindly welcome here.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I kentna o' your aching heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">Your weary lot to dree;</span> +I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words:<br /> +<span class="i2">'They are dear fish to me!'"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ay, let the happy-hearted learn<br /> +<span class="i2">To pause ere they deny</span> +The meed of honest toil, and think<br /> +<span class="i2">How much their gold may buy,—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">How much of manhood's wasted strength,<br /> +<span class="i2">What woman's misery,—</span> +What breaking hearts might swell the cry:<br /> +<span class="i2">"They are dear fish to me!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_197"></a><a name="GIVE_ME_THREE_GRAINS_OF_CORN_MOTHER"></a>GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER.</p> +<p class="subt">THE IRISH FAMINE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Give me three grains of corn, mother,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Only three grains of corn;</span> +It will keep the little life I have<br /> +<span class="i2">Till the coming of the morn.</span> +I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Dying of hunger and cold;</span> +And half the agony of such a death<br /> +<span class="i2">My lips have never told.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,—<br /> +<span class="i2">A wolf that is fierce for blood;</span> +All the livelong day, and the night beside,<br /> +<span class="i2">Gnawing for lack of food.</span> +I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the sight was heaven to see,</span> +I awoke with an eager, famishing lip,<br /> +<span class="i2">But you had no bread for me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">How could I look to you, mother,—<br /> +<span class="i2">How could I look to you</span> +For bread to give to your starving boy,<br /> +<span class="i2">When you were starving too?</span> +For I read the famine in your cheek,<br /> +<span class="i2">And in your eyes so wild,</span> +And I felt it in your bony hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">As you laid it on your child.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_198"></a>The Queen has lands and gold, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">The Queen has lands and gold,</span> +While you are forced to your empty breast<br /> +<span class="i2">A skeleton babe to hold,—</span> +A babe that is dying of want, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">As I am dying now,</span> +With a ghastly look in its sunken eye,<br /> +<span class="i2">And famine upon its brow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What has poor Ireland done, mother,—<br /> +<span class="i2">What has poor Ireland done,</span> +That the world looks on, and sees us starve,<br /> +<span class="i2">Perishing one by one?</span> +Do the men of England care not, mother,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The great men and the high,—</span> +For the suffering sons of Erin's isle,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whether they live or die?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">There is many a brave heart here, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dying of want and cold,</span> +While only across the Channel, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">Are many that roll in gold;</span> +There are rich and proud men there, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">With wondrous wealth to view,</span> +And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night<br /> +<span class="i2">Would give life to <i>me</i> and <i>you.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Come nearer to my side, mother.<br /> +<span class="i2">Come nearer to my side,</span> +And hold me fondly, as you held<br /> +<span class="i2">My father when <i>he</i> died;</span> +Quick, for I cannot see you, mother,<br /> +<span class="i2">My breath is almost gone;</span> +<a name="Page_199"></a>Mother! dear mother! ere I die,<br /> +<span class="i2">Give me three grains of corn.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il06"></a> +<a href="./images/199.jpg"><img src="./images/199_th.jpg" alt="THOMAS HOOD" title="Portrait of THOMAS HOOD" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">THOMAS HOOD<br /><i>After an engraving from contemporary portrait.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_SONG_OF_THE_SHIRT"></a>THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +With fingers weary and worn,<br /> +<span class="i2">With eyelids heavy and red,</span> +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,<br /> +<span class="i2">Plying her needle and thread,—</span> +<span class="i4">Stitch! stitch! stitch!</span> +In poverty, hunger, and dirt;<br /> +<span class="i2">And still with a voice of dolorous pitch</span> +She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Work! work! work<br /> +<span class="i2">While the cock is crowing aloof!</span> +And work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">Till the stars shine through the roof!</span> +It's, O, to be a slave<br /> +<span class="i2">Along with the barbarous Turk,</span> +Where woman has never a soul to save,<br /> +<span class="i2">If this is Christian work!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">Till the brain begins to swim!</span> +Work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">Till the eyes are heavy and dim!</span> +Seam, and gusset, and band,<br /> +<span class="i2">Band, and gusset, and seam,—</span> +Till over the buttons I fall asleep,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sew them on in a dream!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_200"></a>"O men with sisters dear!<br /> +<span class="i2">O men with mothers and wives!</span> +It is no linen you're wearing out,<br /> +<span class="i2">But human creatures' lives!</span> +<span class="i4">Stitch! stitch! stitch,</span> +<span class="i2">In poverty, hunger, and dirt,—</span> +Sewing at once, with a double thread,<br /> +<span class="i2">A shroud as well as a shirt!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"But why do I talk of death,—<br /> +<span class="i2">That phantom of grisly bone?</span> +I hardly fear his terrible shape,<br /> +<span class="i2">It seems so like my own,—</span> +It seems so like my own<br /> +<span class="i2">Because of the fasts I keep;</span> +O God! that bread should be so dear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And flesh and blood so cheap!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">My labor never flags;</span> +And what are its wages? A bed of straw,<br /> +<span class="i2">A crust of bread—and rags,</span> +That shattered roof—and this naked floor—<br /> +<span class="i2">A table—a broken chair—</span> +And a wall so blank my shadow I thank<br /> +<span class="i2">For sometimes falling there!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">From weary chime to chime!</span> +Work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">As prisoners work for crime!</span> +Band, and gusset, and seam,<br /> +<span class="i2">Seam, and gusset, and band,—</span> +<a name="Page_201"></a>Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, +<span class="i2">As well as the weary hand.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Work—work—work<br /> +<span class="i2">In the dull December light!</span> +And work—work—work—<br /> +<span class="i2">When the weather is warm and bright!</span> +While underneath the eaves<br /> +<span class="i2">The brooding swallows cling,</span> +As if to show me their sunny backs,<br /> +<span class="i2">And twit me with the Spring.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"O, but to breathe the breath<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,—</span> +With the sky above my head,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the grass beneath my feet!</span> +For only one short hour<br /> +<span class="i2">To feel as I used to feel,</span> +Before I knew the woes of want<br /> +<span class="i2">And the walk that costs a meal!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"O but for one short hour,—<br /> +<span class="i2">A respite, however brief!</span> +No blessèd leisure for love or hope,<br /> +<span class="i2">But only time for grief!</span> +A little weeping would ease my heart;<br /> +<span class="i2">But in their briny bed</span> +My tears must stop, for every drop<br /> +<span class="i2">Hinders needle and thread!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">With fingers weary and worn,<br /> +<span class="i2">With eyelids heavy and red,</span> +<a name="Page_202"></a>A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,<br /> +<span class="i2">Plying her needle and thread,—</span> +<span class="i4">Stitch! stitch! stitch,</span> +<span class="i2">In poverty, hunger, and dirt;</span> +And still with a voice of dolorous pitch—<br /> +Would that its tone could reach the rich!—<br /> +<span class="i2">She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS HOOD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_PAUPERS_DRIVE"></a>THE PAUPER'S DRIVE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot—<br /> +To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot;<br /> +The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs;<br /> +And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings;<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Rattle his bones over the stones!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none,<br /> +He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,—<br /> +Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man;<br /> +To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can:<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Rattle his bones over the stones!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din!<br /> +The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin!<br /> +<a name="Page_203"></a>How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled!<br /> +The pauper at length makes a noise in the world!<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Rattle his bones over the stones!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach<br /> +To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach!<br /> +He's taking a drive in his carriage at last!<br /> +But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast:<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Rattle his bones over the stones!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed,<br /> +Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid!<br /> +And be joyful to think, when by death you're laid low,<br /> +You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go!<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Rattle his bones over the stones!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad,<br /> +To think that a heart in humanity clad<br /> +Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end,<br /> +And depart from the light without leaving a friend!<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Rattle his bones over the stones!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS NOEL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_204"></a><a name="UNSEEN_SPIRITS"></a>UNSEEN SPIRITS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The shadows lay along Broadway,<br /> +<span class="i2">'T was near the twilight-tide,</span> +And slowly there a lady fair<br /> +<span class="i2">Was walking in her pride.</span> +Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,<br /> +<span class="i2">Walked spirits at her side.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,<br /> +<span class="i2">And Honor charmed the air;</span> +And all astir looked kind on her,<br /> +<span class="i2">And called her good as fair,—</span> +For all God ever gave to her<br /> +<span class="i2">She kept with chary care.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She kept with care her beauties rare<br /> +<span class="i2">From lovers warm and true,</span> +For her heart was cold to all but gold,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the rich came not to woo,—</span> +But honored well are charms to sell<br /> +<span class="i2">If priests the selling do.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Now walking there was one more fair,—<br /> +<span class="i2">A slight girl, lily-pale;</span> +And she had unseen company<br /> +<span class="i2">To make the spirit quail,—</span> +'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn,<br /> +<span class="i2">And nothing could avail.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No mercy now can clear her brow<br /> +<span class="i2">For this world's peace to pray;</span> +<a name="Page_205"></a>For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her woman's heart gave way!—</span> +But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven<br /> +<span class="i2">By man is cursed alway!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="BEAUTIFUL_SNOW"></a>BEAUTIFUL SNOW.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O the snow, the beautiful snow,<br /> +Filling the sky and the earth below!<br /> +Over the house-tops, over the street,<br /> +Over the heads of the people you meet,<br /> +<span class="i4">Dancing,</span> +<span class="i6">Flirting,</span> +<span class="i8">Skimming along.</span> +Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong.<br /> +Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek;<br /> +Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak;<br /> +Beautiful snow, from the heavens above,<br /> +Pure as an angel and fickle as love! +</p> +<p class="stanza">O the snow, the beautiful snow!<br /> +How the flakes gather and laugh as they go!<br /> +Whirling about in its maddening fun,<br /> +It plays in its glee with every one.<br /> +<span class="i4">Chasing,</span> +<span class="i6">Laughing,</span> +<span class="i8">Hurrying by,</span> +It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye;<br /> +And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound,<br /> +Snap at the crystals that eddy around.<br /> +The town is alive, and its heart in a glow,<br /> +To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_206"></a>How the wild crowd go swaying along,<br /> +Hailing each other with humor and song!<br /> +How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,—<br /> +Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye!<br /> +<span class="i4">Ringing,</span> +<span class="i6">Swinging,</span> +<span class="i8">Dashing they go</span> +Over the crest of the beautiful snow:<br /> +Snow so pure when it falls from the sky,<br /> +To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by;<br /> +To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet<br /> +Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Once I was pure as the snows,—but I fell:<br /> +Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven—to hell:<br /> +Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street:<br /> +Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat.<br /> +<span class="i4">Pleading,</span> +<span class="i6">Cursing,</span> +<span class="i8">Dreading to die,</span> +Selling my soul to whoever would buy,<br /> +Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread,<br /> +Hating the living and fearing the dead.<br /> +Merciful God! have I fallen so low?<br /> +And yet I was once like this beautiful snow! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Once I was fair as the beautiful snow,<br /> +With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow;<br /> +Once I was loved for my innocent grace,—<br /> +Flattered and sought for the charm of my face.<br /> +<span class="i4">Father,</span> +<span class="i6">Mother,</span> +<span class="i8">Sisters all,</span> +<a name="Page_207"></a>God, and myself, I have lost by my fall.<br /> +The veriest wretch that goes shivering by<br /> +Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh;<br /> +For all that is on or about me, I know<br /> +There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. +</p> +<p class="stanza">How strange it should be that this beautiful snow<br /> +Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go!<br /> +How strange it would be, when the night comes again,<br /> +If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain!<br /> +<span class="i4">Fainting,</span> +<span class="i6">Freezing,</span> +<span class="i8">Dying alone,</span> +Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan<br /> +To be heard in the crash of the crazy town,<br /> +Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down;<br /> +To lie and to die in my terrible woe,<br /> +With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow!</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES W. WATSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LONDON_CHURCHES"></a>LONDON CHURCHES.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +I stood, one Sunday morning,<br /> +Before a large church door,<br /> +The congregation gathered,<br /> +And carriages a score,—<br /> +From one out stepped a lady<br /> +I oft had seen before. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her hand was on a prayer-book,<br /> +And held a vinaigrette;<br /> +<a name="Page_208"></a>The sign of man's redemption<br /> +Clear on the book was set,—<br /> +But above the cross there glistened<br /> +A golden Coronet. +</p> +<p class="stanza">For her the obsequious beadle<br /> +The inner door flung wide;<br /> +Lightly, as up a ball-room,<br /> +Her footsteps seemed to glide,—<br /> +There might be good thoughts in her,<br /> +For all her evil pride. +</p> +<p class="stanza">But after her a woman<br /> +Peeped wistfully within,<br /> +On whose wan face was graven<br /> +Life's hardest discipline,—<br /> +The trace of the sad trinity<br /> +Of weakness, pain, and sin. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The few free-seats were crowded<br /> +Where she could rest and pray;<br /> +With her worn garb contrasted<br /> +Each side in fair array,—<br /> +"God's house holds no poor sinners,"<br /> +She sighed, and crept away.</p> +<p class="signature">RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON.)</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_BRIDGE_OF_SIGHS"></a>THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.</p> +<p class="cmt">"Drowned! drowned!"—HAMLET.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +One more unfortunate,<br /> +Weary of breath,<br /> +<a name="Page_209"></a>Rashly importunate,<br /> +Gone to her death! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Take her up tenderly,<br /> +Lift her with care!<br /> +Fashioned so slenderly,<br /> +Young, and so fair! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Look at her garments<br /> +Clinging like cerements,<br /> +Whilst the wave constantly<br /> +Drips from her clothing;<br /> +Take her up instantly,<br /> +Loving, not loathing! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Touch her not scornfully!<br /> +Think of her mournfully,<br /> +Gently and humanly,—<br /> +Not of the stains of her;<br /> +All that remains of her<br /> +Now is pure womanly. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Make no deep scrutiny<br /> +Into her mutiny,<br /> +Rash and undutiful;<br /> +Past all dishonor,<br /> +Death has left on her<br /> +Only the beautiful. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Still, for all slips of hers,—<br /> +One of Eve's family,—<br /> +Wipe those poor lips of hers,<br /> +Oozing so clammily. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_210"></a>Loop up her tresses<br /> +Escaped from the comb,—<br /> +Her fair auburn tresses,—<br /> +Whilst wonderment guesses<br /> +Where was her home? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Who was her father?<br /> +Who was her mother?<br /> +Had she a sister?<br /> +Had she a brother?<br /> +Or was there a dearer one<br /> +Still, and a nearer one<br /> +Yet, than all other? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Alas! for the rarity<br /> +Of Christian charity<br /> +Under the sun!<br /> +O, it was pitiful!<br /> +Near a whole city full,<br /> +Home she had none. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sisterly, brotherly,<br /> +Fatherly, motherly<br /> +Feelings had changed,—<br /> +Love, by harsh evidence,<br /> +Thrown from its eminence;<br /> +Even God's providence<br /> +Seeming estranged. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Where the lamps quiver<br /> +So far in the river,<br /> +With many a light<br /> +From window and casement,<br /> +From garret to basement,<br /> +<a name="Page_211"></a>She stood, with amazement,<br /> +Houseless by night. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The bleak wind of March<br /> +Made her tremble and shiver;<br /> +But not the dark arch,<br /> +Or the black floating river;<br /> +Mad from life's history,<br /> +Glad to death's mystery,<br /> +Swift to be hurled—<br /> +Anywhere, anywhere<br /> +Out of the world! +</p> +<p class="stanza">In she plunged boldly,—<br /> +No matter how coldly<br /> +The rough river ran—<br /> +Over the brink of it!<br /> +Picture it—think of it,<br /> +Dissolute man!<br /> +Lave in it, drink of it,<br /> +Then, if you can! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Take her up tenderly,<br /> +Lift her with care!<br /> +Fashioned so slenderly,<br /> +Young, and so fair! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ere her limbs, frigidly,<br /> +Stiffen too rigidly,<br /> +Decently, kindly!<br /> +Smooth and compose them;<br /> +And her eyes, close them,<br /> +<a name="Page_212"></a>Staring so blindly!<br /> +Dreadfully staring<br /> +Through muddy impurity,<br /> +As when with the daring<br /> +Last look of despairing<br /> +Fixed on futurity. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Perishing gloomily,<br /> +Spurred by contumely,<br /> +Cold inhumanity,<br /> +Burning insanity,<br /> +Into her rest!<br /> +Cross her hands humbly,<br /> +As if praying dumbly,<br /> +Over her breast! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Owning her weakness,<br /> +Her evil behavior,<br /> +And leaving, with meekness,<br /> +Her sins to her Saviour! +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS HOOD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="GUILTY_OR_NOT_GUILTY"></a>GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY?</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +She stood at the bar of justice,<br /> +<span class="i2">A creature wan and wild,</span> +In form too small for a woman,<br /> +<span class="i2">In feature too old for a child.</span> +For a look so worn and pathetic<br /> +<span class="i2">Was stamped on her pale young face,</span> +It seemed long years of suffering<br /> +<span class="i2">Must have left that silent trace.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_213"></a>"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her<br /> +<span class="i2">With kindly look, yet keen,</span> +"Is—?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir."<br /> +<span class="i2">"And your age?" "I am turned fifteen."</span> +"Well, Mary—" And then from a paper<br /> +<span class="i2">He slowly and gravely read,</span> +"You are charged here—I am sorry to say it—<br /> +<span class="i2">With stealing three loaves of bread.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"You look not like an offender,<br /> +<span class="i2">And I hope that you can show</span> +The charge to be false. Now, tell me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Are you guilty of this, or no?"</span> +A passionate burst of weeping<br /> +<span class="i2">Was at first her sole reply;</span> +But she dried her tears in a moment,<br /> +<span class="i2">And looked in the judge's eye.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I will tell you just how it was, sir;<br /> +<span class="i2">My father and mother are dead,</span> +And my little brothers and sisters<br /> +<span class="i2">Were hungry, and asked me for bread.</span> +At first I earned it for them<br /> +<span class="i2">By working hard all day,</span> +But somehow the times were hard, sir,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the work all fell away.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I could get no more employment;<br /> +<span class="i2">The weather was bitter cold;</span> +The young ones cried and shivered<br /> +<span class="i2">(Little Johnnie's but four years old).</span> +So what was I to do, sir?<br /> +<span class="i2">I am guilty, but do not condemn;</span> +<a name="Page_214"></a>I <i>took</i>—oh, was it <i>stealing</i>?—<br /> +<span class="i2">The bread to give to them."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Every man in the court-room—<br /> +<span class="i2">Graybeard and thoughtless youth—</span> +Knew, as he looked upon her,<br /> +<span class="i2">That the prisoner spake the truth.</span> +Out from their pockets came kerchiefs,<br /> +<span class="i2">Out from their eyes sprang tears,</span> +And out from the old faded wallets<br /> +<span class="i2">Treasures hoarded for years.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The judge's face was a study,<br /> +<span class="i2">The strangest you ever saw,</span> +As he cleared his throat and murmured<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>Something</i> about the <i>law.</i></span> +For one so learned in such matters,<br /> +<span class="i2">So wise in dealing with men,</span> +He seemed on a simple question<br /> +<span class="i2">Sorely puzzled just then.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But no one blamed him, or wondered,<br /> +<span class="i2">When at last these words they heard,</span> +"The sentence of this young prisoner<br /> +<span class="i2">Is for the present deferred."</span> +And no one blamed him, or wondered,<br /> +<span class="i2">When he went to her and smiled,</span> +And tenderly led from the court-room,<br /> +<span class="i2">Himself, the "guilty" child.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<a name="THE_FEMALE_CONVICT"></a> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_215"></a>THE FEMALE CONVICT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +She shrank from all, and her silent mood<br /> +Made her wish only for solitude:<br /> +Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook,<br /> +For innermost shame, on another's to look;<br /> +And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear<br /> +Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!—<br /> +She still was young, and she had been fair;<br /> +But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care,<br /> +That frost and fever that wear the heart,<br /> +Had made the colors of youth depart<br /> +From the sallow cheek, save over it came<br /> +The burning flush of the spirit's shame. +</p> +<p class="stanza">They were sailing over the salt sea-foam,<br /> +Far from her country, far from her home;<br /> +And all she had left for her friends to keep<br /> +Was a name to hide and a memory to weep!<br /> +And her future held forth but the felon's lot,—<br /> +To live forsaken, to die forgot!<br /> +She could not weep, and she could not pray,<br /> +But she wasted and withered from day to day,<br /> +Till you might have counted each sunken vein,<br /> +When her wrist was prest by the iron chain;<br /> +And sometimes I thought her large dark eye<br /> +Had the glisten of red insanity. +</p> +<p class="stanza">She called me once to her sleeping-place,<br /> +A strange, wild look was upon her face,<br /> +Her eye flashed over her cheek so white,<br /> +Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight,<br /> +<a name="Page_216"></a>And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,—<br /> +The sound from mine ear hath never gone!—<br /> +"I had last night the loveliest dream:<br /> +My own land shone in the summer beam,<br /> +I saw the fields of the golden grain,<br /> +I heard the reaper's harvest strain;<br /> +There stood on the hills the green pine-tree,<br /> +And the thrush and the lark sang merrily.<br /> +A long and a weary way I had come;<br /> +But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home.<br /> +I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,<br /> +With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair!<br /> +The Bible lay open upon his knee,<br /> +But he closed the book to welcome me.<br /> +He led me next where my mother lay,<br /> +And together we knelt by her grave to pray,<br /> +And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear,<br /> +For it echoed one to my young days dear.<br /> +This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled,<br /> +And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead!<br /> +—We have not spoken, but still I have hung<br /> +On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue.<br /> +To me they are music, to me they recall<br /> +The things long hidden by Memory's pall!<br /> +Take this long curl of yellow hair,<br /> +And give it my father, and tell him my prayer,<br /> +My dying prayer, was for him." ... +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i10">Next day</span> +Upon the deck a coffin lay;<br /> +<a name="Page_217"></a>They raised it up, and like a dirge<br /> +The heavy gale swept over the surge;<br /> +The corpse was cast to the wind and wave,—<br /> +The convict has found in the green sea a grave. +</p> +<p class="signature">LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="HOPELESS_GRIEF"></a>HOPELESS GRIEF.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,—<br /> +That only men incredulous of despair,<br /> +Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air<br /> +Beat upwards to God's throne in loud access<br /> +Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness,<br /> +In souls as countries lieth silent-bare<br /> +Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare<br /> +Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express<br /> +Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death;<br /> +Most like a monumental statue set<br /> +In everlasting watch and moveless woe,<br /> +Till itself crumble to the dust beneath.<br /> +Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet—<br /> +If it could weep, it could arise and go. +</p> +<p class="signature">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="center"><a name="il07"></a> +<a href="./images/217.jpg"><img src="./images/217_th.jpg" alt="ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING" title="Portrait of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING<br /><i>After a photograph from life by Talfourd, London.</i></span> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /> + + +<a name="IV_COMFORT_AND_CHEER"></a><h2><a name="Page_218"></a>IV. COMFORT AND CHEER.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TO_MYSELF"></a>TO MYSELF.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Let nothing make thee sad or fretful,<br /> +<span class="i6">Or too regretful;</span> +<span class="i10">Be still;</span> +What God hath ordered must be right;<br /> +Then find in it thine own delight,<br /> +<span class="i10">My will.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow<br /> +<span class="i6">About to-morrow.</span> +<span class="i10">My heart?</span> +<i>One</i> watches all with care most true;<br /> +Doubt not that he will give thee too<br /> +<span class="i10">Thy part.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Only be steadfast; never waver,<br /> +<span class="i6">Nor seek earth's favor,</span> +<span class="i10">But rest:</span> +Thou knowest what God wills must be<br /> +For all his creatures, so for thee,<br /> +<span class="i10">The best.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">From the German of PAUL FLEMING.<br /> +Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_FLOWER"></a><a name="Page_219"></a>THE FLOWER.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean</span> +Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring;<br /> +<span class="i2">To which, besides their own demean,</span> +The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring.<br /> +<span class="i6">Grief melts away</span> +<span class="i6">Like snow in May,</span> +<span class="i2">As if there were no such cold thing.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Who would have thought my shrivelled heart</span> +Could have recovered greenness? It was gone<br /> +<span class="i2">Quite underground; as flowers depart</span> +To see their mother root, when they have blown;<br /> +<span class="i6">Where they together</span> +<span class="i6">All the hard weather,</span> +<span class="i2">Dead to the world, keep house unknown.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">These are thy wonders, Lord of power,</span> +Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell<br /> +<span class="i2">And up to heaven in an houre;</span> +Making a chiming of a passing-bell.<br /> +<span class="i6">We say amisse</span> +<span class="i6">This or that is:</span> +<span class="i2">Thy word is all, if we could spell.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">O that I once past changing were,</span> +Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither!<br /> +<span class="i2">Many a spring I shoot up fair,</span> +Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groning thither;<br /> +<span class="i6">Nor doth my flower</span> +<span class="i6">Want a spring-showre,</span> +<span class="i2">My sinnes and I joining together.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_220"></a><span class="i2">But, while I grow in a straight line,</span> +Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy anger comes, and I decline:</span> +What frost to that? what pole is not the zone<br /> +<span class="i6">Where all things burn,</span> +<span class="i6">When thou dost turn,</span> +<span class="i2">And the least frown of thine is shown?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">And now in age I bud again;</span> +After so many deaths I live and write;<br /> +<span class="i2">I once more smell the dew and rain,</span> +And relish versing: O my only light,<br /> +<span class="i6">It cannot be</span> +<span class="i6">That I am he</span> +<span class="i2">On whom thy tempests fell all night!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">These are thy wonders, Lord of love,</span> +To make us see we are but flowers that glide;<br /> +<span class="i2">Which when we once can finde and prove,</span> +Thou hast a garden for us where to bide.<br /> +<span class="i6">Who would be more,</span> +<span class="i6">Swelling through store,</span> +<span class="i2">Forfeit their paradise by their pride.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">GEORGE HERBERT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONNET_2"></a>SONNET.</p> +<p class="subt">TO CYRIACK SKINNER.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear,<br /> +<span class="i2">To outward view, of blemish or of spot,</span> +<span class="i2">Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot:</span> +<a name="Page_221"></a>Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear<br /> +Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or man or woman, yet I argue not</span> +<span class="i2">Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot</span> +Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer<br /> +Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?<br /> +The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied<br /> +In Liberty's defence, my noble task,<br /> +Of which all Europe rings from side to side.<br /> +This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask,<br /> +Content, though blind, had I no better guide. +</p> +<p class="signature">MILTON.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="INVICTUS"></a>INVICTUS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Out of the night that covers me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Black as the pit from pole to pole,</span> +I thank whatever gods may be<br /> +<span class="i2">For my unconquerable soul.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">In the fell clutch of circumstance<br /> +<span class="i2">I have not winced nor cried aloud;</span> +Under the bludgeonings of chance<br /> +<span class="i2">My head is bloody, but unbowed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Beyond this place of wrath and tears<br /> +<span class="i2">Looms but the Horror of the shade,</span> +And yet the menace of the years<br /> +<span class="i2">Finds and shall find me unafraid.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">It matters not how strait the gate,<br /> +<span class="i2">How charged with punishments the scroll,</span> +<a name="Page_222"></a>I am the master of my fate;<br /> +<span class="i2">I am the captain of my soul.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AFAR_IN_THE_DESERT"></a>AFAR IN THE DESERT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Afar in the desert I love to ride,<br /> +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side:<br /> +When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast,<br /> +And, sick of the present, I cling to the past;<br /> +When the eye is suffused with regretful tears,<br /> +From the fond recollections of former years;<br /> +And shadows of things that have long since fled<br /> +Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,—<br /> +Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon;<br /> +Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon;<br /> +Attachments by fate or falsehood reft;<br /> +Companions of early days lost or left;<br /> +And my native land, whose magical name<br /> +Thrills to the heart like electric flame;<br /> +The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime;<br /> +All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time<br /> +When the feelings were young, and the world was new,<br /> +Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view;<br /> +All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone!<br /> +And I, a lone exile remembered of none,<br /> +My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone,<br /> +Aweary of all that is under the sun,<br /> +<a name="Page_223"></a>With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan,<br /> +I fly to the desert afar from man. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Afar in the desert I love to ride,<br /> +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side!<br /> +When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life,<br /> +With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife,<br /> +The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear,<br /> +The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear,<br /> +And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly,<br /> +Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy;<br /> +When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high,<br /> +And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,—<br /> +O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride,<br /> +Afar in the desert alone to ride!<br /> +There is rapture to vault on the champing steed,<br /> +And to bound away with the eagle's speed,<br /> +With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,—<br /> +The only law of the Desert Land! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Afar in the desert I love to ride,<br /> +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,<br /> +Away, away from the dwellings of men,<br /> +By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen;<br /> +By valleys remote where the oribi plays,<br /> +Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartèbeest graze,<br /> +And the kudu and eland unhunted recline<br /> +By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine;<br /> +<a name="Page_224"></a>Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood,<br /> +And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood,<br /> +And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will<br /> +In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Afar in the desert I love to ride,<br /> +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,<br /> +O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry<br /> +Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively;<br /> +And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh<br /> +Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray;<br /> +Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane.<br /> +With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain;<br /> +And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste<br /> +Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste,<br /> +Hieing away to the home of her rest,<br /> +Where she and her mate have scooped their nest,<br /> +Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view<br /> +In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Afar in the desert I love to ride.<br /> +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side,<br /> +Away, away, in the wilderness vast<br /> +Where the white man's foot hath never passed,<br /> +And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan<br /> +Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan,—<br /> +A region of emptiness, howling and drear,<br /> +Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear;<br /> +Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone,<br /> +With the twilight bat from the yawning stone;<br /> +Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root,<br /> +Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot;<br /> +<a name="Page_225"></a>And the bitter-melon, for food and drink,<br /> +Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink;<br /> +A region of drought, where no river glides,<br /> +Nor rippling brook with osiered sides;<br /> +Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount,<br /> +Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount,<br /> +Appears, to refresh the aching eye;<br /> +But the barren earth and the burning sky,<br /> +And the blank horizon, round and round,<br /> +Spread,—void of living sight or sound.<br /> +And here, while the night-winds round me sigh,<br /> +And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky,<br /> +As I sit apart by the desert stone,<br /> +Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone,<br /> +"A still small voice" comes through the wild<br /> +(Like a father consoling his fretful child),<br /> +Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear,<br /> +Saying,—Man is distant, but God is near! +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS PRINGLE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SAD_IS_OUR_YOUTH_FOR_IT_IS_EVER_GOING"></a>SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Sad is our youth, for it is ever going,<br /> +Crumbling away beneath our very feet;<br /> +Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing<br /> +In current unperceived, because so fleet;<br /> +Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,—<br /> +But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat;<br /> +Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing,<br /> +<a name="Page_226"></a>And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet;<br /> +And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us<br /> +Of that which made our childhood sweeter still;<br /> +And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us<br /> +A nearer good to cure an older ill;<br /> +And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them,<br /> +Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them! +</p> +<p class="signature">AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MY_WIFE_AND_CHILD"></a>MY WIFE AND CHILD.*</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The tattoo beats,—the lights are gone,<br /> +<span class="i2">The camp around in slumber lies,</span> +The night with solemn pace moves on,<br /> +<span class="i2">The shadows thicken o'er the skies;</span> +But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I think of thee, O darling one,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose love my early life hath blest—</span> +Of thee and him—our baby son—<br /> +<span class="i2">Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.</span> +God of the tender, frail, and lone,<br /> +<span class="i2">O, guard the tender sleeper's rest!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And hover gently, hover near<br /> +<span class="i2">To her whose watchful eye is wet,—</span> +<a name="Page_227"></a>To mother, wife,—the doubly dear,<br /> +<span class="i2">In whose young heart have freshly met</span> +Two streams of love so deep and clear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And cheer her drooping spirits yet.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Now, while she kneels before thy throne,<br /> +<span class="i2">O, teach her, Ruler of the skies,</span> +That, while by thy behest alone<br /> +<span class="i2">Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise,</span> +No tear is wept to thee unknown,<br /> +<span class="i2">No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">That thou canst stay the ruthless hands<br /> +<span class="i2">Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;</span> +That only by thy stern commands<br /> +<span class="i2">The battle's lost, the soldier's slain;</span> +That from the distant sea or land<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And when upon her pillow lone<br /> +<span class="i2">Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed,</span> +May happier visions beam upon<br /> +<span class="i2">The brightened current of her breast,</span> +No frowning look or angry tone<br /> +<span class="i2">Disturb the Sabbath of her rest!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Whatever fate these forms may show,<br /> +<span class="i2">Loved with a passion almost wild,</span> +By day, by night, in joy or woe,<br /> +<span class="i2">By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled,</span> +From every danger, every foe,<br /> +<span class="i2">O God, protect my wife and child!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY R. JACKSON.</p> +<p>* Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the writer being at that time Colonel of the 1st regiment of Georgia Volunteers.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_228"></a><a name="THE_RAINY_DAY"></a>THE RAINY DAY.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;<br /> +It rains, and the wind is never weary;<br /> +The vine still clings to the moldering wall,<br /> +But at every gust the dead leaves fall,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the day is dark and dreary.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;<br /> +It rains, and the wind is never weary;<br /> +My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past,<br /> +But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the days are dark and dreary.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;<br /> +Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;<br /> +Thy fate is the common fate of all,<br /> +Into each life some rain must fall,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some days must be dark and dreary.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TIMES_GO_BY_TURNS"></a>TIMES GO BY TURNS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The lopped tree in time may grow again;<br /> +Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;<br /> +The sorest wight may find release of pain,<br /> +The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower;<br /> +Times go by turns and chances change by course,<br /> +From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_229"></a>The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,<br /> +She draws her favors to the lowest ebb;<br /> +Her time hath equal times to come and go,<br /> +Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;<br /> +No joy so great but runneth to an end,<br /> +No hap so hard but may in fine amend. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring,<br /> +No endless night yet not eternal day;<br /> +The saddest birds a season find to sing,<br /> +The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;<br /> +Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,<br /> +That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. +</p> +<p class="stanza">A chance may win that by mischance was lost;<br /> +The well that holds no great, takes little fish;<br /> +In some things all, in all things none are crossed,<br /> +Few all they need, but none have all they wish;<br /> +Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,<br /> +Who least hath some, who most hath never all. +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT SOUTHWELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="COMPENSATION"></a>COMPENSATION.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Tears wash away the atoms in the eye<br /> +<span class="i4">That smarted for a day;</span> +Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky<br /> +<span class="i4">The fields with flowers array.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No chamber of pain but has some hidden door<br /> +<span class="i4">That promises release;</span> +No solitude so drear but yields its store<br /> +<span class="i4">Of thought and inward peace.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_230"></a>No night so wild but brings the constant sun<br /> +<span class="i4">With love and power untold;</span> +No time so dark but through its woof there run<br /> +<span class="i4">Some blessèd threads of gold.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn<br /> +<span class="i4">In changing calm and strife</span> +The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,—<br /> +<span class="i4">The unquenched lamps of life.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O Love supreme! O Providence divine!<br /> +<span class="i4">What self-adjusting springs</span> +Of law and life, what even scales, are thine,<br /> +<span class="i4">What sure-returning wings</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Of hopes and joys, that flit like birds away,<br /> +<span class="i4">When chilling autumn blows,</span> +But come again, long ere the buds of May<br /> +<span class="i4">Their rosy lips unclose!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What wondrous play of mood and accident<br /> +<span class="i4">Through shifting days and years;</span> +What fresh returns of vigor overspent<br /> +<span class="i4">In feverish dreams and fears!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What wholesome air of conscience and of thought<br /> +<span class="i4">When doubts and forms oppress;</span> +What vistas opening to the gates we sought<br /> +<span class="i4">Beyond the wilderness;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Beyond the narrow cells, where self-involved,<br /> +<span class="i4">Like chrysalids, we wait</span> +<a name="Page_231"></a>The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved<br /> +<span class="i4">Of death and change and fate!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O Light divine! we need no fuller test<br /> +<span class="i4">That all is ordered well;</span> +We know enough to trust that all is best<br /> +<span class="i4">Where love and wisdom dwell.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_CHANGED_CROSS"></a>THE CHANGED CROSS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +It was a time of sadness, and my heart,<br /> +Although it knew and loved the better part,<br /> +Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife,<br /> +And all the needful discipline of life. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And while I thought on these, as given to me,<br /> +My trial-tests of faith and love to be,<br /> +It seemed as if I never could be sure<br /> +That faithful to the end I should endure. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And thus, no longer trusting to his might<br /> +Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight,"<br /> +Doubting, and almost yielding to despair,<br /> +The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Far heavier its weight must surely be<br /> +Than those of others which I daily see;<br /> +Oh! if I might another burden choose,<br /> +Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose." +</p> +<p class="stanza">A solemn silence reigned on all around,<br /> +E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound;<br /> +<a name="Page_232"></a>The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell,<br /> +And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. +</p> +<p class="stanza">A moment's pause,—and then a heavenly light<br /> +Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight;<br /> +Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere,<br /> +And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then One, more fair than all the rest to see,<br /> +One to whom all the others bowed the knee,<br /> +Came gently to me, as I trembling lay,<br /> +And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way." +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then, speaking thus, he led me far above,<br /> +And there, beneath a canopy of love,<br /> +Crosses of divers shape and size were seen,<br /> +Larger and smaller than my own had been. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And one there was, most beauteous to behold,—<br /> +A little one, with jewels set in gold.<br /> +"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear,<br /> +For it will be an easy one to bear." +</p> +<p class="stanza">And so the little cross I quickly took,<br /> +But all at once my frame beneath it shook;<br /> +The sparkling jewels, fair were they to <i>see</i>,<br /> +But far too heavy was their <i>weight</i> for me. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"This may not be," I cried, and looked again,<br /> +To see if there was any here could ease my pain;<br /> +But, one by one, I passed them slowly by,<br /> +Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_233"></a>Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined,<br /> +And grace and beauty seemed in it combined.<br /> +Wondering, I gazed,—and still I wondered more,<br /> +To think so many should have passed it o'er. +</p> +<p class="stanza">But oh! that form so beautiful to see<br /> +Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me;<br /> +Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair;<br /> +Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear." +</p> +<p class="stanza">And so it was with each and all around,—<br /> +Not one to suit my <i>need</i> could there be found;<br /> +Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down,<br /> +As my Guide gently said, "No cross,—no crown." +</p> +<p class="stanza">At length to him I raised my saddened heart;<br /> +He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart;<br /> +"Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me;<br /> +My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." +</p> +<p class="stanza">And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet,<br /> +Again I turned my earthly cross to meet;<br /> +With forward footsteps, turning not aside,<br /> +For fear some hidden evil might betide; +</p> +<p class="stanza">And there—in the prepared, appointed way,<br /> +Listening to hear, and ready to obey—<br /> +A cross I quickly found of plainest form,<br /> +With only words of love inscribed thereon. +</p> +<p class="stanza">With thankfulness I raised it from the rest,<br /> +And joyfully acknowledged it the best,<br /> +<a name="Page_234"></a>The only one, of all the many there.<br /> +That I could feel was good for me to bear. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And, while I thus my chosen one confessed,<br /> +I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest;<br /> +And as I bent, my burden to sustain,<br /> +I recognized <i>my own old cross</i> again. +</p> +<p class="stanza">But oh! how different did it seem to be,<br /> +Now I had learned its preciousness to see!<br /> +No longer could I unbelieving say<br /> +"Perhaps another is a better way." +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be,<br /> +That he who knows me best should choose for me;<br /> +And so, whate'er his love sees good to send,<br /> +I'll trust it's best,—because he knows the end. +</p> +<p class="signature">HON. MRS. CHARLES HOBART.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SOMETHING_BEYOND"></a>SOMETHING BEYOND.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Something beyond! though now, with joy unfound,<br /> +<span class="i2">The life-task falleth from thy weary hand,</span> +Be brave, be patient! In the fair beyond<br /> +<span class="i6">Thou'lt understand.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Thou'lt understand why our most royal hours<br /> +<span class="i2">Couch sorrowful slaves bound by low nature's greed;</span> +Why the celestial soul's a minion made<br /> +<span class="i6">To narrowest need.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_235"></a>In this pent sphere of being incomplete,<br /> +<span class="i2">The imperfect fragment of a beauteous whole,</span> +For yon rare regions, where the perfect meet,<br /> +<span class="i6">Sighs the lone soul.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sighs for the perfect! Far and fair it lies;<br /> +<span class="i2">It hath no half-fed friendships perishing fleet,</span> +No partial insights, no averted eyes,<br /> +<span class="i6">No loves unmeet.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Something beyond! Light for our clouded eyes!<br /> +<span class="i2">In this dark dwelling, in its shrouded beams,</span> +Our best waits masked, few pierce the soul's disguise;<br /> +<span class="i6">How sad it seems!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Something beyond! Ah, if it were not so,<br /> +<span class="i2">Darker would be thy face, O brief To-day;</span> +Earthward we 'd bow beneath life's smiting woe,<br /> +<span class="i6">Powerless to pray.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Something beyond! The immortal morning stands<br /> +<span class="i2">Above the night; clear shines her precious brow;</span> +The pendulous star in her transfigured hands<br /> +<span class="i6">Brightens the Now.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MARY CLEMMER AMES HUDSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="DESPONDENCY_REBUKED"></a>DESPONDENCY REBUKED.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Say not, the struggle nought availeth,<br /> +<span class="i2">The labor and the wounds are vain,</span> +<a name="Page_236"></a>The enemy faints not, nor faileth,<br /> +<span class="i2">And as things have been they remain.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;<br /> +<span class="i2">It may be, in yon smoke concealed,</span> +Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,<br /> +<span class="i2">And, but for you, possess the field.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,<br /> +<span class="i2">Seem here no painful inch to gain,</span> +Far back, through creeks and inlets making,<br /> +<span class="i2">Comes silent, flooding in, the main.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And not by eastern windows only.<br /> +<span class="i2">When daylight comes, comes in the light;</span> +In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly,<br /> +<span class="i2">But westward, look, the land is bright.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="GODS_SURE_HELP_IN_SORROW"></a>GOD'S SURE HELP IN SORROW.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i6">Leave all to God,</span> +Forsaken one, and stay thy tears;<br /> +<span class="i2">For the Highest knows thy pain,</span> +Sees thy sufferings and thy fears;<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou shalt not wait his help in vain;</span> +<span class="i6">Leave all to God!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i6">Be still and trust!</span> +For his strokes are strokes of love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou must for thy profit bear;</span> +<a name="Page_237"></a>He thy filial fear would move,<br /> +<span class="i2">Trust thy Father's loving care,</span> +<span class="i6">Be still and trust!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i6">Know, God is near!</span> +Though thou think him far away,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though his mercy long have slept,</span> +He will come and not delay,<br /> +<span class="i2">When his child enough hath wept,</span> +<span class="i6">For God is near!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i6">Oh, teach him not</span> +When and how to hear thy prayers;<br /> +<span class="i2">Never doth our God forget;</span> +He the cross who longest bears<br /> +<span class="i2">Finds his sorrows' bounds are set;</span> +<span class="i6">Then teach him not!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i6">If thou love him,</span> +Walking truly in his ways,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then no trouble, cross, or death</span> +E'er shall silence faith and praise;<br /> +<span class="i2">All things serve thee here beneath,</span> +<span class="i6">If thou love God.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">From the German of ANTON ULRICH, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK, 1667.<br />Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONNET_3"></a>SONNET.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +While yet these tears have power to flow<br /> +<span class="i2">For hours for ever past away;</span> +While yet these swelling sighs allow<br /> +<span class="i2">My faltering voice to breathe a lay;</span> +<span class="i2"><a name="Page_238"></a>While yet my hand can touch the chords,</span> +<span class="i4">My tender lute, to wake thy tone;</span> +<span class="i2">While yet my mind no thought affords,</span> +<span class="i4">But one remembered dream alone,</span> +I ask not death, whate'er my state:<br /> +<span class="i2">But when my eyes can weep no more,</span> +<span class="i4">My voice is lost, my hand untrue.</span> +<span class="i2">And when my spirit's fire is o'er,</span> +<span class="i4">Nor can express the love it knew,</span> +Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate!</p> +<p class="signature">From the French of LOUISE LABÉ.<br /> +Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="WAITING"></a>WAITING.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Serene, I fold my hands and wait,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea;</span> +I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,<br /> +<span class="i2">For, lo! my own shall come to me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I stay my haste, I make delays,<br /> +<span class="i2">For what avails this eager pace?</span> +I stand amid the eternal ways,<br /> +<span class="i2">And what is mine shall know my face.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Asleep, awake, by night or day.<br /> +<span class="i2">The friends I seek are seeking me;</span> +No wind can drive my bark astray,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor change the tide of destiny.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What matter if I stand alone?<br /> +<span class="i2">I wait with joy the coming years;</span> +<a name="Page_239"></a>My heart shall reap where it has sown,<br /> +<span class="i2">And garner up its fruit of tears.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The waters know their own and draw<br /> +<span class="i2">The brook that springs in yonder height;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">So flows the good with equal law<br /> +<span class="i2">Unto the soul of pure delight.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The stars come nightly to the sky;<br /> +<span class="i2">The tidal wave unto the sea;</span> +Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,<br /> +<span class="i2">Can keep my own away from me.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN BURROUGHS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AUNT_PHILLISS_GUEST"></a>AUNT PHILLIS'S GUEST.</p> +<p class="subt">ST. HELENA ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1863.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +I was young and "Harry" was strong,<br /> +The summer was bursting from sky and plain,<br /> +Thrilling our blood as we bounded along,—<br /> +When a picture flashed, and I dropped the rein. +</p> +<p class="stanza">A black sea-creek, with snaky run<br /> +Slipping through low green leagues of sedge,<br /> +An ebbing tide, and a setting sun;<br /> +A hut and a woman by the edge. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her back was bent and her wool was gray;<br /> +The wrinkles lay close on the withered face;<br /> +Children were buried and sold away,—<br /> +The Freedom had come to the last of a race! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_240"></a>She lived from a neighbor's hominy-pot;<br /> +And praised the Lord, if "the pain" passed by;<br /> +From the earthen floor the smoke curled out<br /> +Through shingles patched with the bright blue sky. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Aunt Phillis, you live here all alone?"<br /> +I asked, and pitied the gray old head;<br /> +Sure as a child, in quiet tone,<br /> +"Me and Jesus, Massa," she said. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I started, for all the place was aglow<br /> +With a presence I had not seen before;<br /> +The air was full of a music low,<br /> +And the Guest Divine stood at the door! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life,<br /> +Who seeth the widow give her mite,<br /> +Had watched this slave in her weary strife,<br /> +And shown himself to her longing sight. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin,<br /> +The grovelling want and the darkened mind,—<br /> +I looked on this; but the Lord, within:<br /> +I would what he saw was in me to find! +</p> +<p class="stanza">A childlike soul, whose faith had force<br /> +To see what the angels see in bliss:<br /> +She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course,<br /> +They lived together,—she knew but this. +</p> +<p class="stanza">And the life that I had almost despised<br /> +As something to pity, so poor and low,<br /> +<a name="Page_241"></a>Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized<br /> +He loved to come near and see it grow. +</p> +<p class="stanza">No sorrow for her that life was done:<br /> +A few more days of the hut's unrest,<br /> +A little while longer to sit in the sun,—<br /> +Then—He would be host, and she would be guest! +</p> +<p class="stanza">And up above, if an angel of light<br /> +Should stop on his errand of love some day<br /> +To ask, "Who lives in the mansion bright?"<br /> +"Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say. +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p class="stanza">A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem?<br /> +And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream? +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i6">Friend, surely so!</span> +<span class="i6">For this I know,—</span> +That our faiths are foolish by falling below,<br /> +Not coming above, what God will show;<br /> +That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast,<br /> +To whose beauty our eyes have never passed;<br /> +That his face in the present, or in the to-be,<br /> +Outshines the best that we think we see.</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ILKA_BLADE_O_GRASS_KEPS_ITS_AIN_DRAP_O_DEW"></a>ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.</p> + +<p class="widerst"> +Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,<br /> +And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind,<br /> +<a name="Page_242"></a>Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye'll win through,<br /> +For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. +</p> +<p class="widerst">Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been,<br /> +Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een,<br /> +Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,<br /> +For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. +</p> +<p class="widerst">In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky<br /> +Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,<br /> +The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,<br /> +And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. +</p> +<p class="widerst">Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,<br /> +And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee,<br /> +Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,<br /> +But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES BALLANTINE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="UNCHANGING"></a>UNCHANGING.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +In early days methought that all must last;<br /> +<span class="i2">Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting;</span> +<a name="Page_243"></a>But though my soul now grieves for much that's past,<br /> +<span class="i2">And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating,</span> +I yet believe in mind that all will last,<br /> +<span class="i2">Because the old in new I still am meeting.</span></p> +<p class="signature">From the German of<br /> +FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="I_HOLD_STILL"></a>I HOLD STILL.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Pain's furnace heat within me quivers,<br /> +<span class="i2">God's breath upon the flame doth blow,</span> +And all my heart in anguish shivers,<br /> +<span class="i2">And trembles at the fiery glow:</span> +And yet I whisper, As God will!<br /> +And in his hottest fire hold still. +</p> +<p class="stanza">He comes and lays my heart, all heated,<br /> +<span class="i2">On the hard anvil, minded so</span> +Into his own fair shape to beat it<br /> +<span class="i2">With his great hammer, blow on blow:</span> +And yet I whisper, As God will!<br /> +And at his heaviest blows hold still. +</p> +<p class="stanza">He takes my softened heart and beats it,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The sparks fly off at every blow;</span> +He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it,<br /> +<span class="i2">And lets it cool, and makes it glow:</span> +And yet I whisper, As God will!<br /> +And, in his mighty hand, hold still. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Why should I murmur? for the sorrow<br /> +<span class="i2">Thus only longer-lived would be;</span> +<a name="Page_244"></a>Its end may come, and will, to-morrow,<br /> +<span class="i2">When God has done his work in me;</span> +So I say, trusting, As God will!<br /> +And, trusting to the end, hold still. +</p> +<p class="stanza">He kindles for my profit purely +<span class="i2">Affliction's glowing fiery brand,</span> +And all his heaviest blows are surely<br /> +<span class="i2">Inflicted by a Master-hand:</span> +So I say, praying, As God will!<br /> +And hope in him, and suffer still.</p> +<p class="signature">From the German of JULIUS STURM.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_GOOD_GREAT_MAN"></a>THE GOOD GREAT MAN.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits<br /> +<span class="i2">Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains!</span> +It sounds like stories from the land of spirits.<br /> +If any man obtain that which he merits,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or any merit that which he obtains.</span> +</p> + +<hr class="short" /> + +<p class="stanza"> +For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain!<br /> +What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?<br /> +Place—titles—salary—a gilded chain—<br /> +Or throne of corses which his sword has slain?<br /> +Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Hath he not always treasures, always friends,<br /> +The good great man? three treasures,—love, and light,<br /> +<a name="Page_245"></a>And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath;<br /> +And three firm friends, more sure than day and night—<br /> +Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.</p> +<p class="signature">SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="WHEN_MY_SHIP_COMES_IN"></a>WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing,<br /> +<span class="i4">Where the winds dance and spin;</span> +Beyond the reach of my eager hailing,<br /> +<span class="i4">Over the breakers' din;</span> +Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting,<br /> +Out where the blinding fog is drifting,<br /> +Out where the treacherous sand is shifting,<br /> +<span class="i4">My ship is coming in.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching,<br /> +<span class="i4">Day after weary day;</span> +Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking,<br /> +<span class="i4">While the long nights ebbed away;</span> +Could I but know where the waves had tossed her,<br /> +Could I but know what storms had crossed her,<br /> +Could I but know where the winds had lost her,<br /> +<span class="i2">Out in the twilight gray!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But though the storms her course have altered,<br /> +<span class="i4">Surely the port she'll win;</span> +Never my faith in my ship has faltered,<br /> +<span class="i4">I know she is coming in.</span> +For through the restless ways of her roaming,<br /> +Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming,<br /> +<a name="Page_246"></a>Through the white crest of the billows combing,<br /> +<span class="i4">My ship is coming in.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying,<br /> +<span class="i4">Swiftly she's coming in;</span> +Shallows and deeps and rocks defying,<br /> +<span class="i4">Bravely she's coming in;</span> +Precious the love she will bring to bless me,<br /> +Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me,<br /> +In the proud purple of kings she will dress me.<br /> +<span class="i4">My ship that is coming in.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming,<br /> +<span class="i4">See, where my ship comes in;</span> +At mast-head and peak her colors streaming,<br /> +<span class="i4">Proudly she 's sailing in;</span> +Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering.<br /> +Music will welcome her glad appearing.<br /> +And my heart will sing at her stately nearing,<br /> +<span class="i4">When my ship comes in.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT JONES BURDETTE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="NEVER_DESPAIR"></a>NEVER DESPAIR.*</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit<br /> +<span class="i2">Bow like the willow that stoops to the blast.</span> +Droop not in peril! 'T is manhood's true merit<br /> +<span class="i2">Nobly to struggle and hope to the last.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_247"></a>When by the sunshine of fortune forsaken<br /> +<span class="i2">Faint sinks the heart of the feeble with fear,</span> +Stand like the oak of the forest—unshaken,<br /> +<span class="i2">Never despair—Boys—oh! never despair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Never despair! Though adversity rages,<br /> +<span class="i2">Fiercely and fell as the surge on the shore,</span> +Firm as the rock of the ocean for ages,<br /> +<span class="i2">Stem the rude torrent till danger is o'er.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fate with its whirlwind our joys may all sever,<br /> +<span class="i2">True to ourselves, we have nothing to fear.</span> +Be this our hope and our anchor for ever—<br /> +<span class="i2">Never despair—Boys—oh! never despair.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN.</p> + +<p>* These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien, the evening of Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed upon him.</p> +<p style="text-align: right;">THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. October 12, 1848.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_SADDEST_FATE"></a>THE SADDEST FATE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">To touch a broken lute,</span> +<span class="i6">To strike a jangled string,</span> +<span class="i4">To strive with tones forever mute</span> +<span class="i6">The dear old tunes to sing—</span> +What sadder fate could any heart befall?<br /> +<i>Alas! dear child, never to sing at all.</i> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">To sigh for pleasures flown.</span> +<span class="i6">To weep for withered flowers,</span> +<span class="i4">To count the blessings we have known,</span> +<span class="i6">Lost with the vanished hours—</span> +What sadder fate could any heart befall?<br /> +<i>Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them all.</i> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">To dream of love and rest,</span> +<span class="i6">To know the dream has past,</span> +<span class="i4"><a name="Page_248"></a>To bear within an aching breast</span> +<span class="i6">Only a void at last—</span> +What sadder fate could any heart befall?<br /> +<i>Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all.</i> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">To trust an unknown good,</span> +<span class="i6">To hope, but all in vain,</span> +<span class="i4">Over a far-off bliss to brood,</span> +<span class="i6">Only to find it pain—</span> +What sadder fate could any soul befall?<br /> +<i>Alas! dear child, never to hope at all.</i></p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONG_OF_SAVOYARDS"></a>THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight,<br /> +<span class="i2">The tumult of her motley throng.</span> +When high and clear upon the night<br /> +<span class="i2">Rose an inspiring song.</span> +And rang above the city's din<br /> +To sound of harp and violin;<br /> +<span class="i2">A simple but a manly strain,</span> +<span class="i2">And ending with the brave refrain—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza">And now where rose that song of cheer.<br /> +<span class="i2">Both old and young stood still for joy;</span> +Or from the windows hung to hear<br /> +<span class="i2">The children of Savoy:</span> +And many an eye with rapture glowed,<br /> +And saddest hearts forgot their load,<br /> +<span class="i2">And feeble souls grew strong again,</span> +<span class="i2">So stirring was the brave refrain—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_249"></a>Alone, with only silence there,<br /> +<span class="i2">Awaiting his life's welcome close,</span> +A sick man lay, when on the air<br /> +<span class="i2">That clarion arose;</span> +So sweet the thrilling cadence rang,<br /> +It seemed to him an angel sang,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sang to him; and he would fain</span> +<span class="i2">Have died upon that heavenly strain—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza">A sorrow-stricken man and wife,<br /> +<span class="i2">With nothing left them but to pray,</span> +Heard streaming over their sad life<br /> +<span class="i2">That grand, heroic lay:</span> +And through the mist of happy tears<br /> +They saw the promise-laden years;<br /> +<span class="i2">And in their joy they sang again,</span> +<span class="i2">And carolled high the fond refrain—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Two artists, in the cloud of gloom<br /> +<span class="i2">Which hung upon their hopes deferred,</span> +Resounding through their garret-room<br /> +<span class="i2">That noble chanson heard;</span> +And as the night before the day<br /> +Their weak misgivings fled away;<br /> +<span class="i2">And with the burden of the strain</span> +<span class="i2">They made their studio ring again—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Two poets, who in patience wrought<br /> +<span class="i2">The glory of an aftertime,—</span> +Lords of an age which knew them not,<br /> +<span class="i2">Heard rise that lofty rhyme;</span> +<a name="Page_250"></a>And on their hearts it fell, as falls<br /> +The sunshine upon prison-walls;<br /> +<span class="i2">And one caught up the magic strain</span> +<span class="i2">And to the other sang again—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza">And unto one, who, tired of breath,<br /> +<span class="i2">And day and night and name and fame,</span> +Held to his lips a glass of death,<br /> +<span class="i2">That song a savior came;</span> +Beseeching him from his despair,<br /> +As with the passion of a prayer;<br /> +<span class="i2">And kindling in his heart and brain</span> +<span class="i2">The valor of its blest refrain—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="stanza">O thou, with earthly ills beset,<br /> +<span class="i2">Call to thy lips those words of joy,</span> +And never in thy life forget<br /> +<span class="i2">The brave song of Savoy!</span> +For those dear words may have the power<br /> +To cheer thee in thy darkest hour;<br /> +<span class="i2">The memory of that loved refrain</span> +<span class="i2">Bring gladness to thy heart again!—</span> +Courage! courage, mon camarade! +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY AMES BLOOD.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /> +<a name="V_DEATH_AND_BEREAVEMENT"></a><h2><a name="Page_251"></a>V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LIFE"></a>LIFE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +We are born; we laugh; we weep;<br /> +<span class="i2">We love; we droop; we die!</span> +Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep?<br /> +<span class="i2">Why do we live or die?</span> +Who knows that secret deep?<br /> +<span class="i2">Alas not I!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Why doth the violet spring<br /> +<span class="i2">Unseen by human eye?</span> +Why do the radiant seasons bring<br /> +<span class="i2">Sweet thoughts that quickly fly?</span> +Why do our fond hearts cling<br /> +<span class="i2">To things that die?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We toil—through pain and wrong;<br /> +<span class="i2">We fight—and fly;</span> +We love; we lose; and then, ere long,<br /> +<span class="i2">Stone-dead we lie,</span> +O life! is all thy song<br /> +<span class="i2">"Endure and—die?"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (<i>Barry Cornwall</i>).</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_252"></a><a name="SOLILOQUY_ON_DEATH"></a>SOLILOQUY ON DEATH.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. I.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">HAMLET.—To be, or not to be,—that is the question</span> +Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer<br /> +The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,<br /> +Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,<br /> +And, by opposing, end them?—To die, to sleep;—<br /> +No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end<br /> +The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks<br /> +That flesh is heir to,—'t is a consummation<br /> +Devoutly to be wished. To die,—to sleep;—<br /> +To sleep! perchance to dream:—ay, there 's the rub;<br /> +For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,<br /> +When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,<br /> +Must give us pause: there 's the respect<br /> +That makes calamity of so long life;<br /> +For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,<br /> +The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,<br /> +The pains of despised love, the law's delay,<br /> +The insolence of office, and the spurns<br /> +That patient merit of the unworthy takes,<br /> +When he himself might his quietus make<br /> +With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,<br /> +To grunt and sweat under a weary life,<br /> +But that the dread of something after death,—<br /> +The undiscovered country, from whose bourn<br /> +No traveller returns,—puzzles the will,<br /> +And makes us rather bear those ills we have,<br /> +<a name="Page_253"></a>Than fly to others that we know not of?<br /> +Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;<br /> +And thus the native hue of resolution<br /> +Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;<br /> +And enterprises of great pith and moment,<br /> +With this regard, their currents turn awry,<br /> +And lose the name of action. +</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SIC_VITA"></a>SIC VITA.*</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Like to the falling of a star,<br /> +Or as the flights of eagles are,<br /> +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,<br /> +Or silver drops of morning dew,<br /> +Or like a wind that chafes the flood,<br /> +Or bubbles which on water stood,—<br /> +E'en such is man, whose borrowed light<br /> +Is straight called in, and paid to-night.<br /> +The wind blows out, the bubble dies,<br /> +The spring entombed in autumn lies,<br /> +The dew dries up, the star is shot,<br /> +The flight is past,—and man forgot! +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY KING.</p> + +<p>* Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="DEATH_THE_LEVELER"></a>DEATH THE LEVELLER.</p> +<p class="cmt">[These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.]</p><br /> + +<p class="stanza"> +The glories of our blood and state<br /> +<span class="i2">Are shadows, not substantial things;</span> +<a name="Page_254"></a>There is no armor against fate;<br /> +<span class="i2">Death lays his icy hand on kings:</span> +<span class="i4">Sceptre and crown</span> +<span class="i4">Must tumble down.</span> +And in the dust be equal made<br /> +With the poor crooked scythe and spade. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Some men with swords may reap the field,<br /> +<span class="i2">And plant fresh laurels where they kill;</span> +But their strong nerves at last must yield;<br /> +<span class="i2">They tame but one another still:</span> +<span class="i4">Early or late,</span> +<span class="i4">They stoop to fate.</span> +And must give up their murmuring breath,<br /> +When they, pale captives, creep to death. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The garlands wither on your brow,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then boast no more your mighty deeds;</span> +Upon death's purple altar now<br /> +<span class="i2">See where the victor-victim bleeds:</span> +<span class="i4">Your heads must come</span> +<span class="i4">To the cold tomb;</span> +Only the actions of the just<br /> +Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. +</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES SHIRLEY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="VIRTUE_IMMORTAL"></a>VIRTUE IMMORTAL.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,<br /> +The bridall of the earth and skie;<br /> +The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;<br /> +<span class="i10">For thou must die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_255"></a>Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave<br /> +Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,<br /> +Thy root is ever in its grave,<br /> +<span class="i10">And all must die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses,<br /> +A box where sweets compacted lie,<br /> +Thy musick shows ye have your closes,<br /> +<span class="i10">And all must die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Onely a sweet and vertuous soul,<br /> +Like seasoned timber, never gives;<br /> +But, though the whole world, turn to coal,<br /> +<span class="i10">Then chiefly lives.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">GEORGE HERBERT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MANS_MORTALITY"></a>MAN'S MORTALITY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">Like as the damask rose you see,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like the blossom on the tree,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like the dainty flower in May,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like the morning of the day,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like the sun, or like the shade,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like the gourd which Jonas had,—</span> +<span class="i2">E'en such is man; whose thread is spun,</span> +<span class="i2">Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.—</span> +The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,<br /> +The flower fades, the morning hasteth,<br /> +The sun sets, the shadow flies,<br /> +The gourd consumes,—and man he dies! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Like to the grass that's newly sprung,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like a tale that's new begun,</span> +<a name="Page_256"></a>Or like the bird that's here to-day,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or like the pearled dew of May,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like an hour, or like a span,</span> +<span class="i2">Or like the singing of a swan,—</span> +<span class="i2">E'en such is man; who lives by breath,</span> +<span class="i2">Is here, now there, in life and death.—</span> +The grass withers, the tale is ended,<br /> +The bird is flown, the dew's ascended.<br /> +The hour is short, the span is long,<br /> +The swan's near death,—man's life is done! +</p> +<p class="signature">SIMON WASTELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MORTALITY"></a>MORTALITY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?<br /> +Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,<br /> +A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,<br /> +He passes from life to his rest in the grave. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,<br /> +Be scattered around and together be laid;<br /> +And the young and the old, and the low and the high,<br /> +Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The child that a mother attended and loved,<br /> +The mother that infant's affection that proved,<br /> +The husband that mother and infant that blessed,<br /> +Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whose eye,<br /> +<a name="Page_257"></a>Shone beauty and pleasure,—her triumphs are by;<br /> +And the memory of those that beloved her and praised<br /> +Are alike from the minds of the living erased. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,<br /> +The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,<br /> +The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,<br /> +Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,<br /> +The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,<br /> +The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,<br /> +Have faded away like the grass that we tread. +</p> +<p class="stanza">The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,<br /> +The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,<br /> +The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,<br /> +Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. +</p> +<p class="stanza">So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed<br /> +That wither away to let others succeed;<br /> +So the multitude comes, even those we behold,<br /> +To repeat every tale that hath often been told. +</p> +<p class="stanza">For we are the same that our fathers have been;<br /> +We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—<br /> +We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,<br /> +And we run the same course that our fathers have run. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_258"></a>The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;<br /> +From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;<br /> +To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;<br /> +But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. +</p> +<p class="stanza">They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;<br /> +They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;<br /> +They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come;<br /> +They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. +</p> +<p class="stanza">They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now,<br /> +Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,<br /> +Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,<br /> +Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain,<br /> +Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;<br /> +And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge,<br /> +Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. +</p> +<p class="stanza">'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath,<br /> +<a name="Page_259"></a>From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,<br /> +From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;—<br /> +why should the spirit of mortal be proud? +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM KNOX.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_HOUR_OF_DEATH"></a>THE HOUR OF DEATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Leaves have their time to fall,</span> +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,<br /> +<span class="i4">And stars to set—but all,</span> +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Day is for mortal care,</span> +Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth,<br /> +<span class="i2">Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—</span> +But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">The banquet hath its hour,</span> +Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;<br /> +<span class="i2">There comes a day of griefs overwhelming power,</span> +A time for softer tears—but all are thine. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Youth and the opening rose</span> +May look like things too glorious for decay,<br /> +<span class="i2">And smile at thee—but thou art not of those</span> +That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_260"></a><span class="i4">Leaves have their time to fall, </span> +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,<br /> +<span class="i4">And stars to set—but all,</span> +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">We know when moons shall wane,</span> +When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea,<br /> +<span class="i2">When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain—</span> +But who shall teach us when to look for thee? +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Is it when Spring's first gale</span> +Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?<br /> +<span class="i2">Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?</span> +They have <i>one</i> season—<i>all</i> are ours to die! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Thou art where billows foam,</span> +Thou art where music melts upon the air;<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou art around us in our peaceful home,</span> +And the world calls us forth—and thou art there. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Thou art where friend meets friend,</span> +Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest—<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend</span> +The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">Leaves have their time to fall,</span> +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,<br /> +<span class="i4">And stars to set—but all.</span> +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. +</p> + +<p class="signature">FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_261"></a><a name="THE_TERM_OF_DEATH"></a>THE TERM OF DEATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath;<br /> +<span class="i2">The bird's forsaken nest and her new song</span> +(And this is all the time there is for Death);<br /> +<span class="i2">The worm and butterfly—it is not long!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="A_PICTURE_OF_DEATH"></a>A PICTURE OF DEATH.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE GIAOUR."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">He who hath bent him o'er the dead</span> +Ere the first day of death is fled,<br /> +The first dark day of nothingness,<br /> +The last of danger and distress,<br /> +(Before Decay's effacing fingers<br /> +Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,)<br /> +And marked the mild angelic air,<br /> +The rapture of repose, that's there,<br /> +The fixed yet tender traits that streak<br /> +The languor of the placid cheek,<br /> +And—but for that sad shrouded eye,<br /> +That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,<br /> +And but for that chill, changeless brow,<br /> +Where cold Obstruction's apathy<br /> +Apalls the gazing mourner's heart,<br /> +As if to him it could impart<br /> +The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;<br /> +Yes, but for these and these alone,<br /> +Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,<br /> +<a name="Page_262"></a><span class="i2">He still might doubt the tyrant's power;</span> +<span class="i2">So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,</span> +<span class="i2">The first, last look by death revealed!</span> +<span class="i2">Such is the aspect of this shore;</span> +<span class="i2">'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!</span> +<span class="i2">So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,</span> +<span class="i2">We start, for soul is wanting there.</span> +<span class="i2">Hers is the loveliness in death,</span> +<span class="i2">That parts not quite with parting breath;</span> +<span class="i2">But beauty with that fearful bloom,</span> +<span class="i2">That hue which haunts it to the tomb,</span> +<span class="i2">Expression's last receding ray,</span> +<span class="i2">A gilded halo hovering round decay,</span> +<span class="i2">The farewell beam of Feeling past away;</span> +Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,<br /> +Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth! +</p> +<p class="signature">LORD BYRON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_TWO_MYSTERIES"></a>THE TWO MYSTERIES.</p> +<p class="cmt">["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, +surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his +lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then +inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, +my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'"] +</p> +<p class="fullst">We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;<br /> +The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;<br /> +<a name="Page_263"></a>The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call;<br /> +The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. +</p> +<p class="fullst">We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain;<br /> +This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again;<br /> +We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go,<br /> +Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. +</p> +<p class="fullst">But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day—<br /> +Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say.<br /> +Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be;<br /> +Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see! +</p> +<p class="fullst">Then might they say—these vanished ones—and blessed is the thought,<br /> +"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you nought;<br /> +We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death—<br /> +Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." +</p> +<p class="fullst">The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent,<br /> +So those who enter death must go as little children sent.<br /> +<a name="Page_264"></a>Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead;<br /> +And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. +</p> +<p class="signature">MARY MAPLES DODGE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THANATOPSIS"></a>THANATOPSIS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">To him who, in the love of Nature, holds</span> +Communion with her visible forms, she speaks<br /> +A various language: for his gayer hours<br /> +She has a voice of gladness, and a smile<br /> +And eloquence of beauty; and she glides<br /> +Into his darker musings with a mild<br /> +And healing sympathy, that steals away<br /> +Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts<br /> +Of the last bitter hour come like a blight<br /> +Over thy spirit, and sad images<br /> +Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,<br /> +And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,<br /> +Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart,<br /> +Go forth under the open sky, and list<br /> +To Nature's teachings, while from all around—<br /> +Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—<br /> +Comes a still voice:—Yet a few days, and thee<br /> +The all-beholding sun shall see no more<br /> +In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,<br /> +Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,<br /> +Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist<br /> +Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim<br /> +Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;<br /> +<a name="Page_265"></a>And, lost each human trace, surrendering up<br /> +Thine individual being, shalt thou go<br /> +To mix forever with the elements;<br /> +To be a brother to the insensible rock,<br /> +And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain<br /> +Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak<br /> +Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold.<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet not to thine eternal resting-place</span> +Shalt thou retire alone,—nor couldst thou wish<br /> +Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down<br /> +With patriarchs of the infant world,—with kings,<br /> +The powerful of the earth,—the wise, the good,<br /> +Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,<br /> +All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills,<br /> +Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales<br /> +Stretching in pensive quietness between;<br /> +The venerable woods; rivers that move<br /> +In majesty, and the complaining brooks,<br /> +That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,<br /> +Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,—<br /> +Are but the solemn decorations all<br /> +Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun,<br /> +The planets, all the infinite host of heaven,<br /> +Are shining on the sad abodes of death,<br /> +Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread<br /> +The globe are but a handful to the tribes<br /> +That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings<br /> +Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,<br /> +Or lose thyself in the continuous woods<br /> +Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound<br /> +Save his own dashings,—yet the dead are there!<br /> +And millions in those solitudes, since first<br /> +<a name="Page_266"></a>The flight of years began, have laid them down<br /> +In their last sleep,—the dead reign there alone!<br /> +So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw<br /> +In silence from the living, and no friend<br /> +Take note of thy departure? All that breathe<br /> +Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh<br /> +When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care<br /> +Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase<br /> +His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave<br /> +Their mirth and their employments, and shall come<br /> +And make their bed with thee. As the long train<br /> +Of ages glide away, the sons of men—<br /> +The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes<br /> +In the full strength of years, matron and maid,<br /> +And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man—<br /> +Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side<br /> +By those who in their turn shall follow them.<br /> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">So live, that when thy summons comes to join</span> +The innumerable caravan that moves<br /> +To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take<br /> +His chamber in the silent halls of death,<br /> +Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,<br /> +Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed<br /> +By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave<br /> +Like one who wraps the drappery of his conch<br /> +About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_267"></a><a name="A_MORNING_THOUGHT"></a>A MORNING THOUGHT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +What if some morning, when the stars were paling,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear,</span> +Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence<br /> +<span class="i2">Of a benignant spirit standing near;</span> +And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:—<br /> +<span class="i2">"This is our earth—most friendly earth, and fair;</span> +Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow<br /> +<span class="i2">Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There is blest living here, loving and serving,<br /> +<span class="i2">And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear:</span> +But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer—<br /> +<span class="i2">His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And what if then, while the still morning brightened,<br /> +<span class="i2">And freshened in the elm the summer's breath,</span> +Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel,<br /> +<span class="i2">And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"?</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_268"></a><a name="NOW_AND_AFTERWARDS"></a>NOW AND AFTERWARDS.</p> + +<p class="cmt">"Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past."<br /> +<span class="i10">—RUSSIAN PROVERB.</span></p> + +<p class="stanza"> +"Two hands upon the breast,<br /> +<span class="i2">And labor's done;</span> +Two pale feet crossed in rest,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The race is won;</span> +Two eyes with coin-weights shut,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all tears cease;</span> +Two lips where grief is mute,<br /> +<span class="i2">Anger at peace:"</span> +So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot;<br /> +God in his kindness answereth not. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Two hands to work addrest<br /> +<span class="i2">Aye for his praise;</span> +Two feet that never rest<br /> +<span class="i2">Walking his ways;</span> +Two eyes that look above<br /> +<span class="i2">Through all their tears;</span> +Two lips still breathing love,<br /> +<span class="i2">Not wrath, nor fears:"</span> +So pray we afterwards, low on our knees;<br /> +Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these! +</p> +<p class="signature">DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_269"></a><a name="THE_GRAVE_OF_SOPHOCLES"></a>THE GRAVE OF SOPHOCLES.</p> + +<p class="fullst"> +Tenderly, ivy, on Sophocles' grave—right tenderly—twine<br /> +Garlanding over the mound network of delicate green.<br /> +Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine<br /> +Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen.<br /> +All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine;<br /> +Priest of the gay and profound, sweetest of singers terrene. +</p> +<p class="signature">From the Greek of SIMMIAS.<br /> +Translation of WILLIAM M. HAUDINGE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="INSCRIPTION_ON_MELROSE_ABBEY"></a>INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE ABBEY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The earth goes on the earth glittering in gold,<br /> +The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold;<br /> +The earth builds on the earth castles and towers,<br /> +The earth says to the earth—All this is ours. +</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ON_THE_TOMBS_IN_WESTMINSTER_ABBEY"></a>ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Mortality, behold and fear<br /> +What a change of flesh is here!<br /> +<a name="Page_270"></a>Think how many royal bones<br /> +Sleep within these heaps of stones;<br /> +Here they lie, had realms and lands,<br /> +Who now want strength to stir their hands,<br /> +Where from their pulpits sealed with dust<br /> +They preach, "In greatness is no trust."<br /> +Here 's an acre sown indeed<br /> +With the richest royallest seed<br /> +That the earth did e'er suck in<br /> +Since the first man died for sin:<br /> +Here the bones of birth have cried<br /> +"Though gods they were, as men they died!"<br /> +Here are sands, ignoble things,<br /> +Dropt from the ruined sides of kings:<br /> +Here 's a world of pomp and state<br /> +Buried in dust, once dead by fate. +</p> +<p class="signature">FRANCIS BEAUMONT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il08"></a> +<a href="./images/270.jpg"><img src="./images/270_th.jpg" alt="COUNTRY CHURCHYARD" title="THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD" /></a><br /> +<div class="caption"><p class="center">THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD</p> +<p class="indent">"Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,<br /> +Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,<br /> +Each in his narrow cell forever laid,<br /> +The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep."</p> +<p class="center"><i>After an original drawing by Harry Fenn.</i></p></div> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="ELEGY_WRITTEN_IN_A_COUNTRY_CHURCHYARD"></a> +ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,<br /> +<span class="i2">The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,</span> +The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,<br /> +<span class="i2">And leaves the world to darkness and to me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight.<br /> +<span class="i2">And all the air a solemn stillness holds,</span> +Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,<br /> +<span class="i2">And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,<br /> +<span class="i2">The moping owl does to the moon complain</span> +<a name="Page_271"></a>Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,<br /> +<span class="i2">Molest her ancient solitary reign.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around<br /> +<span class="i2">Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease;</span> +In still small accents whispering from the ground<br /> +<span class="i2">The grateful earnest of eternal peace.]*</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade.<br /> +<span class="i2">Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap,</span> +Each in his narrow cell forever laid,<br /> +<span class="i2">The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,<br /> +<span class="i2">The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,</span> +The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,<br /> +<span class="i2">No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or busy housewife ply her evening care;</span> +No children run to lisp their sire's return,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,<br /> +<span class="i2">Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;</span> +How jocund did they drive their team afield!<br /> +<span class="i2">How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Let not ambition mock their useful toil,<br /> +<span class="i2">Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;</span> +<a name="Page_272"></a>Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile<br /> +<span class="i2">The short and simple annals of the poor.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,</span> +Awaits alike the inevitable hour.<br /> +<span class="i2">The paths of glory lead but to the grave.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,<br /> +<span class="i2">If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,</span> +Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,<br /> +<span class="i2">The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Can storied urn or animated bust:<br /> +<span class="i2">Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?</span> +Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid;<br /> +<span class="i2">Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;</span> +Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,<br /> +<span class="i2">Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;</span> +Chill penury repressed their noble rage,<br /> +<span class="i2">And froze the genial current of the soul.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Full many a gem of purest ray serene;<br /> +<span class="i2">The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;</span> +Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,<br /> +<span class="i2">And waste its sweetness on the desert air.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_273"></a>Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast,<br /> +<span class="i2">The little tryant of his fields withstood,</span> +Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Th' applause of listening senates to command,<br /> +<span class="i2">The threats of pain and ruin to despise,</span> +To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,<br /> +<span class="i2">And read their history in a nation's eyes,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone<br /> +<span class="i2">Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined;</span> +Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,<br /> +<span class="i2">And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,<br /> +<span class="i2">To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,</span> +Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride<br /> +<span class="i2">With incense kindled at the muse's flame.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,<br /> +<span class="i2">Their sober wishes never learned to stray;</span> +Along the cool sequestered vale of life<br /> +<span class="i2">They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet even these bones from insult to protect,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some frail memorial still erected nigh,</span> +With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,<br /> +<span class="i2">Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_274"></a>Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse,<br /> +<span class="i2">The place of fame and elegy supply;</span> +And many a holy text around she strews,<br /> +<span class="i2">That teach the rustic moralist to die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,<br /> +<span class="i2">This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned,</span> +Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">On some fond breast the parting soul relies,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some pious drops the closing eye requires;</span> +E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,<br /> +<span class="i2">E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,</span> +If chance, by lonely contemplation led,<br /> +<span class="i2">Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,<br /> +<span class="i2">"Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn</span> +Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,<br /> +<span class="i2">To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,<br /> +<span class="i2">That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high,</span> +His listless length at noontide would he stretch,<br /> +<span class="i2">And pore upon the brook that babbles by.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,<br /> +<span class="i2">Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;</span> +<a name="Page_275"></a>Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn.<br /> +<span class="i2">Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"One morn I missed him on the customed hill,<br /> +<span class="i2">Along the heath, and near his favorite tree;</span> +Another came; nor yet beside the rill,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"The next, with dirges due in sad array,<br /> +<span class="i2">Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.</span> +Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay<br /> +<span class="i2">Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."</span> +</p> +<p class="subt">THE EPITAPH.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth<br /> +<span class="i2">A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown;</span> +Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth,<br /> +<span class="i2">And Melancholy marked him for her own.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,<br /> +<span class="i2">Heaven did a recompense as largely send;</span> +He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,<br /> +<span class="i2">He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No farther seek his merits to disclose,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,</span> +(There they alike in trembling hope repose)<br /> +<span class="i2">The bosom of his Father and his God.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS GRAY.</p> +<p>* Removed by the author from the original poem.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_276"></a><a name="GODS_ACRE"></a>GOD'S-ACRE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls<br /> +<span class="i2">The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;</span> +It consecrates each grave within its walls,<br /> +<span class="i2">And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts<br /> +<span class="i2">Comfort to those who in the grave have sown</span> +The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,<br /> +<span class="i2">Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Into its furrows shall we all be cast,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the sure faith that we shall rise again</span> +At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the fair gardens of that second birth;</span> +And each bright blossom mingle its perfume<br /> +<span class="i2">With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,<br /> +<span class="i2">And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;</span> +This is the field and Acre of our God,<br /> +<span class="i2">This is the place where human harvests grow!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_277"></a><a name="SLEEPY_HOLLOW"></a>SLEEPY HOLLOW.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops,<br /> +<span class="i2">No winding torches paint the midnight air;</span> +Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops<br /> +<span class="i2">Along the modest pathways, and those fair</span> +Pale asters of the season spread their plumes<br /> +<span class="i2">Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell<br /> +<span class="i2">Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place,</span> +Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,<br /> +<span class="i2">But in its kind and supplicating grace,</span> +It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more<br /> +<span class="i2">Friend to the friendless than thou wast before;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Learn from the loved one's rest serenity:<br /> +<span class="i2">To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound,</span> +And thou repose beneath the whispering tree,<br /> +<span class="i2">One tribute more to this submissive ground;—</span> +Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Rather to those ascents of being turn,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year</span> +Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn<br /> +<span class="i2">Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,—</span> +Forget man's littleness, deserve the best,<br /> +<span class="i2">God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_278"></a><a name="THE_QUAKER_GRAVEYARD"></a>THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Four straight brick walls, severely plain,<br /> +<span class="i2">A quiet city square surround;</span> +A level space of nameless graves,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The Quakers' burial-ground.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">In gown of gray, or coat of drab,<br /> +<span class="i2">They trod the common ways of life,</span> +With passions held in sternest leash,<br /> +<span class="i2">And hearts that knew not strife.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">To yon grim meeting-house they fared,<br /> +<span class="i2">With thoughts as sober as their speech,</span> +To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,<br /> +<span class="i2">To hear the elders preach.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Through quiet lengths of days they came,<br /> +<span class="i2">With scarce a change to this repose;</span> +Of all life's loveliness they took<br /> +<span class="i2">The thorn without the rose.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But in the porch and o'er the graves,<br /> +<span class="i2">Glad rings the southward robin's glee,</span> +And sparrows fill the autumn air<br /> +<span class="i2">With merry mutiny;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">While on the graves of drab and gray<br /> +<span class="i2">The red and gold of autumn lie,</span> +And wilful Nature decks the sod<br /> +<span class="i2">In gentlest mockery.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_279"></a><a name="GREENWOOD_CEMETERY"></a>GREENWOOD CEMETERY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +How calm they sleep beneath the shade<br /> +<span class="i2">Who once were weary of the strife,</span> +And bent, like us, beneath the load<br /> +<span class="i4">Of human life!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The willow hangs with sheltering grace<br /> +<span class="i2">And benediction o'er their sod,</span> +And Nature, hushed, assures the soul<br /> +<span class="i4">They rest in God.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O weary hearts, what rest is here,<br /> +<span class="i2">From all that curses yonder town!</span> +So deep the peace, I almost long<br /> +<span class="i4">To lay me down.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For, oh, it will be blest to sleep,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor dream, nor move, that silent night,</span> +Till wakened in immortal strength<br /> +<span class="i4">And heavenly light!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">CRAMMOND KENNEDY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_DEAD"></a>THE DEAD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold<br /> +Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still:<br /> +They have forged our chains of being for good or ill;<br /> +And their invisible hands these hands yet hold.<br /> +Our perishable bodies are the mould<br /> +In which their strong imperishable will—<br /> +Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil—<br /> +<a name="Page_280"></a>Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold.<br /> +Vibrations infinite of life in death,<br /> +As a star's travelling light survives its star!<br /> +So may we hold our lives, that when we are<br /> +The fate of those who then will draw this breath,<br /> +They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar,<br /> +And curse the heritage which we bequeath. +</p> +<p class="signature">MATHILDE BLIND.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ON_A_GRAVE_AT_GRINDELWALD"></a>ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow,<br /> +<span class="i2">For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven,</span> +For a great sign the icy stair shall go<br /> +<span class="i2">Between the heights to heaven.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">One moment stood he as the angels stand,<br /> +<span class="i2">High in the stainless eminence of air;</span> +The next, he was not, to his fatherland<br /> +<span class="i2">Translated unaware.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_EMIGRANT_LASSIE"></a>THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +As I came wandering down Glen Spean,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where the braes are green and grassy,</span> +With my light step I overtook<br /> +<span class="i2">A weary-footed lassie.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She had one bundle on her back,<br /> +<span class="i2">Another in her hand,</span> +And she walked as one who was full loath<br /> +<span class="i2">To travel from the land.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_281"></a>Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"—for she<br /> +<span class="i2">Had hair of flowing gold,</span> +And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs,<br /> +<span class="i2">Right pleasant to behold—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">On this bright summer day,</span> +To travel sad and shoeless thus<br /> +<span class="i2">Upon the stony way?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod,<br /> +<span class="i2">And thou art burdened so;</span> +March lightly now, and let me bear<br /> +<span class="i2">The bundles as we go."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"No, no!" she said, "that may not be;<br /> +<span class="i2">What's mine is mine to bear;</span> +Of good or ill, as God may will,<br /> +<span class="i2">I take my portioned share."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"But you have two, and I have none;<br /> +<span class="i2">One burden give to me;</span> +I'll take that bundle from thy back<br /> +<span class="i2">That heavier seems to be.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"No, no!" she said; "<i>this</i>, if you will,<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>That</i> holds—no hand but mine</span> +May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean<br /> +<span class="i2">'Cross the Atlantic brine!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Well, well! but tell me what may be<br /> +<span class="i2">Within that precious load,</span> +<a name="Page_282"></a>Which thou dost bear with such fine care<br /> +<span class="i2">Along the dusty road?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Belike it is some present rare<br /> +<span class="i2">From friend in parting hour;</span> +Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou tak'st with thee thy dower"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She drooped her head, and with her hand<br /> +<span class="i2">She gave a mournful wave:</span> +"Oh, do not jest, dear sir!—it is<br /> +<span class="i2">Turf from my mother's grave!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I spoke no word: we sat and wept<br /> +<span class="i2">By the road-side together;</span> +No purer dew on that bright day<br /> +<span class="i2">Was dropped upon the heather.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN STUART BLACKIE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_OLD_SEXTON"></a>THE OLD SEXTON.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Nigh to a grave that was newly made,<br /> +Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;<br /> +His work was done, and he paused to wait<br /> +The funeral train at the open gate.<br /> +A relic of bygone days was he,<br /> +And his locks were white as the foamy sea;<br /> +And these words came from his lips so thin:<br /> +"I gather them in: I gather them in. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I gather them in! for man and boy,<br /> +Year after year of grief and joy,<br /> +<a name="Page_283"></a>I've builded the houses that lie around,<br /> +In every nook of this burial ground;<br /> +Mother and daughter, father and son,<br /> +Come to my solitude, one by one:<br /> +But come they strangers or come they kin—<br /> +I gather them in, I gather them in. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Many are with me, but still I 'm alone,<br /> +I 'm king of the dead—and I make my throne<br /> +On a monument slab of marble cold;<br /> +And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold:<br /> +Come they from cottage or come they from hall,<br /> +Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!<br /> +Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin—<br /> +I gather them in, I gather them in. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I gather them in, and their-final rest<br /> +Is here, down here, in earth's dark breast!"<br /> +And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train<br /> +Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain!<br /> +And I said to my heart, when time is told,<br /> +A mightier voice than that sexton's old<br /> +Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din—<br /> +"I gather them in, I gather them in." +</p> +<p class="signature">PARK BENJAMIN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_FIRST_SNOW_FALL"></a>THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The snow had begun in the gloaming,<br /> +<span class="i2">And busily all the night</span> +Had been heaping field and highway<br /> +<span class="i2">With a silence deep and white.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_284"></a>Every pine and fir and hemlock<br /> +<span class="i2">Wore ermine too dear for an earl,</span> +And the poorest twig on the elm-tree<br /> +<span class="i2">Was ridged inch deep with pearl.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">From sheds new-roofed with Carrara<br /> +<span class="i2">Came Chanticleer's muffled crow.</span> +The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down,<br /> +<span class="i2">And still fluttered down the snow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I stood and watched by the window<br /> +<span class="i2">The noiseless work of the sky,</span> +And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,<br /> +<span class="i2">Like brown leaves whirling by.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn<br /> +<span class="i2">Where a little headstone stood;</span> +How the flakes were folding it gently,<br /> +<span class="i2">As did robins the babes in the wood.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Up spoke our own little Mabel,<br /> +<span class="i2">Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"</span> +And I told of the good All-father<br /> +<span class="i2">Who cares for us here below.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Again I looked at the snow-fall,<br /> +<span class="i2">And thought of the leaden sky</span> +That arched o'er our first great sorrow,<br /> +<span class="i2">When that mound was heaped so high.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I remember the gradual patience<br /> +<span class="i2">That fell from that cloud like snow,</span> +<a name="Page_285"></a>Flake by flake, healing and hiding<br /> +<span class="i2">The scar of our deep-plunged woe.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And again to the child I whispered,<br /> +<span class="i2">"The snow that husheth all,</span> +Darling, the merciful Father<br /> +<span class="i2">Alone can make it fall!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;<br /> +<span class="i2">And she, kissing back, could not know</span> +That <i>my</i> kiss was given to her sister,<br /> +<span class="i2">Folded close under deepening snow.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_MORNING_GLORY"></a>THE MORNING-GLORY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +We wreathed about our darling's head<br /> +<span class="i2">The morning-glory bright;</span> +Her little face looked out beneath<br /> +<span class="i2">So full of life and light,</span> +So lit as with a sunrise,<br /> +<span class="i2">That we could only say,</span> +"She is the morning-glory true,<br /> +<span class="i2">And her poor types are they."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">So always from that happy time<br /> +<span class="i2">We called her by their name,</span> +And very fitting did it seem,—<br /> +<span class="i2">For sure as morning came,</span> +Behind her cradle bars she smiled<br /> +<span class="i2">To catch the first faint ray,</span> +As from the trellis smiles the flower<br /> +<span class="i2">And opens to the day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_286"></a>But not so beautiful they rear<br /> +<span class="i2">Their airy cups of blue,</span> +As turned her sweet eyes to the light,<br /> +<span class="i2">Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;</span> +And not so close their tendrils fine<br /> +<span class="i2">Round their supports are thrown,</span> +As those dear arms whose outstretched plea<br /> +<span class="i2">Clasped all hearts to her own.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We used to think how she had come,<br /> +<span class="i2">Even as comes the flower,</span> +The last and perfect added gift<br /> +<span class="i2">To crown Love's morning hour;</span> +And how in her was imaged forth<br /> +<span class="i2">The love we could not say,</span> +As on the little dewdrops round<br /> +<span class="i2">Shines back the heart of day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We never could have thought, O God,<br /> +<span class="i2">That she must wither up,</span> +Almost before a day was flown,<br /> +<span class="i2">Like the morning-glory's cup;</span> +We never thought to see her droop<br /> +<span class="i2">Her fair and noble head,</span> +Till she lay stretched before our eyes,<br /> +<span class="i2">Wilted, and cold, and dead!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The morning-glory's blossoming<br /> +<span class="i2">Will soon be coming round,—</span> +We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves<br /> +<span class="i2">Upspringing from the ground;</span> +The tender things the winter killed<br /> +<span class="i2">Renew again their birth,</span> +<a name="Page_287"></a>But the glory of our morning<br /> +<span class="i2">Has passed away from earth.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Earth! in vain our aching eyes<br /> +<span class="i2">Stretch over thy green plain!</span> +Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her spirit to sustain;</span> +But up in groves of Paradise<br /> +<span class="i2">Full surely we shall see</span> +Our morning-glory beautiful<br /> +<span class="i2">Twine round our dear Lord's knee.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MARIA WHITE LOWELL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_WIDOWS_MITE"></a>THE WIDOW'S MITE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +A widow—she had only one!<br /> +A puny and decrepit son;<br /> +<span class="i2">But, day and night,</span> +Though fretful oft, and weak and small,<br /> +A loving child, he was her all—<br /> +<span class="i2">The Widow's Mite.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The Widow's Mite—ay, so sustained,<br /> +She battled onward, nor complained,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though friends were fewer:</span> +And while she toiled for daily fare,<br /> +A little crutch upon the stair<br /> +<span class="i2">Was music to her.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I saw her then,—and now I see<br /> +That, though resigned and cheerful, she<br /> +<span class="i2">Has sorrowed much:</span> +<a name="Page_288"></a>She has, He gave it tenderly,<br /> +Much faith; and carefully laid by,<br /> +<span class="i2">The little crutch.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ARE_THE_CHILDREN_AT_HOME"></a>ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Each day, when the glow of sunset<br /> +<span class="i2">Fades in the western sky,</span> +And the wee ones, tired of playing,<br /> +<span class="i2">Go tripping lightly by,</span> +I steal away from my husband,<br /> +<span class="i2">Asleep in his easy-chair,</span> +And watch from the open door-way<br /> +<span class="i2">Their faces fresh and fair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Alone in the dear old homestead<br /> +<span class="i2">That once was full of life,</span> +Ringing with girlish laughter,<br /> +<span class="i2">Echoing boyish strife,</span> +We two are waiting together;<br /> +<span class="i2">And oft, as the shadows come,</span> +With tremulous voice he calls me,<br /> +<span class="i2">"It is night! are the children home?"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Yes, love!" I answer him gently,<br /> +<span class="i2">"They're all home long ago;"—</span> +And I sing, in my quivering treble,<br /> +<span class="i2">A song so soft and low,</span> +Till the old man drops to slumber,<br /> +<span class="i2">With his head upon his hand,</span> +And I tell to myself the number<br /> +<span class="i2">At home in the better land.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_289"></a>At home, where never a sorrow<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall dim their eyes with tears!</span> +Where the smile of God is on them<br /> +<span class="i2">Through all the summer years!</span> +I know,—yet my arms are empty,<br /> +<span class="i2">That fondly folded seven,</span> +And the mother heart within me<br /> +<span class="i2">Is almost starved for heaven.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,<br /> +<span class="i2">I only shut my eyes,</span> +And the children are all about me,<br /> +<span class="i2">A vision from the skies:</span> +The babes whose dimpled fingers<br /> +<span class="i2">Lost the way to my breast,</span> +And the beautiful ones, the angels,<br /> +<span class="i2">Passed to the world of the blest.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">With never a cloud upon them,<br /> +<span class="i2">I see their radiant brows;</span> +My boys that I gave to freedom,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The red sword sealed their vows!</span> +In a tangled Southern forest,<br /> +<span class="i2">Twin brothers bold and brave,</span> +They fell; and the flag they died for,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thank God! floats over their grave.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A breath, and the vision is lifted<br /> +<span class="i2">Away on wings of light,</span> +And again we two are together,<br /> +<span class="i2">All alone in the night.</span> +They tell me his mind is failing,<br /> +<span class="i2">But I smile at idle fears;</span> +<a name="Page_290"></a>He is only back with the children,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the dear and peaceful years.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And still, as the summer sunset<br /> +<span class="i2">Fades away in the west,</span> +And the wee ones, tired of playing,<br /> +<span class="i2">Go trooping home to rest,</span> +My husband calls from his corner,<br /> +<span class="i2">"Say, love, have the children come?"</span> +And I answer, with eyes uplifted,<br /> +<span class="i2">"Yes, dear! they are all at home."</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="JIMS_KIDS"></a>JIM'S KIDS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill,<br /> +<span class="i2">Over the beach lived he and his wife,</span> +In a little house—you can see it still—<br /> +<span class="i2">An' their two fair boys; upon my life</span> +You never seen two likelier kids,<br /> +<span class="i2">In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise,</span> +<span class="i2">Than them two boys!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Jim would go out in his boat on the sea,<br /> +<span class="i2">Just as the rest of us fishermen did,</span> +An' when he come back at night thar'd be,<br /> +<span class="i2">Up to his knees in the surf, each kid,</span> +A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim;<br /> +<span class="i2">He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar</span> +<span class="i2">Of the waves on the shore.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But one night Jim came a sailin' home<br /> +<span class="i2">And the little kids weren't on the sands;</span> +<a name="Page_291"></a>Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come,<br /> +<span class="i2">And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands,</span> +And he learnt the worst up on the hill,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the little house, an' he bowed his head,</span> +<span class="i2">"The fever," they said.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim,<br /> +<span class="i2">With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes,</span> +They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him,<br /> +<span class="i2">For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries</span> +Were about the waves and fisherman Jim<br /> +<span class="i2">And the little boat a sailin' for shore</span> +<span class="i2">Till they spoke no more.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on,<br /> +<span class="i2">And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came,</span> +But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone,<br /> +<span class="i2">And he never was heard to speak the name</span> +Of the little kids who were buried there,<br /> +<span class="i2">Upon the hill in sight o' the sea,</span> +<span class="i2">Under a willow tree.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">One night they came and told me to haste<br /> +<span class="i2">To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick,</span> +And they said I hadn't no time to waste,<br /> +<span class="i2">For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick</span> +An' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like,<br /> +<span class="i2">An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see,</span> +<span class="i2">An' had called for me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And fisherman Jim sez he to me,<br /> +<span class="i2">"It's my last, last cruise, you understand,</span> +<a name="Page_292"></a>I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea,<br /> +<span class="i2">But off on the further shore, on the sand,</span> +Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name<br /> +<span class="i2">Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know,</span> +<span class="i2">In the long ago."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die,<br /> +<span class="i2">For all that night he seemed to see</span> +His little boys of the years gone by,<br /> +<span class="i2">And to hear sweet voices forgot by me;</span> +An' just as the mornin' sun came up,<br /> +<span class="i2">"They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried,</span> +<span class="i2">And so he died.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">EUGENE FIELD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_MAY_QUEEN"></a>THE MAY QUEEN.</p> + +<p class="fullst"> +You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;<br /> +To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,—<br /> +Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;<br /> +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">There 's many a black, black eye, they say, but <i>none</i> so bright as mine;<br /> +There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline;<br /> +<a name="Page_293"></a>But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say:<br /> +So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake,<br /> +If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break;<br /> +But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay;<br /> +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see<br /> +But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree?<br /> +He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,—<br /> +But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white;<br /> +And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light.<br /> +They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say,<br /> +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">They say he's dying all for love,—but that can never be;<br /> +<a name="Page_294"></a>They say his heart is breaking, mother,—what is that to me?<br /> +There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day;<br /> +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green,<br /> +And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen;<br /> +For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away;<br /> +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers,<br /> +And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers;<br /> +And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray;<br /> +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass,<br /> +And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass;<br /> +There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day;<br /> +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_295"></a>All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still,<br /> +And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill,<br /> +And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play,<br /> +For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. +</p> +<p class="fullst">So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;<br /> +To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year;<br /> +To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day,<br /> +For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. +</p> +<p class="subt">NEW YEAR'S EVE.</p> + +<p class="fullst">If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,<br /> +For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year.<br /> +It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,—<br /> +Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me. +</p> +<p class="fullst">To-night I saw the sun set,—he set and left behind<br /> +The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind;<br /> +<a name="Page_296"></a>And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see<br /> +The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,—<br /> +Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May;<br /> +And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse,<br /> +Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. +</p> +<p class="fullst">There's not a flower on all the hills,—the frost is on the pane;<br /> +I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again.<br /> +I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,—<br /> +I long to see a flower so before the day I die. +</p> +<p class="fullst">The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree,<br /> +And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,<br /> +And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave,<br /> +But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine,<br /> +In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine,<br /> +<a name="Page_297"></a>Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,—<br /> +When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. +</p> +<p class="fullst">When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light<br /> +You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night;<br /> +When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool<br /> +On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. +</p> +<p class="fullst">You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade,<br /> +And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid.<br /> +I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass,<br /> +With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now;<br /> +You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow;<br /> +Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;<br /> +You should not fret for me, mother—you have another child. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_298"></a>If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place;<br /> +Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face;<br /> +Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say.<br /> +And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore,<br /> +And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door,<br /> +Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,—<br /> +She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. +</p> +<p class="fullst">She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor.<br /> +Let her take 'em—they are hers; I shall never garden more.<br /> +But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set<br /> +About the parlor window and the box of mignonette. +</p> +<p class="fullst">Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born.<br /> +All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn;<br /> +But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,—<br /> +So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. +</p> +<p class="subt"><a name="Page_299"></a>CONCLUSION.</p> + +<p class="fullst">I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am;<br /> +And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb.<br /> +How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year!<br /> +To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies;<br /> +And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise;<br /> +And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow;<br /> +And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go. +</p> +<p class="fullst">It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun,<br /> +And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done!<br /> +But still I think it can't be long before I find release;<br /> +And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair,<br /> +And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!<br /> +<a name="Page_300"></a>O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!<br /> +A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. +</p> +<p class="fullst">He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin;<br /> +Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in.<br /> +Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be;<br /> +For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,—<br /> +There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet;<br /> +But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine,<br /> +And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. +</p> +<p class="fullst">All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,—<br /> +It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;<br /> +The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,<br /> +And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. +</p> +<p class="fullst">For, lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear;<br /> +<a name="Page_301"></a>I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;<br /> +With all my strength I prayed for both,—and so I felt resigned,<br /> +And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. +</p> +<p class="fullst">I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed;<br /> +And then did something speak to me,—I know not what was said;<br /> +For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind,<br /> +And up the valley came again the music on the wind. +</p> +<p class="fullst">But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,—it's mine;"<br /> +And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign.<br /> +And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars;<br /> +Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. +</p> +<p class="fullst">So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know<br /> +The blessèd music went that way my soul will have to go.<br /> +And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day;<br /> +But Effie, you must comfort <i>her</i> when I am past away. +</p> +<p class="fullst"><a name="Page_302"></a> +And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret;<br /> +There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet.<br /> +If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might have been his wife;<br /> +But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow;<br /> +He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know.<br /> +And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,—<br /> +Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. +</p> +<p class="fullst">O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done<br /> +The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,—<br /> +Forever and forever with those just souls and true,—<br /> +And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? +</p> +<p class="fullst">Forever and forever, all in a blessèd home,—<br /> +And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,—<br /> +To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,—<br /> +And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. +</p> +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_303"></a><a name="ON_ANNE_ALLEN"></a>ON ANNE ALLEN.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The wind blew keenly from the Western sea,<br /> +And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree—<br /> +<span class="i2">Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith—</span> +Heaping them up before her Father's door<br /> +When I saw her whom I shall see no more—<br /> +<span class="i2">We cannot bribe thee, Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She went abroad the falling leaves among,<br /> +She saw the merry season fade, and sung—<br /> +<span class="i2">Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—</span> +Freely she wandered in the leafless wood,<br /> +And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good— +<span class="i2">She knew thee not, O Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She bound her shining hair across her brow,<br /> +She went into the garden fading now;<br /> +<span class="i2">Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—</span> +And if one sighed to think that it was sere,<br /> +She smiled to think that it would bloom next year!<br /> +<span class="i2">She feared thee not, O Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Blooming she came back to the cheerful room<br /> +With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom—<br /> +<span class="i2">Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—</span> +A fragrant knot for each of us she tied,<br /> +And placed the fairest at her Father's side—<br /> +<span class="i2">She cannot charm thee, Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_304"></a>Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all;<br /> +We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall—<br /> +<span class="i2">Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—</span> +We heard her sometimes after evening prayer,<br /> +As she went singing softly up the stair—<br /> +<span class="i2">No voice can charm thee, Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind,<br /> +That made sweet music of the winter wind?<br /> +<span class="i2">Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith—</span> +Idly they gaze upon her empty place,<br /> +Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face—<br /> +<span class="i2">She is with thee, O Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">EDWARD FITZGERALD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"> +<a name="il09"></a> +<a href="./images/304.jpg"><img src="./images/304_th.jpg" alt="LOVE AND DEATH" title="LOVE AND DEATH" /></a><br /> +<div class="caption"><p class="center">LOVE AND DEATH</p> +<p class="indent"><span style="margin-left: 15em;">Death comes in,</span><br /> +Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,<br /> +Would bar the way."</p> +<p class="center"><i>From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts.</i></p> +</div></div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONNET_4"></a>SONNET.</p> +<p class="subt">(SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.)</p> + +<p class="stanza">Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear,<br /> +And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes;<br /> +He stands upon the threshold, quick to close<br /> +The gate of happiness ere should appear<br /> +Death's dreaded presence—ay, but Death draws near,<br /> +And large and gray the towering outline grows,<br /> +Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows<br /> +Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here.<br /> +Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in,<br /> +Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread,<br /> +<a name="Page_305"></a>Would bar the way—poor Love, whose wings begin<br /> +To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead<br /> +Already at his feet—but Death must win,<br /> +And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread! +</p> +<p class="signature">LADY LINDSAY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="JEUNE_FILLE_ET_JEUNE_FLEUR"></a>JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +The bier descends, the spotless roses too,<br /> +<span class="i2">The father's tribute in his saddest hour:</span> +O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,—<br /> +<span class="i6">The fair young girl and flower.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Give them not back unto a world again,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,—</span> +Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,—<br /> +<span class="i6">That fair young girl and flower.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower;</span> +They both have perished in their morning glow,—<br /> +<span class="i6">The fair young girl and flower.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower,</span> +And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail,<br /> +<span class="i6">O fair young girl and flower!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE,<br /> +VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_306"></a><a name="THE_DEATH_BED"></a>THE DEATH-BED.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +We watched her breathing through the night,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her breathing soft and low,</span> +As in her breast the wave of life<br /> +<span class="i2">Kept heaving to and fro.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">So silently we seemed to speak,<br /> +<span class="i2">So slowly moved about,</span> +As we had lent her half our powers<br /> +<span class="i2">To eke her living out.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Our very hopes belied our fears,<br /> +<span class="i2">Our fears our hopes belied—</span> +We thought her dying when she slept,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sleeping when she died.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For when the morn came, dim and sad,<br /> +<span class="i2">And chill with early showers,</span> +Her quiet eyelids closed—she had<br /> +<span class="i2">Another morn than ours.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS HOOD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="A_DEATH_BED"></a>A DEATH-BED.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Her suffering ended with the day;<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet lived she at its close,</span> +And breathed the long, long night away,<br /> +<span class="i2">In statue-like repose.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But when the sun, in all his state,<br /> +<span class="i2">Illumed the eastern skies,</span> +<a name="Page_307"></a>She passed through glory's morning-gate,<br /> +<span class="i2">And walked in Paradise!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES ALDRICH.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="REQUIESCAT"></a>REQUIESCAT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Strew on her roses, roses,<br /> +<span class="i4">And never a spray of yew.</span> +In quiet she reposes:<br /> +<span class="i4">Ah! would that I did too.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her mirth the world required:<br /> +<span class="i4">She bathed it in smiles of glee.</span> +But her heart was tired, tired,<br /> +<span class="i4">And now they let her be.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her life was turning, turning,<br /> +<span class="i4">In mazes of heat and sound.</span> +But for peace her soul was yearning,<br /> +<span class="i4">And now peace laps her round.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Her cabined, ample Spirit,<br /> +<span class="i4">It fluttered and failed for breath.</span> +To-night it doth inherit<br /> +<span class="i4">The vasty Hall of Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MATTHEW ARNOLD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_308"></a><a name="THE_UNILLUMINED_VERGE"></a>"THE UNILLUMINED VERGE."</p> +<p class="subt">TO A FRIEND DYING.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road,<br /> +<span class="i2">That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him,</span> +And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad<br /> +<span class="i2">Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill,<br /> +<span class="i2">And we'll talk of the way we have come through the valley;</span> +Down below there a bird breaks into a trill,<br /> +<span class="i2">And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave—<br /> +<span class="i2">"Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing!</span> +Yet it's joyful to live, and it's hard to be brave<br /> +<span class="i2">When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We are almost there—our last walk on this height—<br /> +<span class="i2">I must bid you good-bye at that cross on the mountain.</span> +See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light<br /> +<span class="i2">Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_309"></a>And it shines in your face and illumines your soul;<br /> +<span class="i2">We are comrades as ever, right here at your going;</span> +You may rest if you will within sight of the goal,<br /> +<span class="i2">While I must return to my oar and the rowing.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend;<br /> +<span class="i2">I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning</span> +Just over the ridge within reach of the end<br /> +<span class="i2">Of your arduous toil,—the beginning of learning.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge,<br /> +<span class="i2">"An revoir!" and "Good night!" while the twilight is creeping</span> +Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge?<br /> +<span class="i2">Yes, I hear your faint voice: "This is rest, and like sleeping!"</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BRIDGES (<i>Droch</i>).</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="CORONACH"></a>CORONACH.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO III.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +He is gone on the mountain,<br /> +<span class="i2">He is lost to the forest,</span> +Like a summer-dried fountain<br /> +<span class="i2">When our need was the sorest.</span> +<a name="Page_310"></a>The font, reappearing,<br /> +<span class="i2">From the rain-drops shall borrow,</span> +But to us comes no cheering,<br /> +<span class="i2">To Duncan no morrow:</span> +The hand of the reaper<br /><br /> +<span class="i2">Takes the ears that are hoary;</span> +But the voice of the weeper<br /> +<span class="i2">Wails manhood in glory.</span> +The autumn winds rushing<br /> +<span class="i2">Waft the leaves that are searest,</span> +But our flower was in flushing<br /> +<span class="i2">When blighting was nearest.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fleet foot on the correi,<br /> +<span class="i2">Sage counsel in cumber,</span> +Red hand in the foray,<br /> +<span class="i2">How sound is thy slumber!</span> +Like the dew on the mountain,<br /> +<span class="i2">Like the foam on the river,</span> +Like the bubble on the fountain,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou art gone, and forever!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">SIR WALTER SCOTT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="EVELYN_HOPE"></a>EVELYN HOPE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead!<br /> +<span class="i2">Sit and watch by her side an hour.</span> +That is her book-shelf, this her bed;<br /> +<span class="i2">She plucked that piece of geranium-flower,</span> +Beginning to die too, in the glass.<br /> +<span class="i2">Little has yet been changed, I think;</span> +<a name="Page_311"></a>The shutters are shut,—no light may pass<br /> +<span class="i2">Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sixteen years old when she died!<br /> +<span class="i2">Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,—</span> +It was not her time to love; beside,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her life had many a hope and aim,</span> +Duties enough and little cares;<br /> +<span class="i2">And now was quiet, now astir,—</span> +Till God's hand beckoned unawares,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the sweet white brow is all of her.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope?<br /> +<span class="i2">What! your soul was pure and true;</span> +The good stars met in your horoscope,<br /> +<span class="i2">Made you of spirit, fire, and dew;</span> +And just because I was thrice as old,<br /> +<span class="i2">And our paths in the world diverged so wide,</span> +Each was naught to each, must I be told?<br /> +<span class="i2">We were fellow-mortals,—naught beside?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No, indeed! for God above<br /> +<span class="i2">Is great to grant as mighty to make,</span> +And creates the love to reward the love;<br /> +<span class="i2">I claim you still, for my own love's sake!</span> +Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet,<br /> +<span class="i2">Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few;</span> +Much is to learn and much to forget<br /> +<span class="i2">Ere the time be come for taking you.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But the time will come—at last it will—<br /> +<span class="i2">When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say,</span> +<a name="Page_312"></a>In the lower earth,—in the years long still,—<br /> +<span class="i2">That body and soul so pure and gay?</span> +Why your hair was amber I shall divine,<br /> +<span class="i2">And your mouth of your own geranium's red,—</span> +And what you would do with me, in fine,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the new life come in the old one's stead.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,<br /> +<span class="i2">Given up myself so many times,</span> +Gained me the gains of various men.<br /> +<span class="i2">Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes;</span> +Yet one thing—one—in my soul's full scope,<br /> +<span class="i2">Either I missed or itself missed me,—</span> +And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope!<br /> +<span class="i2">What is the issue? let us see!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;<br /> +<span class="i2">My heart seemed full as it could hold,—</span> +There was place and to spare for the frank young smile,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold.</span> +So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep;<br /> +<span class="i2">See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand.</span> +There, that is our secret! go to sleep;<br /> +<span class="i2">You will wake, and remember, and understand.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ANNABEL_LEE"></a>ANNABEL LEE.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +It was many and many a year ago,<br /> +<span class="i2">In a kingdom by the sea,</span> +<a name="Page_313"></a>That a maiden lived, whom you may know<br /> +<span class="i2">By the name of Annabel Lee;</span> +And this maiden she lived with no other thought<br /> +<span class="i2">Than to love, and be loved by me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I was a child and she was a child,<br /> +<span class="i2">In this kingdom by the sea;</span> +But we loved with a love that was more than love,<br /> +<span class="i2">I and my Annabel Lee,—</span> +With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven<br /> +<span class="i2">Coveted her and me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And this was the reason that long ago,<br /> +<span class="i2">In this kingdom by the sea,</span> +A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling<br /> +<span class="i2">My beautiful Annabel Lee;</span> +So that her high-born kinsmen came,<br /> +<span class="i2">And bore her away from me,</span> +To shut her up in a sepulchre,<br /> +<span class="i2">In this kingdom by the sea.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The angels, not so happy in heaven,<br /> +<span class="i2">Went envying her and me.</span> +Yes! that was the reason (as all men know)<br /> +<span class="i2">In this kingdom by the sea,</span> +That the wind came out of the cloud by night,<br /> +<span class="i2">Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But our love it was stronger by far than the love<br /> +<span class="i2">Of those who were older than we,</span> +<span class="i2">Of many far wiser than we;</span> +<a name="Page_314"></a>And neither the angels in heaven above,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor the demons down under the sea,</span> +Can ever dissever my soul from the soul<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee,</span> +And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.</span> +And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side<br /> +Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,<br /> +<span class="i2">In her sepulchre there by the sea,</span> +<span class="i2">In her tomb by the sounding sea.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">EDGAR ALLAN FOE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THY_BRAES_WERE_BONNY"></a>THY BRAES WERE BONNY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream!<br /> +<span class="i2">When first on them I met my lover;</span> +Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream!<br /> +<span class="i2">When now thy waves his body cover.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Forever now, O Yarrow stream!<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou art to me a stream of sorrow;</span> +For never on thy banks shall I<br /> +<span class="i2">Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">He promised me a milk-white steed,<br /> +<span class="i2">To bear me to his father's bowers;</span> +He promised me a little page, +<span class="i2">To 'squire me to his father's towers;</span> +<a name="Page_315"></a>He promised me a wedding-ring,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow;</span> +Now he is wedded to his grave,<br /> +<span class="i2">Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sweet were his words when last we met;<br /> +<span class="i2">My passion I as freely told him!</span> +Clasped in his arms, I little thought<br /> +<span class="i2">That I should nevermore behold him!</span> +Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;<br /> +<span class="i2">It vanished with a shriek of sorrow;</span> +Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,<br /> +<span class="i2">And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">His mother from the window looked<br /> +<span class="i2">With all the longing of a mother;</span> +His little sister weeping walked<br /> +<span class="i2">The greenwood path to meet her brother.</span> +They sought him east, they sought him west,<br /> +<span class="i2">They sought him all the forest thorough,</span> +They only saw the cloud of night,<br /> +<span class="i2">They only heard the roar of Yarrow!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No longer from thy window look,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!</span> +No longer walk, thou lovely maid;<br /> +<span class="i2">Alas, thou hast no more a brother!</span> +No longer seek him east or west,<br /> +<span class="i2">And search no more the forest thorough;</span> +For, wandering in the night so dark,<br /> +<span class="i2">He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The tear shall never leave my cheek,<br /> +<span class="i2">No other youth shall be my marrow;</span> +<a name="Page_316"></a>I'll seek thy body in the stream,<br /> +<span class="i2">And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN LOGAN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FAREWELL_TO_THEE_ARABYS_DAUGHTER"></a>FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Farewell,—farewell to thee, Araby's daughter!<br /> +<span class="i2">(Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;)</span> +No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water<br /> +<span class="i2">More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing,<br /> +<span class="i2">How light was thy heart till love's witchery came,</span> +Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing,<br /> +<span class="i2">And hushed all its music and withered its frame!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom</span> +Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands,<br /> +<span class="i2">With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And still, when the merry date-season is burning,<br /> +<span class="i2">And calls to the palm-grove the young and the old,</span> +<a name="Page_317"></a>The happiest there, from their pastime returning<br /> +<span class="i2">At sunset, will weep when thy story is told.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses<br /> +<span class="i2">Her dark flowing-hair for some festival day,</span> +Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses,<br /> +<span class="i2">She mournfully turns from the mirror away.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee—<br /> +<span class="i2">Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start,</span> +Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Farewell!—be it ours to embellish thy pillow<br /> +<span class="i2">With everything beauteous that grows in the deep;</span> +Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber<br /> +<span class="i2">That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept;</span> +With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber,<br /> +<span class="i2">We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling,<br /> +<span class="i2">And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head;</span> +We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling,<br /> +<span class="i2">And gather their gold to strew over thy bed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_318"></a>Farewell!—farewell!—until pity's sweet fountain<br /> +<span class="i2">Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave,</span> +They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain.<br /> +<span class="i2">They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS MOORE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SOFTLY_WOO_AWAY_HER_BREATH"></a>SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Softly woo away her breath,<br /> +<span class="i2">Gentle death!</span> +Let her leave thee with no strife,<br /> +<span class="i2">Tender, mournful, murmuring life!</span> +She hath seen her happy day,—<br /> +<span class="i2">She hath had her bud and blossom;</span> +Now she pales and shrinks away,<br /> +<span class="i2">Earth, into thy gentle bosom!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She hath done her bidding here,<br /> +<span class="i2">Angels dear!</span> +Bear her perfect soul above.<br /> +<span class="i2">Seraph of the skies,—sweet love!</span> +Good she was, and fair in youth;<br /> +<span class="i2">And her mind was seen to soar.</span> +And her heart was wed to truth:<br /> +<span class="i2">Take her, then, forevermore,—</span> +<span class="i2">Forever—evermore—</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (<i>Barry Cornwall.</i>)</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_319"></a><a name="SHE_DIED_IN_BEAUTY"></a>SHE DIED IN BEAUTY.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +She died in beauty,—like a rose<br /> +<span class="i2">Blown from its parent stem;</span> +She died in beauty,—like a pearl<br /> +<span class="i2">Dropped from some diadem.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She died in beauty,—like a lay<br /> +<span class="i2">Along a moonlit lake;</span> +She died in beauty,—like the song<br /> +<span class="i2">Of birds amid the brake.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She died in beauty,—like the snow<br /> +<span class="i2">On flowers dissolved away;</span> +She died in beauty,—like a star<br /> +<span class="i2">Lost on the brow of day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">She lives in glory,—like night's gems<br /> +<span class="i2">Set round the silver moon;</span> +She lives in glory,—like the sun<br /> +<span class="i2">Amid the blue of June.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_DEATH_OF_MINNEHAHA"></a>THE DEATH OF MINNEHAHA.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +All day long roved Hiawatha<br /> +In that melancholy forest,<br /> +Through the shadows of whose thickets,<br /> +In the pleasant days of Summer,<br /> +<a name="Page_320"></a>Of that ne'er forgotten Summer.<br /> +He had brought his young wife homeward<br /> +From the land of the Dacotahs;<br /> +When the birds sang in the thickets,<br /> +And the streamlets laughed and glistened,<br /> +And the air was full of fragrance,<br /> +And the lovely Laughing Water<br /> +Said with voice that did not tremble,<br /> +"I will follow you, my husband!"<br /> +<span class="i2">In the wigwam with Nokomis,</span> +With those gloomy guests that watched her,<br /> +With the Famine and the Fever,<br /> +She was lying, the Beloved,<br /> +She, the dying Minnehaha.<br /> +<span class="i2">"Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing,</span> +Hear a roaring and a rushing,<br /> +Hear the Falls of Minnehaha<br /> +Calling to me from a distance!"<br /> +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,<br /> +"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!"<br /> +<span class="i2">"Look!" she said; "I see my father</span> +Standing lonely at his doorway.<br /> +Beckoning to me from his wigwam<br /> +In the land of the Dacotahs!"<br /> +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis,<br /> +"'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!"<br /> +<span class="i2">"Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Panguk</span> +Glare upon me in the darkness,<br /> +I can feel his icy fingers<br /> +Clasping mine amid the darkness!<br /> +Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"<br /> +<span class="i2">And the desolate Hiawatha,</span> +Far away amid the forest,<br /> +<a name="Page_321"></a>Miles away among the mountains,<br /> +Heard that sudden cry of anguish,<br /> +Heard the voice of Minnehaha<br /> +Calling to him in the darkness,<br /> +"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!"<br /> +<span class="i2">Over snow-fields waste and pathless,</span> +Under snow-encumbered branches,<br /> +Homeward hurried Hiawatha,<br /> +Empty-handed, heavy-hearted,<br /> +Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing:<br /> +"Wahonowin! Wahonowin!<br /> +Would that I had perished for you,<br /> +Would that I were dead as you are!<br /> +Wahonowin! Wahonowin!"<br /> + +<span class="i2">And he rushed into the wigwam,</span> +Saw the old Nokomis slowly<br /> +Rocking to and fro and moaning,<br /> +Saw his lovely Minnehaha<br /> +Lying dead and cold before him,<br /> +And his bursting heart within him<br /> +Uttered such a cry of anguish,<br /> +That the forest moaned and shuddered,<br /> +That the very stars in heaven<br /> +Shook and trembled with his anguish.<br /> + +<span class="i2">Then he sat down, still and speechless,</span> +On the bed of Minnehaha,<br /> +At the feet of Laughing Water,<br /> +At those willing feet, that never<br /> +More would lightly run to meet him,<br /> +Never more would lightly follow.<br /> + +<span class="i2">With both hands his face he covered,</span> +Seven long days and nights he sat there,<br /> +As if in a swoon he sat there,<br /> +<a name="Page_322"></a>Speechless, motionless, unconscious<br /> +Of the daylight or the darkness.<br /> +<span class="i2">Then they buried Minnehaha;</span> +In the snow a grave they made her,<br /> +In the forest deep and darksome,<br /> +Underneath the moaning hemlocks;<br /> +Clothed her in her richest garments,<br /> +Wrapped her in her robes of ermine,<br /> +Covered her with snow, like ermine;<br /> +Thus they buried Minnehaha.<br /> + +<span class="i2">And at night a fire was lighted,</span> +On her grave four times was kindled,<br /> +For her soul upon its journey<br /> +To the Islands of the Blessed.<br /> +From his doorway Hiawatha<br /> +Saw it burning in the forest,<br /> +Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks;<br /> +From his sleepless bed uprising,<br /> +From the bed of Minnehaha,<br /> +Stood and watched it at the doorway,<br /> +That it might not be extinguished,<br /> +Might not leave her in the darkness.<br /> + +<span class="i2">"Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha!</span> +Farewell, O my Laughing Water!<br /> +All my heart is buried with you,<br /> +All my thoughts go onward with you,<br /> +Come not back again to labor,<br /> +Come not back again to suffer,<br /> +Where the Famine and the Fever<br /> +Wear the heart and waste the body.<br /> +Soon my task will be completed,<br /> +Soon your footsteps I shall follow<br /> +To the Islands of the Blessèd,<br /> +<a name="Page_323"></a>To the Kingdom of Ponemah,<br /> +To the Land of the Hereafter!" +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MOTHER_AND_POET"></a>MOTHER AND POET.</p> +<p class="subt">TURIN,—AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861.</p> +<p class="cmt">Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were +killed at Ancona and Gaëta.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east,<br /> +<span class="i2">And one of them shot in the west by the sea.</span> +Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast,<br /> +<span class="i2">And are wanting a great song for Italy free,</span> +<span class="i4">Let none look at me!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Yet I was a poetess only last year,<br /> +<span class="i2">And good at my art, for a woman, men said.</span> +But this woman, this, who is agonized here,<br /> +<span class="i2">The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head</span> +<span class="i4">Forever instead.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What art can a woman be good at? O, vain!<br /> +<span class="i2">What art is she good at, but hurting her breast</span> +With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain?<br /> +<span class="i2">Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed,</span> +<span class="i4">And I proud by that test.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees<br /> +<span class="i2">Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat</span> +<a name="Page_324"></a>Cling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees<br /> +<span class="i2">And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat!</span> +<span class="i6">To dream and to dote.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed<br /> +<span class="i2">Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt,</span> +That a country 's a thing men should die for at need.<br /> +<span class="i2">I prated of liberty, rights, and about</span> +<span class="i6">The tyrant turned out.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ...<br /> +<span class="i2">I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels</span> +Of the guns, and denied not.—But then the surprise,<br /> +<span class="i2">When one sits quite alone!—Then one weeps, then one kneels!</span> +<span class="i6">—God! how the house feels!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled<br /> +<span class="i2">With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how</span> +They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled,<br /> +<span class="i2">In return would fan off every fly from my brow</span> +<span class="i6">With their green laurel-bough.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!"<br /> +<span class="i2">And some one came out of the cheers in the street</span> +<a name="Page_325"></a>With a face pale as stone, to say something to me.<br /> +—My Guido was dead!—I fell down at his feet,<br /> +<span class="i4">While they cheered in the street.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I bore it;—friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime<br /> +<span class="i2">As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained</span> +To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time<br /> +<span class="i2">When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained</span> +<span class="i4">To the height he had gained.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And letters still came,—shorter, sadder, more strong,<br /> +<span class="i2">Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint.</span> +One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long:<br /> +<span class="i2">And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint,</span> +<span class="i4">Who forbids our complaint."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware<br /> +<span class="i2">Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprest</span> +It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed,</span> +<span class="i4">To live on for the rest."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">On which without pause up the telegraph line<br /> +<span class="i2">Swept smoothly the next news from Gaëta:—"Shot.</span> +<a name="Page_326"></a>Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine."<br /> +<span class="i2">No voice says "my mother" again to me. What!</span> +<span class="i4">You think Guido forgot?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven,<br /> +<span class="i2">They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe?</span> +I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven<br /> +<span class="i2">Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so</span> +<span class="i4">The above and below.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark<br /> +<span class="i2">To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray.</span> +How we common mothers stand desolate, mark,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away,</span> +<span class="i4">And no last word to say!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all<br /> +<span class="i2">Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.</span> +'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall.<br /> +<span class="i2">And when Italy's made, for what end is it done</span> +<span class="i4">If we have not a son?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah, ah, ah! when Gaëta's taken, what then?<br /> +<span class="i2">When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport</span> +<a name="Page_327"></a>Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men?<br /> +<span class="i2">When your guns at Cavalli with final retort</span> +<span class="i4">Have cut the game short,—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee,<br /> +<span class="i2">When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red,</span> +When you have your country from mountain to sea,<br /> +<span class="i2">When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head,</span> +<span class="i6">(And I have my dead,)</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low,<br /> +<span class="i2">And burn your lights faintly!—My country is there,</span> +Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow,<br /> +<span class="i2">My Italy's there,—with my brave civic pair,</span> +<span class="i6">To disfranchise despair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength,<br /> +<span class="i2">And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn.</span> +But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length<br /> +<span class="i2">Into such wail as this!—and we sit on forlorn</span> +<span class="i6">When the man-child is born.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west,<br /> +<span class="i2">And one of them shot in the east by the sea!</span> +<a name="Page_328"></a>Both! both my boys!—If in keeping the feast<br /> +<span class="i2">You want a great song for your Italy free,</span> +<span class="i6">Let none look at me!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FEAR_NO_MORE_THE_HEAT_O_THE_SUN"></a>FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN.</p> + +<p class="subt">FROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV, SC. 2.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Fear no more the heat o' the sun,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor the furious winter's rages;</span> +Thou thy worldly task hast done,<br /> +<span class="i2">Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:</span> +Golden lads and girls all must,<br /> +As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fear no more the frown o' the great,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;</span> +Care no more to clothe, and eat;<br /> +<span class="i2">To thee the reed is as the oak:</span> +The sceptre, learning, physic, must<br /> +All follow this and come to dust. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Fear no more the lightning flash<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;</span> +Fear not slander, censure rash;<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou hast finished joy and moan:</span> +All lovers young, all lovers must<br /> +Consign to thee, and come to dust. +</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_329"></a><a name="HIGHLAND_MARY"></a>HIGHLAND MARY.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Ye banks, and braes, and streams around<br /> +<span class="i2">The castle o' Montgomery,</span> +Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,<br /> +<span class="i2">Your waters never drumlie!</span> +There Simmer first unfald her robes<br /> +<span class="i2">And there she langest tarry!</span> +For there I took the last fareweel<br /> +<span class="i2">O' my sweet Highland Mary.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk!<br /> +<span class="i2">How rich the hawthorn's blossom!</span> +As underneath their fragrant shade<br /> +<span class="i2">I clasped her to my bosom!</span> +The golden hours, on angel wings,<br /> +<span class="i2">Flew o'er me and my dearie;</span> +For dear to me as light and life<br /> +<span class="i2">Was my sweet Highland Mary.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace<br /> +<span class="i2">Our parting was fu' tender;</span> +And pledging aft to meet again,<br /> +<span class="i2">We tore ourselves asunder;</span> +But, oh! fell death's untimely frost,<br /> +<span class="i2">That nipt my flower sae early!</span> +Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,<br /> +<span class="i2">That wraps my Highland Mary!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips<br /> +<span class="i2">I aft hae kissed sae fondly!</span> +<a name="Page_330"></a>And closed for aye the sparkling glance<br /> +<span class="i2">That dwelt on me sae kindly!</span> +And mould'ring now in silent dust<br /> +<span class="i2">That heart that lo'ed me dearly!</span> +But still within my bosom's core<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall live my Highland Mary.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> + +<p class="title"><a name="FAIR_HELEN"></a>FAIR HELEN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I wish I were where Helen lies;<br /> +Night and day on me she cries;<br /> +O that I were where Helen lies<br /> +<span class="i4">On fair Kirconnell lea!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Curst be the heart that thought the thought,<br /> +And curst the hand that fired the shot,<br /> +When in my arms burd Helen dropt,<br /> +<span class="i4">And died to succor me!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O think na but my heart was sair<br /> +When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair!<br /> +I laid her down wi' meikle care<br /> +<span class="i4">On fair Kirconnell lea.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">As I went down the water-side,<br /> +None but my foe to be my guide,<br /> +None but my foe to be my guide,<br /> +<span class="i4">On fair Kirconnell lea;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I lighted down my sword to draw,<br /> +I hackèd him in pieces sma',<br /> +I hackèd him in pieces sma',<br /> +<span class="i4">For her sake that died for me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_331"></a>O Helen fair, beyond compare!<br /> +I'll make a garland of thy hair<br /> +Shall bind my heart for evermair<br /> +<span class="i4">Until the day I die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O that I were where Helen lies!<br /> +Night and day on me she cries;<br /> +Out of my bed she bids me rise,<br /> +<span class="i4">Says, "Haste and come to me!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!<br /> +If I were with thee, I were blest,<br /> +Where thou lies low and takes thy rest<br /> +<span class="i4">On fair Kirconnell lea.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I wish my grave were growing green,<br /> +A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,<br /> +And I in Helen's arms lying,<br /> +<span class="i4">On fair Kirconnell lea.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I wish I were where Helen lies;<br /> +Night and day on me she cries;<br /> +And I am weary of the skies,<br /> +<span class="i4">Since my Love died for me.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> + +<p class="title"><a name="OH_THAT_TWERE_POSSIBLE"></a>OH THAT 'T WERE POSSIBLE.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "MAUD."</p> + +<p class="stanza">Oh that 't were possible,<br /> +<span class="i2">After long grief and pain,</span> +To find the arms of my true love<br /> +<span class="i2">Round me once again!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_332"></a>When I was wont to meet her<br /> +<span class="i2">In the silent woody places</span> +Of the laud that gave me birth,<br /> +<span class="i2">We stood tranced in long embraces</span> +Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter<br /> +<span class="i2">Than anything on earth.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A shadow flits before me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Not thou, but like to thee;</span> +Ah Christ, that it were possible<br /> +<span class="i2">For one short hour to see</span> +The souls we loved, that they might tell us<br /> +<span class="i2">What and where they be!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">It leads me forth at evening,<br /> +<span class="i2">It lightly winds and steals</span> +In a cold white robe before me,<br /> +<span class="i2">When all my spirit reels</span> +At the shouts, the leagues of lights,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the roaring of the wheels.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Half the night I waste in sighs,<br /> +<span class="i2">Half in dreams I sorrow after</span> +The delight of early skies;<br /> +<span class="i2">In a wakeful doze I sorrow</span> +For the hand, the lips, the eyes—<br /> +<span class="i2">For the meeting of the morrow,</span> +<span class="i2">The delight of happy laughter,</span> +The delight of low replies. +</p> +<p class="stanza">'Tis a morning pure and sweet,<br /> +<span class="i2">And a dewy splendor falls</span> +On the little flower that clings<br /> +<span class="i2">To the turrets and the walls;</span> +<a name="Page_333"></a>'T is a morning pure and sweet,<br /> +And the light and shadow fleet:<br /> +<span class="i2">She is walking in the meadow,</span> +And the woodland echo rings.<br /> +In a moment we shall meet;<br /> +<span class="i2">She is singing in the meadow,</span> +And the rivulet at her feet<br /> +<span class="i2">Ripples on in light and shadow</span> +To the ballad that she sings. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Do I hear her sing as of old,<br /> +<span class="i2">My bird with the shining head,</span> +My own dove with the tender eye?<br /> +But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry—<br /> +<span class="i2">There is some one dying or dead;</span> +And a sullen thunder is rolled;<br /> +<span class="i2">For a tumult shakes the city,</span> +<span class="i2">And I wake—my dream is fled;</span> +In the shuddering dawn, behold,<br /> +<span class="i2">Without knowledge, without pity,</span> +<span class="i2">By the curtains of my bed</span> +That abiding phantom cold! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Get thee hence, nor come again!<br /> +<span class="i2">Mix not memory with doubt,</span> +Pass, thou deathlike type of pain,<br /> +<span class="i2">Pass and cease to move about!</span> +'T is the blot upon the brain<br /> +That <i>will</i> show itself without. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then I rise; the eave-drops fall,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the yellow vapors choke</span> +<a name="Page_334"></a>The great city sounding wide;<br /> +The day comes—a dull red ball<br /> +<span class="i2">Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke</span> +On the misty river-tide. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Through the hubbub of the market<br /> +<span class="i2">I steal, a wasted frame;</span> +It crosses here, it crosses there,<br /> +Through all that crowd confused and loud<br /> +<span class="i2">The shadow still the same;</span> +And on my heavy eyelids<br /> +<span class="i2">My anguish hangs like shame.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Alas for her that met me,<br /> +<span class="i2">That heard me softly call,</span> +Came glimmering through the laurels<br /> +<span class="i2">At the quiet evenfall,</span> +In the garden by the turrets<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the old manorial hall!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Would the happy spirit descend<br /> +<span class="i2">From the realms of light and song,</span> +In the chamber or the street.<br /> +<span class="i2">As she looks among the blest,</span> +Should I fear to greet my friend<br /> +<span class="i2">Or to say "Forgive the wrong,"</span> +Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,<br /> +<span class="i2">To the regions of thy rest?"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But the broad light glares and beats,<br /> +And the shadow flits and Meets<br /> +<span class="i2">And will not let me be;</span> +And I loathe the squares and streets,<br /> +<a name="Page_335"></a>And the faces that one meets,<br /> +<span class="i2">Hearts with no love for me;</span> +Always I long to creep<br /> +Into some still cavern deep,<br /> +There to weep, and weep, and weep<br /> +<span class="i2">My whole soul out to thee.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TOO_LATE"></a>TOO LATE.</p> +<p class="cmt">"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."</p> + +<p class="stanza">Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the old likeness that I knew,</span> +I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,<br /> +<span class="i2">Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Never a scornful word should grieve ye,<br /> +<span class="i2">I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;</span> +Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,<br /> +<span class="i2">Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Oh, to call back the days that are not!<br /> +<span class="i2">My eyes were blinded, your words were few:</span> +Do you know the truth now, up in heaven,<br /> +<span class="i2">Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I never was worthy of you, Douglas;<br /> +<span class="i2">Not half worthy the like of you:</span> +Now all men beside seem to me like shadows—<br /> +<span class="i2">I love you, Douglas, tender and true.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,<br /> +<span class="i2">Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew;</span> +<a name="Page_336"></a>As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,<br /> +<span class="i2">Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AFTER_SUMMER"></a>AFTER SUMMER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">We'll not weep for summer over,—<br /> +<span class="i6">No, not we:</span> +Strew above his head the clover,—<br /> +<span class="i6">Let him be!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Other eyes may weep his dying,<br /> +<span class="i6">Shed their tears</span> +There upon him, where he 's lying<br /> +<span class="i6">With his peers.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Unto some of them he proffered<br /> +<span class="i6">Gifts most sweet;</span> +For our hearts a grave he offered,—<br /> +<span class="i6">Was this meet?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">All our fond hopes, praying, perished<br /> +<span class="i6">In his wrath,—</span> +All the lovely dreams we cherished<br /> +<span class="i6">Strewed his path.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,<br /> +<span class="i6">Far apart,</span> +Sundered wide as seas can sunder<br /> +<span class="i6">Heart from heart,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Dream at all of all the sorrows<br /> +<span class="i6">That were ours,—</span> +<a name="Page_337"></a>Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;<br /> +<span class="i6">Poison-flowers</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Summer gathered, as in madness,<br /> +<span class="i6">Saying, "See,</span> +These are yours, in place of gladness,—<br /> +<span class="i6">Gifts from me"?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nay, the rest that will be ours<br /> +<span class="i6">Is supreme,</span> +And below the poppy flowers<br /> +<span class="i6">Steals no dream.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LAMENT_FOR_HELIODORE"></a>LAMENT FOR HELIODORE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Tears for my lady dead—<br /> +<span class="i4">Heliodore!</span> +Salt tears, and strange to shed,<br /> +<span class="i4">Over and o'er;</span> +Tears to my lady dead,<br /> +<span class="i4">Love do we send,</span> +Longed for, rememberèd,<br /> +<span class="i4">Lover and friend!</span> +Sad are the songs we sing,<br /> +<span class="i4">Tears that we shed,</span> +Empty the gifts we bring<br /> +<span class="i4">Gifts to the dead!</span> +Go, tears, and go, lament,<br /> +<span class="i4">Fare from her tomb,</span> +Wend where my lady went<br /> +<span class="i4">Down through the gloom!</span> +<a name="Page_338"></a>Ah, for my flower, my love,<br /> +<span class="i4">Hades hath taken I</span> +Ah, for the dust above<br /> +<span class="i4">Scattered and shaken!</span> +Mother of blade and grass,<br /> +<span class="i4">Earth, in thy breast</span> +Lull her that gentlest was<br /> +<span class="i4">Gently to rest!</span></p> +<p class="signature">From the Greek of MELEAGER.<br /> +Translation of ANDREW LANG.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ON_THE_DEATH_OF_FRANCIS_I"></a>ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I.</p> + +<p class="stanza">'T is done! a father, mother, gone,<br /> +<span class="i2">A sister, brother, torn away,</span> +My hope is now in God alone,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whom heaven and earth alike obey.</span> +Above, beneath, to him is known,—<br /> +The world's wide compass is his own. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I love,—but in the world no more,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor in gay hall, or festal bower;</span> +Not the fair forms I prized before,—<br /> +<span class="i2">But him, all beauty, wisdom, power,</span> +My Saviour, who has cast a chain<br /> +On sin and ill, and woe and pain! +</p> +<p class="stanza">I from my memory have effaced<br /> +<span class="i2">All former joys, all kindred, friends;</span> +All honors that my station graced<br /> +<span class="i2">I hold but snares that fortune sends:</span> +<a name="Page_339"></a>Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast,<br /> +That we may be his own at last!</p> + +<p class="signature">From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS,<br />QUEEN OF NAVARRE.<br /> +Translation of <ins class="correction" title="Original spelling">LOUISA</ins> STUART COSTELLO.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TO_MARY_IN_HEAVEN"></a>TO MARY IN HEAVEN.</p> +<p class="cmt">[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he +heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.]</p> + +<p class="stanza">Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,<br /> +<span class="i2">That lov'st to greet the early morn,</span> +Again thou usher'st in the day<br /> +<span class="i2">My Mary from my soul was torn.</span> +O Mary! dear departed shade!<br /> +<span class="i2">Where is thy place of blissful rest?</span> +See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?<br /> +<span class="i2">Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +That sacred hour can I forget,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Can I forget the hallowed grove,</span> +Where by the winding Ayr we met<br /> +<span class="i2">To live one day of parting love?</span> +Eternity will not efface<br /> +<span class="i2">Those records dear of transports past;</span> +Thy image at our last embrace;<br /> +<span class="i2">Ah! little thought we 't was our last!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,<br /> +<span class="i2">O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;</span> +The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,<br /> +<span class="i2">Twined amorous round the raptured scene;</span> +<a name="Page_340"></a>The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,<br /> +<span class="i2">The birds sang love on every spray,—</span> +Till soon, too soon, the glowing west<br /> +<span class="i2">Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,<br /> +<span class="i2">And fondly broods with miser care!</span> +Time but the impression stronger makes,<br /> +<span class="i2">As streams their channels deeper wear.</span> +My Mary! dear departed shade!<br /> +<span class="i2">Where is thy place of blissful rest?</span> +See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?<br /> +<span class="i2">Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ROBERT BURNS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="MINSTRELS_SONG"></a>MINSTREL'S SONG.</p> + +<p class="stanza">O sing unto my roundelay!<br /> +<span class="i2">O, drop the briny tear with me!</span> +Dance no more at holiday;<br /> +<span class="i2">Like a running river be.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead,</i></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Gone to his death-bed,</i></span> +<span class="i4"><i>All under the willow-tree.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Black his hair as the winter night,<br /> +<span class="i2">White his neck as the summer snow,</span> +Ruddy his face as the morning light;<br /> +<span class="i2">Cold he lies in the grave below.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;<br /> +<span class="i2">Quick in dance as thought can be;</span> +<a name="Page_341"></a>Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;<br /> +<span class="i2">O, lie lies by the willow-tree!</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Hark! the raven flaps his wing<br /> +<span class="i2">In the briered dell below;</span> +Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing<br /> +<span class="i2">To the nightmares as they go.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +See! the white moon shines on high;<br /> +<span class="i2">Whiter is my-true-love's shroud,</span> +Whiter than the morning sky,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whiter than the evening cloud.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Here, upon my true-love's grave<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall the barren flowers be laid,</span> +Nor one holy saint to save<br /> +<span class="i2">All the coldness of a maid.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +With my hands I'll bind the briers<br /> +<span class="i2">Round his holy corse to gre;</span> +Ouphant fairy, light your fires;<br /> +<span class="i2">Here my body still shall be.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,<br /> +<span class="i2">Drain my heart's blood away;</span> +Life and all its good I scorn,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dance by night, or feast by day.</span> +<span class="i4"><i>My love is dead</i>, etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_342"></a> +Water-witches, crowned with reytes,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bear me to your lethal tide.</span> +I die! I come! my true-love waits....<br /> +<span class="i2">Thus the damsel spake, and died.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">THOMAS CHATTERTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_PASSAGE"></a>THE PASSAGE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Many a year is in its grave<br /> +Since I crossed this restless wave:<br /> +And the evening, fair as ever,<br /> +Shines on ruin, rock, and river. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Then in this same boat beside.<br /> +Sat two comrades old and tried,—<br /> +One with all a father's truth,<br /> +One with all the fire of youth. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +One on earth in silence wrought,<br /> +And his grave in silence sought;<br /> +But the younger, brighter form<br /> +Passed in battle and in storm. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +So, whene'er I turn mine eye<br /> +Back upon the days gone by,<br /> +Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,<br /> +Friends that closed their course before me. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But what binds us, friend to friend,<br /> +But that soul with soul can blend?<br /> +Soul-like were those hours of yore;<br /> +Let us walk in soul once more. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_343"></a> +Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,<br /> +Take, I give it willingly;<br /> +For, invisible to thee,<br /> +Spirits twain have crossed with me. +</p> + +<p class="signature">From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND.<br /> +Translation of SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LAMENT_OF_THE_IRISH_EMIGRANT"></a>LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where we sat side by side</span> +On a bright May mornin' long ago,<br /> +<span class="i2">When first you were my bride;</span> +The corn was springin' fresh and green.<br /> +<span class="i2">And the lark sang loud and high—</span> +And the red was on your lip, Mary,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the love-light in your eye.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The place is little changed, Mary;<br /> +<span class="i2">The day is bright as then;</span> +The lark's loud song is in my ear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the corn is green again;</span> +But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">And your breath, warm on my cheek;</span> +And I still keep list'nin' for the words<br /> +<span class="i2">You nevermore will speak.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +'Tis but a step down yonder lane,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the little church stands near—</span> +The church where we were wed, Mary;<br /> +<span class="i2">I see the spire from here.</span> +But the graveyard lies between, Mary,<br /> +<span class="i2">And my step might break your rest—</span> +<a name="Page_344"></a>For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,<br /> +<span class="i2">With your baby on your breast.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I'm very lonely now, Mary.<br /> +<span class="i2">For the poor make no new friends:</span> +But, oh, they love the better still<br /> +<span class="i2">The few our Father sends!</span> +And you were all I had, Mary—<br /> +<span class="i2">My blessin' and my pride!</span> +There's nothing left to care for now,<br /> +<span class="i2">Since my poor Mary died.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,<br /> +<span class="i2">That still kept hoping on.</span> +When the trust in God had left my soul,<br /> +<span class="i2">And my arm's young strength was gone;</span> +There was comfort ever on your lip,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the kind look on your brow,—</span> +I bless you, Mary, for that same,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though you cannot hear me now.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I thank you for the patient smile<br /> +<span class="i2">When your heart was fit to break,—</span> +When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,<br /> +<span class="i2">And you hid it for my sake;</span> +I bless you for the pleasant word,<br /> +<span class="i2">When your heart was sad and sore,—</span> +O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where grief can't reach you more!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I'm biddin' you a long farewell,<br /> +<span class="i2">My Mary—kind and true!</span> +<a name="Page_345"></a>But I'll not forget you, darling,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the land I'm goin' to;</span> +They say there 's bread and work for all,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the sun shines always there—</span> +But I'll not forget old Ireland,<br /> +<span class="i2">Were it fifty times as fair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And often in those grand old woods<br /> +<span class="i2">I'll sit, and shut my eyes,</span> +And my heart will travel back again<br /> +<span class="i2">To the place where Mary lies;</span> +And I'll think I see the little stile<br /> +<span class="i2">Where we sat side by side,</span> +And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,<br /> +<span class="i2">When first you were my bride.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LADY DUFFERIN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="HOME_THEY_BROUGHT_HER_WARRIOR_DEAD"></a>HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD.</p> + +<p class="subt">FROM "THE PRINCESS."</p> + +<p class="stanza">Home they brought her warrior dead:<br /> +<span class="i2">She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;</span> +All her maidens, watching, said,<br /> +<span class="i2">"She must weep or she will die."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Then they praised him, soft and low,<br /> +<span class="i2">Called him worthy to be loved,</span> +Truest friend and noblest foe;<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet she neither spoke nor moved.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_346"></a> +Stole a maiden from her place,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lightly to the warrior stept,</span> +Took the face-cloth from the face;<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet she neither moved nor wept.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Rose a nurse of ninety years,<br /> +<span class="i2">Set his child upon her knee,—</span> +Like summer tempest came her tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">"Sweet my child, I live for thee."</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_KING_OF_DENMARKS_RIDE"></a>THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Word was brought to the Danish king<br /> +<span class="i4">(Hurry!)</span> +That the love of his heart lay suffering,<br /> +And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;<br /> +<span class="i4">(O, ride as though you were flying!)</span> +Better he loves each golden curl<br /> +On the brow of that Scandinavian girl<br /> +Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:<br /> +<span class="i2">And his rose of the isles is dying!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Thirty nobles saddled with speed;<br /> +<span class="i4">(Hurry!)</span> +Each one mounting a gallant steed<br /> +Which he kept for battle and days of need;<br /> +<span class="i4">(O, ride as though you were flying!)</span> +Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;<br /> +Worn out chargers staggered and sank;<br /> +Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;<br /> +But ride as they would, the king rode first,<br /> +<span class="i2">For his rose of the isles lay dying!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_347"></a> +His nobles are beaten, one by one;<br /> +<span class="i4">(Hurry!)</span> +They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;<br /> +His little fair page now follows alone,<br /> +<span class="i4">For strength and for courage trying!</span> +The king looked back at that faithful child;<br /> +Wan was the face that answering smiled;<br /> +They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,<br /> +Then he dropped; and only the king rode in<br /> +<span class="i2">Where his rose of the isles lay dying!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;<br /> +<span class="i4">(Silence!)</span> +No answer came; but faint and forlorn<br /> +An echo returned on the cold gray morn,<br /> +<span class="i4">Like the breath of a spirit sighing.</span> +The castle portal stood grimly wide;<br /> +None welcomed the king from that weary ride;<br /> +For dead, in the light of the dawning day,<br /> +The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,<br /> +<span class="i2">Who had yearned for his voice while dying!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The panting steed, with a drooping crest,<br /> +<span class="i4">Stood weary.</span> +The king returned from her chamber of rest,<br /> +The thick sobs choking in his breast;<br /> +<span class="i4">And, that dumb companion eyeing,</span> +The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;<br /> +He bowed his head on his charger's neck:<br /> +"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,<br /> +Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain<br /> +<span class="i2">To the halls where my love lay dying!"</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_348"></a><a name="GRIEF"></a>GRIEF.</p> +<p class="subt">FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i2">QUEEN.—Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,</span> +And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.<br /> +Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids<br /> +Seek for thy noble father in the dust:<br /> +Thou know'st 'tis common,—all that live must die,<br /> +Passing through nature to eternity.<br /> + +<span class="i2">HAMLET.—Ay, madam, it is common.</span> + +<span class="i2">QUEEN.—If it be,</span> +Why seems it so particular with thee?<br /> + +<span class="i2">HAMLET.—Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.</span> +'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,<br /> +Nor customary suits of solemn black,<br /> +Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,<br /> +No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,<br /> +Nor the dejected havior of the visage,<br /> +Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,<br /> +That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,<br /> +For they are actions that a man might play:<br /> +But I have that within, which passeth show;<br /> +These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. +</p> +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="Page_349"></a> +<p class="title"><a name="SELECTIONS_FROM_IN_MEMORIAM"></a>SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM."</p> + +<p class="subt">[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.]</p> +<p class="subt">GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE.</p> +<p class="subt">V.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I sometimes hold it half a sin<br /> +<span class="i2">To put in words the grief I feel:</span> +<span class="i2">For words, like Nature, half reveal</span> +And half conceal the Soul within. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But, for the unquiet heart and brain,<br /> +<span class="i2">A use in measured language lies;</span> +<span class="i2">The sad mechanic exercise,</span> +Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,<br /> +<span class="i2">Like coarsest clothes against the cold;</span> +<span class="i2">But that large grief which these enfold</span> +Is given in outline and no more. +</p> + +<p class="subt">DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.</p> +<p class="subt">IX.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Fair ship, that from the Italian shore<br /> +<span class="i2">Sailest the placid ocean-plains</span> +<span class="i2">With my lost Arthur's loved remains,</span> +Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +So draw him home to those that mourn<br /> +<span class="i2">In vain; a favorable speed</span> +<span class="i2">Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead</span> +Through prosperous floods his holy urn. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_350"></a>All night no ruder air perplex<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright</span> +<span class="i2">As our pure love, through early light</span> +Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Sphere all your lights around, above;<br /> +<span class="i2">Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;</span> +<span class="i2">Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,</span> +My friend, the brother of my love; +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +My Arthur, whom I shall not see<br /> +<span class="i2">Till all my widowed race be run;</span> +<span class="i2">Dear as the mother to the son,</span> +More than my brothers are to me. +</p> + +<p class="subt">THE PEACE OF SORROW</p> +<p class="subt">XI.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Calm is the morn without a sound,<br /> +<span class="i2">Calm as to suit a calmer grief,</span> +<span class="i2">And only through the faded leaf</span> +The chestnut pattering to the ground: +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Calm and deep peace on this high wold<br /> +<span class="i2">And on these dews that drench the furze,</span> +<span class="i2">And all the silvery gossamers</span> +That twinkle into green and gold: +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Calm and still light on yon great plain<br /> +<span class="i2">That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,</span> +<span class="i2">And crowded farms, and lessening towers,</span> +To mingle with the bounding main: +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_351"></a> +Calm and deep peace in this wide air,<br /> +<span class="i2">These leaves that redden to the fall;</span> +<span class="i2">And in my heart, if calm at all,</span> +If any calm, a calm despair: +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,<br /> +<span class="i2">And waves that sway themselves in rest,</span> +<span class="i2">And dead calm in that noble breast</span> +Which heaves but with the heaving deep.</p> + +<p class="subt">TIME AND ETERNITY.</p> +<p class="subt">XLII.</p> + +<p class="stanza">If Sleep and Death be truly one,<br /> +<span class="i2">And every spirit's folded bloom</span> +<span class="i2">Through all its intervital gloom</span> +In some long trance should slumber on; +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Unconscious of the sliding hour,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bare of the body, might it last,</span> +<span class="i2">And silent traces of the past</span> +Be all the color of the flower: +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +So then were nothing lost to man;<br /> +<span class="i2">So that still garden of the souls</span> +<span class="i2">In many a figured leaf enrolls</span> +The total world since life began; +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And love will last as pure and whole<br /> +<span class="i2">As when he loved me here in Time,</span> +<span class="i2">And at the spiritual prime</span> +Rewaken with the dawning soul.</p> + +<p class="subt"><a name="Page_352"></a>PERSONAL RESURRECTION.</p> +<p class="subt">XLVI.</p> + +<p class="stanza">That each, who seems a separate whole,<br /> +<span class="i2">Should move his rounds, and fusing all</span> +<span class="i2">The skirts of self again, should fall</span> +Remerging in the general Soul, +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Is faith as vague as all unsweet:<br /> +<span class="i2">Eternal form shall still divide</span> +<span class="i2">The eternal soul from all beside;</span> +And I shall know him when we meet: +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And we shall sit at endless feast,<br /> +<span class="i2">Enjoying each the other's good:</span> +<span class="i2">What vaster dream can hit the mood</span> +Of Love on earth? He seeks at least +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Upon the last and sharpest height,<br /> +<span class="i2">Before the spirits fade away,</span> +<span class="i2">Some landing-place to clasp and say,</span> +"Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." +</p> + +<p class="subt">SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP.</p> +<p class="subt">XCIII.</p> + +<p class="stanza">How pure at heart and sound in head,<br /> +<span class="i2">With what divine affections bold,</span> +<span class="i2">Should be the man whose thought would hold</span> +An hour's communion with the dead. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +In vain shalt thou, or any, call<br /> +<span class="i2">The spirits from their golden day,</span> +<a name="Page_353"></a>Except, like them, thou too canst say,<br /> +My spirit is at peace with all. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +They haunt the silence of the breast,<br /> +<span class="i2">Imaginations calm and fair,</span> +<span class="i2">The memory like a cloudless air,</span> +The conscience as a sea at rest: +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But when the heart is full of din,<br /> +<span class="i2">And doubt beside the portal waits,</span> +<span class="i2">They can but listen at the gates,</span> +And hear the household jar within. +</p> + +<p class="subt">L.</p> +<p class="stanza">Do we indeed desire the dead<br /> +<span class="i2">Should still be near us at our side?</span> +<span class="i2">Is there no baseness we would hide?</span> +No inner vileness that we dread? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Shall he for whose applause I strove,<br /> +<span class="i2">I had such reverence for his blame,</span> +<span class="i2">See with clear eye some hidden shame,</span> +And I be lessened in his love? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I wrong the grave with fears untrue:<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall love be blamed for want of faith?</span> +<span class="i2">There must be wisdom with great Death:</span> +The dead shall look me through and through. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Be near us when we climb or fall:<br /> +<span class="i2">Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours</span> +<span class="i2">With larger other eyes than ours,</span> +To make allowance for us all. +</p> + +<p class="subt"><a name="Page_354"></a>DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME.</p> +<p class="subt">LXXII.</p> + +<p class="stanza">So many worlds, so much to do,<br /> +<span class="i2">So little done, such things to be,</span> +<span class="i2">How know I what had need of thee?</span> +For thou wert strong as thou wert true. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The fame is quenched that I foresaw,<br /> +<span class="i2">The head hath missed an earthly wreath:</span> +<span class="i2">I curse not nature, no, nor death;</span> +For nothing is that errs from law. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +We pass; the path that each man trod<br /> +<span class="i2">Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:</span> +<span class="i2">What fame is left for human deeds</span> +In endless age? It rests with God. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O hollow wraith of dying fame,<br /> +<span class="i2">Fade wholly, while the soul exults,</span> +<span class="i2">And self-enfolds the large results</span> +Of force that would have forged a name. +</p> + +<p class="subt">THE POET'S TRIBUTE.</p> +<p class="subt">LXXVI.</p> + +<p class="stanza">What hope is here for modern rhyme<br /> +<span class="i2">To him who turns a musing eye</span> +<span class="i2">On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie</span> +Foreshortened in the tract of time? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +These mortal lullabies of pain<br /> +<span class="i2">May bind a book, may line a box,</span> +<span class="i2">May serve to curl a maiden's locks:</span> +Or when a thousand moons shall wane +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_355"></a> +A man upon a stall may find,<br /> +<span class="i2">And, passing, turn the page that tells.</span> +<span class="i2">A grief, then changed to something else,</span> +Sung by a long-forgotten mind. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But what of that? My darkened ways<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall ring with music all the same;</span> +<span class="i2">To breathe my loss is more than fame,</span> +To utter love more sweet than praise. +</p> + +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="APRES"></a>APRÈS.</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +Down, down, Ellen, my little one,<br /> +Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;<br /> +Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me,<br /> +Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one,<br /> +Warbling so fairily close to my ear;<br /> +Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,<br /> +This that I made for your mother to hear? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one,<br /> +Wailing so wearily under the stars;<br /> +Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me<br /> +Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!<br /> +Is she not like her whenever she stirs?<br /> +<a name="Page_356"></a>Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,<br /> +Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one.<br /> +Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave,<br /> +Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,—<br /> +Something to cling to and something to crave. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Love, love, Ellen, my little one!<br /> +Love indestructible, love undefiled,<br /> +Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me,<br /> +Oft as I look on the face of her child. +</p> + +<p class="signature">ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_FAIREST_THING_IN_MORTAL_EYES"></a>THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.</p> + +<p class="cmt">Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.</p> + +<p class="stanza">To make my lady's obsequies<br /> +<span class="i2">My love a minster wrought,</span> +And, in the chantry, service there<br /> +<span class="i2">Was sung by doleful thought;</span> +The tapers were of burning sighs,<br /> +<span class="i2">That light and odor gave:</span> +And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">Enluminèd her grave;</span> +And round about, in quaintest guise,<br /> +Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies<br /> +The fairest thing in mortal eyes." +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_357"></a>Above her lieth spread a tomb<br /> +<span class="i2">Of gold and sapphires blue:</span> +The gold doth show her blessedness,<br /> +<span class="i2">The sapphires mark her true;</span> +For blessedness and truth in her<br /> +<span class="i2">Were livelily portrayed,</span> +When gracious God with both his hands<br /> +<span class="i2">Her goodly substance made.</span> +He framed her in such wondrous wise,<br /> +She was, to speak without disguise,<br /> +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +No more, no more! my heart doth faint<br /> +<span class="i2">When I the life recall</span> +Of her who lived so free from taint,<br /> +<span class="i2">So virtuous deemed by all,—</span> +<span class="i2">That in herself was so complete</span> +<span class="i2">I think that she was ta'en</span> +By God to deck his paradise,<br /> +<span class="i2">And with his saints to reign,</span> +Whom while on earth each one did prize<br /> +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But naught our tears avail, or cries;<br /> +<span class="i2">All soon or late in death shall sleep;</span> +<span class="i2">Nor living wight long time may keep</span> +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. +</p> + +<p class="signature">From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.<br /> +Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_358"></a> +<a name="BREAK_BREAK_BREAK"></a>BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Break, break, break,<br /> +<span class="i2">On thy cold gray stones, O sea!</span> +And I would that my tongue could utter<br /> +<span class="i2">The thoughts that arise in me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">O well for the fisherman's boy<br /> +<span class="i2">That he shouts with his sister at play!</span> +O well for the sailor lad<br /> +<span class="i2">That he sings in his boat on the bay!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And the stately ships go on,<br /> +<span class="i2">To the haven under the hill;</span> +But O for the touch of a vanished hand,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the sound of a voice that is still!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Break, break, break,<br /> +<span class="i2">At the foot of thy crags, O sea!</span> +But the tender grace of a day that is dead<br /> +<span class="i2">Will never come back to me.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LAVENDER"></a>LAVENDER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">How prone we are to hide and hoard<br /> +Each little treasure time has stored,<br /> +<span class="i4">To tell of happy hours!</span> +We lay aside with tender care<br /> +A tattered book, a lock of hair,<br /> +<span class="i4">A bunch of faded flowers.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_359"></a> +When death has led with silent hand<br /> +Our darlings to the "Silent Land,"<br /> +<span class="i4">Awhile we sit bereft;</span> +But time goes on; anon we rise,<br /> +Our dead are buried from our eyes,<br /> +<span class="i4">We gather what is left.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The books they loved, the songs they sang,<br /> +The little flute whose music rang<br /> +<span class="i4">So cheerily of old;</span> +The pictures we had watched them paint,<br /> +The last plucked flower, with odor faint,<br /> +<span class="i4">That fell from fingers cold.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +We smooth and fold with reverent care<br /> +The robes they living used to wear;<br /> +<span class="i4">And painful pulses stir</span> +As o'er the relics of our dead,<br /> +With bitter rain of tears, we spread<br /> +<span class="i4">Pale purple lavender.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And when we come in after years,<br /> +With only tender April tears<br /> +<span class="i4">On cheeks once white with care,</span> +To look on treasures put away<br /> +Despairing on that far-off day,<br /> +<span class="i4">A subtile scent is there.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Dew-wet and fresh we gather them,<br /> +These fragrant flowers; now every stem<br /> +<span class="i4">Is bare of all its bloom:</span> +Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here<br /> +To lend our relics, sacred, dear,<br /> +<span class="i4">Their beautiful perfume.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<a name="Page_360"></a>The scent abides on book and lute,<br /> +On curl and flower, and with its mute<br /> +<span class="i4">But eloquent appeal</span> +<span class="i4">It wins from us a deeper sob</span> +For our lost dead, a sharper throb<br /> +<span class="i4">Than we are wont to feel.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +It whispers of the "long ago;"<br /> +Its love, its loss, its aching woe,<br /> +<span class="i4">And buried sorrows stir;</span> +And tears like those we shed of old<br /> +Roll down our cheeks as we behold<br /> +<span class="i4">Our faded lavender.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="WHAT_OF_THE_DARKNESS"></a>WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?</p> +<p class="subt">TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">What of the darkness? Is it very fair?<br /> +Are there great calms? and find we silence there?<br /> +Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow<br /> +With some strange peace our faces never know,<br /> +With some strange faith our faces never dare,—<br /> +Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?<br /> +Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?<br /> +Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap?<br /> +Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?<br /> +Day shows us not such comfort anywhere—<br /> +Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there? +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_361"></a> +Out of the Day's deceiving light we call—<br /> +Day that shows man so great, and God so small,<br /> +That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass—<br /> +O is the Darkness too a lying glass!<br /> +Or undistracted, do you find truth there?<br /> +What of the Darkness? Is it very fair? +</p> +<p class="signature">RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="VAN_ELSEN"></a>VAN ELSEN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;<br /> +He spake by sickness first and made him whole;<br /> +<span class="i4">Van Elsen heard him not,</span> +<span class="i4">Or soon forgot.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured<br /> +Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;<br /> +<span class="i4">Van Elsen's heart grew fat</span> +<span class="i4">And proud thereat.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">God spake the third time when the great world smiled,<br /> +And in the sunshine slew his little child;<br /> +<span class="i4">Van Elsen like a tree</span> +<span class="i4">Fell hopelessly.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then in the darkness came a voice which said,<br /> +"As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,<br /> +<span class="i4">As I have need of thee,</span> +<span class="i4">Thou needest me."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_362"></a>That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,<br /> +And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,<br /> +<span class="i4">Praised Him with fervent breath</span> +<span class="i4">Who conquered death.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il10"></a> +<a href="./images/362.jpg"><img src="./images/362_th.jpg" alt="WALT WHITMAN" title="Portrait of WALT WHITMAN" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">WALT WHITMAN<br /><i>After a life-photograph by Rockwood, New York.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="WHEN_LILACS_LAST_IN_THE_DOORYARD_BLOOMED"></a>WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED.</p> + +<p class="subt">[THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.]</p> + +<p class="subt">1.</p> + +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,</span> +<span class="widest">And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,</span> +<span class="widest">I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,</span> +<span class="widest">Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,</span> +<span class="widest">And thought of him I love. </span> +</div> +<p class="subt">2.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">O powerful western fallen star!</span> +<span class="widest">O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!</span> +<span class="widest">O great star disappeared—O the black murk that hides the star!</span> +<span class="widest">O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!</span> +<span class="widest">O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul! </span> +</div> +<p class="subt"><a name="Page_363"></a>3.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings,</span> +<span class="widest">Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,</span> +<span class="widest">With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,</span> +<span class="widest">With every leaf a miracle;—and from this bush in the door-yard,</span> +<span class="widest">With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,</span> +<span class="widest">A sprig with its flower I break.</span> +</div> +<p class="subt">4.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">In the swamp in secluded recesses,</span> +<span class="widest">A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Solitary the thrush,</span> +<span class="widest">The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,</span> +<span class="widest">Sings by himself a song.— </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Song of the bleeding throat,</span> +<span class="widest">Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know,</span> +<span class="widest">If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die). </span> +</div> +<p class="subt">5.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,</span> +<span class="widest">Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the gray débris,</span> +<a name="Page_364"></a><span class="widest">Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,</span> +<span class="widest">Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields up-risen,</span> +<span class="widest">Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,</span> +<span class="widest">Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,</span> +<span class="widest">Night and day journeys a coffin.</span> +</div> +<p class="subt">6.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,</span> +<span class="widest">Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,</span> +<span class="widest">With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black,</span> +<span class="widest">With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing,</span> +<span class="widest">With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,</span> +<span class="widest">With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,</span> +<span class="widest">With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,</span> +<span class="widest">With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,</span> +<span class="widest">With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin,</span> +<span class="widest">The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,</span> +<span class="widest">With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang,</span> +<a name="Page_365"></a><span class="widest">Here, coffin that slowly passes,</span> +<span class="widest">I give you my sprig of lilac. </span> +</div> +<p class="subt">7.</p> + +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">(Nor for you, for one alone,—</span> +<span class="widest">Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring;</span> +<span class="widest">For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.</span> +</div> + +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">All over bouquets of roses,</span> +<span class="widest">O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,</span> +<span class="widest">But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,</span> +<span class="widest">Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,</span> +<span class="widest">With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,</span> +<span class="widest">For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)</span> +</div> + +<p class="subt">8.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">O western orb sailing the heaven,</span> +<span class="widest">Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked,</span> +<span class="widest">As I walked in silence the transparent shadowy night,</span> +<span class="widest">As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,</span> +<span class="widest">As you drooped from the sky low down as if to my side (while the other stars all looked on),</span> +<span class="widest">As we wandered together the solemn night (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep),</span> +<a name="Page_366"></a><span class="widest">As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,</span> +<span class="widest">As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,</span> +<span class="widest">As I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward black of the night,</span> +<span class="widest">As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad orb.</span> +<span class="widest">Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.</span> +</div> +<p class="subt">9.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Sing on there in the swamp,</span> +<span class="widest">O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes, I hear your call,</span> +<span class="widest">I hear, I come presently, I understand you;</span> +<span class="widest">But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detained me,</span> +<span class="widest">The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. </span> +</div> +<p class="subt">10.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?</span> +<span class="widest">And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?</span> +<span class="widest">And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Sea-winds blown from east and west,</span> +<span class="widest">Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,</span> +<span class="widest">These and with these and the breath of my chant,</span> +<span class="widest">I'll perfume the grave of him I love. </span> +</div> +<p class="subt"><a name="Page_367"></a>11.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?</span> +<span class="widest">And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,</span> +<span class="widest">To adorn the burial-house of him I love?</span> +<span class="widest">Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,</span> +<span class="widest">With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,</span> +<span class="widest">With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,</span> +<span class="widest">With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,</span> +<span class="widest">In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,</span> +<span class="widest">With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,</span> +<span class="widest">And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,</span> +<span class="widest">And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning. </span> +</div> + +<p class="subt">12.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Lo, body and soul—this land,</span> +<span class="widest">My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,</span> +<span class="widest">The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,</span> +<span class="widest">And ever the far-spreading prairies covered with grass and corn.</span> +<a name="Page_368"></a><span class="widest">Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,</span> +<span class="widest">The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,</span> +<span class="widest">The gentle soft-born measureless light,</span> +<span class="widest">The miracle spreading, bathing all, the fulfilled noon,</span> +<span class="widest">The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,</span> +<span class="widest">Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.</span> +</div> + +<p class="subt">13.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird!</span> +<span class="widest">Sing from the swamps, the recesses; pour your chant from the bushes,</span> +<span class="widest">Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.</span> +</div> + +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song,</span> +<span class="widest">Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">O liquid and free and tender!</span> +<span class="widest">O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!</span> +<span class="widest">You only I hear—yet the star holds me (but will soon depart),</span> +<span class="widest">Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.</span> +</div> + +<p class="subt">14.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Now while I sat in the day and looked forth,</span> +<span class="widest">In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,</span> +<span class="widest">In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests.</span> +<a name="Page_369"></a><span class="widest">In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturbed winds and the storms),</span> +<span class="widest">Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,</span> +<span class="widest">The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sailed,</span> +<span class="widest">And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,</span> +<span class="widest">And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,</span> +<span class="widest">And the streets how their throbbings throbbed, and the cities pent—lo, then and there,</span> +<span class="widest">Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,</span> +<span class="widest">Appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail,</span> +<span class="widest">And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.</span> +</div> + +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,</span> +<span class="widest">And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,</span> +<span class="widest">And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,</span> +<span class="widest">I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,</span> +<span class="widest">Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,</span> +<span class="widest">To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"><a name="Page_370"></a> +<span class="widest">And the singer so shy to the rest received me,</span> +<span class="widest">The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three,</span> +<span class="widest">And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">From deep secluded recesses,</span> +<span class="widest">From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,</span> +<span class="widest">Came the carol of the bird. </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">And the charm of the carol rapt me,</span> +<span class="widest">As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,</span> +<span class="widest">And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. </span> +</div> +<div style="font-style: italic;"> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Come, lovely and soothing death.</span> +<span class="widest">Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,</span> +<span class="widest">In the, day, in the night, to all, to each,</span> +<span class="widest">Sooner or later, delicate death.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Praised be the fathomless universe,</span> +<span class="widest">For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,</span> +<span class="widest">And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!</span> +<span class="widest">For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet,</span> +<span class="widest">Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?</span> +<a name="Page_371"></a><span class="widest">Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,</span> +<span class="widest">I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Approach, strong deliveress!</span> +<span class="widest">When it is so, when thou, hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,</span> +<span class="widest">Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,</span> +<span class="widest">Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">From me to thee glad serenades,</span> +<span class="widest">Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee;</span> +<span class="widest">And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,</span> +<span class="widest">And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night—</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">The night in silence under many a star,</span> +<span class="widest">The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,</span> +<span class="widest">And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death,</span> +<span class="widest">And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.</span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,</span> +<span class="widest">Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,</span> +<span class="widest">Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,</span> +<span class="widest">I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O death.</span> +</div> +</div> +<p class="subt"><a name="Page_372"></a>15.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">To the tally of my soul,</span> +<span class="widest">Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,</span> +<span class="widest">With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night, </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Loud in the pines and cedars dim.</span> +<span class="widest">Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,</span> +<span class="widest">And I with my comrades there in the night. </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,</span> +<span class="widest">As to long panoramas of visions. </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">And I saw askant the armies,</span> +<span class="widest">I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,</span> +<span class="widest">Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles I saw them,</span> +<span class="widest">And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody.</span> +<span class="widest">And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence),</span> +<span class="widest">And the staffs all splintered and broken. </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,</span> +<span class="widest">And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them;</span> +<span class="widest">I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,</span> +<span class="widest">But I saw they were not as was thought,</span> +<a name="Page_373"></a><span class="widest">They themselves were fully at rest, they suffered not:</span> +<span class="widest">The living remained and suffered, the mother suffered,</span> +<span class="widest">And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered,</span> +<span class="widest">And the armies that remained suffered. </span> +</div> +<p class="subt">16.</p> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">Passing the visions, passing the night,</span> +<span class="widest">Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,</span> +<span class="widest">Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,</span> +<span class="widest">Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,</span> +<span class="widest">As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,</span> +<span class="widest">Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,</span> +<span class="widest">Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,</span> +<span class="widest">As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,</span> +<span class="widest">Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,</span> +<span class="widest">I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. </span> +</div> +<div class="widerst"> +<span class="widest">I cease from my song for thee,</span> +<span class="widest">From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,</span> +<span class="widest">O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.</span> +<a name="Page_374"></a><span class="widest">Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,</span> +<span class="widest">The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird,</span> +<span class="widest">And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul,</span> +<span class="widest">With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe.</span> +<span class="widest">With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,</span> +<span class="widest">Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well.</span> +<span class="widest">For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,</span> +<span class="widest">Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,</span> +<span class="widest">There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim. </span> +</div> + +<p class="signature">WALT WHITMAN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="IF_I_SHOULD_DIE_TONIGHT"></a>IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><span class="i8">If I should die to-night,</span> +My friends would look upon my quiet face<br /> +Before they laid it in its resting-place,<br /> +And deem that death had left it almost fair;<br /> +And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair.<br /> +Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,<br /> +And fold my hands with lingering caress—<br /> +Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i8">If I should die to-night,</span> +My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,<br /> +<a name="Page_375"></a>Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;<br /> +Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;<br /> +Errands on which the willing feet had sped;<br /> +The memory of my selfishness and pride,<br /> +My hasty words, would all be put aside,<br /> +And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i8">If I should die to-night,</span> +Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,<br /> +Recalling other days remorsefully;<br /> +The eyes that chill me with averted glance<br /> +Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,<br /> +And soften, in the old familiar way;<br /> +For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?<br /> +So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i8">Oh, friends, I pray to-night,</span> +Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow—<br /> +The way is lonely; let me feel them now.<br /> +Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;<br /> +My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.<br /> +Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!<br /> +When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need<br /> +The tenderness for which I long to-night. +</p> +<p class="signature">BELLE E. SMITH.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AWAKENING"></a>AWAKENING.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Down to the borders of the silent land<br /> +<span class="i4">He goes with halting feet;</span> +He dares not trust; he cannot understand<br /> +<span class="i4">The blessedness complete</span> +That waits for God's beloved at his right hand. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_376"></a> +He dreads to see God's face, for though the pure<br /> +<span class="i4">Beholding him are blest,</span> +Yet in his sight no evil can endure;<br /> +<span class="i4">And still with fear oppressed</span> +He looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?" +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The world beyond is strange; the golden streets,<br /> +<span class="i4">The palaces so fair,</span> +The seraphs singing in the shining seats,<br /> +<span class="i4">The glory everywhere,—</span> +And to his soul he solemnly repeats +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries,<br /> +<span class="i4">"That world is all too grand;</span> +Among those splendors and those majesties<br /> +<span class="i4">I would not dare to stand;</span> +For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!" +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood<br /> +<span class="i4">Through service and through pain;</span> +The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;<br /> +<span class="i4">Sure, dying must be gain</span> +To one who living hath done what he could. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The light is fading in the tired eyes,<br /> +<span class="i4">The weary race is run;</span> +Not as the victor that doth seize the prize.<br /> +<span class="i4">But as the fainting one,</span> +He nears the verge of the eternities. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And now the end has come, and now he sees<br /> +<span class="i4">The happy, happy shore;</span> +<a name="Page_377"></a>O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are these<br /> +<span class="i4">The things thou fearedst before—</span> +The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +This land is home; no stranger art thou here;<br /> +<span class="i4">Sweet and familiar words</span> +From voices silent long salute thine ear;<br /> +<span class="i4">And winds and songs of birds,</span> +And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The seraphs—they are men of kindly mien;<br /> +<span class="i4">The gems and robes—but signs</span> +Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean;<br /> +<span class="i4">The glory—such as shines</span> +Wherever faith or hope or love is seen. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And he, O doubting child! the Lord of grace<br /> +<span class="i4">Whom thou didst fear to see—</span> +He knows thy sin—but look upon his face!<br /> +<span class="i4">Doth it not shine on thee</span> +With a great light of love that fills the place? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O happy soul, be thankful now and rest!<br /> +<span class="i4">Heaven is a goodly land;</span> +And God is love; and those he loves are blest;—<br /> +<span class="i4">Now thou dost understand;</span> +The least thou hast is better than the best +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyes<br /> +<span class="i4">The new life opens fair;</span> +Before thy feet the Blessed journey lies<br /> +<span class="i4">Through homelands everywhere;</span> +And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise. +</p> + +<p class="signature">WASHINGTON GLADDEN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="Page_378"></a> +<p class="title"><a name="BEYOND_THE_SMILING_AND_THE_WEEPING"></a>BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Beyond the smiling and the weeping<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon;</span> +Beyond the waking and the sleeping,<br /> +Beyond the sowing and the reaping,<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon.</span> +<span class="i2"><i>Love, rest, and home!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Sweet hope!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Lord, tarry not, but come.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Beyond the blooming and the fading<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon;</span> +Beyond the shining and the shading,<br /> +Beyond the hoping and the dreading,<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon.</span> +<span class="i2"><i>Love, rest, and home!</i> etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Beyond the rising and the setting<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon;</span> +Beyond the calming and the fretting,<br /> +Beyond remembering and forgetting,<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon.</span> +<span class="i2"><i>Love, rest, and home!</i> etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Beyond the gathering and the strowing<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon;</span> +Beyond the ebbing and the flowing.<br /> +Beyond the coming and the going,<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon.</span> +<span class="i2"><i>Love, rest, and home!</i> etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<a name="Page_379"></a>Beyond the parting and the meeting<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon;</span> +Beyond the farewell and the greeting,<br /> +Beyond this pulse's fever beating,<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon.</span> +<span class="i2"><i>Love, rest, and home!</i> etc.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Beyond the frost chain and the fever<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon;</span> +Beyond the rock waste and the river,<br /> +Beyond the ever and the never,<br /> +<span class="i6">I shall be soon.</span> +<span class="i2"><i>Love, rest, and home!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Sweet hope!</i></span> +<span class="i2"><i>Lord, tarry not, but come.</i></span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HORATIUS BONAR.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="THE_LAND_O_THE_LEAL"></a>THE LAND O' THE LEAL.</p> +<p class="stanza">I'm wearing awa', Jean,<br /> +Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean;<br /> +I'm wearing awa',<br /> +<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal.</span> +There's nae sorrow there, Jean,<br /> +There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,<br /> +The day is aye fair<br /> +<span class="i2">In the land o' the leal.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ye were aye leal and true, Jean;<br /> +Your task 's ended noo, Jean,<br /> +And I'll welcome you<br /> +<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal.</span> +<a name="Page_380"></a>Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean,<br /> +She was baith guid and fair, Jean:<br /> +O, we grudged her right sair<br /> +<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean,<br /> +My soul langs to be free, Jean,<br /> +And angels wait on me<br /> +<span class="i2">To the land o' the leal!</span> +Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,<br /> +This warld's care is vain, Jean;<br /> +We'll meet and aye be fain<br /> +<span class="i2">In the land o' the leal.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="ANTONY_AND_CLEOPATRA"></a>ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">"I am dying, Egypt, dying."</span> +<span class="i8">—SHAKESPEARE'S <i>Antony and Cleopatra</i>, Act iv. Sc. 13.</span></p> + +<p class="stanza">I am dying, Egypt, dying.<br /> +<span class="i2">Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast,</span> +And the dark Plutonian shadows<br /> +<span class="i2">Gather on the evening blast;</span> +Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear;</span> +Listen to the great heart-secrets,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thou, and thou alone, must hear.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Though my scarred and veteran legions<br /> +<span class="i2">Bear their eagles high no more.</span> +And my wrecked and scattered galleys<br /> +<span class="i2">Strew dark Actium's fatal shore,</span> +<a name="Page_381"></a>Though no glittering guards surround me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Prompt to do their master's will,</span> +I must perish like a Roman,<br /> +<span class="i2">Die the great Triumvir still.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Let not Cæsar's servile minions<br /> +<span class="i2">Mock the lion thus laid low;</span> +'T was no foeman's arm that felled him,<br /> +<span class="i2">'T was his own that struck the blow:</span> +His who, pillowed on thy bosom,<br /> +<span class="i2">Turned aside from glory's ray,</span> +His who, drunk with thy caresses,<br /> +<span class="i2">Madly threw a world away.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Should the base plebeian rabble<br /> +<span class="i2">Dare assail my name at Rome,</span> +Where my noble spouse, Octavia,<br /> +<span class="i2">Weeps within her widowed home,</span> +Seek her; say the gods bear witness—<br /> +<span class="i2">Altars, augurs, circling wings—</span> +That her blood, with mine commingled,<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet shall mount the throne of kings.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian!<br /> +<span class="i2">Glorious sorceress of the Nile!</span> +Light the path to Stygian horrors<br /> +<span class="i2">With the splendors of thy smile.</span> +Give the Cæsar crowns and arches,<br /> +<span class="i2">Let his brow the laurel twine;</span> +I can scorn the Senate's triumphs,<br /> +<span class="i2">Triumphing in love like thine.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I am dying, Egypt, dying;<br /> +<span class="i2">Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.</span> +<a name="Page_382"></a>They are coming—quick, my falchion!<br /> +<span class="i2">Let me front them ere I die.</span> +Ah! no more amid the battle<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall my heart exulting swell;</span> +Isis and Osiris guard thee!<br /> +<span class="i2">Cleopatra—Rome—farewell!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="HABEAS_CORPUS"></a>HABEAS CORPUS.*</p> + +<p class="stanza">My body, eh? Friend Death, how now?<br /> +<span class="i2">Why all this tedious pomp of writ?</span> +Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow<br /> +<span class="i2">For half a century, bit by bit.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +In faith thou knowest more to-day<br /> +<span class="i2">Than I do, where it can be found!</span> +This shrivelled lump of suffering clay,<br /> +<span class="i2">To which I now am chained and bound,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Has not of kith or kin a trace<br /> +<span class="i2">To the good body once I bore;</span> +Look at this shrunken, ghastly face:<br /> +<span class="i2">Didst ever see that face before?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art;<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy only fault thy lagging gait,</span> +Mistaken pity in thy heart<br /> +<span class="i2">For timorous ones that bid thee wait.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Do quickly all thou hast to do,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor I nor mine will hindrance make;</span> +<a name="Page_383"></a>I shall be free when thou art through;<br /> +<span class="i2">I grudge thee naught that thou must take!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one,<br /> +<span class="i2">Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,—</span> +Two members which have faithful done<br /> +<span class="i2">My will and bidding in the past.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I grudge thee this right hand of mine;<br /> +<span class="i2">I grudge thee this quick-beating heart;</span> +They never gave me coward sign,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor played me once a traitor's part.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I see now why in olden days<br /> +<span class="i2">Men in barbaric love or hate</span> +Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The symbol, sign, and instrument<br /> +<span class="i2">Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife,</span> +Of fires in which are poured and spent<br /> +<span class="i2">Their all of love, their all of life.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O feeble, mighty human hand!<br /> +<span class="i2">O fragile, dauntless human heart!</span> +The universe holds nothing planned<br /> +<span class="i2">With such sublime, transcendent art!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine<br /> +<span class="i2">Poor little hand, so feeble now;</span> +Its wrinkled palm, its altered line,<br /> +<span class="i2">Its veins so pallid and so slow—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">(<i>Unfinished here</i>)</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_384"></a> +Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art:<br /> +<span class="i2">I shall be free when thou art through.</span> +Take all there is—take hand and heart:<br /> +<span class="i2">There must be somewhere work to do.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HELEN HUNT JACKSON.</p> + +<p>* Her last poem: 7 August, 1885.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="FAREWELL_LIFE"></a>FAREWELL, LIFE.</p> +<p class="subt">WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Farewell, life! my senses swim.<br /> +And the world is growing dim;<br /> +Thronging shadows cloud the light,<br /> +Like the advent of the night,—<br /> +Colder, colder, colder still,<br /> +Upward steals a vapor chill;<br /> +Strong the earthly odor grows,—<br /> +I smell the mold above the rose! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Welcome, life! the spirit strives!<br /> +Strength returns and hope revives;<br /> +Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn<br /> +Fly like shadows at the morn,—<br /> +O'er the earth there comes a bloom;<br /> +Sunny light for sullen gloom,<br /> +Warm perfume for vapor cold,—<br /> +I smell the rose above the mold! +</p> +<p class="signature">THOMAS HOOD.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_385"></a> +<a name="FOR_ANNIE"></a>FOR ANNIE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Thank Heaven! the crisis,—<br /> +<span class="i2">The danger is past,</span> +And the lingering illness<br /> +<span class="i2">Is over at last,—</span> +And the fever called "Living"<br /> +<span class="i2">Is conquered at last.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sadly, I know,<br /> +<span class="i2">I am shorn of my strength,</span> +And no muscle I move<br /> +<span class="i2">As I lie at full length,—</span> +But no matter!—I feel<br /> +<span class="i2">I am better at length.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And I rest so composedly<br /> +<span class="i2">Now, in my bed,</span> +That any beholder<br /> +<span class="i2">Might fancy me dead,—</span> +Might start at beholding me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thinking me dead.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The moaning and groaning,<br /> +<span class="i2">The sighing and sobbing,</span> +Are quieted now,<br /> +<span class="i2">With that horrible throbbing</span> +At heart,—ah, that horrible,<br /> +<span class="i2">Horrible throbbing!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The sickness, the nausea,<br /> +<span class="i2">The pitiless pain,</span> +<a name="Page_386"></a>Have ceased, with the fever<br /> +<span class="i2">That maddened my brain,—</span> +With the fever called "Living"<br /> +<span class="i2">That burned in my brain.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And O, of all tortures<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>That</i> torture the worst</span> +Has abated,—the terrible<br /> +<span class="i2">Torture of thirst</span> +For the naphthaline river<br /> +<span class="i2">Of Passion accurst!</span> +I have drunk of a water<br /> +<span class="i2">That quenches all thirst,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Of a water that flows,<br /> +<span class="i2">With a lullaby sound.</span> +From a spring but a very few<br /> +<span class="i2">Feet under ground,</span> +From a cavern not very far<br /> +<span class="i2">Down under ground.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And ah! let it never<br /> +<span class="i2">Be foolishly said</span> +That my room it is gloomy<br /> +<span class="i2">And narrow my bed;</span> +For man never slept<br /> +<span class="i2">In a different bed,—</span> +And, to <i>sleep</i> you must slumber<br /> +<span class="i2">In just such a bed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My tantalized spirit<br /> +<span class="i2">Here blandly reposes,</span> +<a name="Page_387"></a>Forgetting, or never<br /> +<span class="i2">Regretting, its roses,—</span> +Its old agitations<br /> +<span class="i2">Of myrtles and roses:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +For now, while so quietly<br /> +<span class="i2">Lying, it fancies</span> +A holier odor<br /> +<span class="i2">About it, of pansies,—</span> +A rosemary odor,<br /> +<span class="i2">Commingled with pansies,</span> +With rue and the beautiful<br /> +<span class="i2">Puritan pansies.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And so it lies happily,<br /> +<span class="i2">Bathing in many</span> +A dream of the truth<br /> +<span class="i2">And the beauty of Annie,—</span> +Drowned in a bath<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the tresses of Annie.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +She tenderly kissed me,<br /> +<span class="i2">She fondly caressed,</span> +And then I fell gently<br /> +<span class="i2">To sleep on her breast,—</span> +Deeply to sleep<br /> +<span class="i2">From the heaven of her breast.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +When the light was extinguished,<br /> +<span class="i2">She covered me warm,</span> +And she prayed to the angels<br /> +<span class="i2">To keep me from harm,—</span> +To the queen of the angels<br /> +<span class="i2">To shield me from harm.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_388"></a> +And I lie so composedly<br /> +<span class="i2">Now in my bed,</span> +(Knowing her love,)<br /> +<span class="i2">That you fancy me dead;—</span> +And I rest so contentedly<br /> +<span class="i2">Now in my bed,</span> +(With her love at my breast,)<br /> +<span class="i2">That you fancy me dead,—</span> +That you shudder to look at me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thinking me dead:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But my heart it is brighter<br /> +<span class="i2">Than all of the many</span> +Stars in the sky;<br /> +<span class="i2">For it sparkles with Annie,—</span> +It glows with the light<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the love of my Annie,</span> +With the thought of the light<br /> +<span class="i2">Of the eyes of my Annie.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">EDGAR ALLAN POE</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="THALATTA_THALATTA"></a>THALATTA! THALATTA!</p> + +<p class="subt">CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I stand upon the summit of my life,<br /> +Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove,<br /> +The battle, and the burden: vast, afar<br /> +Beyond these weary ways. Behold! the Sea!<br /> +The sea o'erswept by clouds and winds and wings;<br /> +By thoughts and wishes manifold, whose breath<br /> +Is freshness and whose mighty pulse is peace.<br /> +<a name="Page_389"></a>Palter no question of the horizon dim—<br /> +Cut loose the bark! Such voyage itself is rest,<br /> +Majestic motion, unimpeded scope,<br /> +A widening heaven, a current without care,<br /> +Eternity!—deliverance, promise, course!<br /> +Time-tired souls salute thee from the shore. +</p> +<p class="signature">JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_SLEEP"></a>THE SLEEP.</p> + +<p class="subt">"He giveth his belovèd sleep."—PSALM cxxvii. 2.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Of all the thoughts of God that are<br /> +Borne inward unto souls afar,<br /> +Among the Psalmist's music deep,<br /> +Now tell me if that any is,<br /> +For gift or grace, surpassing this,—<br /> +"He giveth his belovèd sleep "? +</p> +<p class="stanza">What would we give to our beloved?<br /> +The hero's heart, to be unmoved,—<br /> +The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,—<br /> +The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,—<br /> +The monarch's crown, to light the brows?<br /> +"He giveth <i>his</i> belovèd sleep." +</p> +<p class="stanza">What do we give to our beloved?<br /> +A little faith, all undisproved,—<br /> +A little dust to overweep,<br /> +And bitter memories, to make<br /> +The whole earth blasted for our sake,<br /> +"He giveth <i>his</i> belovèd sleep." +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_390"></a>"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say,<br /> +But have no tune to charm away<br /> +Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;<br /> +But never doleful dream again<br /> +Shall break the happy slumber when<br /> +"He giveth <i>his</i> beloved sleep." +</p> +<p class="stanza">O earth, so full of dreary noise!<br /> +O men, with wailing in your voice!<br /> +O delved gold the wailers heap!<br /> +O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!<br /> +God strikes a silence through you all,<br /> +"He giveth his beloved sleep." +</p> +<p class="stanza">His dews drop mutely on the hill,<br /> +His cloud above it saileth still.<br /> +Though on its slope men sow and reap;<br /> +More softly than the dew is shed,<br /> +Or cloud is floated overhead,<br /> +"He giveth his beloved sleep." +</p> +<p class="stanza">For me, my heart, that erst did go<br /> +Most like a tired child at a show.<br /> +That sees through tears the mummers leap,<br /> +Would now its wearied vision close,<br /> +Would childlike on his love repose<br /> +Who "giveth his beloved sleep." +</p> +<p class="signature">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="Page_391"></a> +<p class="title"><a name="PROSPICE"></a>PROSPICE</p> +<p class="stanza">Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat,<br /> +<span class="i2">The mist in my face,</span> +When the snows begin, and the blasts denote<br /> +<span class="i2">I am nearing the place,</span> +The power of the night, the press of the storm,<br /> +<span class="i2">The post of the foe;</span> +Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,<br /> +<span class="i2">Yet the strong man must go:</span> +For the journey is done and the summit attained,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the barriers fall,</span> +Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,<br /> +<span class="i2">The reward of it all.</span> +I was ever a fighter, so—one fight more,<br /> +<span class="i2">The best and the last!</span> +I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,<br /> +<span class="i2">And bade me creep past.</span> +No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers<br /> +<span class="i2">The heroes of old,</span> +Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears<br /> +<span class="i2">Of pain, darkness and cold.</span> +For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,<br /> +<span class="i2">The black minute's at end,</span> +And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall dwindle, shall blend,</span> +Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain.<br /> +<span class="i2">Then a light, then thy breast,</span> +<a name="Page_392"></a>O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,<br /> +<span class="i2">And with God be the rest!</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ROBERT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="I_WOULD_NOT_LIVE_ALWAY"></a>I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I would not live alway—live alway below!<br /> +Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go:<br /> +The days of our pilgrimage granted us here<br /> +Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer:<br /> +Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God,<br /> +Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod?<br /> +Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam,<br /> +While brethren and friends are all hastening home? +</p> +<p class="stanza">I would not live alway: I ask not to stay<br /> +Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way;<br /> +Where seeking for rest we but hover around,<br /> +Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found;<br /> +Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air.<br /> +Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair,<br /> +And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray,<br /> +Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I would not live alway—thus fettered by sin,<br /> +Temptation without and corruption within;<br /> +In a moment of strength if I sever the chain,<br /> +Scarce the victory's mine, ere I 'm captive again;<br /> +<a name="Page_393"></a>E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears,<br /> +And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears:<br /> +The festival trump calls for jubilant songs,<br /> +But my spirit her own <i>miserere</i> prolongs. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I would not live alway—no, welcome the tomb,<br /> +Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom;<br /> +Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head,<br /> +All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed.<br /> +Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night,<br /> +The orient gleam of the angels of light,<br /> +With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise.<br /> +And chant forth their matins, away to the skies. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Who, who would live alway? away from his God,<br /> +Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,<br /> +Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains,<br /> +And the noontide of glory eternally reigns;<br /> +Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet,<br /> +Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet,<br /> +While the songs of salvation exultingly roll<br /> +And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. +</p> +<p class="stanza">That heavenly music! what is it I hear?<br /> +The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear!<br /> +And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold,<br /> +The King all arrayed in his beauty behold!<br /> +Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove,<br /> +To adore him—be near him—enwrapt with his love;<br /> +I but wait for the summons, I list for the word—<br /> +Alleluia—Amen—evermore with the Lord! +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MÜHLENBERG.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> + +<p class="title"><a name="Page_394"></a><a name="FAREWELL"></a>FAREWELL.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I strove with none, for none was worth my strife;<br /> +<span class="i2">Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;</span> +I warmed both hands before the fire of life,—<br /> +<span class="i2">It sinks, and I am ready to depart.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="LOVE_AND_DEATH"></a>LOVE AND DEATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Alas! that men must see<br /> +<span class="i4">Love, before Death!</span> +Else they content might be<br /> +<span class="i4">With their short breath;</span> +Aye, glad, when the pale sun<br /> +Showed restless day was done,<br /> +And endless Rest begun. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Glad, when with strong, cool hand<br /> +<span class="i4">Death clasped their own,</span> +And with a strange command<br /> +<span class="i4">Hushed every moan;</span> +Glad to have finished pain,<br /> +And labor wrought in vain,<br /> +Blurred by Sin's deepening stain. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But Love's insistent voice<br /> +<span class="i4">Bids self to flee—</span> +"Live that I may rejoice,<br /> +<span class="i4">Live on, for me!"</span> +<a name="Page_395"></a>So, for Love's cruel mind,<br /> +Men fear this Rest to find,<br /> +Nor know great Death is kind! +</p> +<p class="signature">MARGARETTA WADE DELAND.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TO_DEATH"></a>TO DEATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Methinks it were no pain to die<br /> +On such an eve, when such a sky<br /> +<span class="i4">O'er-canopies the west;</span> +To gaze my fill on yon calm deep,<br /> +And, like an infant, fall asleep<br /> +<span class="i4">On Earth, my mother's breast.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">There's peace and welcome in yon sea<br /> +Of endless blue tranquillity:<br /> +<span class="i4">These clouds are living things;</span> +I trace their veins of liquid gold,<br /> +I see them solemnly unfold<br /> +<span class="i4">Their soft and fleecy wings.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">These be the angels that convey<br /> +Us weary children of a day—<br /> +<span class="i4">Life's tedious nothing o'er—</span> +Where neither passions come, nor woes,<br /> +To vex the genius of repose<br /> +<span class="i4">On Death's majestic shore.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">No darkness there divides the sway<br /> +With startling dawn and dazzling day;<br /> +<span class="i4">But gloriously serene</span> +Are the interminable plains:<br /> +One fixed, eternal sunset reigns<br /> +<span class="i4">O'er the wide silent scene.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_396"></a>I cannot doff all human fear;<br /> +I know thy greeting is severe<br /> +<span class="i4">To this poor shell of clay:</span> +Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kiss<br /> +Emancipates! thy rest is bliss!<br /> +<span class="i4">I would I were away!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">From the German of GLUCK.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="ASLEEP_ASLEEP"></a>ASLEEP, ASLEEP.</p> + +<p class="subt">"And so saying, he fell asleep."</p> + +<p class="subt">MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep,"<br /> +When all adown the silent deep<br /> +<span class="i2">The shades of night are stealing;</span> +When like a curtain, soft and vast,<br /> +The darkness over all is cast,<br /> +And sombre stillness comes at last,<br /> +<span class="i2">To the mute heart appealing.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Asleep! asleep! when soft and low<br /> +The patient watchers come and go,<br /> +<span class="i2">Their loving vigil keeping;</span> +When from the dear eyes fades the light,<br /> +When pales the flush so strangely bright,<br /> +And the glad spirit takes its flight,<br /> +<span class="i2">We speak of death as "sleeping."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Or when, as dies the orb of day,<br /> +The aged Christian sinks away,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the lone mourner weepeth;</span> +<a name="Page_397"></a>When thus the pilgrim goes to rest,<br /> +With meek hands folded on his breast,<br /> +And his last sigh a prayer confessed—<br /> +<span class="i2">We say of such, "He sleepeth."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">But when amidst a shower of stones,<br /> +And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans,<br /> +<span class="i2">The death-chill slowly creepeth;</span> +When falls at length the dying head,<br /> +And streams the life-blood dark and red,<br /> +A thousand voices cry, "He's dead";<br /> +<span class="i2">But who shall say, "He sleepeth"?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">"He fell asleep." A pen divine<br /> +Hath writ that epitaph of thine;<br /> +<span class="i2">And though the days are hoary,</span> +Yet beautiful thy rest appears—<br /> +Unsullied by the lapse of years—<br /> +And still we read, with thankful tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">The tale of grace and glory.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Asleep! asleep! though not for thee<br /> +The touch of loving lips might be,<br /> +<span class="i2">In sadly sweet leave-taking:</span> +Though not for thee the last caress,<br /> +The look of untold tenderness,<br /> +The love that dying hours can press<br /> +<span class="i2">From hearts with silence breaking.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">LUCY A. BENNETT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="REST"></a>REST.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I lay me down to sleep,<br /> +<span class="i2">With little care</span> +<a name="Page_398"></a>Whether my waking find<br /> +<span class="i2">Me here, or there.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A bowing, burdened head<br /> +<span class="i2">That only asks to rest,</span> +Unquestioning, upon<br /> +<span class="i2">A loving breast.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My good right-hand forgets<br /> +<span class="i2">Its cunning now;</span> +To march the weary march<br /> +<span class="i2">I know not how.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I am not eager, bold,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor strong,—all that is past;</span> +I am ready not to do,<br /> +<span class="i2">At last, at last.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">My half-day's work is done,<br /> +<span class="i2">And this is all my part,—</span> +I give a patient God<br /> +<span class="i2">My patient heart;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">And grasp his banner still,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though all the blue be dim;</span> +These stripes as well as stars<br /> +<span class="i2">Lead after him.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="IN_HARBOR"></a>IN HARBOR.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I think it is over, over,<br /> +<span class="i2">I think it is over at last:</span> +Voices of foemen and lover,<br /> +<a name="Page_399"></a>The sweet and the bitter, have passed:<br /> +Life, like a tempest of ocean<br /> +Hath outblown its ultimate blast:<br /> +There's but a faint sobbing seaward<br /> +While the calm of the tide deepens leeward,<br /> +And behold! like the welcoming quiver<br /> +Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river,<br /> +<span class="i2">Those lights in the harbor at last,</span> +<span class="i2">The heavenly harbor at last!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I feel it is over! over!<br /> +<span class="i2">For the winds and the waters surcease;</span> +Ah, few were the days of the rover<br /> +<span class="i2">That smiled in the beauty of peace,</span> +And distant and dim was the omen<br /> +That hinted redress or release!<br /> +From the ravage of life, and its riot,<br /> +What marvel I yearn for the quiet<br /> +<span class="i2">Which bides in the harbor at last,—</span> +For the lights, with their welcoming quiver<br /> +That throb through the sanctified river,<br /> +<span class="i2">Which girdle the harbor at last,</span> +<span class="i2">This heavenly harbor at last?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I know it is over, over,<br /> +<span class="i2">I know it is over at last!</span> +Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover,<br /> +For the stress of the voyage has passed:<br /> +Life, like a tempest of ocean,<br /> +<span class="i2">Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast:</span> +There's but a faint sobbing seaward,<br /> +While the calm of the tide deepens leeward;<br /> +<a name="Page_400"></a>And behold! like the welcoming quiver<br /> +Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river,<br /> +<span class="i2">Those lights in the harbor at last,</span> +<span class="i2">The heavenly harbor at last!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il11"></a> +<a href="./images/400.jpg"><img src="./images/400_th.jpg" alt="HARRIET BEECHER STOWE" title="Portrait of HARRIET BEECHER STOWE" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">HARRIET BEECHER STOWE<br /><i>From an engraving after the drawing by George Richmond.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="HUSH"></a>HUSH!</p> + +<p class="stanza">Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms!<br /> +<span class="i2">The sunset glory fadeth in the west;</span> +<span class="i2">The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest;</span> +Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms,<br /> +Darkness and silence and delicious calms.<br /> +<span class="i2">Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breast</span> +<span class="i2">Lay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest,</span> +Lulled by the music of her evening psalms.<br /> +<span class="i2">Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars,</span> +<span class="i2">Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high,</span> +<span class="i4">One far lone night-bird singing from the hill,</span> +And utter rest from Day's discordant jars;<br /> +<span class="i2">O soul of mine! when the long night draws nigh</span> +<span class="i4">Will such deep peace thine inmost being fill?</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JULIA C.R. DORR.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LIFE_2"></a>LIFE.</p> + +<p class="subt">"Animula, vagula, blandula."</p> + +<p class="stanza"><span class="i2">Life! I know not what thou art,</span> +But know that thou and I must part;<br /> +<a name="Page_401"></a>And when, or how, or where we met<br /> +I own to me's a secret yet.<br /> +But this I know, when thou art fled,<br /> +Where'er they lay these limbs, this head,<br /> +No clod so valueless shall be,<br /> +As all that then remains of me.<br /> +O, whither, whither dost thou fly,<br /> +Where bend unseen thy trackless course,<br /> +<span class="i2">And in this strange divorce,</span> +Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +To the vast ocean of empyreal flame,<br /> +<span class="i2">From whence thy essence came,</span> +<span class="i2">Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed</span> +<span class="i2">From matter's base uncumbering weed?</span> +<span class="i4">Or dost thou, hid from sight,</span> +<span class="i4">Wait, like some spell-bound knight,</span> +Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour<br /> +To break thy trance and reassume thy power?<br /> +Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be?<br /> +O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Life! we've been long together,<br /> +Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;<br /> +<span class="i2">'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,—</span> +<span class="i2">Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear:</span> +<span class="i2">Then steal away, give little warning,</span> +<span class="i4">Choose thine own time;</span> +Say not Good Night,—but in some brighter clime<br /> +<span class="i4">Bid me Good Morning.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /><a name="Page_402"></a> +<a name="VI_CONSOLATION"></a><h2>VI. CONSOLATION.</h2> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_ANGEL_OF_PATIENCE"></a>THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE.</p> + +<p class="cmt">A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">To weary hearts, to mourning homes,<br /> +God's meekest Angel gently comes:<br /> +No power has he to banish pain,<br /> +Or give us back our lost again;<br /> +And yet in tenderest love our dear<br /> +And heavenly Father sends him here. +</p> +<p class="stanza">There's quiet in that Angel's glance,<br /> +There's rest in his still countenance!<br /> +He mocks no grief with idle cheer,<br /> +Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;<br /> +But ills and woes he may not cure<br /> +He kindly trains us to endure. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Angel of Patience! sent to calm<br /> +Our feverish brows with cooling palm;<br /> +To lay the storms of hope and fear,<br /> +And reconcile life's smile and tear;<br /> +The throbs of wounded pride to still,<br /> +And make our own our Father's will! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_403"></a>O thou who mournest on thy way,<br /> +With longings for the close of day;<br /> +He walks with thee, that Angel kind,<br /> +And gently whispers, "Be resigned:<br /> +Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell<br /> +The dear Lord ordereth all things well!" +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THEY_ARE_ALL_GONE"></a>THEY ARE ALL GONE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">They are all gone into the world of light,<br /> +<span class="i2">And I alone sit lingering here!</span> +Their very memory is fair and bright,<br /> +<span class="i4">And my sad thoughts doth clear;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,<br /> +<span class="i2">Like stars upon some gloomy grove,—</span> +Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest<br /> +<span class="i4">After the sun's remove.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +I see them walking in an air of glory,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose light doth trample on my days,—</span> +My days which are at best but dull and hoary,<br /> +<span class="i4">Mere glimmering and decays.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O holy hope! and high humility,—<br /> +<span class="i2">High as the heavens above!</span> +These are your walks, and you have showed them me<br /> +<span class="i4">To kindle my cold love.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Dear, beauteous death,—the jewel of the just,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Shining nowhere but in the dark!</span> +<a name="Page_404"></a>What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,<br /> +<span class="i4">Could man outlook that mark!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know,<br /> +<span class="i2">At first sight, if the bird be flown;</span> +But what fair dell or grove he sings in now,<br /> +<span class="i4">That is to him unknown.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams<br /> +<span class="i2">Call to the soul when man doth sleep,</span> +So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,<br /> +<span class="i4">And into glory peep.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +If a star were confined into a tomb,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her captive flames must needs burn there,</span> +But when the hand that locked her up gives room,<br /> +<span class="i4">She'll shine through all the sphere.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O Father of eternal life, and all<br /> +<span class="i2">Created glories under thee!</span> +Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall<br /> +<span class="i4">Into true liberty.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill<br /> +<span class="i2">My perspective still as they pass;</span> +Or else remove me hence unto that hill<br /> +<span class="i4">Where I shall need no glass.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY VAUGHAN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_405"></a> +<a name="THE_BOTTOM_DRAWER"></a>THE BOTTOM DRAWER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">In the best chamber of the house,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shut up in dim, uncertain light,</span> +There stood an antique chest of drawers,<br /> +<span class="i2">Of foreign wood, with brasses bright.</span> +One day a woman, frail and gray,<br /> +<span class="i2">Stepped totteringly across the floor—</span> +"Let in," said she, "the light of day,<br /> +<span class="i2">Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The girl, in all her youth's loveliness,<br /> +<span class="i2">Knelt down with eager, curious face;</span> +Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks,<br /> +<span class="i2">Of jewels, and of rare old lace.</span> +But when the summer sunshine fell<br /> +<span class="i2">Upon the treasures hoarded there,</span> +The tears rushed to her tender eyes,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her heart was solemn as a prayer.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lifting a withered rose and palm;</span> +But on the elder face was naught<br /> +<span class="i2">But sweet content and peaceful calm.</span> +Leaning upon her staff, she gazed<br /> +<span class="i2">Upon a baby's half-worn shoe;</span> +A little frock of finest lawn;<br /> +<span class="i2">A hat with tiny bows of blue;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +A ball made fifty years ago;<br /> +<span class="i2">A little glove; a tasselled cap;</span> +<a name="Page_406"></a>A half-done "long division" sum;<br /> +<span class="i2">Some school-books fastened with a strap.</span> +She touched them all with trembling lips—<br /> +<span class="i2">"How much," she said, "the heart can bear!</span> +Ah, Jean! I thought that I should die<br /> +<span class="i2">The day that first I laid them there.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"But now it seems so good to know<br /> +<span class="i2">That through these weary, troubled years</span> +Their hearts have been untouched by grief,<br /> +<span class="i2">Their eyes have been unstained by tears.</span> +Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight<br /> +<span class="i2">When earthly love is almost o'er;</span> +Those children wait me in the skies,<br /> +<span class="i2">For whom I locked that sacred drawer."</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">AMELIA EDITH BARR.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="OVER_THE_RIVER"></a>OVER THE RIVER.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Over the river they beckon to me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side,</span> +The gleam of their snowy robes I see,<br /> +<span class="i2">But their voices are lost in the dashing tide.</span> +There's one with ringlets of sunny gold,<br /> +<span class="i2">And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue;</span> +He crossed in the twilight gray and cold,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the pale mist hid him from mortal view.</span> +We saw not the angels who met him there,<br /> +<span class="i2">The gates of the city we could not see:</span> +Over the river, over the river,<br /> +<span class="i2">My brother stands waiting to welcome me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_407"></a> +Over the river the boatman pale<br /> +<span class="i2">Carried another, the household pet;</span> +Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale,<br /> +<span class="i2">Darling Minnie! I see her yet.</span> +She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,<br /> +<span class="i2">And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;</span> +We felt it glide from the silver sands,<br /> +<span class="i2">And all our sunshine grew strangely dark;</span> +We know she is safe on the farther side,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where all the ransomed and angels be:</span> +Over the river, the mystic river,<br /> +<span class="i2">My childhood's idol is waiting for me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +For none returns from those quiet shores,<br /> +<span class="i2">Who cross with the boatman cold and pale;</span> +We hear the dip of the golden oars,<br /> +<span class="i2">And catch a gleam of the snowy sail;</span> +And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts,<br /> +<span class="i2">They cross the stream and are gone for aye.</span> +We may not sunder the veil apart<br /> +<span class="i2">That hides from our vision the gates of day;</span> +We only know that their barks no more<br /> +<span class="i2">May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea;</span> +Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore,<br /> +<span class="i2">They watch, and beckon, and wait for me.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold<br /> +<span class="i2">Is flushing river and hill and shore,</span> +I shall one day stand by the water cold,<br /> +<span class="i2">And list for the sound of the boatman's oar;</span> +I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail,<br /> +<span class="i2">I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand,</span> +<a name="Page_408"></a>I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale,<br /> +<span class="i2">To the better shore of the spirit land.</span> +I shall know the loved who have gone before,<br /> +<span class="i2">And joyfully sweet will the meeting be,</span> +When over the river, the peaceful river,<br /> +<span class="i2">The angel of death shall carry me.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="GRIEF_FOR_THE_DEAD"></a>GRIEF FOR THE DEAD.</p> + +<p class="stanza">O hearts that never cease to yearn!<br /> +<span class="i2">O brimming tears that ne'er are dried!</span> +The dead, though they depart, return<br /> +<span class="i2">As though they had not died!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The living are the only dead;<br /> +<span class="i2">The dead live,—nevermore to die;</span> +And often, when we mourn them fled,<br /> +<span class="i2">They never were so nigh!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And though they lie beneath the waves,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or sleep within the churchyard dim,</span> +(Ah! through how many different graves<br /> +<span class="i2">God's children go to him!)—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yet every grave gives up its dead<br /> +<span class="i2">Ere it is overgrown with grass;</span> +Then why should hopeless tears be shed,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or need we cry, "Alas"?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom,<br /> +<span class="i2">And like a sorrowing mourner craped,</span> +<a name="Page_409"></a>Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose captives have escaped?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +'Tis but a mound,—and will be mossed<br /> +<span class="i2">Whene'er the summer grass appears;</span> +The loved, though wept, are never lost;<br /> +<span class="i2">We only lose—our tears!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead<br /> +<span class="i2">By bending forward where they are;</span> +But Memory, with a backward tread,<br /> +<span class="i2">Communes with them afar.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The joys we lose are but forecast,<br /> +<span class="i2">And we shall find them all once more;</span> +We look behind us for the Past,<br /> +<span class="i2">But lo! 'tis all before!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_TWO_WAITINGS"></a>THE TWO WAITINGS.</p> + +<p class="subt">I.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago<br /> +<span class="i2">For the glory to be revealed;</span> +You were wondering deeply, with bated breath,<br /> +<span class="i2">What treasure the days concealed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O, would it be this, or would it be that?<br /> +<span class="i2">Would it be girl or boy?</span> +Would it look like father or mother most?<br /> +<span class="i2">And what should you do for joy?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<a name="Page_410"></a>And then, one day, when the time was full,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the spring was coming fast,</span> +The tender grace of a life outbloomed,<br /> +<span class="i2">And you saw your baby at last.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Was it or not what you had dreamed?<br /> +<span class="i2">It was, and yet it was not;</span> +But O, it was better a thousand times<br /> +<span class="i2">Than ever you wished or thought.</span> +</p> + +<p class="subt">II.</p> + +<p class="stanza">And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again,<br /> +<span class="i2">While the spring is coming fast;</span> +For the baby that was a future dream<br /> +<span class="i2">Is now a dream of the past:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet;<br /> +<span class="i2">Of all that is pure and bright;</span> +Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day,<br /> +<span class="i2">And as clear as the stars by night.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +You are waiting again for the fulness of time,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the glory to be revealed;</span> +You are wondering deeply with aching hearts<br /> +<span class="i2">What treasure is now concealed.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O, will she be this, or will she be that?<br /> +<span class="i2">And what will there be in her face</span> +That will tell you sure that she is your own,<br /> +<span class="i2">When you meet in the heavenly place?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +As it was before, it will be again,<br /> +<span class="i2">Fashion your dream as you will;</span> +<a name="Page_411"></a>When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen,<br /> +<span class="i2">It will more than your hope fulfil.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">JOHN WHITE CHADWICK.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="FOR_CHARLIES_SAKE"></a>FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The night is late, the house is still;<br /> +The angels of the hour fulfil<br /> +Their tender ministries, and move<br /> +From couch to couch in cares of love.<br /> +They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife,<br /> +The happiest smile of Charlie's life,<br /> +And lay on baby's lips a kiss,<br /> +Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss;<br /> +And, as they pass, they seem to make<br /> +A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake." +</p> +<p class="stanza">My listening heart takes up the strain,<br /> +And gives it to the night again,<br /> +Fitted with words of lowly praise,<br /> +And patience learned of mournful days,<br /> +And memories of the dead child's ways.<br /> +His will be done, His will be done!<br /> +Who gave and took away my son,<br /> +In "the far land" to shine and sing<br /> +Before the Beautiful, the King,<br /> +Who every day does Christmas make,<br /> +All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. +</p> +<p class="stanza">For Charlie's sake I will arise;<br /> +I will anoint me where he lies,<br /> +And change my raiment, and go in<br /> +To the Lord's house, and leave my sin<br /> +<a name="Page_412"></a>Without, and seat me at his board,<br /> +Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord.<br /> +For wherefore should I fast and weep,<br /> +And sullen moods of mourning keep?<br /> +I cannot bring him back, nor he,<br /> +For any calling, come to me.<br /> +The bond the angel Death did sign,<br /> +God sealed—for Charlie's sake, and mine. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I'm very poor—this slender stone<br /> +Marks all the narrow field I own;<br /> +Yet, patient husbandman, I till<br /> +With faith and prayers, that precious hill,<br /> +Sow it with penitential pains,<br /> +And, hopeful, wait the latter rains;<br /> +Content if, after all, the spot<br /> +Yield barely one forget-me-not—<br /> +Whether or figs or thistle make<br /> +My crop content for Charlie's sake. +</p> +<p class="stanza">I have no houses, builded well—<br /> +Only that little lonesome cell,<br /> +Where never romping playmates come,<br /> +Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb—<br /> +An April burst of girls and boys,<br /> +Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys<br /> +Born with their songs, gone with their toys;<br /> +Nor ever is its stillness stirred<br /> +By purr of cat, or chirp of bird,<br /> +Or mother's twilight legend, told<br /> +Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold,<br /> +Or fairy hobbling to the door,<br /> +Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor,<br /> +<a name="Page_413"></a>To bless the good child's gracious eyes,<br /> +The good child's wistful charities,<br /> +And crippled changeling's hunch to make<br /> +Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. +</p> +<p class="stanza">How is it with the child? 'Tis well;<br /> +Nor would I any miracle<br /> +Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance,<br /> +Or plague his painless countenance:<br /> +I would not any seer might place<br /> +His staff on my immortal's face.<br /> +Or lip to lip, and eye to eye,<br /> +Charm back his pale mortality.<br /> +No, Shunamite! I would not break<br /> +God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. +</p> +<p class="stanza">For Charlie's sake my lot is blest:<br /> +No comfort like his mother's breast,<br /> +No praise like hers; no charm expressed<br /> +In fairest forms hath half her zest.<br /> +For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed<br /> +That death left lonely in the nest;<br /> +For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed,<br /> +As for its birthday, in its best;<br /> +For Charlie's sake we leave the rest.<br /> +To Him who gave, and who did take,<br /> +And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_414"></a><a name="WATCHING_FOR_PAPA"></a>WATCHING FOR PAPA.</p> + +<p class="stanza">She always stood upon the steps<br /> +<span class="i2">Just by the cottage door,</span> +Waiting to kiss me when I came<br /> +<span class="i2">Each night home from the store.</span> +Her eyes were like two glorious stars,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dancing in heaven's own blue—</span> +"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird,<br /> +<span class="i2">"<i>I's looten out for oo!</i>"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Alas! how sadly do our lives<br /> +<span class="i2">Change as we onward roam!</span> +For now no birdie voice calls out<br /> +<span class="i2">To bid me welcome home.</span> +No little hands stretched out for me,<br /> +<span class="i2">No blue eyes dancing bright,</span> +No baby face peeps from the door<br /> +<span class="i2">When I come home at night.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And yet there's comfort in the thought<br /> +<span class="i2">That when life's toil is o'er,</span> +And passing through the sable flood<br /> +<span class="i2">I gain the brighter shore,</span> +My little angel at the gate,<br /> +<span class="i2">With eyes divinely blue,</span> +Will call with birdie voice, "Papa,<br /> +<span class="i2"><i>I's looten out for oo!</i>"</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_415"></a><a name="MY_CHILD"></a>MY CHILD.</p> + +<p class="stanza"><span class="i4">I cannot make him dead!</span> +<span class="i4">His fair sunshiny head</span> +Is ever bounding round my study chair;<br /> +<span class="i4">Yet when my eyes, now dim</span> +<span class="i4">With tears, I turn to him,</span> +The vision vanishes,—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">I walk my parlor floor,</span> +<span class="i4">And, through the open door,</span> +I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;<br /> +<span class="i4">I'm stepping toward the hall</span> +<span class="i4">To give the boy a call;</span> +And then bethink me that—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">I thread the crowded street;</span> +<span class="i4">A satchelled lad I meet,</span> +With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;<br /> +<span class="i4">And, as he's running by,</span> +<span class="i4">Follow him with my eye,</span> +Scarcely believing that—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">I know his face is hid</span> +<span class="i4">Under the coffin lid;</span> +Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;<br /> +<span class="i4">My hand that marble felt;</span> +<span class="i4">O'er it in prayer I knelt;</span> +Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">I cannot make him dead!</span> +<span class="i4">When passing by the bed,</span> +<a name="Page_416"></a>So long watched over with parental care,<br /> +<span class="i4">My spirit and my eye</span> +<span class="i4">Seek him inquiringly,</span> +Before the thought comes, that—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When, at the cool gray break</span> +<span class="i4">Of day, from sleep I wake.</span> +With my first breathing of the morning air<br /> +<span class="i4">My soul goes up, with joy,</span> +<span class="i4">To Him who gave my boy;</span> +Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">When at the day's calm close,</span> +<span class="i4">Before we seek repose,</span> +I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;<br /> +<span class="i4">Whate'er I may be saying,</span> +<span class="i4">I am in spirit praying</span> +For our boy's spirit, though—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">Not there!—Where, then, is he?</span> +<span class="i4">The form I used to see</span> +Was but the raiment that he used to wear.<br /> +<span class="i4">The grave, that now doth press</span> +<span class="i4">Upon that cast-off dress,</span> +Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there! +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +<span class="i4">He lives!—In all the past</span> +<span class="i4">He lives; nor, to the last,</span> +Of seeing him again will I despair;<br /> +<span class="i4">In dreams I see him now;</span> +<span class="i4">And, on his angel brow,</span> +I see it written, "Thou shalt see me <i>there</i>!" +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_417"></a> +<span class="i4">Yes, we all live to God!</span> +<span class="i4">Father, thy chastening rod</span> +So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,<br /> +<span class="i4">That, in the spirit land,</span> +<span class="i4">Meeting at thy right hand,</span> +'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there! +</p> +<p class="signature">JOHN PIERPONT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="SONG_2"></a>SONG.</p> + +<p class="stanza">She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,<br /> +<span class="i2">Her tears are in the falling rain,</span> +She calls me in the wind's soft song,<br /> +<span class="i2">And with the flowers she comes again.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yon bird is but her messenger,<br /> +<span class="i2">The moon is but her silver car;</span> +Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,<br /> +<span class="i2">And every wistful waiting star.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THE_REAPER_AND_THE_FLOWERS"></a>THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">There is a Reaper whose name is Death,<br /> +<span class="i2">And, with his sickle keen,</span> +He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the flowers that grow between.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;<br /> +<span class="i2">"Have naught but the bearded grain?—</span> +Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,<br /> +<span class="i2">I will give them all back again."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_418"></a> +He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,<br /> +<span class="i2">He kissed their drooping leaves;</span> +It was for the Lord of Paradise<br /> +<span class="i2">He bound them in his sheaves.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"<br /> +<span class="i2">The Reaper said, and smiled;</span> +"Dear tokens of the earth are they,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where he was once a child.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"They shall all bloom in fields of light,<br /> +<span class="i2">Transplanted by my care,</span> +And saints, upon their garments white,<br /> +<span class="i2">These sacred blossoms wear."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And the mother gave, in tears and pain,<br /> +<span class="i2">The flowers she most did love;</span> +She knew she should find them all again<br /> +<span class="i2">In the fields of light above.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,<br /> +<span class="i2">The Reaper came that day;</span> +'Twas an angel visited the green earth,<br /> +<span class="i2">And took the flowers away.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</p> +</div> + + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="ONLY_A_YEAR"></a>"ONLY A YEAR."</p> + +<p class="stanza"> +One year ago,—a ringing voice,<br /> +<span class="i4">A clear blue eye,</span> +And clustering curls of sunny hair,<br /> +<span class="i4">Too fair to die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_419"></a> +Only a year,—no voice, no smile,<br /> +<span class="i4">No glance of eye,</span> +No clustering curls of golden hair,<br /> +<span class="i4">Fair but to die!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +One year ago,—what loves, what schemes<br /> +<span class="i4">Far into life!</span> +What joyous hopes, what high resolves,<br /> +<span class="i4">What generous strife!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The silent picture on the wall,<br /> +<span class="i4">The burial-stone,</span> +Of all that beauty, life, and joy,<br /> +<span class="i4">Remain alone!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +One year,—one year,—one little year,<br /> +<span class="i4">And so much gone!</span> +And yet the even flow of life<br /> +<span class="i4">Moves calmly on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,<br /> +<span class="i4">Above that head;</span> +No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray<br /> +<span class="i4">Says he is dead.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +No pause or hush of merry birds<br /> +<span class="i4">That sing above</span> +Tells us how coldly sleeps below<br /> +<span class="i4">The form we love.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Where hast thou been this year, beloved?<br /> +<span class="i4">What hast thou seen,—</span> +What visions fair, what glorious life,<br /> +<span class="i4">Where hast thou been?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_420"></a> +The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!<br /> +<span class="i4">'Twixt us and thee;</span> +The mystic veil! when shall it fall,<br /> +<span class="i4">That we may see?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,<br /> +<span class="i4">But present still,</span> +And waiting for the coming hour<br /> +<span class="i4">Of God's sweet will.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Lord of the living and the dead,<br /> +<span class="i4">Our Saviour dear!</span> +We lay in silence at thy feet<br /> +<span class="i4">This sad, sad year.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="BLESSED_ARE_THEY_THAT_MOURN"></a>BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Oh, deem not they are blest alone<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;</span> +The Power who pities man, has shown<br /> +<span class="i2">A blessing for the eyes that weep.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The light of smiles shall fill again<br /> +<span class="i2">The lids that overflow with tears;</span> +And weary hours of woe and pain<br /> +<span class="i2">Are promises of happier years.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is a day of sunny rest<br /> +<span class="i2">For every dark and troubled night;</span> +And grief may bide an evening guest,<br /> +<span class="i2">But joy shall come with early light.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_421"></a> +And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier<br /> +<span class="i2">Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,</span> +Hope that a brighter, happier sphere<br /> +<span class="i2">Will give him to thy arms again.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Nor let the good man's trust depart,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though life its common gifts deny,—</span> +Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">And spurned of men, he goes to die.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +For God hath marked each sorrowing day<br /> +<span class="i2">And numbered every secret tear,</span> +And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay<br /> +<span class="i2">For all his children suffer here.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="DE_PROFUNDIS"></a>DE PROFUNDIS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The face which, duly as the sun,<br /> +Rose up for me with life begun,<br /> +To mark all bright hours of the day<br /> +With daily love, is dimmed away—<br /> +<span class="i4">And yet my days go on, go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The tongue which, like a stream, could run<br /> +Smooth music from the roughest stone,<br /> +And every morning with "Good day"<br /> +Make each day good, is hushed away—<br /> +<span class="i4">And yet my days go on, go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The heart which, like a staff, was one<br /> +For mine to lean and rest upon,<br /> +<a name="Page_422"></a>The strongest on the longest day,<br /> +With steadfast love is caught away—<br /> +<span class="i4">And yet my days go on, go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The world goes whispering to its own,<br /> +"This anguish pierces to the bone."<br /> +And tender friends go sighing round,<br /> +"What love can ever cure this wound?"<br /> +<span class="i4">My days go on, my days go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">The past rolls forward on the sun<br /> +And makes all night. O dreams begun,<br /> +Not to be ended! Ended bliss!<br /> +And life, that will not end in this!<br /> +<span class="i4">My days go on, my days go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Breath freezes on my lips to moan:<br /> +As one alone, once not alone,<br /> +I sit and knock at Nature's door,<br /> +Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,<br /> +<span class="i4">Whose desolated days go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I knock and cry—Undone, undone!<br /> +Is there no help, no comfort—none?<br /> +No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains<br /> +Where others drive their loaded wains?<br /> +<span class="i4">My vacant days go on, go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">This Nature, though the snows be down,<br /> +Thinks kindly of the bird of June.<br /> +The little red hip on the tree<br /> +Is ripe for such. What is for me,<br /> +<span class="i4">Whose days so winterly go on?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_423"></a>No bird am I to sing in June,<br /> +And dare not ask an equal boon.<br /> +Good nests and berries red are Nature's<br /> +To give away to better creatures—<br /> +<span class="i4">And yet my days go on, go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><i>I</i> ask less kindness to be done—<br /> +Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon<br /> +(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet<br /> +Cool deathly touch to these tired feet,<br /> +<span class="i4">Till days go out which now go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Only to lift the turf unmown<br /> +From off the earth where it has grown,<br /> +Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold,<br /> +Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,<br /> +<span class="i4">Forgetting how the days go on."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">A Voice reproves me thereupon,<br /> +More sweet than Nature's, when the drone<br /> +Of bees is sweetest, and more deep<br /> +Than when the rivers overleap<br /> +<span class="i4">The shuddering pines, and thunder on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">God's Voice, not Nature's—night and noon<br /> +He sits upon the great white throne,<br /> +And listens for the creature's praise.<br /> +What babble we of days and days?<br /> +<span class="i4">The Dayspring he, whose days go on!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">He reigns above, he reigns alone:<br /> +Systems burn out and leave his throne:<br /> +Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall<br /> +Around him, changeless amid all—<br /> +<span class="i4">Ancient of days, whose days go on!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_424"></a>He reigns below, he reigns alone—<br /> +And having life in love forgone<br /> +Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,<br /> +He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns<br /> +<span class="i4">Or rules with <span class="smcap">Him</span>, while days go on?</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">By anguish which made pale the sun,<br /> +I hear him charge his saints that none<br /> +Among the creatures anywhere<br /> +Blaspheme against him with despair,<br /> +<span class="i4">However darkly days go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown:<br /> +No mortal grief deserves that crown.<br /> +O supreme Love, chief misery,<br /> +The sharp regalia are for <i>Thee</i>,<br /> +<span class="i4">Whose days eternally go on!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">For us, ... whatever's undergone,<br /> +Thou knowest, willest what is done.<br /> +Grief may be joy misunderstood:<br /> +Only the Good discerns the good.<br /> +<span class="i4">I trust Thee while my days go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Whatever's lost, it first was won!<br /> +We will not struggle nor impugn.<br /> +Perhaps the cup was broken here<br /> +That Heaven's new wine might show more clear.<br /> +<span class="i4">I praise Thee while my days go on.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">I praise Thee while my days go on;<br /> +I love Thee while my days go on!<br /> +Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,<br /> +With emptied arms and treasure lost,<br /> +<span class="i4">I thank thee while my days go on!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_425"></a>And, having in thy life-depth thrown<br /> +Being and suffering (which are one),<br /> +As a child drops some pebble small<br /> +Down some deep well, and hears it fall<br /> +<span class="i4">Smiling—so I! <span class="smcap">Thy Days Go On!</span></span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="BLESSED_ARE_THEY"></a>BLESSED ARE THEY.</p> + +<p class="stanza">To us across the ages borne,<br /> +<span class="i4">Comes the deep word the Master said:</span> +"Blessèd are they that mourn;<br /> +<span class="i4">They shall be comforted!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Strange mystery! It is better then<br /> +<span class="i4">To weep and yearn and vainly call,</span> +Till peace is won from pain,<br /> +<span class="i4">Than not to grieve at all!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,<br /> +<span class="i4">Life does not thrill to joy alone.</span> +The harp is incomplete<br /> +<span class="i4">That has no deeper tone.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Unclouded sunshine overmuch<br /> +<span class="i4">Falls vainly on the barren plain;</span> +But fruitful is the touch<br /> +<span class="i4">Of sunshine after rain!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Who only scans the heavens by day<br /> +<span class="i4">Their story but half reads, and mars;</span> +Let him learn how to say,<br /> +<span class="i4">"The night is full of stars!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_426"></a> +We seek to know Thee more and more,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,</span> +Since sorrow is the door<br /> +<span class="i2">Whereby Thou enterest.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Nor can our hearts so closely come<br /> +<span class="i2">To Thine in any other place,</span> +As where, with anguish dumb,<br /> +<span class="i2">We faint in Thine embrace.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="LINES_TO_THE_MEMORY_OF_ANNIE"></a>LINES</p> + +<p class="subt">TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.</p> + +<p class="cmt">"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest +thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, +tell me where thou hast laid him."—<span class="smcap">John xx.</span> 15.</p> + +<p class="stanza">In the fair gardens of celestial peace<br /> +<span class="i2">Walketh a gardener in meekness clad;</span> +Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,<br /> +<span class="i2">And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,<br /> +<span class="i2">Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;</span> +And when he walks, each floweret to his will<br /> +<span class="i2">With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">In the mild summer radiance of his eye;</span> +No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_427"></a> +And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love<br /> +<span class="i2">Are nurseries to those gardens of the air;</span> +And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,<br /> +<span class="i2">Watching the growing of his treasures there.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,<br /> +<span class="i2">O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;</span> +Forgetful of the high, mysterious right<br /> +<span class="i2">He holds to bear our cherished plants away.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But when some sunny spot in those bright fields<br /> +<span class="i2">Needs the fair presence of an added flower,</span> +Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:<br /> +<span class="i2">At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!<br /> +<span class="i2">Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above,</span> +Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,<br /> +<span class="i2">The angels hail an added flower of love.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,<br /> +<span class="i2">Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,</span> +Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye<br /> +<span class="i2">Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast<br /> +<span class="i2">Those mysteries of color, warm and bright,</span> +That the bleak climate of this lower sphere<br /> +<span class="i2">Could never waken into form and light.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;</span> +<a name="Page_428"></a>Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour,<br /> +<span class="i2">Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="DEATH_IN_YOUTH"></a>DEATH IN YOUTH.</p> + +<p class="subt">FROM "FESTUS."</p> + +<p class="stanza">For to die young is youth's divinest gift;<br /> +To pass from one world fresh into another,<br /> +Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret,<br /> +And feel the immortal impulse from within<br /> +Which makes the coming life cry always, On!<br /> +And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy.<br /> +There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines<br /> +When on the wing. So is't with mind. When once<br /> +We rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul,<br /> +As unto the earth for ever. On it goes,<br /> +A rejoicing native of the infinite,<br /> +As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven. +</p> +<p class="signature">PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="IN_MEMORIAM_FAS"></a>IN MEMORIAM F.A.S.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember<br /> +<span class="i2">How of human days he lived the better part.</span> +April came to bloom and never dim December<br /> +<span class="i2">Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_429"></a> +Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a being<br /> +<span class="i2">Trod the flowery April blithely for a while,</span> +Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,<br /> +<span class="i2">Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished,<br /> +<span class="i2">You alone have crossed the melancholy stream,</span> +Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished<br /> +<span class="i2">Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,<br /> +<span class="i2">Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name.</span> +Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season<br /> +<span class="i2">And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.</p> +<p>Davos, 1881.</p> + +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="TEARS"></a>TEARS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not<br /> +More grief than ye can weep for. That is well—<br /> +That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,<br /> +Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.<br /> +Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,<br /> +The mother singing; at her marriage bell<br /> +The bride weeps; and before the oracle<br /> +Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot<br /> +Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,<br /> +<a name="Page_430"></a>Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,<br /> +Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place,<br /> +And touch but tombs,—look up! Those tears will run<br /> +Soon in long rivers down the lifted face,<br /> +And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. +</p> +<p class="signature">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="RESIGNATION"></a>RESIGNATION.</p> + +<p class="stanza">There is no flock, however watched and tended,<br /> +<span class="i2">But one dead lamb is there!</span> +There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,<br /> +<span class="i2">But has one vacant chair!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The air is full of farewells to the dying,<br /> +<span class="i2">And mournings for the dead;</span> +The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,<br /> +<span class="i2">Will not be comforted!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Let us be patient! These severe afflictions<br /> +<span class="i2">Not from the ground arise,</span> +But oftentimes celestial benedictions<br /> +<span class="i2">Assume this dark disguise.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;<br /> +<span class="i2">Amid these earthly damps</span> +What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers<br /> +<span class="i2">May be heaven's distant lamps.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is no death! What seems so is transition:<br /> +<span class="i2">This life of mortal breath</span> +<a name="Page_431"></a>Is but a suburb of the life elysian,<br /> +<span class="i2">Whose portal we call Death.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—<br /> +<span class="i2">But gone unto that school</span> +Where she no longer needs our poor protection,<br /> +<span class="i2">And Christ himself doth rule.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,<br /> +<span class="i2">By guardian angels led,</span> +Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,<br /> +<span class="i2">She lives whom we call dead.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Day after day we think what she is doing<br /> +<span class="i2">In those bright realms of air;</span> +Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,<br /> +<span class="i2">Behold her grown more fair.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken<br /> +<span class="i2">The bond which nature gives,</span> +Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,<br /> +<span class="i2">May reach her where she lives.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Not as a child shall we again behold her;<br /> +<span class="i2">For when with raptures wild</span> +In our embraces we again enfold her,<br /> +<span class="i2">She will not be a child:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,<br /> +<span class="i2">Clothed with celestial grace;</span> +And beautiful with all the soul's expansion<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall we behold her face.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_432"></a> +And though, at times, impetuous with emotion<br /> +<span class="i2">And anguish long suppressed,</span> +The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,<br /> +<span class="i2">That cannot be at rest,—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +We will be patient, and assuage the feeling<br /> +<span class="i2">We may not wholly stay;</span> +By silence sanctifying, not concealing,<br /> +<span class="i2">The grief that must have way.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="CHRISTUS_CONSOLATOR"></a>CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,<br /> +<span class="i4">And felt a presence as I prayed.</span> +Lo! it was Jesus standing there.<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "Be not afraid!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;<br /> +<span class="i4">Restore again to life," I said,</span> +"This one who died an hour ago."<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "She is not dead!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Asleep then, as thyself did say;<br /> +<span class="i4">Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep</span> +Her prisoned eyes from ours away!"<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "She doth not sleep!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake,<br /> +<span class="i4">And look upon some fairer dawn,</span> +<a name="Page_433"></a>Restore her to our hearts that ache!"<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "She is not gone!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Alas! too well we know our loss,<br /> +<span class="i4">Nor hope again our joy to touch,</span> +Until the stream of death we cross."<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "There is no such!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Yet our beloved seem so far,<br /> +<span class="i4">The while we yearn to feel them near,</span> +Albeit with Thee we trust they are."<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "And I am here!"</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +"Dear Lord, how shall we know that they<br /> +<span class="i4">Still walk unseen with us and Thee,</span> +Nor sleep, nor wander far away?"<br /> +<span class="i4">He smiled: "Abide in Me."</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="COMFORT"></a>COMFORT.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet<br /> +From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,<br /> +Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so<br /> +Who art not missed by any that entreat.<br /> +Speak to me as Mary at thy feet—<br /> +And if no precious gums my hands bestow,<br /> +Let my tears drop like amber, while I go<br /> +In reach of thy divinest voice complete<br /> +In humanest affection—thus in sooth,<br /> +<a name="Page_434"></a>To lose the sense of losing! As a child<br /> +Whose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore,<br /> +Is sung to instead by mother's mouth;<br /> +Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,<br /> +He sleeps the faster that he wept before. +</p> +<p class="signature">ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="THE_SECRET_OF_DEATH"></a> +<p class="title">THE SECRET OF DEATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza">"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;<br /> +Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!" +</p> +<p class="stanza">They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;<br /> +On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; +</p> +<p class="stanza">Over her eyes that gazed too much<br /> +They drew the lids with a gentle touch; +</p> +<p class="stanza">With a tender touch they closed up well<br /> +The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; +</p> +<p class="stanza">About her brows and beautiful face<br /> +They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, +</p> +<p class="stanza">And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes—<br /> +Which were the whitest no eye could choose! +</p> +<p class="stanza">And over her bosom they crossed her hands.<br /> +"Come away!" they said; "God understands!" +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_435"></a>And there was silence, and nothing there<br /> +But silence, and scents of eglantere, +</p> +<p class="stanza">And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;<br /> +And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." +</p> +<p class="stanza">And they held their breath till they left the room,<br /> +With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. +</p> +<p class="stanza">But he who loved her too well to dread<br /> +The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead, +</p> +<p class="stanza">He lit his lamp and took the key<br /> +And turned it. Alone again—he and she! +</p> +<p class="stanza">He and she; but she would not speak,<br /> +Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. +</p> +<p class="stanza">He and she; yet she would not smile,<br /> +Though he called her the name she loved ere-while. +</p> +<p class="stanza">He and she; still she did not move<br /> +To any one passionate whisper of love. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath,<br /> +Is there no voice, no language of death, +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,<br /> +But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_436"></a>"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;<br /> +What was the secret of dying, dear? +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Was it the infinite wonder of all<br /> +That you ever could let life's flower fall? +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Or was it a greater marvel to feel<br /> +The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Was the miracle greater to find how deep<br /> +Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? +</p> +<p class="stanza">"Did life roll back its records, dear,<br /> +And show, as they say it does, past things clear? +</p> +<p class="stanza">"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss<br /> +To find out, so, what a wisdom love is? +</p> +<p class="stanza">"O perfect dead! O dead most dear,<br /> +I hold the breath of my soul to hear! +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,<br /> +As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. +</p> +<p class="stanza">"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,<br /> +To make you so placid from head to feet! +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,<br /> +And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,— +</p> +<p class="stanza">"I would say, though the angel of death had laid<br /> +His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_437"></a>"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,<br /> +Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise, +</p> +<p class="stanza">"The very strangest and suddenest thing<br /> +Of all the surprises that dying must bring." +</p> +<p class="stanza">Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead!<br /> +Though he told me, who will believe it was said? +</p> +<p class="stanza">Who will believe that he heard her say,<br /> +With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: +</p> +<p class="stanza">"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear,<br /> +And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; +</p> +<p class="stanza">"And am your angel, who was your bride,<br /> +And know that, though dead, I have never died." +</p> +<p class="signature">SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="PEACE"></a>PEACE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">There is the peace that cometh after sorrow,<br /> +<span class="i2">Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled;</span> +A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow,<br /> +<span class="i2">But calmly on a tempest that is stilled.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor in the happy life of love secure,</span> +But in the unerring strength the heart possesses,<br /> +<span class="i2">Of conflicts won, while learning to endure.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded,<br /> +<span class="i2">A life subdued, from will and passion free;</span> +'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded,<br /> +<span class="i2">But that which triumphed in Gethsemane.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">ANONYMOUS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_438"></a> +<a name="FOOTSTEPS_OF_ANGELS"></a>FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">When the hours of day are numbered,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the voices of the night</span> +Wake the better soul that slumbered<br /> +<span class="i2">To a holy, calm delight,—</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Ere the evening lamps are lighted,<br /> +<span class="i2">And, like phantoms grim and tall,</span> +Shadows from the fitful firelight<br /> +<span class="i2">Dance upon the parlor wall;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Then the forms of the departed<br /> +<span class="i2">Enter at the open door,—</span> +The beloved ones, the true-hearted,<br /> +<span class="i2">Come to visit me once more:</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +He, the young and strong, who cherished<br /> +<span class="i2">Noble longings for the strife,</span> +By the roadside fell and perished,<br /> +<span class="i2">Weary with the march of life!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +They, the holy ones and weakly,<br /> +<span class="i2">Who the cross of suffering bore,</span> +Folded their pale hands so meekly,<br /> +<span class="i2">Spake with us on earth no more!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And with them the being beauteous<br /> +<span class="i2">Who unto my youth was given,</span> +More than all things else to love me,<br /> +<span class="i2">And is now a saint in heaven.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_439"></a> +With a slow and noiseless footstep,<br /> +<span class="i2">Comes that messenger divine,</span> +Takes the vacant chair beside me,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lays her gentle hand in mine;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And she sits and gazes at me<br /> +<span class="i2">With those deep and tender eyes,</span> +Like the stars, so still and saint-like,<br /> +<span class="i2">Looking downward from the skies.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Uttered not, yet comprehended,<br /> +<span class="i2">Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,</span> +Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,<br /> +<span class="i2">Breathing from her lips of air.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O, though oft depressed and lonely,<br /> +<span class="i2">All my fears are laid aside</span> +If I but remember only<br /> +<span class="i2">Such as these have lived and died!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="HAPPY_ARE_THE_DEAD"></a>HAPPY ARE THE DEAD.</p> + +<p class="stanza">I walked the other day, to spend my hour,<br /> +<span class="i6">Into a field,</span> +Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield<br /> +<span class="i6">A gallant flower:</span> +But winter now had ruffled all the bower<br /> +<span class="i6">And curious store</span> +<span class="i4">I knew there heretofore.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer<br /> +<span class="i6">In the face of things,</span> +<a name="Page_440"></a>Thought with myself, there might be other springs<br /> +<span class="i6">Beside this here,</span> +Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year;<br /> +<span class="i6">And so the flower</span> +<span class="i4">Might have some other bower.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Then taking up what I could nearest spy,<br /> +<span class="i6">I digged about</span> +That place where I had seen him to grow out;<br /> +<span class="i6">And by and by</span> +I saw the warm recluse alone to lie,<br /> +<span class="i6">Where fresh and green</span> +<span class="i4">He lived of us unseen.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Many a question intricate and rare<br /> +<span class="i6">Did I there strow;</span> +But all I could extort was, that he now<br /> +<span class="i6">Did there repair</span> +Such losses as befell him in this air,<br /> +<span class="i6">And would erelong</span> +<span class="i4">Come forth most fair and young.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head;<br /> +<span class="i6">And, stung with fear</span> +Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear<br /> +<span class="i6">Upon his bed;</span> +Then, sighing, whispered, <i>Happy are the dead!</i><br /> +<span class="i6"><i>What peace doth now</i></span> +<span class="i4"><i>Rock him asleep below!</i></span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs<br /> +<span class="i6">From a poor root</span> +Which all the winter sleeps here under foot,<br /> +<span class="i6">And hath no wings</span> +<a name="Page_441"></a>To raise it to the truth and light of things,<br /> +<span class="i6">But is still trod</span> +<span class="i4">By every wandering clod!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +O thou whose spirit did at first inflame<br /> +<span class="i6">And warm the dead!</span> +And by a sacred incubation fed<br /> +<span class="i6">With life this frame,</span> +Which once had neither being, form, nor name!<br /> +<span class="i6">Grant I may so</span> +<span class="i4">Thy steps track here below,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +That in these masks and shadows I may see<br /> +<span class="i6">Thy sacred way;</span> +And by those hid ascents climb to that day<br /> +<span class="i6">Which breaks from thee,</span> +Who art in all things, though invisibly:<br /> +<span class="i6">Show me thy peace,</span> +<span class="i4">Thy mercy, love, and ease.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,<br /> +<span class="i6">Lead me above,</span> +Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move<br /> +<span class="i6">Without all pain:</span> +There, hid in thee, show me his life again<br /> +<span class="i6">At whose dumb urn</span> +<span class="i4">Thus all the year I mourn.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">HENRY VAUGHAN.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="Page_442"></a> +<a name="THE_GREEN_GRASS_UNDER_THE_SNOW"></a>THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.</p> + +<p class="stanza">The work of the sun is slow,<br /> +But as sure as heaven, we know;<br /> +<span class="i4">So we'll not forget,</span> +<span class="i4">When the skies are wet,</span> +There's green grass under the snow. +</p> +<p class="stanza">When the winds of winter blow,<br /> +Wailing like voices of woe,<br /> +<span class="i4">There are April showers,</span> +<span class="i4">And buds and flowers,</span> +And green grass under the snow. +</p> +<p class="stanza">We find that it's ever so<br /> +In this life's uneven flow;<br /> +<span class="i4">We've only to wait,</span> +<span class="i4">In the face of fate,</span> +For the green grass under the snow. +</p> +<p class="signature">ANNIE A. PRESTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><p class="title"><a name="THE_CONQUERORS_GRAVE"></a>THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,<br /> +<span class="i2">And yet the monument proclaims it not,</span> +Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought<br /> +<span class="i2">The emblems of a fame that never dies,</span> +Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,<br /> +Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.<br /> +<span class="i6">A simple name alone,</span> +<span class="i6">To the great world unknown,</span> +<a name="Page_443"></a>Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,<br /> +Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,<br /> +<span class="i2">Lean lovingly against the humble stone.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart<br /> +<span class="i2">No man of iron mould and bloody hands,</span> +Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands<br /> +<span class="i2">The passions that consumed his restless heart:</span> +But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,<br /> +<span class="i6">Gentlest in mien and mind,</span> +<span class="i6">Of gentle womankind,</span> +Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;<br /> +One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made<br /> +<span class="i2">Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,</span> +Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade<br /> +<span class="i2">Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">Nor deem that when the hand that molders here<br /> +Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,<br /> +<span class="i2">And armies mustered at the sign, as when</span> +Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,<br /> +<span class="i2">Gray captains leading bands of veteran men</span> +And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.<br /> +Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave<br /> +The victory to her who fills this grave;<br /> +<span class="i6">Alone her task was wrought,</span> +<span class="i6">Alone the battle fought;</span> +Through that long strife her constant hope was staid<br /> +<span class="i2">On God alone, nor looked for other aid.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +She met the hosts of sorrow with a look<br /> +<span class="i2">That altered not beneath the frown they wore,</span> +<a name="Page_444"></a>And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,<br /> +<span class="i2">Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more.</span> +Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,<br /> +<span class="i6">And calmly broke in twain</span> +<span class="i6">The fiery shafts of pain,</span> +And rent the nets of passion from her path.<br /> +<span class="i2">By that victorious hand despair was slain.</span> +With love she vanquished hate and overcame<br /> +Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Her glory is not of this shadowy state,<br /> +<span class="i2">Glory that with the fleeting season dies;</span> +But when she entered at the sapphire gate<br /> +<span class="i2">What joy was radiant in celestial eyes!</span> +How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,<br /> +And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!<br /> +<span class="i6">And He who, long before,</span> +<span class="i6">Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,</span> +The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,<br /> +Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;<br /> +He who returning, glorious, from the grave,<br /> +Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;<br /> +<span class="i2">Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.</span> +Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go<br /> +<span class="i2">Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.</span> +<span class="i6">Brief is the time, I know,</span> +<span class="i6">The warfare scarce begun;</span> +Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.<br /> +<a name="Page_445"></a>Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;<br /> +<span class="i2">The victors' names are yet too few to fill</span> +Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,<br /> +<span class="i2">That ministered to thee, is open still.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THOU_ART_GONE_TO_THE_GRAVE"></a>THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;</span> +The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;</span> +But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Thou art gone to the grave—and, its mansion forsaking,<br /> +<span class="i2">Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long,</span> +But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,<br /> +<span class="i2">And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_446"></a> +Thou art gone to the grave—but 't were wrong to deplore thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;</span> +He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,<br /> +<span class="i2">Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">REGINALD HEBER.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="LYCIDAS"></a>LYCIDAS.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more<br /> +Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,<br /> +I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude<br /> +And with forced fingers rude<br /> +Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,<br /> +Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,<br /> +Compels me to disturb your season due;<br /> +For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,<br /> +Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.<br /> +Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew<br /> +Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.<br /> +He must not float upon his watery bier<br /> +Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,<br /> +Without the meed of some melodious tear.<br /> +<span class="i2">Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,</span> +That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,<br /> +Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.<br /> +Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse;<br /> +So may some gentle muse<br /> +With lucky words favor my destined urn,<br /> +<a name="Page_447"></a>And as he passes turn,<br /> +And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud;<br /> +For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,<br /> +Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.<br /> +Together both, ere the high lawns appeared<br /> +Under the opening eyelids of the morn,<br /> +We drove a-field, and both together heard<br /> +What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,<br /> +Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,<br /> +Oft till the star that rose at evening bright<br /> +Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.<br /> +Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,<br /> +Tempered to the oaten flute;<br /> +Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel<br /> +From the glad song would not be absent long,<br /> +And old Damætas loved to hear our song.<br /> +<span class="i2">But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone—</span> +Now thou art gone, and never must return!<br /> +Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,<br /> +With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,<br /> +And all their echoes, mourn;<br /> +The willows, and the hazel copses green,<br /> +Shall now no more be seen,<br /> +Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.<br /> +As killing as the canker to the rose,<br /> +Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,<br /> +Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,<br /> +When first the white-thorn blows;<br /> +Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.<br /> +<span class="i2">Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep</span> +<a name="Page_448"></a>Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?<br /> +For neither were ye playing on the steep,<br /> +Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie,<br /> +Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,<br /> +Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream—<br /> +Ay me! I fondly dream,<br /> +Had ye been there; for what could that have done?<br /> +What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,<br /> +The muse herself for her enchanting son,<br /> +Whom universal nature did lament,<br /> +When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,<br /> +His gory visage down the stream was sent,<br /> +Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?<br /> +<span class="i2">Alas! what boots it with incessant care</span> +To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,<br /> +And strictly meditate the thankless muse?<br /> +Were it not better done, as others use,<br /> +To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,<br /> +Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?<br /> +Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise<br /> +(That last infirmity of noble minds)<br /> +To scorn delights, and live laborious days;<br /> +But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,<br /> +And think to burst out into sudden blaze,<br /> +Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,<br /> +And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,<br /> +Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;<br /> +Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,<br /> +Nor in the glistering foil<br /> +Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies;<br /> +But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes<br /> +And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;<br /> +<a name="Page_449"></a>As he pronounces lastly on each deed,<br /> +Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.<br /> +<span class="i2">O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood,</span> +Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,<br /> +That strain I heard was of a higher mood;<br /> +But now my oat proceeds,<br /> +And listens to the herald of the sea<br /> +That came in Neptune's plea;<br /> +He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,<br /> +What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?<br /> +And questioned every gust of rugged winds<br /> +That blows from off each beakèd promontory;<br /> +They knew not of his story;<br /> +And sage Hippotades their answer brings,<br /> +That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;<br /> +The air was calm, and on the level brine<br /> +Sleek Panopè with all her sisters played.<br /> +It was that fatal and perfidious bark,<br /> +Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,<br /> +That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.<br /> +<span class="i2">Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,</span> +His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,<br /> +Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,<br /> +Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe.<br /> +Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?<br /> +Last came, and last did go,<br /> +The pilot of the Galilean Lake;<br /> +Two massy keys he bore of metals twain<br /> +(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);<br /> +He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:<br /> +How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,<br /> +Enow of such as for their bellies' sake<br /> +<a name="Page_450"></a>Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?<br /> +Of other care they little reckoning make,<br /> +Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,<br /> +And shove away the worthy bidden guest;<br /> +Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold<br /> +A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least<br /> +That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!<br /> +What recks it them? what need they? they are sped;<br /> +And when they list, their lean and flashy songs<br /> +Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;<br /> +The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,<br /> +But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,<br /> +Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;<br /> +Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw<br /> +Daily devours apace, and nothing said;<br /> +But that two-handed engine at the door,<br /> +Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.<br /> +<span class="i2">Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,</span> +That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,<br /> +And call the vales, and bid them hither cast<br /> +Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.<br /> +Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use<br /> +Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,<br /> +On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,<br /> +Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,<br /> +That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,<br /> +And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.<br /> +Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,<br /> +The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,<br /> +The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,<br /> +<a name="Page_451"></a>The glowing violet,<br /> +The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,<br /> +With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,<br /> +And every flower that sad embroidery wears.<br /> +Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,<br /> +And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,<br /> +To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies,<br /> +For so to interpose a little ease,<br /> +Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.<br /> +Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas<br /> +Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled,<br /> +Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,<br /> +Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide<br /> +Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;<br /> +Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,<br /> +Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,<br /> +Where the great vision of the guarded mount<br /> +Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;<br /> +Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth!<br /> +And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!<br /> +<span class="i2">Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more!</span> +For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,<br /> +Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.<br /> +So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,<br /> +And yet anon repairs his drooping head,<br /> +And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore<br /> +Flames in the forehead of the morning sky;<br /> +So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,<br /> +Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,<br /> +Where, other groves and other streams along,<br /> +With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,<br /> +And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,<br /> +<a name="Page_452"></a>In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.<br /> +There entertain him all the saints above,<br /> +In solemn troops and sweet societies,<br /> +That sing, and singing in their glory move,<br /> +And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.<br /> +Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;<br /> +Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,<br /> +In thy large recompense, and shalt be good<br /> +To all that wander in that perilous flood.<br /> +<span class="i2">Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,</span> +While the still morn went out with sandals gray;<br /> +He touched the tender stops of various quills,<br /> +With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.<br /> +And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,<br /> +And now was dropt into the western bay;<br /> +At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:<br /> +To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new. +</p> +<p class="signature">MILTON.</p> +</div> + +<div class="center"><a name="il12"></a> +<a href="./images/452.jpg"><img src="./images/452_th.jpg" alt="SIR EDWIN ARNOLD" title="Portrait of SIR EDWIN ARNOLD" /></a><br /> +<span class="caption">SIR EDWIN ARNOLD<br /><i>After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London.</i></span> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="AFTER_DEATH_IN_ARABIA"></a>AFTER DEATH.</p> + +<p class="subt">FROM "PEARLS OF THE FAITH."</p> + +<p class="cmt"><i>He made life—and He takes it—but instead +<br />Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!</i></p> + +<p class="stanza">He who dies at Azan* sends<br /> +This to comfort faithful friends:— +</p> +<p class="stanza">Faithful friends! it lies, I know,<br /> +Pale and white and cold as snow;<br /> +<a name="Page_453"></a>And ye says, "Abdullah's dead!"<br /> +Weeping at my feet and head.<br /> +I can see your falling tears,<br /> +I can hear your cries and prayers,<br /> +Yet I smile and whisper this:—<br /> +"I am not that thing you kiss;<br /> +Cease your tears and let it lie:<br /> +It was mine, it is not I." +</p> +<p class="stanza">Sweet friends! what the women lave<br /> +For its last bed in the grave<br /> +Is a tent which I am quitting,<br /> +Is a garment no more fitting,<br /> +Is a cage from which at last<br /> +Like a hawk my soul hath passed.<br /> +Love the inmate, not the room;<br /> +The wearer, not the garb; the plume<br /> +Of the falcon, not the bars<br /> +Which kept him from the splendid stars.<br /> +Loving friends! be wise, and dry<br /> +Straightway every weeping eye:<br /> +What ye lift upon the bier<br /> +Is not worth a wistful tear.<br /> +'Tis an empty sea-shell, one<br /> +Out of which the pearl is gone.<br /> +The shell is broken, it lies there;<br /> +The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.<br /> +'Tis an earthen jar whose lid<br /> +Allah sealed, the while it hid<br /> +That treasure of His treasury,<br /> +A mind which loved him: let it lie!<br /> +Let the shard be earth's once more,<br /> +Since the gold shines in His store! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_454"></a>Allah Mu'hid, Allah most good!<br /> +Now thy grace is understood:<br /> +Now my heart no longer wonders<br /> +What Al-Barsakh is, which sunders<br /> +Life from death, and death from heaven:<br /> +Nor the "Paradises Seven"<br /> +Which the happy dead inherit;<br /> +Nor those "birds" which bear each spirit<br /> +Toward the Throne, "green birds and white,"<br /> +Radiant, glorious, swift their flight!<br /> +Now the long, long darkness ends.<br /> +Yet ye wail, my foolish friends,<br /> +While the man whom ye call "dead"<br /> +In unbroken bliss instead<br /> +Lives, and loves you: lost, 'tis true<br /> +By any light which shines for you;<br /> +But in light ye cannot see<br /> +Of unfulfilled felicity,<br /> +And enlarging Paradise;<br /> +Lives the life that never dies. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;<br /> +Where I am, ye too shall dwell.<br /> +I am gone before your face<br /> +A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace.<br /> +When ye come where I have stepped,<br /> +Ye will marvel why ye wept;<br /> +Ye will know, by true love taught,<br /> +That here is all, and there is naught.<br /> +Weep awhile, if ye are fain,—<br /> +Sunshine still must follow rain!<br /> +Only not at death, for death—<br /> +Now I see—is that first breath<br /> +<a name="Page_455"></a>Which our souls draw when we enter<br /> +Life, that is of all life center. +</p> +<p class="stanza">Know ye Allah's law is love,<br /> +Viewed from Allah's Throne above;<br /> +Be ye firm of trust, and come<br /> +Faithful onward to your home!<br /> +"<i>La Allah ilia Allah!</i> Yea,<br /> +Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say! +</p> +<p class="stanza"><i>He who died at Asan gave<br /> +This to those that made his grave.</i> +</p> +<p class="signature">SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.</p> +<p>* The hour of prayer; esteemed a blessed time to die.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="IT_IS_NOT_DEATH_TO_DIE"></a> +<p class="title">IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE.</p> + +<p class="stanza">It is not death to die,<br /> +<span class="i2">To leave this weary road,</span> +And, midst the brotherhood on high,<br /> +<span class="i2">To be at home with God.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza">It is not death to close<br /> +<span class="i2">The eye long dimmed by tears,</span> +And wake in glorious repose,<br /> +<span class="i2">To spend eternal years.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +It is not death to bear<br /> +<span class="i2">The wrench that sets us free</span> +From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air<br /> +<span class="i2">Of boundless liberty.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +It is not death to fling<br /> +<span class="i2">Aside this sinful dust,</span> +<a name="Page_456"></a>And rise on strong, exulting wing,<br /> +<span class="i2">To live among the just.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Jesus, thou Prince of Life,<br /> +<span class="i2">Thy chosen cannot die!</span> +Like Thee they conquer in the strife,<br /> +<span class="i2">To reign with Thee on high.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="THERE_IS_NO_DEATH"></a>THERE IS NO DEATH.</p> + +<p class="stanza">There is no death! the stars go down<br /> +<span class="i2">To rise upon some other shore,</span> +And bright in heaven's jewelled crown<br /> +<span class="i2">They shine forever more.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is no death! the forest leaves<br /> +<span class="i2">Convert to life the viewless air;</span> +The rocks disorganize to feed<br /> +<span class="i2">The hungry moss they bear.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is no death! the dust we tread<br /> +<span class="i2">Shall change, beneath the summer showers,</span> +To golden grain, or mellow fruit,<br /> +<span class="i2">Or rainbow-tinted flowers.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is no death! the leaves may fall.<br /> +<span class="i2">The flowers may fade and pass away—</span> +They only wait, through wintry hours,<br /> +<span class="i2">The warm sweet breath of May.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is no death! the choicest gifts<br /> +<span class="i2">That heaven hath kindly lent to earth</span> +<a name="Page_457"></a>Are ever first to seek again<br /> +<span class="i2">The country of their birth.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And all things that for growth of joy<br /> +<span class="i2">Are worthy of our love or care,</span> +Whose loss has left us desolate,<br /> +<span class="i2">Are safely garnered there.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Though life become a dreary waste,<br /> +<span class="i2">We know its fairest, sweetest flowers,</span> +Transplanted into paradise,<br /> +<span class="i2">Adorn immortal bowers.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +The voice of bird-like melody<br /> +<span class="i2">That we have missed and mourned so long</span> +Now mingles with the angel choir<br /> +<span class="i2">In everlasting song.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +There is no death! although we grieve<br /> +<span class="i2">When beautiful, familiar forms</span> +That we have learned to love are torn<br /> +<span class="i2">From our embracing arms;</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Although with bowed and breaking heart,<br /> +<span class="i2">With sable garb and silent tread,</span> +We bear their senseless dust to rest,<br /> +<span class="i2">And say that they are "dead."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +They are not dead! they have but passed<br /> +<span class="i2">Beyond the mists that blind us here</span> +Into the new and larger life<br /> +<span class="i2">Of that serener sphere.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"><a name="Page_458"></a> +They have but dropped their robe of clay<br /> +<span class="i2">To put their shining raiment on;</span> +They have not wandered far away—<br /> +<span class="i2">They are not "lost" or "gone."</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Though disenthralled and glorified,<br /> +<span class="i2">They still are here and love us yet;</span> +The dear ones they have left behind<br /> +<span class="i2">They never can forget.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint<br /> +<span class="i2">Amid temptations fierce and deep,</span> +Or when the wildly raging waves<br /> +<span class="i2">Of grief or passion sweep,</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +We feel upon our fevered brow<br /> +<span class="i2">Their gentle touch, their breath of balm;</span> +Their arms enfold us, and our hearts<br /> +<span class="i2">Grow comforted and calm.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +And ever near us, though unseen,<br /> +<span class="i2">The dear, immortal spirits tread;</span> +For all the boundless universe<br /> +<span class="i2">Is life—there are no dead.</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">JAMES L. M'CREERY.</p> +<p>1863.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="GOING_AND_COMING"></a>GOING AND COMING.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Going—the great round Sun,<br /> +<span class="i2">Dragging the captive Day</span> +Over behind the frowning hill,<br /> +<span class="i2">Over beyond the bay,—</span> +<span class="i8">Dying:</span> +<a name="Page_459"></a>Coming—the dusky Night,<br /> +<span class="i2">Silently stealing in,</span> +Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch<br /> +<span class="i2">Where the golden-haired Day hath been</span> +<span class="i8">Lying.</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Going—the bright, blithe Spring;<br /> +<span class="i2">Blossoms! how fast ye fall,</span> +Shooting out of your starry sky<br /> +<span class="i2">Into the darkness all</span> +<span class="i8">Blindly!</span> +Coming—the mellow days:<br /> +<span class="i2">Crimson and yellow leaves;</span> +Languishing purple and amber fruits<br /> +<span class="i2">Kissing the bearded sheaves</span> +<span class="i8">Kindly!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Going—our early friends;<br /> +<span class="i2">Voices we loved are dumb;</span> +Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew;<br /> +<span class="i2">Fainter the echoes come</span> +<span class="i8">Ringing:</span> +Coming to join our march,—<br /> +<span class="i2">Shoulder to shoulder pressed,—</span> +Gray-haired veterans strike their tents<br /> +<span class="i2">For the far-off purple West—</span> +<span class="i8">Singing!</span> +</p> +<p class="stanza"> +Going—this old, old life;<br /> +<span class="i2">Beautiful world, farewell!</span> +Forest and meadow! river and hill!<br /> +<span class="i2">Ring ye a loving knell</span> +<span class="i8">O'er us!</span> +<a name="Page_460"></a>Coming—a nobler life;<br /> +<span class="i2">Coming—a better land;</span> +Coming—a long, long, nightless day;<br /> +<span class="i2">Coming—the grand, grand</span> +<span class="i8">Chorus!</span> +</p> +<p class="signature">EDWARD A. JENKS.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"> +<p class="title"><a name="BLIND"></a>BLIND.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Laughing, the blind boys<br /> +Run 'round their college lawn,<br /> +Playing such games of buff<br /> +Over its dappled grass! +</p> +<p class="stanza">See the blind frolicsome<br /> +Girls in blue pinafores,<br /> +Turning their skipping ropes! +</p> +<p class="stanza">How full and rich a world<br /> +Theirs to inhabit is!<br /> +Sweet scent of grass and bloom,<br /> +Playmates' glad symphony.<br /> +Cool touch of western wind,<br /> +Sunshine's divine caress.<br /> +How should they know or feel<br /> +They are in darkness? +</p> +<p class="stanza">But—O the miracle!<br /> +If a Redeemer came,<br /> +Laid fingers on their eyes—<br /> +One touch—and what a world<br /> +New born in loveliness! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Spaces of green and sky,<br /> +Hulls of white cloud adrift,<br /> +<a name="Page_461"></a>Ivy-grown college walls,<br /> +Shining loved faces! +</p> +<p class="stanza">What a dark world—who knows?<br /> +Ours to inhabit is!<br /> +One touch, and what a strange<br /> +Glory might burst on us!<br /> +What a hid universe! +</p> +<p class="stanza">Do we sport carelessly,<br /> +Blindly, upon the verge<br /> +Of an Apocalypse? +</p> +<p class="signature">ISRAEL ZANGWILL.</p> +</div> + +<div class="poem"><a name="DEATH_OF_DEATH"></a> +<p class="title">THE DEATH OF DEATH.</p> + +<p class="subt">SONNET CXLVI.</p> + +<p class="stanza">Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,<br /> +Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array,<br /> +Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,<br /> +Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?<br /> +Why so large cost, having so short a lease,<br /> +Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?<br /> +Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,<br /> +Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?<br /> +Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,<br /> +And let that pine to aggravate thy store;<br /> +Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;<br /> +Within be fed, without be rich no more.<br /> +<span class="i2">So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,</span> +<span class="i2">And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.</span> +</p> + +<p class="signature">SHAKESPEARE.</p> +</div> + + +<hr class="full" /> + +<h2><a name="Page_465"></a><a name="INDEX_AUTHORS_AND_TITLES">INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES</a></h2> + +<p><i>For occupation, nativity, etc., of Authors, and the American publishers +of the American poetical works, see General Index of Authors, Volume X.</i></p> + +<div class="center"> +<table summary="Index" width="80%"> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ÆSCHYLUS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_WAIL_OF_PROMETHEUS_BOUND">Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (<i>Mrs. Browning's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">156</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">AGATHIAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TIMES_REVENGE">Time's Revenge (<i>Bland's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">72</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ALDRICH, JAMES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#A_DEATH_BED">Death-Bed, A</a></td><td align="right">306</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PARTING_LOVERS">Parting Lovers, The (<i>From the Chinese</i>)</a></td><td align="right">104</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_DIRTY_OLD_MAN">Dirty Old Man, The</a></td><td align="right">55</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AFTER_DEATH_IN_ARABIA">After Death in Arabia.</a></td><td align="right">452</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SECRET_OF_DEATH">Secret of Death, The</a></td><td align="right">434</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ARNOLD, MATTHEW. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#REQUIESCAT">Requiescat</a></td><td align="right">307</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">AUSTIN, ALFRED. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AGATHA">Agatha</a></td><td align="right">13</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">AUSTIN, SARAH TAYLOR. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PASSAGE">Passage, the (<i>German of Uhland</i>)</a></td><td align="right">342</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">AYTON OR AYTOUN, SIR ROBERT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WOMANS_INCONSTANCY">Woman's Inconstancy</a></td><td align="right">71</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_WORLD">World, The</a></td><td align="right">151</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DEATH_IN_YOUTH">Death in Youth (<i>Festus</i>)</a></td><td align="right">428</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_466"></a>BALLANTINE, JAMES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ILKA_BLADE_O_GRASS_KEPS_ITS_AIN_DRAP_O_DEW">"Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew"</a></td><td align="right">241</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BARBAULD, ANNA LÆTITIA. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LIFE_2">Life</a></td><td align="right">400</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BARNARD, LADY ANNE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AULD_ROBIN_GRAY">Auld Robin Gray</a></td><td align="right">32</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BARR, AMELIA EDITH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_BOTTOM_DRAWER">Bottom Drawer, The</a></td><td align="right">405</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ON_THE_TOMBS_IN_WESTMINSTER_ABBEY">On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey</a></td><td align="right">269</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BENJAMIN, PARK. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_OLD_SEXTON">Old Sexton, The</a></td><td align="right">282</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BENNETT, LUCY A. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ASLEEP_ASLEEP">"Asleep! asleep!"</a></td><td align="right">396</td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BÉRANGER, PIERRE-JEAN DE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_OLD_VAGABOND">Old Vagabond, The (<i>Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">188</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BETHUNE, GEORGE WASHINGTON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#IT_IS_NOT_DEATH_TO_DIE">"It is not death to die"</a></td><td align="right">455</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BJÖRNSON, BJÖRSTJERNE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PRINCESS">Princess, The (<i>Dole's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BLACKIE, JOHN STUART. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_EMIGRANT_LASSIE">Emigrant Lassie, The</a></td><td align="right">280</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WHAT_AILS_THIS_HEART_O_MINE">"What ails this heart o' mine"</a></td><td align="right">139</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BLAND, ROBERT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TIMES_REVENGE">Time's Revenge (<i>Greek of Agathias</i>)</a></td><td align="right">72</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BLOOD, HENRY AMES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONG_OF_SAVOYARDS">Song of Savoyards</a></td><td align="right">248</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BODENSTEDT, FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#UNCHANGING">Unchanging (<i>Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">242</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BONAR, HORATIUS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BEYOND_THE_SMILING_AND_THE_WEEPING">"Beyond the smiling and the weeping"</a></td> +<td align="right">378</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BRENAN, JOSEPH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#COME_TO_ME_DEAREST">"Come to me, dearest"</a></td><td align="right">144</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BRIDGES, ROBERT (<i>Droch</i>). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_UNILLUMINED_VERGE">Unillumined Verge, The</a></td><td align="right">308</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_467"></a>BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN (<i>Maria del Occidente</i>). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONG_OF_EGLA">Song of Egla</a></td><td align="right">138</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BROWN, JOSEPH BROWNLEE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THALATTA_THALATTA">Thalatta! Thalatta!</a></td><td align="right">388</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#COMFORT">Comfort</a></td><td align="right">433</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DE_PROFUNDIS">De Profundis</a></td><td align="right">421</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HOPELESS_GRIEF">Hopeless Grief</a></td><td align="right">217</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MOTHER_AND_POET">Mother and Poet</a></td><td align="right">323</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SLEEP">Sleep, The</a></td><td align="right">389</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TEARS">Tears</a></td><td align="right">429</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_WAIL_OF_PROMETHEUS_BOUND">Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (<i>Greek of Æschylus</i>)</a></td><td align="right">156</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BROWNING, ROBERT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#EVELYN_HOPE">Evelyn Hope</a></td><td align="right">310</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PROSPICE">Prospice</a></td><td align="right">391</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLESSED_ARE_THEY_THAT_MOURN">Blessed are They that Mourn</a></td><td align="right">420</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_CONQUERORS_GRAVE">Conqueror's Grave, The</a></td><td align="right">442</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THANATOPSIS">Thanatopsis</a></td><td align="right">264</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WHEN_MY_SHIP_COMES_IN">"When my ship comes in"</a></td><td align="right">245</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BURNS, ROBERT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AE_FOND_KISS_BEFORE_WE_PART">"Ae fond kiss, and then we sever"</a></td><td align="right">98</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_BANKS_O_DOON">Banks o' Doon, The</a></td><td align="right">12</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HIGHLAND_MARY">Highland Mary</a></td><td align="right">329</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#I_LOVE_MY_JEAN">"I love my Jean"</a></td><td align="right">126</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_MARY_IN_HEAVEN">Mary in Heaven, To</a></td><td align="right">339</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#O_MY_LUVES_LIKE_A_RED_RED_ROSE">"O my Luve's like a red, red rose"</a></td><td align="right">99</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#O_SAW_YE_BONNIE_LESLIE">"O, saw ye bonnie Leslie"</a></td><td align="right">130</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BURROUGHS, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WAITING">Waiting</a></td><td align="right">238</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">BYRON, GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ADIEU_ADIEU_MY_NATIVE_SHORE">"Adieu, adieu, my native shore"</a></td><td align="right">108</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_DREAM">Dream, The</a></td><td align="right">73</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAREWELL_TO_HIS_WIFE">Farewell to his Wife</a></td><td align="right">109</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LATEST_VERSES">Latest Verses</a></td><td align="right">169</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MAID_OF_ATHENS_ERE_WE_PART">"Maid of Athens, ere we part"</a></td><td align="right">100</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#A_PICTURE_OF_DEATH">Picture of Death, A (The Giaour)</a></td><td align="right">261</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CAMOËNS, LUIS DE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLIGHTED_LOVE">Blighted Love (<i>Strongford's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">81</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CARLETON, WILL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#OVER_THE_HILL_TO_THE_POORHOUSE">"Over the hill to the poor-house"</a></td><td align="right">175</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_468"></a>CARY, HENRY FRANCIS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_FAIREST_THING_IN_MORTAL_EYES">"The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (<i>French of Duke of Orleans</i>)</a></td><td>356</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_TWO_WAITINGS">Two Waitings, The</a></td><td align="right">409</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CHANNING, WILLIAM_ELLERY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SLEEPY_HOLLOW">Sleepy Hollow</a></td><td align="right">277</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#JEUNE_FILLE_ET_JEUNE_FLEUR">Jeune Fille et Jeune Fleur (<i>Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">305</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CHATTERTON, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MINSTRELS_SONG">Minstrel's Song</a></td><td align="right">340</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DESPONDENCY_REBUKED">Despondency Rebuked</a></td><td align="right">235</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#QUA_CURSUM_VENTUS">Qua Cursum Ventus</a></td><td align="right">107</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_GOOD_GREAT_MAN">Good, Great Man, The</a></td><td align="right">244</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">COSTELLO, LOUISE STUART. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ON_THE_DEATH_OF_FRANCIS_I">On the Death of Francis I. <i>(French of Marguerite</i>)</a></td><td align="right">338</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONNET">Sonnet (<i>French of Labé</i>)</a></td><td align="right">237</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_DIANE_DE_POITIERS">To Diane de Poitiers (<i>French of Marat</i>)</a></td><td align="right">69</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">COWPER, WILLIAM. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PRESENT_GOOD">Present Good, The (<i>The Task</i>)</a></td><td align="right">150</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CRABBE, GEORGE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_APPROACH_OF_AGE">Approach of Age, The (<i>Tales of the Hall</i>)</a></td><td align="right">163</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#NOW_AND_AFTERWARDS">Now and Afterwards</a></td><td align="right">268</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ONLY_A_WOMAN">Only a Woman</a></td><td align="right">86</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TOO_LATE">Too Late</a></td><td align="right">335</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#COMPENSATION">Compensation</a></td><td align="right">229</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">CRAWFORD, JULIA (or LOUISA MACARTNEY). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#KATHLEEN_MAVOURNEEN">Kathleen Mavourneen</a></td><td align="right">112</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WE_PARTED_IN_SILENCE">"We parted in silence"</a></td><td align="right">113</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DELAND, MARGARETTA WADE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LOVE_AND_DEATH">Love and Death</a></td><td align="right">394</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SAD_IS_OUR_YOUTH_FOR_IT_IS_EVER_GOING">"Sad is our youth, for it is ever going"</a></td><td align="right">225</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_469"></a>DE VERE, MARY AINGE (<i>Madeline Bridges</i>). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SPINNER">Spinner, The</a></td><td align="right">70</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HOME_WOUNDED">Home, Wounded</a></td><td align="right">58</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DOBSON, AUSTIN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SUN_DIAL">Sun-Dial, The</a></td><td align="right">15</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DODGE, MARY ELIZABETH MAPES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_TWO_MYSTERIES">Two Mysteries, The <i>(Along the Way</i>)</a></td><td align="right">262</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DOLE, NATHAN HASKELL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PRINCESS">Princess, The (<i>Norwegian of Bjornson</i>)</a></td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DORR, JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HUSH">Hush! (<i>After glow</i>)</a></td><td align="right">400</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DRAYTON, MICHAEL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#COME_LET_US_KISSE_AND_PARTE">"Come, let us kisse and parte"</a></td><td align="right">111</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">DUFFERIN, HELEN BELINDA SHERIDAN, LADY (<i>afterwards</i> LADY GIFFORD). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LAMENT_OF_THE_IRISH_EMIGRANT">Lament of the Irish Emigrant</a></td><td align="right">343</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">EASTMAN, ELAINE GOODALE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ASHES_OF_ROSES">Ashes of Roses</a></td><td align="right">51</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">EDWARDS, AMELIA BLANDFORD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GIVE_ME_THREE_GRAINS_OF_CORN_MOTHER">"Give me three grains of corn, mother"</a></td><td align="right">197</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">FIELD, EUGENE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#JIMS_KIDS">Jim's Kids</a></td><td align="right">290</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">FITZGERALD, EDWARD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ON_ANNE_ALLEN">Anne Allen, On</a></td><td align="right">303</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">FLEMING, PAUL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_MYSELF">Myself, To (<i>Winkworth's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">218</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">FLETCHER, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HENCE_ALL_YE_VAIN_DELIGHTS">"Hence, all ye vain delights"</a></td><td align="right">160</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TAKE_O_TAKE_THOSE_LIPS_AWAY">"Take, O, take those lips away" (<i>Bloody Brother</i>)</a></td><td align="right">71</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MY_OLD_KENTUCKY_HOME">My Old Kentucky Home</a></td><td align="right">147</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#OLD_FOLKS_AT_HOME">Old Folks at Home</a></td><td align="right">148</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">GANNETT, WILLIAM CHANNING. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AUNT_PHILLISS_GUEST">Aunt Phillis's Guest</a></td><td align="right">239</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">GAY, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLACK_EYED_SUSAN">Black-Eyed Susan</a></td><td align="right">102</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_470"></a>GLADDEN, WASHINGTON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AWAKENING">Awakening</a></td><td align="right">375</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">GLUCK, —— +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_DEATH">To Death (<i>Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">395</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">GRAY, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ELEGY_WRITTEN_IN_A_COUNTRY_CHURCHYARD">Elegy written in a Country Churchyard</a></td><td align="right">270</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HARDINGE, WILLIAM M. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_GRAVE_OF_SOPHOCLES">Grave of Sophocles (<i>Greek of Simmias</i>)</a></td><td align="right">200</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HAWTREY, E.C. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HECTOR_TO_HIS_WIFE">Hector to his Wife (<i>Greek of Homer</i>)</a></td><td align="right">122</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HAY, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#A_WOMANS_LOVE">Woman's Love, A</a></td><td align="right">52</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#IN_HARBOR">In Harbor</a></td><td align="right">398</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HEBER, REGINALD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THOU_ART_GONE_TO_THE_GRAVE">"Thou art gone to the grave"</a></td><td align="right">445</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HEINE, HEINRICH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PALM_AND_THE_PINE">Palm and the Pine, The (<i>Houghton's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">40</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HEMANS. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_HOUR_OF_DEATH">Hour of Death, The</a></td><td align="right">259</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#INVICTUS">Invictus</a></td><td align="right">221</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HERBERT, GEORGE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_FLOWER">Flower, The</a></td><td align="right">219</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#VIRTUE_IMMORTAL">Virtue Immortal</a></td><td align="right">254</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_CHANGED_CROSS">Changed Cross, The</a></td><td align="right">231</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_LAST_LEAF">Last Leaf, The</a></td><td align="right">185</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_VOICELESS">Voiceless, The</a></td><td align="right">172</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOMER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HECTOR_TO_HIS_WIFE">Hector to his Wife (<i>Hawtrey's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">122</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PARTING_OF_HECTOR_AND_ANDROMACHE">Parting of Hector and Andromache (<i>Pope's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">118</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOOD, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_BRIDGE_OF_SIGHS">Bridge of Sighs, The</a></td><td align="right">208</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_DEATH_BED">Death-Bed, The</a></td><td align="right">300</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAREWELL_LIFE">"Farewell, Life"</a></td><td align="right">384</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SONG_OF_THE_SHIRT">Song of the Shirt, The</a></td><td align="right">199</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WHAT_CAN_AN_OLD_MAN_DO_BUT_DIE">"What can an old man do but die"</a></td><td align="right">174</td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_471"></a> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LONDON_CHURCHES">London Churches</a></td><td align="right">207</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PALM_AND_THE_PINE">Palm and the Pine, The (<i>German of Heine</i>)</a></td><td align="right">40</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOWLAND, MARY WOOLSEY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#REST">Rest</a></td><td align="right">397</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HOYT, RALPH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#OLD">Old</a></td><td align="right">180</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">HUDSON, MARY CLEMMER AMES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SOMETHING_BEYOND">Something Beyond</a></td><td align="right">234</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">INGELOW, JEAN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DIVIDED">Divided</a></td><td align="right">64</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">JACKSON, HELEN FISKE HUNT (<i>H.H.</i>).</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HABEAS_CORPUS">Habeas Corpus</a></td><td align="right">382</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">JACKSON, HENRY R. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MY_WIFE_AND_CHILD">My Wife and Child</a></td><td align="right">226</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">JENKS, EDWARD A. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GOING_AND_COMING">Going and Coming</a></td><td align="right">458</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KEATS, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ODE_TO_A_NIGHTINGALE">Nightingale, Ode to a</a></td><td align="right">166</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ABSENCE">Absence</a></td><td align="right">133</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAITH">Faith</a></td><td align="right">95</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KENNEDY, CRAMMOND. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GREENWOOD_CEMETERY">Greenwood Cemetery</a></td><td align="right">279</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ROBIN_ADAIR">Robin Adair</a></td><td align="right">134</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KING, HENRY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SIC_VITA">Sic Vita</a></td><td align="right">253</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KINGSLEY, CHARLES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ROUGH_RHYME_ON_A_ROUGH_MATTER">Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter, A</a></td><td align="right">191</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">KNOX, WILLIAM. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MORTALITY">Mortality</a></td><td align="right">256</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LABE, LOUISE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONNET">Sonnet (<i>Costello's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">237</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LAMB, CHARLES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_OLD_FAMILIAR_FACES">Old Familiar Faces, The</a></td><td align="right">143</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_472"></a>LANDON, LETITIA ELIZABETH (<i>later</i> MRS. MACLEAN). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_FEMALE_CONVICT">Female Convict, The</a></td><td align="right">215</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAREWELL">Farewell</a></td><td align="right">394</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MAN">Man</a></td><td align="right">151</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LANG, ANDREW. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LAMENT_FOR_HELIODORE">Lament for Heliodore (<i>Greek of Meleager</i>)</a></td><td align="right">337</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONG_2">Song (<i>Robert Louis Stevenson an Elegy and other Poems</i>)</a></td><td align="right">417</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WHAT_OF_THE_DARKNESS">What of the Darkness (<i>English</i> Poems)</a></td><td align="right">360</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LE ROUX, GUIRAUD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FIDELITY_IN_DOUBT">Fidelity in Doubt (<i>Preston's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">95</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LINDSAY, BLANCHE ELIZABETH FITZROY, LADY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONNET">Sonnet</a></td><td align="right">304</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_WIDOWS_MITE">Widow's Mite, The</a></td><td align="right">287</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LOGAN, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THY_BRAES_WERE_BONNY">"Thy braes were bonny"</a></td><td align="right">314</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_DEATH_OF_MINNEHAHA">Death of Minnehaha, The (Song of Hiawatha)</a></td><td align="right">319</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FOOTSTEPS_OF_ANGELS">Footsteps of Angels</a></td><td align="right">438</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GODS_ACRE">God's Acre</a></td><td align="right">276</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_RAINY_DAY">Rainy Day, The</a></td><td align="right">228</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_REAPER_AND_THE_FLOWERS">Reaper and the Flowers, The</a></td><td align="right">417</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#RESIGNATION">Resignation</a></td><td align="right">430</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LOVELACE, COLONEL RICHARD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_LUCASTA">Lucasta, To</a></td><td align="right">123</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_LUCASTA_ON_GOING_TO_THE_WARS">Lucasta, on Going to the Wars, To</a></td><td align="right">97</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AUF_WIEDERSEHEN">Auf Wiedersehen</a></td><td align="right">114</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_FIRST_SNOW_FALL">First Snow-Fall, The</a></td><td align="right">283</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PALINODE">Palinode</a></td><td align="right">115</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_MORNING_GLORY">Morning-Glory, The</a></td><td align="right">285</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ANTONY_AND_CLEOPATRA">Antony and Cleopatra</a></td><td align="right">380</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF (<i>Owen Meredith</i>).</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PORTRAIT">Portrait, The</a></td><td align="right">82</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_473"></a>MCCLEERY, J.L. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THERE_IS_NO_DEATH">"There is no death"</a></td><td align="right">456</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MACMANUS, ANNA JOHNSTON (MRS. SEUMAS) (<i>Ethna Carbery</i>).</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THINKIN_LONG">Thinkin' Long</a></td><td align="right">141</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MARGUERITE DE VALOIS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ON_THE_DEATH_OF_FRANCIS_I">On the Death of Francis I. (<i>Costello's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">338</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MAROT, CLEMENT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_DIANE_DE_POITIERS">To Diane de Poitiers (<i>Costello's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">69</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AFTER_SUMMER">After Summer</a></td><td align="right">336</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MELEAGER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LAMENT_FOR_HELIODORE">Lament for Heliodore (<i>Lang's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">337</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#CUMNOR_HALL">Cumnor Hall</a></td><td align="right">41</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MILTON, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LYCIDAS">Lycidas</a></td><td align="right">446</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SAMSON_ON_HIS_BLINDNESS">Samson on his Blindness (<i>Samson Agonistes</i>)</a></td><td align="right">158</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONNET_2">Sonnet: To Cyriack Skinner</a></td><td align="right">220</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MITCHELL, SILAS WEIR. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_QUAKER_GRAVEYARD">Quaker Graveyard, The</a></td><td align="right">278</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MOIR, DAVID MACBETH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_RUSTIC_LADS_LAMENT_IN_THE_TOWN">Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town, The</a></td><td align="right">131</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MOORE, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ALAS_HOW_LIGHT_A_CAUSE">"Alas, how light a cause" (<i>The Light of the Harem</i>)</a></td><td align="right">80</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AS_SLOW_OUR_SHIP">"As slow our ship"</a></td><td align="right">106</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAREWELL_BUT_WHENEVER">"Farewell!—but whenever"</a></td><td align="right">116</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAREWELL_TO_THEE_ARABYS_DAUGHTER">"Farewell to thee, Araby's daughter" (<i>Fire Worshippers</i>)</a></td><td align="right">316</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LINDA_TO_HAFED">Linda to Hafed (<i>Fire Worshippers</i>)</a></td><td align="right">6</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MOSS, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_BEGGAR">Beggar, The</a></td><td align="right">189</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#JEANIE_MORRISON">Jeanie Morrison</a></td><td align="right">127</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MY_HEID_IS_LIKE_TO_REND_WILLIE">"My heid is like to rend, Willie"</a></td><td align="right">49</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#I_WOULD_NOT_LIVE_ALWAY">"I would not live alway"</a></td><td align="right">392</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#APRES">Apres</a></td><td align="right">355</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_474"></a>NAIRNE, CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_LAND_O_THE_LEAL">Land o' the Leal, The</a></td><td align="right">379</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">NEELE, HENRY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MOAN_MOAN_YE_DYING_GALES">"Moan, moan, ye dying gales"</a></td><td align="right">152</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">NOEL, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PAUPERS_DRIVE">Pauper's Drive, The</a></td><td align="right">202</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">NORTON, CAROLINE E.S. SHERIDAN (LADY STIRLING MAXWELL). +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_KING_OF_DENMARKS_RIDE">King of Denmark's Ride, The</a></td><td align="right">340</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LOVE_NOT">"Love not"</a></td><td align="right">8</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">O'BRIEN, WILLIAM SMITH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#NEVER_DESPAIR">Never Despair</a></td><td align="right">246</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ORLEANS, CHARLES, DUKE OF. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_FAIREST_THING_IN_MORTAL_EYES">"The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (<i>Cary's Trans</i>)</a></td><td align="right">356</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HAS_SUMMER_COME_WITHOUT_THE_ROSE">"Has summer come without the rose?"</a></td><td align="right">54</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PALMER, JOHN WILLIAMSON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FOR_CHARLIES_SAKE">For Charlie's Sake</a></td><td align="right">411</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PATMORE, COVENTRY [KEARSEY DEIGHTON]. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PARTING">Parting</a></td><td align="right">96</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PIATT, SARAH MORGAN BRYAN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_TERM_OF_DEATH">Term of Death, The</a></td><td align="right">261</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PIERPONT, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MY_CHILD">My Child</a></td><td align="right">415</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">POE, EDGAR ALLAN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ANNABEL_LEE">Annabel Lee</a></td><td align="right">312</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FOR_ANNIE">For Annie</a></td><td align="right">385</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">POLLEN, JOHN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_LAST_LEAF_2">Last Leaf, The (<i>Russian of Poushkin</i>)</a></td><td align="right">187</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">POPE, ALEXANDER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PARTING_OF_HECTOR_AND_ANDROMACHE">Parting of Hector and Andromache (<i>Greek of Homer</i>)</a></td><td align="right">118</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">POUSHKIN, ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_LAST_LEAF">Last Leaf, The (<i>Pollen's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">187</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PRESTON, ANNIE A. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_GREEN_GRASS_UNDER_THE_SNOW">"The green grass under the snow"</a></td><td align="right">442</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PRESTON, HARRIET WATERS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FIDELITY_IN_DOUBT">Fidelity in Doubt (<i>French of Le Roux</i>)</a></td><td align="right">95</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_475"></a>PRIEST, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#OVER_THE_RIVER">Over the River</a></td><td align="right">406</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PRINGLE, THOMAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#AFAR_IN_THE_DESERT">Afar in the Desert</a></td><td align="right">222</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#A_DOUBTING_HEART">Doubting Heart, A</a></td><td align="right">171</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (<i>Barry Cornwall</i>).</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LIFE">Life</a></td><td align="right">251</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SOFTLY_WOO_AWAY_HER_BREATH">"Softly woo away her breath"</a></td><td align="right">318</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">QUARLES, FRANCIS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_VANITY_OF_THE_WORLD">Vanity of the World, The</a></td><td align="right">153</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">RAMSAY, ALLAN. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LOCHABER_NO_MORE">Lochaber no More</a></td><td align="right">105</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">RAYMOND, ROSSITER WORTHINGTON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLESSED_ARE_THEY">"Blessed are They"</a></td><td align="right">425</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#CHRISTUS_CONSOLATOR">Christus Consolator</a></td><td align="right">432</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">RITTER, MARY LOUISE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PERISHED">Perished</a></td><td align="right">169</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ROGERS, ROBERT CAMERON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SHADOW_ROSE">Shadow Rose, The</a></td><td align="right">53</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ROSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_NEVERMORE">Nevermore, The</a></td><td align="right">82</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ARE_THE_CHILDREN_AT_HOME">"Are the children at home?"</a></td><td align="right">288</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SCOTT, FREDERICK GEORGE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#VAN_ELSEN">Van Elsen</a></td><td align="right">361</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SCOTT, SIR WALTER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#CORONACH">Coronach (<i>Lady of the Lake</i>)</a></td><td align="right">309</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONG">Song</a></td><td align="right">31</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONG_OF_THE_YOUNG_HIGHLANDER">Song of the Young Highlander</a></td><td align="right">101</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLOW_BLOW_THOU_WINTER_WIND">"Blow, blow, thou winter wind" (<i>As You Like It</i>)</a></td><td align="right">155</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_COURSE_OF_TRUE_LOVE">Course of True Love, The (<i>Midsummer Night's Dream</i>)</a></td><td align="right">3</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DEATH_OF_DEATH">Death of Death</a></td><td align="right">460</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_FALL_OF_CARDINAL_WOLSEY">Fall of Cardinal Wolsey, The (<i>Henry VIII.</i>)</a></td><td align="right">161</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAREWELL_THOU_ART_TOO_DEAR">"Farewell! thou art too dear"</a></td><td align="right">112</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FEAR_NO_MORE_THE_HEAT_O_THE_SUN">"Fear no more the heat o' the sun" (<i>Gymbeline</i>)</a></td><td align="right">328</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GRIEF">Grief (<i>Hamlet</i>)</a></td><td align="right">348</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LOVES_MEMORY">Love's Memory (<i>All's Well that ends Well</i>)</a></td><td align="right">140</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SOLILOQUY_ON_DEATH">Soliloquy on Death (<i>Hamlet</i>)</a></td><td align="right">252</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TAKE_O_TAKE_THOSE_LIPS_AWAY">"Take, O, take those lips away"</a></td><td align="right">71</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#UNREQUITED_LOVE">Unrequited Love (<i>Twelfth Night</i>)</a></td><td align="right">9</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_476"></a>SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#A_LAMENT">Lament, A</a></td><td align="right">173</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#STANZAS">"The sun is warm, the sky is clear"</a></td><td align="right">164</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SHIRLEY, JAMES. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DEATH_THE_LEVELER">Death the Leveler</a></td><td align="right">253</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SONNET">"With how sad steps" (<i>Astrophel and Stella</i>)</a></td><td align="right">13</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#A_MORNING_THOUGHT">Morning Thought, A</a></td><td align="right">267</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SILLERY, CHARLES DOYNE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SHE_DIED_IN_BEAUTY">"She died in beauty"</a></td><td align="right">319</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SIMMIAS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_GRAVE_OF_SOPHOCLES">Grave of Sophocles, The (<i>Hardinge's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">269</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SMITH, BELLE E. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#IF_I_SHOULD_DIE_TONIGHT">"If I should die to-night"</a></td><td align="right">374</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TIMES_GO_BY_TURNS">"Times go by turns"</a></td><td align="right">228</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SPOFFORD, HARRIET ELIZABETH PRESCOTT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_NUN_AND_HARP">Nun and Harp, The</a></td><td align="right">93</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#IN_MEMORIAM_FAS">In Memoriam F.A.S.</a></td><td align="right">428</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LINES_TO_THE_MEMORY_OF_ANNIE">Lines to the Memory of"Annie"</a></td><td align="right">426</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ONLY_A_YEAR">"Only a year"</a></td><td align="right">418</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">STRANGFORD, LORD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLIGHTED_LOVE">Blighted Love (<i>Portuguese of Camoens</i>)</a></td><td align="right">81</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">STURM. JULIUS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#I_HOLD_STILL">I Hold Still (<i>Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">243</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">SYMONS, ARTHUR. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_A_PORTRAIT">Portrait, To a</a></td><td align="right">34</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BREAK_BREAK_BREAK">"Break, break, break"</a></td><td align="right">358</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HOME_THEY_BROUGHT_HER_WARRIOR_DEAD">"Home they brought her warrior dead" (<i>Princess</i>)</a></td><td align="right">345</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LADY_CLARA_VERE_DE_VERE">Lady Clare Vere de Vere</a></td><td align="right">4</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LOCKSLEY_HALL">Locksley Hall</a></td><td align="right">17</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_MAY_QUEEN">May Queen, The</a></td><td align="right">292</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#OH_THAT_TWERE_POSSIBLE">"Oh that 'twere possible" (<i>Maud</i>)</a></td><td align="right">331</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#SELECTIONS_FROM_IN_MEMORIAM">Selections from "In Memoriam"</a></td><td align="right">340</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TEARS_IDLE_TEARS">"Tears, idle tears"</a></td><td align="right">142</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"><a name="Page_477"></a>THOMPSON, FRANCIS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DAISY">Daisy</a></td><td align="right">130</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">TICHEBORNE, CHEDIOCK. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LINES">Lines written in the Tower</a></td><td align="right">159</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">TIMROD, HENRY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><ins class="correction" title="Transcriber's Note: No poem by this author in book.">At Magnolia Cemetery</ins></td><td align="right">279</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#DOROTHY_IN_THE_GARRET">Dorothy in the Garret</a></td><td align="right">89</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">UHLAND, LUDWIG. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PASSAGE">Passage, The (<i>Austin's Translation</i>)</a></td><td align="right">342</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ULRICH, ANTON, DUKE OP BRUNSWICK. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GODS_SURE_HELP_IN_SORROW">God's Sure Help in Sorrow (<i>Winkworth's Translation</i>)</a></td> +<td align="right">236</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">VAUGHAN, HENRY. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#HAPPY_ARE_THE_DEAD">"Happy are the dead"</a></td><td align="right">439</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THEY_ARE_ALL_GONE">"They are all gone"</a></td><td align="right">403</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">WASTELL, SIMON. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MANS_MORTALITY">Man's Mortality</a></td><td align="right">255</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">WATSON, JOHN WHITTAKER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BEAUTIFUL_SNOW">Beautiful Snow</a></td><td align="right">205</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">WHITMAN, WALT. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WHEN_LILACS_LAST_IN_THE_DOORYARD_BLOOMED">"When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed"</a></td><td align="right">362</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_HER_ABSENT_SAILOR">Absent Sailor, To her (<i>The Tent on the Beach</i>)</a></td><td align="right">124</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_ANGEL_OF_PATIENCE">Angel of Patience, The</a></td><td align="right">402</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#MAUD_MULLER">Maud Muller</a></td><td align="right">35</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#UNSEEN_SPIRITS">Unseen Spirits</a></td><td align="right">204</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">WINKWORTH, CATHARINE. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GODS_SURE_HELP_IN_SORROW">God's Sure Help in Sorrow (<i>German of Ulrich</i>)</a></td><td align="right">236</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#TO_MYSELF">Myself, To (<i>German of Flemming</i>)</a></td><td align="right">218</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ZANGWILL, ISRAEL. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#BLIND">Blind</a></td><td align="right">461</td></tr> +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left"> </td></tr> + +<tr><td colspan="2" align="left">ANONYMOUS. +</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#ABSENCE">Absence</a></td><td align="right">141</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#FAIR_HELEN">Fair Helen</a></td><td align="right">330</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GOOD_BYE">Good Bye</a></td><td align="right">97</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GRIEF_FOR_THE_DEAD">Grief for the Dead</a></td><td align="right">408</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#GUILTY_OR_NOT_GUILTY">Guilty or Not Guilty</a></td><td align="right">212</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#LADY_ANN_BOTHWELLS_LAMENT">Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament</a></td><td align="right">47</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a name="Page_478"></a><a href="#LAVENDER">Lavender</a></td><td align="right">355</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_PARTING_LOVERS">Parting Lovers, The</a></td><td align="right">104</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#PEACE">Peace</a></td><td align="right">437</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_SADDEST_FATE">Saddest Fate, The</a></td><td align="right">247</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THEY_ARE_DEAR_FISH_TO_ME">"They are dear fish to me"</a></td><td align="right">195</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WALY_WALY">"Waly, waly"</a></td><td align="right">45</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#WATCHING_FOR_PAPA">Watching for Papa</a></td><td align="right">414</td></tr> +<tr><td class="idxitem"><a href="#THE_WIFE_TO_HER_HUSBAND">Wife to her Husband, The</a></td><td align="right">146</td></tr> +</table> +</div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The World's Best Poetry, Volume 3, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 16786-h.htm or 16786-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/7/8/16786/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Victoria Woosley and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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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 World's Best Poetry, Volume 3 + Sorrow and Consolation + +Author: Various + +Commentator: Lyman Abbott + +Editor: Bliss Carman + +Release Date: October 1, 2005 [EBook #16786] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 3 *** + + + + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Victoria Woosley and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + + + + + THE WORLD'S + BEST POETRY + + + + + +I Home: Friendship VI Fancy: Sentiment + II Love VII Descriptive: Narrative +III Sorrow and Consolation VIII National Spirit + IV The Higher Life IX Tragedy: Humor +V Nature X Poetical Quotations + + * * * * * + + + THE + WORLD'S + BEST POETRY + + + IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED + + Editor-in-Chief + BLISS CARMAN + + Associate Editors + John Vance Cheney + Charles G.D. Roberts + Charles F. Richardson + Francis H. Stoddard + + Managing Editor + John R. Howard + + + J.D. Morris and Company + Philadelphia + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1904, by + J.D. Morris & Company + + + + The World's Best Poetry + Vol. III + + + SORROW AND + CONSOLATION + + AN + INTERPRETER OF + LIFE + + By + LYMAN ABBOTT + + * * * * * + +NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS. + + +I. + +American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright +are used by the courteous permission of the owners,--either the +publishers named in the following list or the authors or their +representatives in the subsequent one,--who reserve all their rights. So +far as practicable, permission has been secured also for poems out of +copyright. + +PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY. 1904. + +Messrs. D. APPLETON & Co., New York.--_W.C. Bryant_: "Blessed are They +that Mourn," "The Conqueror's Grave," "Thanatopsis." + +Messrs. E.P. DUTTON & Co., New York.--_Mary W. Howland_: "Rest." + +The FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY, New York.--_John W. Palmer_: "For Charlie's +Sake." + +Messrs. HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.--_Will Carleton_: "Over the Hill to +the Poor House." + +Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co., Boston.--_Margaret Deland_: "Love and +Death;" _John Hay_: "A Woman's Love;" _O.W. Holmes_: "The Last Leaf," +"The Voiceless;" _Mary Clemmer A. Hudson_: "Something Beyond;" _H.W. +Longfellow_: "Death of Minnehaha," "Footsteps of Angels," "God's Acre," +"The Rainy Day," "The Reaper and the Flowers," "Resignation;" _J.R. +Lowell_: "Auf Wiedersehen," "First Snow Fall," "Palinode;" _Harriet W. +Preston_: "Fidelity in Doubt;" _Margaret E. Sangster_: "Are the Children +at Home?" _E.R. Sill_: "A Morning Thought;" _Harriet E. Spofford_: "The +Nun and Harp;" _Harriet B. Stowe_: "Lines to the Memory of Annie." "Only +a Year;" _J.T. Trowbridge_: "Dorothy in the Garret;" _J.G. Whittier_: +"To Her Absent Sailor," "Angel of Patience," "Maud Muller." + +Mr. JOHN LANE, New York.--_R. Le Gallienne_: "Song," "What of the +Darkness?" + +Messrs. LITTLE, BROWN & Co., Boston.--_J.W. Chadwick_: "The Two +Waitings;" _Helen Hunt Jackson_: "Habeas Corpus." + +The LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY, Boston.--_Paul H. Hayne_: "In Harbor." + +Messrs. G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS, New York.--_Elaine Goodale Eastman_: "Ashes +of Roses;" _R.C. Rogers_: "The Shadow Rose." + +Messrs. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, New York.--_R. Bridges (Droch)_: "The +Unillumined Verge;" _Mary Mapes Dodge_: "The Two Mysteries;" _Julia C.R. +Dorr_: "Hush" (Afterglow). + + +II. + +American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given below +are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their representatives +named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without their permission, +which for the present work has been courteously granted. + +PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY. 1904. + +_W.R. Alger; Mrs. Amelia E. Barr; Henry A. Blood_ (Mrs. R.E. Whitman); +_Robert J. Burdette; John Burroughs; Mary A. De Vere; Nathan H. Dole; +William C. Gannett; Dr. Silas W. Mitchell; Mrs. Sarah M. Piatt; Walt +Whitman_ (H. Traubel, Literary Executor). + + * * * * * + + + + +AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE. + +BY LYMAN ABBOTT. + + + +Poetry, music, and painting are three correlated arts, connected not +merely by an accidental classification, but by their intrinsic nature. +For they all possess the same essential function, namely, to interpret +the uninterpretable, to reveal the undiscoverable, to express the +inexpressible. They all attempt, in different forms and through +different languages, to translate the invisible and eternal into +sensuous forms, and through sensuous forms to produce in other souls +experiences akin to those in the soul of the translator, be he poet, +musician, or painter. That they are three correlated arts, attempting, +each in its own way and by its own language, to express the same +essential life, is indicated by their co-operation in the musical drama. +This is the principle which Wagner saw so clearly, and has used to such +effective purpose in his so-called operas, whose resemblance to the +Italian operas which preceded them is more superficial than real. In the +drama Wagner wishes you to consider neither the music apart from the +scenery, nor the scenery apart from the acting, nor the three apart from +the poetry. Poetry, music, and art combine with the actor to interpret +truths of life which transcend philosophic definition. Thus in the first +act of "Parsifal," innocence born of ignorance, remorse born of the +experience of temptation and sin, and reverence bred in an atmosphere +not innocent yet free from the experience of great temptation, mingle in +a drama which elevates all hearts, because in some one of these three +phases it touches every heart. And yet certain of the clergy condemned +the presentation as irreverent, because it expresses reverence in a +symbolism to which they were unaccustomed. + +But while it is true that these three arts are correlative and +co-operative, they do not duplicate one another. Each not only speaks in +a language of its own, but expresses in that language a life which the +others cannot express. As color and fragrance combine to make the +flower, but the color expresses what the fragrance cannot express, and +the fragrance expresses what the color cannot express, so in the musical +drama, music, poetry, and painting combine, not by duplicating but by +supplementing each other. One may describe in language a symphony; but +no description will produce the effect which the symphony produces. One +may describe a painting; but no description will produce the effect +which the painting will produce. So neither music, nor painting, nor +both combined, can produce the same effect on the soul as poetry. The +"Midsummer Night's Dream" enacted in pantomime, with Mendelssohn's +music, would no more produce the same effect on the auditors which would +be produced by the interpretation of the play in spoken words, than +would the reading of the play at home produce the same effect as the +enacting of the play with what are miscalled the accessories of music +and scenery. The music and scenery are no more accessories to the words +than the words are accessories to the music and scenery. The three +combine in a triple language to express and produce one life, and it can +be expressed and produced in no other way than by the combination of the +three arts in harmonious action. This is the reason why no parlor +readings can ever take the place of the theatre, and no concert +performance can ever take the place of the opera. This is the reason why +all attempts to suppress the theatre and opera are and always will be in +vain. They are attempts to suppress the expression and awakening of a +life which can neither be expressed nor awakened in any other way; and +suppression of life, however successfully it may be accomplished for a +time, is never permanently possible. + +These arts do not truly create, they interpret. Man is not a creator, he +is only a discoverer. The imagination is not creative, it is only +reportorial. Ideals are realities; imagination is seeing. The musician, +the artist, the poet, discover life which others have not discovered, +and each with his own instrument interprets that life to those less +sensitive than himself. Observe a musician composing. He writes; stops; +hesitates; meditates; perhaps hums softly to himself; perhaps goes to +the piano and strikes a chord or two. What is he doing? He is trying to +express to himself a beauty which he has heard in the world of infinite +phenomena, and to reproduce it as well as sensuous sounds can reproduce +it, that those with duller hearing than himself may hear it also. +Observe a painter before his easel. He paints; looks to see the effect; +erases; adds; modifies; reexamines; and repeats this operation over and +over again. What is he doing? He is copying a beauty which he has seen +in the invisible world, and which he is attempting to bring out from its +hiding so that the men who have no eyes except for the sensuous may also +see it. In my library is an original sonnet by John G. Whittier. In +almost every line are erasures and interlineations. In some cases the +careful poet has written a new line and pasted it over the rejected one. +What does this mean? It means that he has discovered a truth of moral +beauty and is attempting to interpret his discovery to the world. His +first interpretation of his vision did not suit him, nor his second, nor +his third, and he has revised and re-revised in the attempt to make his +verse a true interpretation of the truth which he had seen. He did not +make the truth; it eternally was. Neither did the musician make the +truth of harmony, nor the painter the truth of form and color. They also +eternally were. Poet, musician, painter, have seen, heard, felt, +realized in their own souls some experience of life, some potent reality +which philosophy cannot formulate, nor creed contain, nor eloquence +define; and each in his own way endeavors to give it to the world of +men; each in his own way endeavors to lift the gauzy curtain, +impenetrable to most souls, which hides the invisible, the inaudible, +the eternal, the divine from men; and he gives them a glimpse of that of +which he himself had but a glimpse. + +In one sense and in one only can art be called creative: the artist, +whether he be painter, musician, or poet, so interprets to other men the +experience which has been created in him by his vision of the +supersensible and eternal, that he evokes in them a similar experience. +He is a creator only as he conveys to others the life which has been +created in himself. As the electric wire creates light in the home; as +the band creates the movement in the machinery; thus and only thus does +the artist create life in those that wait upon him. He is in truth an +interpreter and transmitter, not a creator. Nor can he interpret what he +has not first received, nor transmit what he has not first experienced. +The music, the painting, the poem are merely the instruments which he +uses for that purpose. The life must first be in him or the so-called +music, painting, poem are but dead simulacra; imitations of art, not +real art. This is the reason why no mechanical device, be it never so +skillfully contrived, can ever take the place of the living artist. The +pianola can never rival the living performer; nor the orchestrion the +orchestra; nor the chromo the painting. No mechanical device has yet +been invented to produce poetry; even if some shrewd Yankee should +invent a printing machine which would pick out rhymes as some printing +machines seem to pick out letters, the result would not be a poem. This +is the reason too why mere perfection of execution never really +satisfies. "She sings like a bird." Yes! and that is exactly the +difficulty with her. We want one who sings like a woman. The popular +criticism of the mere musical expert that he has no soul, is profound +and true. It is soul we want; for the piano, the organ, the violin, the +orchestra, are only instruments for the transmission of soul. This is +also the reason why the most flawless conductor is not always the best. +He must have a soul capable of reading the soul of the composer; and the +orchestra must receive the life of the composer as that is interpreted +to them through the life of the conductor, or the performance will be a +soulless performance. + +Into each of these arts, therefore--music, painting, poetry--enter two +elements: the inner and the outer, the truth and the language, the +reality and the symbol, the life and the expression. Without the +electric current the carbon is a mere blank thread; the electric current +is not luminous if there be no carbon. The life and the form are alike +essential. So the painter must have something to express, but he must +also have skill to express it; the musician must have music in his soul, +but he must also have a power of instrumentation; the poet must feel the +truth, or he is no poet, but he must also have power to express what he +feels in such forms as will create a similar feeling in his readers, or +he is still no poet. Multitudes of women send to the newspapers poetical +effusions which, are not poems. The feeling of the writer is excellent, +but the expression is bad. The writer has seen, but she cannot tell what +she has seen; she has felt, but she cannot express her experience so as +to enkindle a like experience in others. These poetical utterances of +inarticulate poets are sometimes whimsical but oftener pathetic; +sometimes they are like the prattle of little children who exercise +their vocal organs before they have anything to say; but oftener they +seem to me like the beseeching eyes of a dumb animal, full of affection +and entreaty for which he has no vocal expression. It is just as +essential that poetical feeling should have poetical expression in order +to constitute poetry as it is that musical feeling should have musical +expression in order to constitute music. And, on the other hand, as +splashes of color without artistic feeling which they interpret are not +art, as musical, sounds without musical feeling which they interpret are +not music, so poetical forms without poetical feeling are not poetry. +Poetical feeling in unpoetical forms may be poetical prose, but it is +still prose. And on the other hand, rhymes, however musical they may be +to the ear, are only rhymes, not poetry, unless they express a true +poetical life. + +But these two elements are separable only in thought, not in reality. +Poetry is not common thought expressed in an uncommon manner; it is not +an artificial phrasing of even the higher emotions. The higher emotions +have a phrasing of their own; they fall naturally--whether as the result +of instinct or of habit need not here be considered--into fitting forms. +The form may be rhyme; it may be blank verse; it may be the old Hebrew +parallelism; it may even be the indescribable form which Walt Whitman +has adopted. What is noticeable is the fact that poetical thought, if it +is at its best, always takes on, by a kind of necessity, some poetical +form. To illustrate if not to demonstrate this, it is only necessary to +select from literature any fine piece of poetical expression of a higher +and nobler emotion, or of clear and inspiring vision, and attempt to put +it into prose form. The reader will find, if he be dealing with the +highest poetry, that translating it into prose impairs its power to +express the feeling, and makes the expression not less but more +artificial. If he doubt this statement, let him turn to any of the finer +specimens of verse in this volume and see whether he can express the +life in prose as truly, as naturally, as effectively, as it is there +expressed in rhythmical form. + +These various considerations may help to explain why in all ages of the +world the arts have been the handmaidens of religion. Not to amplify +too much, I have confined these considerations to the three arts of +music, painting, and poetry; but they are also applicable to sculpture +and architecture. All are attempts by men of vision to interpret to the +men who are not equally endowed with vision, what the invisible world +about us and within us has for the enrichment of our lives. This is +exactly the function of religion: to enrich human lives by making them +acquainted with the infinite. It is true that at times the arts have +been sensualized, the emphasis has been put on the form of expression, +not on the life expressed; and then reformers, like the Puritans and the +Quakers, have endeavored to exclude the arts from religion, lest they +should contaminate it. But the exclusion has been accomplished with +difficulty, and to maintain it has been impossible. It is neither an +accident, nor a sign of decadence, that painting and sculpture are +creeping back into the Protestant churches, to combine with poetry and +music in expressing the religious life of man. For the intellect alone +is inadequate either to express that life as it exists, or to call it +into existence where it does not exist. The tendency to ritual in our +time is a tendency not to substitute aesthetic for spiritual life, though +there is probably always a danger that such a substitution may be +unconsciously made, but to express a religious life which cannot be +expressed without the aid of aesthetic symbols. The work of the intellect +is to analyze and define. But the infinite is in the nature of the case +indefinable, and it is with the infinite religion has to do. All that +theology can hope to accomplish is to define certain provinces in the +illimitable realm of truth; to analyze certain experiences in a life +which transcends all complete analysis. The Church must learn to regard +not with disfavor or suspicion, but with eager acceptance, the +co-operation of the arts in the interpretation of infinite truth and the +expression of infinite life. Certainly we are not to turn our churches +into concert rooms or picture and sculpture galleries, and imagine that +aesthetic enjoyment is synonymous with piety. But as surely we are not to +banish the arts from our churches, and think that we are religious +because we are barren. All language, whether of painting, sculpture, +architecture, music, poetry, or oratory, is legitimately used to express +the divine life, as all the faculties, whether of painter, sculptor, +architect, musician, poet, orator, and philosopher, are to be used in +reaching after a more perfect knowledge of Him who always transcends and +always will transcend our perfect knowing. + +Thus the study of poetry is the study of life, because poetry is the +interpretation of life. Poetry is not a mere instrument for promoting +enjoyment; it does not merely dazzle the imagination and excite the +emotions. Through the emotions and the imagination it both interprets +life and ministers to life. When the critic attempts to express that +truth, that is, to interpret the interpreter, which he can do only by +translating the poetry into prose, and the language of imagination and +emotion into that of philosophy, he destroys the poem in the process, +much as the botanist destroys the flower in analyzing it, or the musical +critic the composition in disentangling its interwoven melodies and +explaining the mature of its harmonic structure. The analysis, whether +of music, art, or poetry, must be followed by a synthesis, which, in the +nature of the case, can be accomplished only by the hearer or reader for +himself. All that I can do here is to illustrate this revelatory +character of poetry by some references to the poems which this volume +contains. I do not attempt to explain the meaning of these poems; that +is a task quite impossible. I only attempt to show that they have a +meaning, that beneath their beauty of form is a depth of truth which +philosophical statement in prose cannot interpret, but the essence of +which such statement may serve to suggest. I do not wish to expound the +truth of life which is contained in the poet's verse; I only wish to +show that the poet by his verse reveals a truth of life which the critic +cannot express, and that it is for this reason pre-eminently that such a +collection of poetry as this is deserving of the reader's study. + +If for example the student turns to such a volume as Newman Smyth's +"Christian Ethics," he will find there a careful though condensed +discussion of the right and wrong of suicide. It is cool, deliberate, +philosophical. But it gives no slightest hint of the real state of the +man who is deliberating within himself whether he will commit suicide +or no; no hint of the real arguments that pass in shadow through his +mind:--the weariness of life which summons him to end all; the nameless, +indefinable dread of the mystery and darkness and night into which death +carries us, which makes him hesitate. If we would really understand the +mind of the suicide, not merely the mind of the philosopher coolly +debating suicide, we must turn to the poet. + + "To be, or not to be: that is the question: + Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer + The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, + Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, + And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; + No more; and by a sleep to say we end + The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks + That flesh is heir to, 't is a consummation + Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; + To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; + For in that sleep of death what dreams may come + When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, + Must give us pause: there's the respect + That makes calamity of so long life; + For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, + The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, + The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, + The insolence of office, and the spurns + That patient merit of the unworthy takes, + When he himself might his quietus make + With a bare bodkin! Who would fardels bear, + To grunt and sweat under a weary life, + But that the dread of something after death, + The undiscovered country from whose bourne + No traveller returns, puzzles the will + And makes us rather bear those ills we have + Than fly to others that we know not of? + Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; + And thus the native hue of resolution + Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, + And enterprises of great pith and moment + With this regard their currents turn awry, + And lose the name of action." + +This first the poet does: he draws aside the veil which hides the +working of men's hearts, and lets us see their hidden life. But he does +more. Not merely does he afford us knowledge, he imparts life. For we +know feeling only by participating in the feeling; and the poet has the +art not merely to describe the experiences of men but so to describe +them that for the moment we share them, and so truly know them by the +only process by which they can be known. Who, for instance, can read +Thomas Hood's "The Bridge of Sighs" and not, as he reads, stand by the +despairing one as she waits a moment upon the bridge just ready to take +her last leap out of the cruelty of this world into, let us hope, the +mercy of a more merciful world beyond? + + "Where the lamps quiver + So far in the river, + With many a light + From window and casement, + From garret to basement, + She stood, with amazement, + Homeless by night. + + "The bleak wind of March + Made her tremble and shiver; + But not the dark arch, + Or the black flowing river: + Mad from life's history, + Glad to death's mystery + Swift to be hurled-- + Anywhere, anywhere + Out of the world. + + "In she plunged boldly-- + No matter how coldly + The rough river ran,-- + Over the brink of it! + Picture it--think of it, + Dissolute man! + Lave in it, drink of it, + Then, if you can. + + "Take her up tenderly, + Lift her with care; + Fashioned so slenderly, + Young, and so fair!" + +No analysis of philosophy can make us acquainted with the tragedy of +this life as the poet can; no exhortation of preacher can so effectively +arouse in us the spirit of a Christian charity for the despairing +wanderer as the poet. + +Would you know the tragedy of a careless and supercilious coquetry which +plays with the heart as the fisherman plays with the salmon? Read "Clara +Vere de Vere." Would you know the dull heartache of a loveless married +life, growing at times into an intolerable anguish which no marital +fidelity can do much to medicate? Read "Auld Robin Gray." Who but a poet +can interpret the pain of a parting between loving hearts, with its +remorseful recollections of the wholly innocent love's joys that are +past? + + "Had we never loved sae kindly, + Had we never loved sae blindly, + Never met--or never parted, + We had ne'er been broken hearted." + +Who but a poet can depict the perils of an unconscious drifting apart, +such as has destroyed many a friendship and wrecked many a married life, +as Clough has depicted it in "Qua Cursum Ventus"? If you would know the +life-long sorrow of the blind man at your side, would enter into his +life and for a brief moment share his captivity, read Milton's +interpretation of that sorrow in Samson's Lament. If you would find some +message to cheer the blind man in his darkness and illumine his +captivity, read the same poet's ode on his own blindness: + + "God doth not need + Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best + Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state + Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, + And post o'er land and ocean without rest; + They also serve who only stand and wait." + +No prison statistics, no police reports, no reformer's documents, no +public discussions of the question, What to do with the tramp, will ever +so make the student of life participant of the innermost experience of +the tramp, his experience of dull despair, his loss of his grip on life, +as Beranger's "The Old Vagabond." No expert in nervous diseases, no +psychological student of mental states, normal and abnormal, can give +the reader so clear an understanding of that deep and seemingly +causeless dejection, which because it seems to be causeless seems also +to be well-nigh incurable, as Percy Bysshe Shelley has given in his +"Stanzas written near Naples." No critical expounder of the Stoical +philosophy can interpret the stoical temper which interposes a sullen +but dauntless pride to attacking sorrow as William Ernest Henley has +done: + + "Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, + I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + + "In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud. + Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed." + +Nor can any preacher put in so vital a contrast to this despairing +defiance with which pride challenges sorrow, the joyous victory which a +trusting love wins over it by submitting to it, as John Greenleaf +Whittier has done in "The Eternal Goodness": + + "I know not what the future hath + Of marvel or surprise, + Assured alone that life and death + His mercy underlies. + + "I know not where His islands lift + Their fronded palms in air: + I only know I cannot drift + Beyond His love and care." + +No philosophical treatise can interpret bereavement as the great poets +have interpreted it. The mystery of sorrow, the bewilderment it causes, +the wonder whether there is any God or any good, the silence that is the +only answer to our call for help, the tumult of emotion, the strange +perplexity of mind, the dull despair, the inexplicable paralysis of +feeling, intermingling in one wholly inconsistent and incongruous +experience: where, in all the literature of Philosophy can we find such +an exposition and echo and interpretation of this experience as in that +great Hebrew epic--the Book of Job? And where in all the literature of +Philosophy can we find such interpreters of the two great comforters of +the soul, faith and hope, as one finds in the poets? They do not argue; +they simply sing. And, as a note struck upon one of a chime of bells +will set the neighboring bell vibrating, so the strong note of faith and +hope sounded by the poet, sets a like note vibrating in the mourner's +heart. The mystery is not solved, but the silence is broken. First we +listen to the poet, then we listen to the same song sung in our own +hearts,--the same, for it is God who has sung to him and who sings to +us. And when the bereaved has found God, he has found light in his +darkness, peace in his tempest, a ray in his night. + + "As a child, + Whose song-bird seeks the wood forevermore, + Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth; + Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, + He sleep the faster that he wept before." + +The visitor to the island of Catalina, off the coast of California, is +invited to go out in a glass-bottomed boat upon the sea. If he accepts +the invitation and looks about him with careless curiosity, he will +enjoy the blue of the summer sky and ocean wave, and the architectural +beauty of the island hills; but if he turns his gaze downward and looks +through the glass bottom of the boat in which he is sailing, he will +discover manifold phases of beauty in the life beneath the sea waves: in +goldfish darting hither and thither, in umbrella-shaped jellyfish lazily +swimming by, in starfish and anemones of infinite variety, in +sea-urchins brilliant in color, and in an endless forest of water-weeds +exquisitely delicate in their structure. Perhaps he will try to +photograph them; but in vain: his camera will render him no report of +the wealth of life which he has seen. So he who takes up such a volume +of poetry as this will find ample repayment in the successive pictures +which it presents to his imagination, and the transient emotions which +it will excite in him. But besides this there is a secret life which the +careless reader will fail to see, and which the critic cannot report, +but which will be revealed to the thoughtful, patient, meditative +student. In this power to reveal an otherwise unknown world, lies the +true glory of poetry. He that hath ears to hear, let him hear what the +poet has to say to him. + +[Signature: Lyman Abbot] + + * * * * * + + + + TABLE OF CONTENTS + + +INTRODUCTORY ESSAY: + + "AN INTERPRETER OF LIFE." By _Lyman Abbot_ + + +POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION: + + DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE + PARTING AND ABSENCE + ADVERSITY + COMFORT AND CHEER + DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT + CONSOLATION + + +INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES + + +LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. + + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW _Frontispiece_ + + _Photogravure from photograph by Hanfstaengl after portrait by Kramer_. + +PENELOPE AWAITING ULYSSES + + _The patient grief and endurance of Absence: while the tapestry + woven by day stands on the frame to be unravelled by night, as the + loyal wife puts off her suitors. Painting by Rudolph von Deutsch_. + +ABSENCE + + "What shall I do with all the days and hours + That must be counted ere I see thy face?" + + _From a photograph by the Berlin Photographic Co., after a painting by + R. Poetzelberger_. + +WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND + + "Behold me, a god, what I endure from gods! + Behold, with throe on throe, + How, wasted by this woe, + I wrestle down the myriad years of Time!" + + _From photograph after a painting by G. Graeff_. + + +PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER + + _From lithograph after a crayon-drawing by H. Alophe_. + + +THOMAS HOOD + + _After an engraving from contemporary portrait_. + + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING + + _After a photograph from life by Talfourd, London_. + +THE COUNTRY CHURCHYARD + + "Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, + Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, + Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." + + _After an original drawing by Harry Fenn_. + + +LOVE AND DEATH + + "Death comes in, + Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread, + Would bar the way." + + _From photogravure after the painting by George Fredeick Watts_. + +WALT WHITMAN + + _After a life-photograph by Rockwood, New York_. + +HARRIET BEECHER STOWE + + _From an engraving after the drawing by George Richmond_. + + +SIR EDWIN ARNOLD + + _After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London_. + + + + + * * * * * + + + POEMS OF SORROW AND CONSOLATION. + + + * * * * * + + + + +I. DISAPPOINTMENT IN LOVE. + + + +THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. + + FROM "MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM," ACT I. SC. 1. + + +For aught that ever I could read, +Could ever hear by tale or history, +The course of true love never did run smooth: +But, either it was different in blood, +Or else misgraffed in respect of years, +Or else it stood upon the choice of friends; +Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, +War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, +Making it momentary as a sound, +Swift as a shadow, short as any dream; +Brief as the lightning in the collied night, +That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, +And ere a man hath power to say,--Behold! +The jaws of darkness do devour it up: +So quick bright things come to confusion. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. + + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + Of me you shall not win renown; +You thought to break a country heart + For pastime, ere you went to town. +At me you smiled, but unbeguiled + I saw the snare, and I retired: +The daughter of a hundred Earls, + You are not one to be desired. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + I know you proud to bear your name; +Your pride is yet no mate for mine, + Too proud to care from whence I came. +Nor would I break for your sweet sake + A heart that dotes on truer charms. +A simple maiden in her flower + Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + Some meeker pupil you must find, +For were you queen of all that is, + I could not stoop to such a mind. +You sought to prove how I could love, + And my disdain is my reply. +The lion on your old stone gates + Is not more cold to you than I. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + You put strange memories in my head. +Not thrice your branching lines have blown + Since I beheld young Laurence dead. +O your sweet eyes, your low replies: + A great enchantress you may be; +But there was that across his throat + Which you had hardly cared to see. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + When thus he met his mother's view, +She had the passions of her kind, + She spake some certain truths of you. +Indeed I heard one bitter word + That scarce is fit for you to hear; +Her manners had not that repose + Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. + +Lady Clara Vere de Vere, + There stands a spectre in your hall: +The guilt of blood is at your door: + You changed a wholesome heart to gall. +You held your course without remorse, + To make him trust his modest worth, +And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, + And slew him with your noble birth. + +Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, + From yon blue heavens above us bent +The grand old gardener and his wife + Smile at the claims of long descent. +Howe'er it be, it seems to me, + 'T is only noble to be good. +Kind hearts are more than coronets, + And simple faith than Norman blood. + +I know you, Clara Vere de Vere: + You pine among your halls and towers: +The languid light of your proud eyes + Is wearied of the rolling hours. +In glowing health, with boundless wealth, + But sickening of a vague disease, +You know so ill to deal with time, + You needs must play such pranks as these. + +Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, + If Time be heavy on your hands, +Are there no beggars at your gate. + Nor any poor about your lands? +Oh! teach the orphan-boy to read, + Or teach the orphan-girl to sew, +Pray Heaven for a human heart, + And let the foolish yeoman go. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +LINDA TO HAFED. + + FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." + + +"How sweetly," said the trembling maid, +Of her own gentle voice afraid, +So long had they in silence stood, +Looking upon that moonlight flood,-- +"How sweetly does the moonbeam smile +To-night upon yon leafy isle! +Oft in my fancy's wanderings, +I've wished that little isle had wings, +And we, within its fairy bowers, + Were wafted off to seas unknown, +Where not a pulse should beat but ours, + And we might live, love, die alone! +Far from the cruel and the cold,-- + Where the bright eyes of angels only +Should come around us, to behold + A paradise so pure and lonely! +Would this be world enough for thee?"-- +Playful she turned, that he might see + The passing smile her cheek put on; +But when she marked how mournfully + His eyes met hers, that smile was gone; +And, bursting into heartfelt tears, +"Yes, yes," she cried, "my hourly fears, +My dreams, have boded all too right,-- +We part--forever part--to-night! +I knew, I knew it _could_ not last,-- +'T was bright, 't was heavenly, but 't is past! +O, ever thus, from childhood's hour, + I've seen my fondest hopes decay; +I never loved a tree or flower + But 't was the first to fade away. +I never nursed a dear gazelle, + To glad me with its soft black eye, +But when it came to know me well, + And love me, it was sure to die! +Now, too, the joy most like divine + Of all I ever dreamt or knew, +To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine,-- + O misery! must I lose _that_ too?" + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +LOVE NOT. + + +Love not, love not, ye hapless sons of clay! +Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers,-- +Things that are made to fade and fall away +Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. + Love not! + +Love not! the thing ye love may change; +The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, +The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, +The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. + Love not! + +Love not! the thing you love may die,-- +May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; +The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, +Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. + Love not! + +Love not! O warning vainly said +In present hours as in years gone by! +Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, +Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. + Love not! + +CAROLINE ELIZABETH SHERIDAN. (HON. MRS. NORTON.) + + + +THE PRINCESS. + + +The Princess sat lone in her maiden bower, +The lad blew his horn at the foot of the tower. +"Why playest thou alway? Be silent, I pray, +It fetters my thoughts that would flee far away. + As the sun goes down." + +In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, +The lad had ceased to play on his horn. +"Oh, why art thou silent? I beg thee to play! +It gives wings to my thought that would flee far away, + As the sun goes down." + +In her maiden bower sat the Princess forlorn, +Once more with delight played the lad on his horn. +She wept as the shadows grew long, and she sighed: +"Oh, tell me, my God, what my heart doth betide, + Now the sun has gone down." + +From the Norwegian of BJOeRNSTJERNE BJOeRNSON. +Translation of NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. + + + +UNREQUITED LOVE. + + FROM "TWELFTH NIGHT," ACT I. SC. 4. + + +VIOLA.--Ay, but I know,-- + +DUKE. What dost thou know? + +VIOLA.--Too well what love women to men may owe: +In faith, they are as true of heart as we. +My father had a daughter loved a man, +As it might be, perhaps, were I a woman, +I should your lordship. + +DUKE.--And what's her history? + +VIOLA.--A blank, my lord. She never told her love, +But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, +Feed on her damask cheek; she pined in thought; +And, with a green and yellow melancholy, +She sat like Patience on a monument, +Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? +We men may say more, swear more: but, indeed, +Our shows are more than will; for still we prove +Much in our vows, but little in our love. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +FAIR INES. + + +O saw ye not fair Ines? she's gone into the west, +To dazzle when the sun is down, and rob the world of rest; +She took our daylight with her, the smiles that we love best, +With morning blushes on her cheek, and pearls upon her breast. + +O turn again, fair Ines, before the fall of night, +For fear the moon should shine alone, and stars unrivalled bright; +And blessed will the lover be that walks beneath their light, +And breathes the love against thy cheek I dare not even write! + +Would I had been, fair Ines, that gallant cavalier +Who rode so gayly by thy side and whispered thee so near! +Were there no bonny dames at home, or no true lovers here, +That he should cross the seas to win the dearest of the dear? + +I saw thee, lovely Ines, descend along the shore, +With bands of noble gentlemen, and banners waved before; +And gentle youth and maidens gay, and snowy plumes they wore;-- +It would have been a beauteous dream--if it had been no more! + +Alas! alas! fair Ines! she went away with song, +With music waiting on her steps, and shoutings of the throng; +But some were sad, and felt no mirth, but only Music's wrong, +In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell to her you've loved so long. + +Farewell, farewell, fair Ines! that vessel never bore +So fair a lady on its deck, nor danced so light before-- +Alas for pleasure on the sea, and sorrow on the shore! +The smile that blest one lover's heart has broken many more! + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +THE BANKS O' DOON. + + +Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, + How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair? +How can ye chant, ye little birds, + And I sae weary, fu' o' care? + +Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, + That wantons through the flowering thorn; +Thou minds me o' departed joys, + Departed--never to return. + +Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonnie bird, + That sings beside thy mate; +For sae I sat, and sae I sang, + And wistna o' my fate. + +Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, + To see the rose and woodbine twine; +And ilka bird sang o' its luve, + And, fondly, sae did I o' mine. + +Wi' lightsome heart I pou'd a rose, + Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; +And my fause luver stole my rose, + But ah! he left the thorn wi' me. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +SONNET. + + FROM "ASTROPHEL AND STELLA." + + +With how sad steps, O Moon! thou climb'st the skies, +How silently, and with how wan a face! +What may it be, that even in heavenly place +That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries? +Sure, if that long-with-love-acquainted eyes +Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case; +I read it in thy looks; thy languished grace +To me, that feel the like, thy state descries. +Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, +Is constant love deemed there but want of wit? +Are beauties there as proud as here they be? +Do they above love to be loved, and yet +Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess? +Do they call virtue there ungratefulness? + +SIR PHILIP SIDNEY. + + + +AGATHA. + + +She wanders in the April woods, + That glisten with the fallen shower; +She leans her face against the buds, + She stops, she stoops, she plucks a flower. + She feels the ferment of the hour: +She broodeth when the ringdove broods; + The sun and flying clouds have power +Upon her cheek and changing moods. + She cannot think she is alone, + As over her senses warmly steal + Floods of unrest she fears to own + And almost dreads to feel. + +Among the summer woodlands wide + Anew she roams, no more alone; +The joy she feared is at her side, + Spring's blushing secret now is known. + The primrose and its mates have flown, +The thrush's ringing note hath died; + But glancing eye and glowing tone +Fall on her from her god, her guide. + She knows not, asks not, what the goal, + She only feels she moves towards bliss, + And yields her pure unquestioning soul + To touch and fondling kiss. + +And still she haunts those woodland ways, + Though all fond fancy finds there now +To mind of spring or summer days, + Are sodden trunk and songless bough. + The past sits widowed on her brow, +Homeward she wends with wintry gaze, + To walls that house a hollow vow, +To hearth where love hath ceased to blaze; + Watches the clammy twilight wane, + With grief too fixed for woe or tear; + And, with her forehead 'gainst the pane, + Envies the dying year. + +ALFRED AUSTIN. + + + +THE SUN-DIAL. + + +'T is an old dial, dark with many a stain; + In summer crowned with drifting orchard bloom, +Tricked in the autumn with the yellow rain, + And white in winter like a marble tomb. + +And round about its gray, time-eaten brow + Lean letters speak,--a worn and shattered row: +=I am a Shade; a Shadowe too art thou: + I marke the Time: saye, Gossip, dost thou soe?= + +Here would the ring-doves linger, head to head; + And here the snail a silver course would run, +Beating old Time; and here the peacock spread + His gold-green glory, shutting out the sun. + +The tardy shade moved forward to the noon; + Betwixt the paths a dainty Beauty stept, +That swung a flower, and, smiling hummed a tune,-- + Before whose feet a barking spaniel leapt. + +O'er her blue dress an endless blossom strayed; + About her tendril-curls the sunlight shone; +And round her train the tiger-lilies swayed, + Like courtiers bowing till the queen be gone. + +She leaned upon the slab a little while, + Then drew a jewelled pencil from her zone, +Scribbled a something with a frolic smile, + Folded, inscribed, and niched it in the stone. + +The shade slipped on, no swifter than the snail; + There came a second lady to the place, +Dove-eyed, dove-robed, and something wan and pale,-- + An inner beauty shining from her face. + +She, as if listless with a lonely love, + Straying among the alleys with a book,-- +Herrick or Herbert,--watched the circling dove, + And spied the tiny letter in the nook. + +Then, like to one who confirmation found + Of some dread secret half-accounted true,-- +Who knew what hearts and hands the letter bound, + And argued loving commerce 'twixt the two,-- + +She bent her fair young forehead on the stone; + The dark shade gloomed an instant on her head; +And 'twixt her taper fingers pearled and shone + The single tear that tear-worn eyes will shed. + +The shade slipped onward to the falling gloom; + Then came a soldier gallant in her stead, +Swinging a beaver with a swaling plume, + A ribboned love-lock rippling from his head. + +Blue-eyed, frank-faced, with clear and open brow, + Scar-seamed a little, as the women love; +So kindly fronted that you marvelled how + The frequent sword-hilt had so frayed his glove; + +Who switched at Psyche plunging in the sun; + Uncrowned three lilies with a backward swinge; +And standing somewhat widely, like to one + More used to "Boot and Saddle" than to cringe + +As courtiers do, but gentleman withal, + Took out the note;--held it as one who feared +The fragile thing he held would slip and fall; + Read and re-read, pulling his tawny beard; + +Kissed it, I think, and hid it in his breast; + Laughed softly in a flattered, happy way, +Arranged the broidered baldrick on his crest, + And sauntered past, singing a roundelay. + + * * * * * + +The shade crept forward through the dying glow; + There came no more nor dame nor cavalier; +But for a little time the brass will show + A small gray spot,--the record of a tear. + +AUSTIN DOBSON. + + + +LOCKSLEY HALL. + + +Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn,-- +Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle horn. + +'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call, +Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall: + +Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts, +And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. + +Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, +Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west. + +Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, +Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. + +Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime +With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time; + +When the centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed; +When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed; + +When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see,-- +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. + +In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; +In the spring the wanton lapwing gets himself another crest; + +In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove; +In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. + +Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, +And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. + +And I said, "My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me; +Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." + +On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, +As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. + +And she turned,--her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs; +All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes,-- + +Saying, "I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;" +Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, "I have loved thee long." + +Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands; +Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. + +Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; +Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. + +Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, +And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring. + +Many an evening by the water did we watch the stately ships, +And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. + +O my cousin, shallow-hearted! O my Amy, mine no more! +O the dreary, dreary moorland! O the barren, barren shore! + +Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,-- +Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! + +Is it well to wish thee happy?--having known me; to decline +On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine! + +Yet it shall be: thou shalt lower to his level day by day, +What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. + +As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, +And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down. + +He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, +Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. + +What is this? his eyes are heavy,--think not they are glazed with wine. +Go to him; it is thy duty,--kiss him; take his hand in thine. + +It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is over wrought,-- +Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. + +He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand,-- +Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hand. + +Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, +Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. + +Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth! +Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth! + +Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule +Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool! + +Well--'t is well that I should bluster!--Hadst thou less unworthy proved, +Would to God--for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. + +Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but bitter fruit? +I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. + +Never! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come +As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home. + +Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? +Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? + +I remember one that perished; sweetly did she speak and move; +Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. + +Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? +No,--she never loved me truly; love is love forevermore. + +Comfort? comfort scorned of devils; this is truth the poet sings, +That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. + +Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, +In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. + +Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art staring at the wall, +Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. + +Then a hand shall pass before thee, pointing to his drunken sleep, +To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. + +Thou shalt hear the "Never, never," whispered by the phantom years, +And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; + +And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. +Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. + +Nay, but nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice will cry; +'Tis a purer life than thine, a lip to drain thy trouble dry. + +Baby lips will laugh me down; my latest rival brings thee rest,-- +Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. + +O, the child too clothes the father with a dearness not his due. +Half is thine and half is his: it will be worthy of the two. + +O, I see thee old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, +With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart. + +"They were dangerous guides, the feelings--she herself was not exempt-- +Truly, she herself had suffered"--Perish in thy self-contempt! + +Overlive it--lower yet--be happy! wherefore should I care? +I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. + +What is that which I should turn to, lighting upon days like these? +Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. + +Every gate is thronged with suitors, all the markets overflow. +I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? + +I had been content to perish, falling on the foeman's ground, +When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. + +But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels, +And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. + +Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. +Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous mother-age! + +Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, +When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; + +Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield, +Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, + +And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, +Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn; + +And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, +Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men; + +Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: +That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do: + +For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see, +Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be; + +Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argosies of magic sails, +Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costly bales; + +Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew +From the nations' airy navies grappling in the central blue; + +Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, +With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder-storm; + +Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle flags were furled +In the parliament of man, the federation of the world. + +There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, +And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. + +So I triumphed ere my passion sweeping through me left me dry, +Left me with a palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye; + +Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint. +Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point: + +Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, +Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly dying fire. + +Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, +And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. + +What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, +Though the deep heart of existence beat forever like a boy's? + +Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I linger on the shore +And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. + +Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, +Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness of his rest. + +Hark! my merry comrades call me, sounding on the bugle horn,-- +They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn; + +Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string? +I am shamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. + +Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain-- +Nature made them blinder motions bounded in a shallower brain; + +Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, matched with mine, +Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine-- + +Here at least, where nature sickens, nothing. Ah for some retreat +Deep in yonder shining Orient, where my life began to beat! + +Where in wild Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starred; +I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. + +Or to burst all links of habit,--there to wander far away, +On from island unto island at the gateways of the day, + +Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, +Breadths of tropic shade and palms in cluster, knots of Paradise. + +Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag,-- +Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, swings the trailer from the crag,-- + +Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree,-- +Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. + +There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind-- +In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. + +There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and + breathing-space; +I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. + +Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run, +Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun, + +Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, +Not with blinded eyesight poring over miserable books-- + +Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, +But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. + +I, to herd with narrow foreheads vacant of our glorious gains, +Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! + +Mated with a squalid savage,--what to me were sun or clime? +I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time,-- + +I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one, +Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! + +Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range; +Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. + +Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day: +Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. + +Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun,-- +Rift the hills and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun, + +O, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set; +Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet. + +Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall! +Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. + +Comes a vapor from the margin, blackening over heath and holt, +Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. + +Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; +For the mighty wind arises, roaring seaward, and I go. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +SONG. + + +"A weary lot is thine, fair maid, + A weary lot is thine! +To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, + And press the rue for wine! +A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, + A feather of the blue, +A doublet of the Lincoln green-- + No more of me you knew, + My love! + No more of me you knew. + +"The morn is merry June, I trow-- + The rose is budding fain; +But she shall bloom in winter snow + Ere we two meet again." +He turned his charger as he spake, + Upon the river shore; +He gave his bridle-rein a shake, + Said, "Adieu for evermore, + My love! + And adieu for evermore." + +SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + +AULD ROBIN GRAY. + + +When the sheep are in the fauld and the kye a' at hame, +When a' the weary world to sleep are gane, +The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my e'e, +While my gudeman lies sound by me. + +Young Jamie lo'ed me weel, and sought me for his bride; +But saving a crown, he had naething else beside. +To mak' the crown a pound, my Jamie gaed to sea; +And the crown and the pound, they were baith for me! + +He hadna been awa' a week but only twa, +When my mither she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa; +My father brak his arm--my Jamie at the sea-- +And Auld Robin Gray came a-courtin' me. + +My father couldna work,--my mither couldna spin; +I toiled day and night, but their bread I couldna win; +And Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his e'e, +Said, "Jennie for their sakes, will you marry me?" + +My heart it said na, for I looked for Jamie back; +But hard blew the winds, and his ship was a wrack; +His ship was a wrack! Why didna Jamie dee? +Or why was I spared to cry, Wae is me! + +My father argued sair--my mither didna speak, +But she looked in my face till my heart was like to break; +They gied him my hand, but my heart was in the sea; +And so Auld Robin Gray, he was gudeman to me. + +I hadna been his wife, a week but only four, +When, mournfu' as I sat on the stane at the door, +I saw my Jamie's ghaist--I couldna think it he, +Till he said, "I'm come hame, love, for to marry thee!" + +O sair, sair did we greet, and mickle did we say: +Ae kiss we took--nae mair--I bad him gang away. +I wish that I were dead, but I'm no like to dee, +And why do I live to say, Wae is me! + +I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin; +I darena think o' Jamie, for that wad be a sin. +But I will do my best a gude wife aye to be, +For Auld Robin Gray, he is kind unto me. + +LADY ANNE BARNARD. + + + +TO A PORTRAIT. + + +A pensive photograph + Watches me from the shelf-- +Ghost of old love, and half + Ghost of myself! + +How the dear waiting eyes + Watch me and love me yet-- +Sad home of memories, + Her waiting eyes! + +Ghost of old love, wronged ghost, + Return: though all the pain +Of all once loved, long lost, + Come back again. + +Forget not, but forgive! + Alas, too late I cry. +We are two ghosts that had their chance to live, + And lost it, she and I. + +ARTHUR SYMONS. + + + +MAUD MULLER. + + +Maud Muller, on a summer's day, +Raked the meadow sweet with hay. + +Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth +Of simple beauty and rustic health. + +Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee +The mock-bird echoed from his tree. + +But, when she glanced to the far-off town, +White from its hill-slope looking down, + +The sweet song died, and a vague unrest +And a nameless longing filled her breast,-- + +A wish, that she hardly dared to own, +For something better than she had known. + +The Judge rode slowly down the lane, +Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. + +He drew his bridle in the shade +Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, + +And ask a draught from the spring that flowed +Through the meadow, across the road. + +She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, +And filled for him her small tin cup, + +And blushed as she gave it, looking down +On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. + +"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught +From a fairer hand was never quaffed." + +He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, +Of the singing birds and the humming bees; + +Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether +The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. + +And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, +And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, + +And listened, while a pleased surprise +Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. + +At last, like one who for delay +Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. + +Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me! +That I the Judge's bride might be! + +"He would dress me up in silks so fine, +And praise and toast me at his wine. + +"My father should wear a broadcloth coat, +My brother should sail a painted boat. + +"I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, +And the baby should have a new toy each day. + +"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, +And all should bless me who left our door." + +The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, +And saw Maud Muller standing still: + +"A form more fair, a face more sweet, +Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. + +"And her modest answer and graceful air +Show her wise and good as she is fair. + +"Would she were mine, and I to-day, +Like her, a harvester of hay. + +"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, +Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, + +"But low of cattle, and song of birds, +And health, and quiet, and loving words." + +But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, +And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. + +So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, +And Maud was left in the field alone. + +But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, +When he hummed in court an old love tune; + +And the young girl mused beside the well, +Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. + +He wedded a wife of richest dower, +Who lived for fashion, as he for power. + +Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, +He watched a picture come and go; + +And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes +Looked out in their innocent surprise. + +Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, +He longed for the wayside well instead, + +And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, +To dream of meadows and clover blooms; + +And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, +"Ah, that I were free again! + +"Free as when I rode that day +Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay." + +She wedded a man unlearned and poor, +And many children played round her door. + +But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, +Left their traces on heart and brain. + +And oft, when the summer sun shone hot +On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, + +And she heard the little spring brook fall +Over the roadside, through the wall, + +In the shade of the apple-tree again +She saw a rider draw his rein, + +And, gazing down with a timid grace, +She felt his pleased eyes read her face. + +Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls +Stretched away into stately halls; + +The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, +The tallow candle an astral burned; + +And for him who sat by the chimney lug, +Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, + +A manly form at her side she saw, +And joy was duty and love was law. + +Then she took up her burden of life again, +Saying only, "It might have been." + +Alas for maiden, alas for judge, +For rich repiner and household drudge! + +God pity them both! and pity us all, +Who vainly the dreams of youth recall; + +For of all sad words of tongue or pen, +The saddest are these: "It might have been!" + +Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies +Deeply buried from human eyes; + +And, in the hereafter, angels may +Roll the stone from its grave away! + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + + +THE PALM AND THE PINE. + + +Beneath an Indian palm a girl + Of other blood reposes; +Her cheek is clear and pale as pearl + Amid that wild of roses. + +Beside a northern pine a boy + Is leaning fancy-bound. +Nor listens where with noisy joy + Awaits the impatient hound. + +Cool grows the sick and feverish calm, + Relaxed the frosty twine.-- +The pine-tree dreameth of the palm, + The palm-tree of the pine. + +As soon shall nature interlace + Those dimly-visioned boughs, +As these young lovers face to face + Renew their early vows. + +From the German of HEINRICH HEINE. +Translation of RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD HOUGHTON. + + + +CUMNOR HALL. + + [SAID TO HAVE BEEN THE SUGGESTIVE ORIGIN OF SCOTT'S + "KENILWORTH."] + + +The dews of summer night did fall; + The moon, sweet regent of the sky, +Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, + And many an oak that grew thereby. + +Now naught was heard beneath the skies, + The sounds of busy life were still, +Save an unhappy lady's sighs, + That issued from that lonely pile. + +"Leicester," she cried, "is this thy love + That thou so oft hast sworn to me, +To leave me in this lonely grove, + Immured in shameful privity? + +"No more thou com'st with lover's speed, + Thy once beloved bride to see; +But be she alive, or be she dead, + I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. + +"Not so the usage I received + When happy in my father's hall; +No faithless husband then me grieved, + No chilling fears did me appal. + +"I rose up with the cheerful morn, + No lark more blithe, no flower more gay +And like the bird that haunts the thorn, + So merrily sung the livelong day. + +"If that my beauty is but small, + Among court ladies all despised, +Why didst thou rend it from that hall, + Where, scornful Earl, it well was prized? + +"And when you first to me made suit, + How fair I was, you oft would say! +And proud of conquest, plucked the fruit, + Then left the blossom to decay. + +"Yes! now neglected and despised, + The rose is pale, the lily's dead; +But he, that once their charms so prized, + Is sure the cause those charms are fled. + +"For know, when sick'ning grief doth prey, + And tender love's repaid with scorn, +The sweetest beauty will decay,-- + What floweret can endure the storm? + +"At court, I'm told, is beauty's throne, + Where every lady's passing rare, +That Eastern flowers, that shame the sun, + Are not so glowing, not so fair. + +"Then, Earl, why didst thou leave the beds + Where roses and where lilies vie, +To seek a primrose, whose pale shades + Must sicken when those gauds are by? + +"'Mong rural beauties I was one, + Among the fields wild flowers are fair; +Some country swain might me have won, + And thought my beauty passing rare. + +"But, Leicester, (or I much am wrong,) + Or 't is not beauty lures thy vows; +Rather ambition's gilded crown + Makes thee forget thy humble spouse. + +"Then, Leicester, why, again I plead, + (The injured surely may repine,)-- +Why didst thou wed a country maid, + When some fair princess might be thine? + +"Why didst thou praise my humble charms, + And, oh! then leave them to decay? +Why didst thou win me to thy arms, + Then leave to mourn the livelong day? + +"The village maidens of the plain + Salute me lowly as they go; +Envious they mark my silken train, + Nor think a Countess can have woe. + +"The simple nymphs! they little know + How far more happy 's their estate; +To smile for joy than sigh for woe + To be content--than to be great. + +"How far less blest am I than them + Daily to pine and waste with care! +Like the poor plant, that, from its stem + Divided, feels the chilling air. + +"Nor, cruel Earl! can I enjoy + The humble charms of solitude; +Your minions proud my peace destroy, + By sullen frowns or pratings rude. + +"Last night, as sad I chanced to stray, + The village death-bell smote my ear; +They winked aside, and seemed to say, + 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near.' + +"And now, while happy peasants sleep, + Here I sit lonely and forlorn; +No one to soothe me as I weep, + Save Philomel on yonder thorn. + +"My spirits flag--my hopes decay-- + Still that dread death-bell smites my ear, +And many a boding seems to say, + 'Countess, prepare, thy end is near!'" + +Thus sore and sad that lady grieved, + In Cumnor Hall so lone and drear, +And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, + And let fall many a bitter tear. + +And ere the dawn of day appeared, + In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, +Full many a piercing scream was heard, + And many a cry of mortal fear. + +The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, + An aerial voice was heard to call, +And thrice the raven flapped its wing + Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. + +The mastiff bowled at village door, + The oaks were shattered on the green; +Woe was the hour, for nevermore + That hapless Countess e'er was seen. + +And in that manor now no more + Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball; +For ever since that dreary hour + Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. + +The village maids, with fearful glance, + Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall, +Nor ever lead the merry dance, + Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. + +Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, + And pensive wept the Countess' fall, +As wandering onward they've espied + The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. + +WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. + + + +WALY, WALY. + + +O waly, waly, up the bank, + O waly, waly, doun the brae, +And waly, waly, yon burn-side, + Where I and my love were wont to gae! +I leaned my back unto an aik, + I thocht it was a trustie tree, +But first it bowed and syne it brak',-- + Sae my true love did lichtlie me. + +O waly, waly, but love be bonnie + A little time while it is new! +But when it's auld it waxeth cauld, + And fadeth awa' like the morning dew. +O wherefore should I busk my heid. + Or wherefore should I kame my hair? +For my true love has me forsook, + And says he'll never lo'e me mair. + +Noo Arthur's Seat sall be my bed, + The sheets sall ne'er be pressed by me; +Saint Anton's well sall be my drink; + Since my true love's forsaken me. +Martinmas wind, when wilt thou blaw, + And shake the green leaves off the tree? +O gentle death, when wilt thou come? + For of my life I am wearie. + +'Tis not the frost that freezes fell, + Nor blawing snaw's inclemencie, +'Tis not sic cauld that makes me cry; + But my love's heart grown cauld to me. +When we cam' in by Glasgow toun, + We were a comely sicht to see; +My love was clad in the black velvet, + An' I mysel' in cramasie. + +But had I wist before I kissed + That love had been so ill to win, +I 'd locked my heart in a case o' goud, + And pinn'd it wi' a siller pin. +Oh, oh! if my young babe were born, + And set upon the nurse's knee; +And I mysel' were dead and gane, + And the green grass growing over me! + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +LADY ANN BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. + +A SCOTTISH SONG. + + +Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe! +It grieves me sair to see thee weipe; +If thoust be silent, Ise be glad, +Thy maining maks my heart ful sad. +Balow, my boy, thy mither's joy! +Thy father breides me great annoy. + _Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe! + It grieves me sair to see thee weipe._ + +When he began to court my luve, +And with his sugred words to muve, +His faynings fals and flattering cheire +To me that time did not appeire: +But now I see, most cruell hee, +Cares neither for my babe nor mee. + _Balow_, etc. + +Ly stil, my darlinge, sleipe awhile, +And when thou wakest sweitly smile: +But smile not, as thy father did, +To cozen maids; nay, God forbid! +But yette I feire, thou wilt gae neire, +Thy fatheris hart and face to beire. + _Balow_, etc. + +I cannae chuse, but ever will +Be luving to thy father stil: +Whaireir he gae, whaireir he ryde, +My luve with him maun stil abyde: +In weil or wae, whaireir he gae, +Mine hart can neir depart him frae. + _Balow_, etc. + +But doe not, doe not, prettie mine, +To faynings fals thine hart incline; +Be loyal to thy luver trew, +And nevir change hir for a new; +If gude or faire, of hir have care, +For womens banning's wonderous sair. + _Balow_, etc. + +Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, +Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; +My babe and I 'll together live, +He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve; +My babe and I right saft will ly, +And quite forgeit man's cruelty. + _Balow_, etc. + +Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth +That ever kist a woman's mouth! +I wish all maids be warned by mee, +Nevir to trust man's curtesy; +For if we doe but chance to bow, +They'll use us then they care not how. + _Balow, my 'babe, ly stil and sleipe! + It grieves me sair to see thee weipe._ + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. + + +My heid is like to rend, Willie, + My heart is like to break; +I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, + I'm dyin' for your sake! +O, say ye'll think on me, Willie, + Your hand on my briest-bane,-- +O, say ye'll think of me, Willie, + When I am deid and gane! + +It's vain to comfort me, Willie, + Sair grief maun ha'e its will; +But let me rest upon your briest + To sab and greet my fill. +Let me sit on your knee, Willie, + Let me shed by your hair, +And look into the face, Willie, + I never sall see mair! + +I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, + For the last time in my life,-- +A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, + A mither, yet nae wife. +Ay, press your hand upon my heart, + And press it mair and mair, +Or it will burst the silken twine, + Sae strang is its despair. + +O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, + When we thegither met,-- +O, wae's me for the time, Willie, + That our first tryst was set! +O, wae's me for the loanin' green + Where we were wont to gae,-- +And wae's me for the destinie + That gart me luve thee sae! + +O, dinna mind my words, Willie, + I downa seek to blame; +But O, it's hard to live, Willie, + And dree a warld's shame! +Het tears are hailin' ower our cheek, + And hailin' ower your chin: +Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, + For sorrow, and for sin? + +I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, + And sick wi' a' I see, +I canna live as I ha'e lived, + Or be as I should be. +But fauld unto your heart, Willie, + The heart that still is thine, +And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek + Ye said was red langsyne. + +A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, + A sair stoun' through my heart; +O, haud me up and let me kiss + Thy brow ere we twa pairt. +Anither, and anither yet!-- + How fast my life-strings break!-- +Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard + Step lichtly for my sake! + +The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, + That lifts far ower our heid, +Will sing the morn as merrilie + Abune the clay-cauld deid; +And this green turf we're sittin' on, + Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, +Will hap the heart that luvit thee + As warld has seldom seen. + +But O, remember me, Willie, + On land where'er ye be; +And O, think on the leal, leal heart, + That ne'er luvit ane but thee! +And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools + That file my yellow hair, +That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin + Ye never sall kiss mair! + +WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. + + + +ASHES OF ROSES. + + +Soft on the sunset sky + Bright daylight closes, +Leaving, when light doth die, +Pale hues that mingling lie,-- + Ashes of roses. + +When love's warm sun is set, + Love's brightness closes; +Eyes with hot tears are wet, +In hearts there linger yet + Ashes of roses. + +ELAINE GOODALE EASTMAN. + + + +A WOMAN'S LOVE. + + +A sentinel angel, sitting high in glory, +Heard this shrill wail ring out from Purgatory: +"Have mercy, mighty angel, hear my story! + +"I loved,--and, blind with passionate love, I fell. +Love brought me down to death, and death to Hell; +For God is just, and death for sin is well. + +"I do not rage against his high decree, +Nor for myself do ask that grace shall be; +But for my love on earth who mourns for me. + +"Great Spirit! Let me see my love again +And comfort him one hour, and I were fain +To pay a thousand years of fire and pain." + +Then said the pitying angel, "Nay, repent +That wild vow! Look, the dial-finger's bent +Down to the last hour of thy punishment!" + +But still she wailed, "I pray thee, let me go! +I cannot rise to peace and leave him so. +O, let me soothe him in his bitter woe!" + +The brazen gates ground sullenly ajar, +And upwards, joyous, like a rising star, +She rose and vanished in the ether far. + +But soon adown the dying sunset sailing, +And like a wounded bird her pinions trailing, +She fluttered back, with broken-hearted wailing. + +She sobbed, "I found him by the summer sea +Reclined, his head upon a maiden's knee,-- +She curled his hair and kissed him. Woe is me!" + +She wept, "Now let my punishment begin! +I have been fond and foolish. Let me in +To expiate my sorrow and my sin." + +The angel answered, "Nay, sad soul, go higher! +To be deceived in your true heart's desire +Was bitterer than a thousand years of fire!" + +JOHN HAY. + + + +THE SHADOW ROSE. + + +A noisette on my garden path + An ever-swaying shadow throws; +But if I pluck it strolling by, + I pluck the shadow with the rose. + +Just near enough my heart you stood + To shadow it,--but was it fair +In him, who plucked and bore you off, + To leave your shadow lingering there? + +ROBERT CAMERON ROGERS. + + + +HAS SUMMER COME WITHOUT THE ROSE? + + +Has summer come without the rose, + Or left the bird behind? +Is the blue changed above thee, + O world! or am I blind? +Will you change every flower that grows, + Or only change this spot, +Where she who said, I love thee, + Now says, I love thee not? + +The skies seemed true above thee, + The rose true on the tree; +The bird seemed true the summer through, + But all proved false to me. +World, is there one good thing in you, + Life, love, or death--or what? +Since lips that sang, I love thee, + Have said, I love thee not? + +I think the sun's kiss will scarce fall + Into one flower's gold cup; +I think the bird will miss me, + And give the summer up. +O sweet place, desolate in tall + Wild grass, have you forgot +How her lips loved to kiss me, + Now that they kiss me not? + +Be false or fair above me; + Come back with any face, +Summer!--do I care what you do? + You cannot change one place,-- +The grass, the leaves, the earth, the dew, + The grave I make the spot,-- +Here, where she used to love me, + Here, where she loves me not. + +ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. + + + +THE DIRTY OLD MAN. + +A LAY OF LEADENHALL. + +[A singular man, named Nathaniel Bentley, for many years kept a large +hardware-shop in Leadenhall Street, London. He was best know as Dirty +Dick (Dick, for alliteration's sake, probably), and his place of +business as the Dirty Warehouse. He died about the year 1809. These +verses accord with the accounts respecting himself and his house.] + + +In a dirty old house lived a Dirty Old Man; +Soap, towels, or brushes were not in his plan. +For forty long years, as the neighbors declared, +His house never once had been cleaned or repaired. + +'T was a scandal and shame to the business-like street, +One terrible blot in a ledger so neat: +The shop full of hardware, but black as a hearse, +And the rest of the mansion a thousand times worse. + +Outside, the old plaster, all spatter and stain, +Looked spotty in sunshine and streaky in rain; +The window-sills sprouted with mildewy grass, +And the panes from being broken were known to be glass. + +On the rickety sign-board no learning could spell +The merchant who sold, or the goods he'd to sell; +But for house and for man a new title took growth, +Like a fungus,--the Dirt gave its name to them both. + +Within, there were carpets and cushions of dust, +The wood was half rot, and the metal half rust. +Old curtains, half cobwebs, hung grimly aloof; +'T was a Spiders' Elysium from cellar to roof. + +There, king of the spiders, the Dirty Old Man +Lives busy and dirty as ever he can; +With dirt on his fingers and dirt on his face, +For the Dirty Old Man thinks the dirt no disgrace. + +From his wig to his shoes, from his coat to his shirt, +His clothes are a proverb, a marvel of dirt; +The dirt is pervading, unfading, exceeding,-- +Yet the Dirty Old Man has both learning and breeding. + +Fine dames from their carriages, noble and fair, +Have entered his shop, less to buy than to stare; +And have afterwards said, though the dirt was so frightful, +The Dirty Man's manners were truly delightful. + +Upstairs might they venture, in dirt and in gloom, +To peep at the door of the wonderful room +Such stories are told about, none of them true!-- +The keyhole itself has no mortal seen through. + +That room,--forty years since, folk settled and decked it. +The luncheon's prepared, and the guests are expected, +The handsome young host he is gallant and gay, +For his love and her friends will be with him today. + +With solid and dainty the table is drest, +The wine beams its brightest, the flowers bloom their best; +Yet the host need not smile, and no guests will appear, +For his sweetheart is dead, as he shortly shall hear. + +Full forty years since turned the key in that door. +'T is a room deaf and dumb mid the city's uproar. +The guests, for whose joyance that table was spread, +May now enter as ghosts, for they're every one dead. + +Through a chink in the shutter dim lights come and go; +The seats are in order, the dishes a-row: +But the luncheon was wealth to the rat and the mouse +Whose descendants have long left the Dirty Old House. + +Cup and platter are masked in thick layers of dust; +The flowers fallen to powder, the wine swathed in crust; +A nosegay was laid before one special chair, +And the faded blue ribbon that bound it lies there. + +The old man has played out his part in the scene. +Wherever he now is, I hope he's more clean. +Yet give we a thought free of scoffing or ban +To that Dirty Old House and that Dirty Old Man. + +WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + + +HOME, WOUNDED. + + +Wheel me into the sunshine, +Wheel me into the shadow. +There must be leaves on the woodbine, +Is the kingcup crowned in the meadow? + +Wheel me down to the meadow, +Down to the little river, +In sun or in shadow +I shall not dazzle or shiver, +I shall be happy anywhere, +Every breath of the morning air +Makes me throb and quiver. + +Stay wherever you will, +By the mount or under the hill, +Or down by the little river: +Stay as long as you please, +Give me only a bud from the trees, +Or a blade of grass in morning dew, +Or a cloudy violet clearing to blue, +I could look on it forever. + +Wheel, wheel through the sunshine, +Wheel, wheel through the shadow; +There must be odors round the pine, +There must be balm of breathing kine, +Somewhere down in the meadow. +Must I choose? Then anchor me there +Beyond the beckoning poplars, where +The larch is snooding her flowery hair +With wreaths of morning shadow. + +Among the thickest hazels of the brake +Perchance some nightingale doth shake +His feathers, and the air is full of song; +In those old days when I was young and strong, +He used to sing on yonder garden tree, +Beside the nursery. +Ah, I remember how I loved to wake, +And find him singing on the self-same bough +(I know it even now) +Where, since the flit of bat, +In ceaseless voice he sat, +Trying the spring night over, like a tune, +Beneath the vernal moon; +And while I listed long, +Day rose, and still he sang, +And all his stanchless song, +As something falling unaware, +Fell out of the tall trees he sang among, +Fell ringing down the ringing morn, and rang,-- +Rang like a golden jewel down a golden stair. + + * * * * * + +My soul lies out like a basking hound,-- +A hound that dreams and dozes; +Along my life my length I lay, +I fill to-morrow and yesterday, +I am warm with the suns that have long since set, +I am warm with the summers that are not yet, +And like one who dreams and dozes +Softly afloat on a sunny sea, +Two worlds are whispering over me, +And there blows a wind of roses +From the backward shore to the shore before, +From the shore before to the backward shore, +And like two clouds that meet and pour +Each through each, till core in core +A single self reposes, +The nevermore with the evermore +Above me mingles and closes; +As my soul lies out like the basking hound, +And wherever it lies seems happy ground, +And when, awakened by some sweet sound, +A dreamy eye uncloses, +I see a blooming world around, +And I lie amid primroses,--Years +of sweet primroses, +Springs of fresh primroses, +Springs to be, and springs for me +Of distant dim primroses. + +O, to lie a-dream, a-dream, +To feel I may dream and to know you deem +My work is done forever, +And the palpitating fever, +That gains and loses, loses and gains, +And beats the hurrying blood on the brunt of a thousand pains, +Cooled at once by that blood-let +Upon the parapet; +And all the tedious tasked toil of the difficult long endeavor +Solved and quit by no more fine +Than these limbs of mine, +Spanned and measured once for all +By that right-hand I lost, +Bought up at so light a cost +As one bloody fall +On the soldier's bed, +And three days on the ruined wall +Among the thirstless dead. + +O, to think my name is crost +From duty's muster-roll; +That I may slumber though the clarion call, +And live the joy of an embodied soul +Free as a liberated ghost. +O, to feel a life of deed +Was emptied out to feed +That fire of pain that burned so brief awhile,-- +That fire from which I come, as the dead come +Forth from the irreparable tomb, +Or as a martyr on his funeral pile +Heaps up the burdens other men do bear +Through years of segregated care, +And takes the total load +Upon his shoulders broad, +And steps from earth to God. + +O, to think, through good or ill, +Whatever I am you'll love me still; +O, to think, though dull I be, +You that are so grand and free, +You that are so bright and gay, +Will pause to hear me when I will, +As though my head were gray; +A single self reposes, +The nevermore with the evermore +Above me mingles and closes; +As my soul lies out like the basking hound, +And wherever it lies seems happy ground, +And when, awakened by some sweet sound, +A dreamy eye uncloses, +I see a blooming world around, +And I lie amid primroses,-- +Years of sweet primroses, +Springs of fresh primroses. +Springs to be, and springs for me +Of distant dim primroses. + +O, to lie a-dream, a-dream, +To feel I may dream and to know you deem +My work is done forever, +And the palpitating fever, +That gains and loses, loses and gains, +And she, +Perhaps, O even she +May look as she looked when I knew her +In those old days of childish sooth, +Ere my boyhood dared to woo her. +I will not seek nor sue her, +For I'm neither fonder nor truer +Than when she slighted my lovelorn youth, +My giftless, graceless, guinealess truth, +And I only lived to rue her. +But I'll never love another, +And, in spite of her lovers and lands, +She shall love me yet, my brother! + +As a child that holds by his mother, +While his mother speaks his praises, +Holds with eager hands, +And ruddy and silent stands +In the ruddy and silent daisies, +And hears her bless her boy, +And lifts a wondering joy, +So I'll not seek nor sue her, +But I'll leave my glory to woo her, +And I'll stand like a child beside, +And from behind the purple pride +I'll lift my eyes unto her, +And I shall not be denied. +And you will love her, brother dear, +And perhaps next year you'll bring me here +All through the balmy April tide, +And she will trip like spring by my side, +And be all the birds to my ear. + +And here all three we'll sit in the sun, +And see the Aprils one by one, +Primrosed Aprils on and on, +Till the floating prospect closes +In golden glimmers that rise and rise, +And perhaps are gleams of Paradise, +And perhaps too far for mortal eyes, +New springs of fresh primroses, +Springs of earth's primroses, +Springs to be, and springs for me +Of distant dim primroses. + +SYDNEY DOBELL. + + + +DIVIDED. + + +I. + +An empty sky, a world of heather, + Purple of foxglove, yellow of broom: +We two among them wading together, + Shaking out honey, treading perfume. + +Crowds of bees are giddy with clover, + Crowds of grasshoppers skip at our feet: +Crowds of larks at their matins hang over, + Thanking the Lord for a life so sweet. + +Flusheth the rise with her purple favor, + Gloweth the cleft with her golden ring, +'Twixt the two brown butterflies waver, + Lightly settle, and sleepily swing. + +We two walk till the purple dieth, + And short dry grass under foot is brown, +But one little streak at a distance lieth + Green, like a ribbon, to prank the down. + + +II. + +Over the grass we stepped unto it, + And God, He knoweth how blithe we were! +Never a voice to bid us eschew it; + Hey the green ribbon that showed so fair! + +Hey the green ribbon! we kneeled beside it, + We parted the grasses dewy and sheen: +Drop over drop there filtered and slided + A tiny bright beck that trickled between. + +Tinkle, tinkle, sweetly it sung to us, + Light was our talk as of faery bells-- +Faery wedding-bells faintly rung to us, + Down in their fortunate parallels. + +Hand in hand, while the sun peered over, + We lapped the grass on that youngling spring, +Swept back its rushes, smoothed its clover, + And said, "Let us follow it westering." + + +III. + +A dappled sky, a world of meadows; + Circling above us the black rooks fly, +'Forward, backward: lo, their dark shadows + Flit on the blossoming tapestry-- + +Flit on the beck--for her long grass parteth, + As hair from a maid's bright eyes blown back; +And lo, the sun like a lover darteth + His flattering smile on her wayward track. + +Sing on! we sing in the glorious weather, + Till one steps over the tiny strand, +So narrow, in sooth, that still together + On either brink we go hand in hand. + +The beck grows wider, the hands must sever, + On either margin, our songs all done, +We move apart, while she singeth ever, + Taking the course of the stooping sun. + +He prays, "Come over"--I may not follow; + I cry, "Return"--but he cannot come: +We speak, we laugh, but with voices hollow; + Our hands are hanging, our hearts are numb. + + +IV. + +A breathing sigh--a sigh for answer; + A little talking of outward things: +The careless beck is a merry dancer, + Keeping sweet time to the air she sings. + +A little pain when the beck grows wider-- + "Cross to me now, for her wavelets swell:" +"I may not cross" and the voice beside her + Faintly reacheth, though heeded well. + +No backward path; ah! no returning: + No second crossing that ripple's flow: +"Come to me now, for the west is burning: + Come ere it darkens."--"Ah, no! ah, no!" + +Then cries of pain, and arms outreaching-- + The beck grows wider and swift and deep; +Passionate words as of one beseeching-- + The loud beck drowns them: we walk and weep. + + +V. + +A yellow moon in splendor drooping, + A tired queen with her state oppressed, +Low by rushes and sword-grass stooping, + Lies she soft on the waves at rest. + +The desert heavens have felt her sadness; + Her earth will weep her some dewy tears; +The wild beck ends her tune of gladness, + And goeth stilly as soul that fears. + +We two walk on in our grassy places, + On either marge of the moonlit flood, +With the moon's own sadness in our faces, + Where joy is withered, blossom and bud. + + +VI. + +A shady freshness, chafers whirring, + A little piping of leaf-hid birds; +A flutter of wings, a fitful stirring, + A cloud to the eastward snowy as curds. + +Bare grassy slopes, where the kids are tethered, + Bound valleys like nests all ferny-lined; +Round hills, with fluttering tree-tops feathered, + Swell high in their freckled robes behind. + +A rose-flush tender, a thrill, a quiver, + When golden gleams to the tree-tops glide; +A flashing edge for the milk-white river, + The beck, a river--with still sleek tide. + +Broad and white, and polished as silver, + On she goes under fruit-laden trees; +Sunk in leafage cooeth the culver, + And 'plaineth of love's disloyalties. + +Glitters the dew, and shines the river; + Up comes the lily and dries her bell; +But two are walking apart forever, + And wave their hands for a mute farewell. + + +VII. + +A braver swell, a swifter sliding; + The river hasteth, her banks recede; +Wing-like sails on her bosom gliding + Bear down the lily, and drown the reed. + +Stately prows are rising and bowing-- + (Shouts of mariners winnow the air)-- +And level sands for banks endowing + The tiny green ribbon that showed so fair. + +While, O my heart! as white sails shiver, + And crowds are passing, and banks stretch wide, +How hard to follow, with lips that quiver, + That moving speck on the far-off side! + +Farther, farther--I see it--know it-- + My eyes brim over, it melts away: +Only my heart to my heart shall show it, + As I walk desolate day by day. + + +VIII. + +And yet I know past all doubting, truly,-- + A knowledge greater than grief can dim-- +I know, as he loved, he will love me duly-- + Yea, better--e'en better than I love him: + +And as I walk by the vast calm river, + The awful river so dread to see, +I say, "Thy breadth and thy depth forever + Are bridged by his thoughts that cross to me." + +JEAN INGELOW. + + + +TO DIANE DE POITIERS. + + +Farewell! since vain is all my care, + Far, in some desert rude, +I'll hide my weakness, my despair: + And, 'midst my solitude, +I'll pray, that, should another move thee, +He may as fondly, truly love thee. + +Adieu, bright eyes, that were my heaven! + Adieu, soft cheek, where summer blooms! +Adieu, fair form, earth's pattern given, + Which Love inhabits and illumes! +Your rays have fallen but coldly on me: +One far less fond, perchance, had won ye! + +From the French of CLEMENT MAROT. +Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO. + + + +THE SPINNER. + + +The spinner twisted her slender thread +As she sat and spun: +"The earth and the heavens are mine," she said, +"And the moon and sun; +Into my web the sunlight goes, +And the breath of May, +And the crimson life of the new-blown rose +That was born to-day." + +The spinner sang in the hush of noon +And her song was low: +"Ah, morning, you pass away too soon, +You are swift to go. +My heart o'erflows like a brimming cup +With its hopes and fears. +Love, come and drink the sweetness up +Ere it turn to tears." + +The spinner looked at the falling sun: +"Is it time to rest? +My hands are weary,--my work is done, +I have wrought my best; +I have spun and woven with patient eyes +And with fingers fleet. +Lo! where the toil of a lifetime lies +In a winding-sheet!" + +MARY AINGE DE VERE (_Madeline Bridges_). + + + +TAKE, O, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY.[1] + + +Take, O, take those lips away, +That so sweetly were forsworn; +And those eyes, like break of day, +Lights that do mislead the morn; +But my kisses bring again, +Seals of love, but sealed in vain. + +Hide, O, hide those hills of snow +Which thy frozen bosom bears, +On whose tops the pinks that grow +Are yet of those that April wears! +But first set my poor heart free, + +Bound in those icy chains by thee. + +SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER. + + [1] The first stanza of this song appears in Shakespeare's + "Measure for Measure," Activ. Sc. I.; the same, with the + second, stanza added, is found in Beaumont and Fletcher's + "Bloody Brother," Act v. Sc. 2. + + + +WOMAN'S INCONSTANCY. + + +I loved thee once, I'll love no more, +Thine be the grief as is the blame; +Thou art not what thou wast before, +What reason I should be the same? +He that can love unloved again, +Hath better store of love than brain: +God sends me love my debts to pay, +While unthrifts fool their love away. + +Nothing could have my love o'erthrown, +If thou hadst still continued mine; +Yea, if thou hadst remained thy own, +I might perchance have yet been thine. +But thou thy freedom didst recall, +That if thou might elsewhere inthrall; +And then how could I but disdain +A captive's captive to remain? + +When new desires had conquered thee, +And changed the object of thy will, +It had been lethargy in me, +Not constancy, to love thee still. +Yea, it had been a sin to go +And prostitute affection so, +Since we are taught no prayers to say +To such as must to others pray. + +Yet do thou glory in thy choice. +Thy choice of his good fortune boast; +I 'll neither grieve nor yet rejoice, +To see him gain what I have lost; +The height of my disdain shall be, +To laugh at him, to blush for thee; +To love thee still, but go no more +A begging to a beggar's door. + +SIR ROBERT AYTON. + + + +TIME'S REVENGE. + + +She, who but late in beauty's flower was seen, +Proud of her auburn curls and noble mien-- +Who froze my hopes and triumphed in my fears, +Now sheds her graces in the waste of years. +Changed to unlovely is that breast of snow, +And dimmed her eye, and wrinkled is her brow; +And querulous the voice by time repressed, +Whose artless music stole me from my rest. +Age gives redress to love; and silvery hair +And earlier wrinkles brand the haughty fair. + +From the Greek of AGATHIAS. +Translation of ROBERT BLAND. + + + +THE DREAM. + + +Our life is twofold; sleep hath its own world, +A boundary between the things misnamed +Death and existence: sleep hath its own world, +And a wide realm of wild reality, +And dreams in their development have breath, +And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; +They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, +They take a weight from off our waking toils, +They do divide our being; they become +A portion of ourselves as of our time, +And look like heralds of eternity; +They pass like spirits of the past,--they speak +Like sibyls of the future; they have power,-- +The tyranny of pleasure and of pain; +They make us what we were not,--what they will, +And shake us with the vision that's gone by. +The dread of vanished shadows.--Are they so? +Is not the past all shadow? What are they? +Creations of the mind?--The mind can make +Substances, and people planets of its own +With beings brighter than have been, and give +A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh. +I would recall a vision which I dreamed +Perchance in sleep,--for in itself a thought, +A slumbering thought, is capable of years, +And curdles a long life into one hour. + +I saw two beings in the hues of youth +Standing upon a hill, a gentle hill, +Green and of a mild declivity, the last +As 't were the cape of a long ridge of such, +Save that there was no sea to lave its base, +But a most living landscape, and the wave +Of woods and cornfields, and the abodes of men +Scattered at intervals, and wreathing smoke +Arising from such rustic roofs; the hill +Was crowned with a peculiar diadem +Of trees, in circular array, so fixed, +Not by the sport of nature, but of man: +These two, a maiden and a youth, were there +Gazing,--the one on all that was beneath +Fair as herself,--but the boy gazed on her; +And both were young, and one was beautiful; +And both were young,--yet not alike in youth. +As the sweet moon on the horizon's verge, +The maid was on the eve of womanhood; +The boy had fewer summers, but his heart +Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye +There was but one beloved face on earth, +And that was shining on him; he had looked +Upon it till it could not pass away; +He had no breath, no being, but in hers; +She was his voice; he did not speak to her, +But trembled on her words; she was his sight, +For his eye followed hers, and saw with hers, +Which colored all his objects;--he had ceased +To live with himself: she was his life, +The ocean to the river of his thoughts, +Which terminated all; upon a tone, +A touch of hers, his blood would ebb and flow, +And his cheek change tempestuously;--his heart +Unknowing of its cause of agony. +But she in these fond feelings had no share: +Her sighs were not for him; to her he was +Even as a brother,--but no more; 'twas much, +For brotherless she was, save in the name +Her infant friendship had bestowed on him; +Herself the solitary scion left +Of a time-honored race. It was a name +Which pleased him, and yet pleased him not,--and why? +Time taught him a deep answer--when she loved +Another; even _now_ she loved another, +And on the summit of the hill she stood, +Looking afar if yet her lover's steed +Kept pace with her expectancy, and flew. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +There was an ancient mansion, and before +Its walls there was a steed caparisoned; +Within an antique oratory stood +The boy of whom I spake;--he was alone, +And pale, and pacing to and fro: anon +He sate him down, and seized a pen and traced +Words which I could not guess of; then he leaned +His bowed head on his hands and shook, as 'twere +With a convulsion,--then arose again, +And with his teeth and quivering hands did tear +What he had written, but he shed no tears, +And he did calm himself, and fix his brow +Into a kind of quiet; as he paused, +The lady of his love re-entered there; +She was serene and smiling then, and yet +She knew she was by him beloved; she knew-- +For quickly comes such knowledge--that his heart +Was darkened with her shadow, and she saw +That he was wretched, but she saw not all. +He rose, and with a cold and gentle grasp +He took her hand; a moment o'er his face +A tablet of unutterable thoughts +Was traced, and then it faded, as it came; +He dropped the hand he held, and with slow steps +Retired, but not as bidding her adieu, +For they did part with mutual smiles; he passed +From out the massy gate of that old Hall, +And mounting on his steed he went his way; +And ne'er repassed that hoary threshold more. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The boy was sprung to manhood; in the wilds +Of fiery climes he made himself a home, +And his soul drank their sunbeams; he was girt +With strange and dusky aspects; he was not +Himself like what he had been; on the sea +And on the shore he was a wanderer; +There was a mass of many images +Crowded like waves upon me, but he was +A part of all; and in the last he lay +Reposing from the noontide sultriness, +Couched among fallen columns, in the shade +Of ruined walls that had survived the names +Of those who reared them; by his sleeping side +Stood camels grazing, and some goodly steeds +Were fastened near a fountain; and a man, +Clad in a flowing garb, did watch the while, +While many of his tribe slumbered around: +And they were canopied by the blue sky, +So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, +That God alone was to be seen in heaven. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The lady of his love was wed with one +Who did not love her better: in her home, +A thousand leagues from his,--her native home, +She dwelt, begirt with growing infancy, +Daughters and sons of beauty,--but behold! +Upon her face there was the tint of grief, +The settled shadow of an inward strife, +And an unquiet drooping of the eye, +As if its lids were charged with unshed tears. +What could her grief be?--she had all she loved, +And he who had so loved her was not there +To trouble with bad hopes, or evil wish, +Or ill-repressed affliction, her pure thoughts. +What could her grief be?--she had loved him not, +Nor given him cause to deem himself beloved, +Nor could he be a part of that which preyed +Upon her mind--a spectre of the past. + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The wanderer was returned.--I saw him stand +Before an altar--with a gentle bride; +Her face was fair, but was not that which made +The starlight of his boyhood;--as he stood +Even at the altar, o'er his brow there came +The selfsame aspect and the quivering shock +That in the antique oratory shook +His bosom in its solitude; and then-- +As in that hour--a moment o'er his face +The tablet of unutterable thoughts +Was traced,--and then it faded as it came, +And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke +The fitting vows, but heard not his own words, +And all things reeled around him; he could see +Not that which was, nor that which should have been,-- +But the old mansion, and the accustomed hall, +And the remembered chambers, and the place, +The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade, +All things pertaining to that place and hour, +And her who was his destiny, came back +And thrust themselves between him and the light; +What business had they there at such a time? + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The lady of his love;--O, she was changed, +As by the sickness of the soul! her mind +Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes, +They had not their own lustre, but the look +Which is not of the earth; she was become +The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts +Were combinations of disjointed things, +And forms impalpable and unperceived +Of others' sight familiar were to hers. +And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise +Have a far deeper madness, and the glance +Of melancholy is a fearful gift; +What is it but the telescope of truth, +Which strips the distance of its fantasies, +And brings life near in utter nakedness, +Making the cold reality too real! + +A change came o'er the spirit of my dream. +The wanderer was alone as heretofore, +The beings which surrounded him were gone, +Or were at war with him; he was a mark +For blight and desolation, compassed round +With hatred and contention; pain was mixed +In all which was served up to him, until, +Like to the Pontic monarch of old days, +He fed on poisons, and they had no power, +But were a kind of nutriment; he lived +Through that which had been death to many men, +And made him friends of mountains: with the stars +And the quick Spirit of the universe +He held his dialogues; and they did teach +To him the magic of their mysteries; +To him the book of Night was opened wide, +And voices from the deep abyss revealed +A marvel and a secret.--Be it so. + +My dream was past; it had no further change. +It was of a strange order, that the doom +Of these two creatures should be thus traced out +Almost like a reality,--the one +To end in madness--both in misery. + +LORD BYRON. + + + +ALAS! HOW LIGHT A CAUSE MAY MOVE. + + FROM "THE LIGHT OF THE HAREM." + + +Alas! how light a cause may move +Dissension between hearts that love! +Hearts that the world in vain has tried, +And sorrow but more closely tied; +That stood the storm when waves were rough, +Yet in a sunny hour fall off, +Like ships that have gone down at sea, +When heaven was all tranquillity! + +A something light as air,--a look, + A word unkind or wrongly taken,-- +O, love that tempests never shook, + A breath, a touch like this has shaken! +And ruder words will soon rush in +To spread the breach that words begin; +And eyes forget the gentle ray +They wore in courtship's smiling day; +And voices lose the tone that shed +A tenderness round all they said; +Till fast declining, one by one, +The sweetnesses of love are gone, +And hearts, so lately mingled, seem +Like broken clouds,--or like the stream, +That smiling left the mountain's brow, + As though its waters ne'er could sever, +Yet, ere it reach the plain below, + Breaks into floods that part forever. + +O you, that have the charge of Love, + Keep him in rosy bondage bound, +As in the Fields of Bliss above + He sits, with flowerets fettered round;-- +Loose not a tie that round him clings, +Nor ever let him use his wings; +For even an hour, a minute's flight +Will rob the plumes of half their light. +Like that celestial bird,--whose nest + Is found beneath far Eastern skies,-- + Whose wings, though radiant when at rest, +Lose all their glory when he flies! + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +BLIGHTED LOVE. + + +Flowers are fresh, and bushes green, + Cheerily the linnets sing; +Winds are soft, and skies serene; + Time, however, soon shall throw + Winter's snow +O'er the buxom breast of Spring! + +Hope, that buds in lover's heart, + Lives not through the scorn of years; +Time makes love itself depart; + Time and scorn congeal the mind,-- + Looks unkind +Freeze affection's warmest tears. + +Time shall make the bushes green; + Time dissolve the winter snow; +Winds be soft, and skies serene; + Linnets sing their wonted strain: + But again +Blighted love shall never blow! + +From the Portuguese of LUIS DE CAMOENS. +Translation of LORD STRANGFORD. + + + +THE NEVERMORE. + + +Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; + I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; + Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell +Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between; +Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen + Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell + Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, +Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. + +Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart + One moment through my soul the soft surprise + Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,-- +Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart +Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart + Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. + +DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. + + + +THE PORTRAIT. + + +Midnight past! Not a sound of aught + Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers. +I sat by the dying fire, and thought + Of the dear dead woman upstairs. + +A night of tears! for the gusty rain + Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; +And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, + With her face all white and wet: + +Nobody with me, my watch to keep, + But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: +And grief had sent him fast to sleep + In the chamber up above. + +Nobody else, in the country place + All round, that knew of my loss beside, +But the good young Priest with the Raphael-face, + Who confessed her when she died. + +That good young Priest is of gentle nerve, + And my grief had moved him beyond control; +For his lips grew white, as I could observe, + When he speeded her parting soul. + +I sat by the dreary hearth alone: + I thought of the pleasant days of yore: +I said, "The staff of my life is gone: + The woman I loved is no more. + +"On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies, + Which next to her heart she used to wear-- +Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes + When my own face was not there. + +"It is set all round with rubies red, + And pearls which a Peri, might have kept. +For each ruby there my heart hath bled: + For each pearl my eyes have wept." + +And I said--"The thing is precious to me: + They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay; +It lies on her heart, and lost must be + If I do not take it away." + +I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, + And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, +Till into the chamber of death I came, + Where she lay all in white. + +The moon shone over her winding-sheet, + There stark she lay on her carven bed: +Seven burning tapers about her feet, + And seven about her head. + +As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; + I turned as I drew the curtains apart: +I dared not look on the face of death: + I knew where to find her heart. + +I thought at first, as my touch fell there, + It had warmed that heart to life, with love; +For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, + And I could feel it move. + +'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow + O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side: +And at once the sweat broke over my brow. + "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried. + +Opposite me by the tapers' light, + The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, +Stood over the corpse, and all as white, + And neither of us moved. + +"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man + Looked first at me, and then at the dead. +"There is a portrait here," he began; + "There is. It is mine," I said. + +Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, + The portrait was, till a month ago, +When this suffering angel took that out, + And placed mine there, I know." + +"This woman, she loved me well," said I. + "A month ago," said my friend to me: +"And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!" + He answered, ... "Let us see." + +"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: + And whosesoever the portrait prove, +His shall it be, when the cause is tried, + Where Death is arraigned by Love." + +We found the portrait there, in its place: + We opened it by the tapers' shine: +The gems were all unchanged: the face + Was--neither his nor mine. +"One nail drives out another, at least! + The face of the portrait there," I cried, +"Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young Priest, + Who confessed her when she died." + +The setting is all of rubies red, + And pearls which a Peri might have kept. +For each ruby there my heart hath bled: + For each pearl my eyes have wept. + +ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON (_Owen Meredith_). + + + +ONLY A WOMAN. + + "She loves with love that cannot tire: + And if, ah, woe! she loves alone, + Through passionate duty love flames higher, + As grass grows taller round a stone." + + --COVENTRY PATMORE. + + +So, the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake,-- +It will not slay me. My heart shall not break +Awhile, if only for the children's sake. + +For his, too, somewhat. Let him stand unblamed; +None say, he gave me less than honor claimed, +Except--one trifle scarcely worth being named-- + +The heart. That's gone. The corrupt dead might be +As easily raised up, breathing,--fair to see, +As he could bring his whole heart back to me. + +I never sought him in coquettish sport, +Or courted him as silly maidens court, +And wonder when the longed-for prize falls short. + +I only loved him,--any woman would: +But shut my love up till he came and sued, +Then poured it o'er his dry life like a flood. + +I was so happy I could make him blest!-- +So happy that I was his first and best, +As he mine,--when he took me to his breast. + +Ah me! if only then he had been true! +If for one little year, a month or two, +He had given me love for love, as was my due! + +Or had he told me, ere the deed was done, +He only raised me to his heart's dear throne-- +Poor substitute--because the queen was gone! + +O, had he whispered, when his sweetest kiss +Was warm upon my mouth in fancied bliss, +He had kissed another woman even as this,-- + +It were less bitter! Sometimes I could weep +To be thus cheated, like a child asleep;-- +Were not my anguish far too dry and deep. + +So I built my house upon another's ground; +Mocked with a heart just caught at the rebound,-- +A cankered thing that looked so firm and sound. + +And when that heart grew colder,--colder still, +I, ignorant, tried all duties to fulfil, +Blaming my foolish pain, exacting will, + +All,--anything but him. It was to be +The full draught others drink up carelessly +Was made this bitter Tantalus-cup for me. + +I say again,--he gives me all I claimed, +I and my children never shall be shamed: +He is a just man,--he will live unblamed. + +Only--O God, O God, to cry for bread. +And get a stone! Daily to lay my head +Upon a bosom where the old love's dead! + +Dead?--Fool! It never lived. It only stirred +Galvanic, like an hour-cold corpse. None heard: +So let me bury it without a word. + +He'll keep that other woman from my sight. +I know not if her face be foul or bright; +I only know that it was his delight-- + +As his was mine; I only know he stands +Pale, at the touch of their long-severed hands, +Then to a flickering smile his lips commands, + +Lest I should grieve, or jealous anger show. +He need not. When the ship's gone down, I trow, +We little reck whatever wind may blow. + +And so my silent moan begins and ends, +No world's laugh or world's taunt, no pity of friends +Or sneer of foes, with this my torment blends. + +None knows,--none heeds. I have a little pride; +Enough to stand up, wifelike, by his side, +With the same smile as when I was his bride. + +And I shall take his children to my arms; +They will not miss these fading, worthless charms; +Their kiss--ah! unlike his--all pain disarms. + +And haply as the solemn years go by, +He will think sometimes, with regretful sigh, +The other woman was less true than I. + +DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK. + + + +DOROTHY IN THE GARRET. + + +In the low-raftered garret, stooping + Carefully over the creaking boards, +Old Maid Dorothy goes a-groping + Among its dusty and cobwebbed hoards; +Seeking some bundle of patches, hid + Far under the eaves, or bunch of sage, +Or satchel hung on its nail, amid + The heirlooms of a bygone age. + +There is the ancient family chest, + There the ancestral cards and hatchel; +Dorothy, sighing, sinks down to rest, + Forgetful of patches, sage, and satchel. +Ghosts of faces peer from the gloom + Of the chimney, where with swifts and reel, +And the long-disused, dismantled loom, + Stands the old-fashioned spinning-wheel. + +She sees it back in the clean-swept kitchen, + A part of her girlhood's little world; +Her mother is there by the window, stitching; + Spindle buzzes, and reel is whirled +With many a click: on her little stool + She sits, a child, by the open door, +Watching, and dabbling her feet in the pool + Of sunshine spilled on the gilded floor + +Her sisters are spinning all day long; + To her wakening sense the first sweet warning +Of daylight come is the cheerful song + To the hum of the wheel in the early morning. +Benjie, the gentle, red-cheeked boy. + On his way to school, peeps in at the gate; +In neat white pinafore, pleased and coy, + She reaches a hand to her bashful mate; + +And under the elms, a prattling pair. + Together they go, through glimmer and gloom:-- +It all comes back to her, dreaming there + In the low-raftered garret room; +The hum of the wheel, and the summer weather. + The heart's first trouble, and love's beginning, +Are all in her memory linked together; + And now it is she herself that is spinning. + +With the bloom of youth on cheek and lip. + Turning the spokes with the flashing pin, +Twisting the thread from the spindle-tip, + Stretching it out and winding it in. +To and fro, with a blithesome tread, + Singing she goes, and her heart is full, +And many a long-drawn golden thread + Of fancy is spun with the shining wool. + +Her father sits in his favorite place, + Puffing his pipe by the chimney-side; +Through curling clouds his kindly face + Glows upon her with love and pride. +Lulled by the wheel, in the old arm-chair + Her mother is musing, cat in lap, +With beautiful drooping head, and hair + Whitening under her snow-white cap. + +One by one, to the grave, to the bridal, + They have followed her sisters from the door; +Now they are old, and she is their idol:-- + It all comes back on her heart once more. +In the autumn dusk the hearth gleams brightly, + The wheel is set by the shadowy wall,-- +A hand at the latch,--'tis lifted lightly, + And in walks Benjie, manly and tall. + +His chair is placed; the old man tips + The pitcher, and brings his choicest fruit; +Benjie basks in the blaze, and sips, + And tells his story, and joints his flute: +O, sweet the tunes, the talk, the laughter! + They fill the hour with a glowing tide; +But sweeter the still, deep moments after, + When she is alone by Benjie's side. + +But once with angry words they part: + O, then the weary, weary days! +Ever with restless, wretched heart, + Plying her task, she turns to gaze +Far up the road; and early and late + She harks for a footstep at the door, +And starts at the gust that swings the gate, + And prays for Benjie, who comes no more. + +Her fault? O Benjie, and could you steel + Your thoughts towards one who loved you so?-- +Solace she seeks in the whirling wheel, + In duty and love that lighten woe; +Striving with labor, not in vain, + To drive away the dull day's dreariness,-- +Blessing the toil that blunts the pain + Of a deeper grief in the body's weariness. + +Proud and petted and spoiled was she: + A word, and all her life is changed! +His wavering love too easily + In the great, gay city grows estranged: +One year: she sits in the old church pew; + A rustle, a murmur,--O Dorothy! hide +Your face and shut from your soul the view-- + 'Tis Benjie leading a white-veiled bride! + +Now father and mother have long been dead, + And the bride sleeps under a churchyard stone, +And a bent old man with a grizzled head + Walks up the long dim aisle alone. +Years blur to a mist; and Dorothy + Sits doubting betwixt the ghost she seems, +And the phantom of youth, more real than she, + That meets her there in that haunt of dreams. + +Bright young Dorothy, idolized daughter, + Sought by many a youthful adorer, +Life, like a new-risen dawn on the water, + Shining an endless vista before her! +Old Maid Dorothy, wrinkled and gray, + Groping under the farm-house eaves,-- +And life was a brief November day + That sets on a world of withered leaves! + +Yet faithfulness in the humblest part + Is better at last than proud success, +And patience and love in a chastened heart + Are pearls more precious than happiness; +And in that morning when she shall wake + To the spring-time freshness of youth again, +All trouble will seem but a flying flake, + And lifelong sorrow a breath on the pane. + +JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. + + + +THE NUN AND HARP. + + +What memory fired her pallid face, + What passion stirred her blood, +What tide of sorrow and desire + Poured its forgotten flood +Upon a heart that ceased to beat, +Long since, with thought that life was sweet, +When nights were rich with vernal dusk, + And the rose burst its bud? + +Had not the western glory then + Stolen through the latticed room, +Her funeral raiment would have shed + A more heart-breaking gloom; +Had not a dimpled convent-maid +Hung in the doorway, half afraid, +And left the melancholy place + Bright with her blush and bloom! + +Beside the gilded harp she stood, + And through the singing strings +Wound those wan hands of folded prayer + In murmurous preludings. +Then, like a voice, the harp rang high +Its melody, as climb the sky, +Melting against the melting blue, + Some bird's vibrating wings. + +Ah, why, of all the songs that grow + Forever tenderer, +Chose she that passionate refrain + Where lovers 'mid the stir +Of wassailers that round them pass +Hide their sweet secret? Now, alas, +In her nun's habit, coifed and veiled, + What meant that song to her! + +Slowly the western ray forsook + The statue in its shrine; +A sense of tears thrilled all the air + Along the purpling line. +Earth seemed a place of graves that rang +To hollow footsteps, while she sang, +"Drink to me only with thine eyes. + And I will pledge with mine!" + +HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. + + + +FIDELITY IN DOUBT. + + + Come, lady, to my song incline, + The last that shall assail thine ear. + None other cares my strains to hear, +And scarce thou feign'st thyself therewith delighted! +Nor know I well if I am loved or slighted; +But this I know, thou radiant one and sweet, +That, loved or spurned, I die before thy feet! + Yea, I will yield this life of mine + In every deed, if cause appear, + Without another boon to cheer. +Honor it is to be by thee incited +To any deed; and I, when most benighted +By doubt, remind me that times change and fleet, +And brave men still do their occasion meet. + +From the French of GUIRAUD LEROUX. +Translation of HARRIET WATERS PRESTON. + + + +FAITH. + + +Better trust all and be deceived, +And weep that trust and that deceiving, +Than doubt one heart that, if believed, +Had blessed one's life with true believing. + +O, in this mocking world too fast +The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth; +Better be cheated to the last +Than lose the blessed hope of truth. + +FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE-BUTLER. + + * * * * * + + + + +II. PARTING AND ABSENCE + + + +PARTING. + + +If thou dost bid thy friend farewell, +But for one night though that farewell may be, +Press thou his hand in thine. +How canst thou tell how far from thee +Fate or caprice may lead his steps ere that to-morrow comes? +Men have been known to lightly turn the corner of a street, +And days have grown to months, and months to lagging years, +Ere they have looked in loving eyes again. +Parting, at best, is underlaid +With tears and pain. +Therefore, lest sudden death should come between. +Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure firm +The hand of him who goeth forth; +Unseen, Fate goeth too. +Yes, find thou always time to say some earnest word +Between the idle talk, +Lest with thee henceforth, +Night and day, regret should walk. + +COVENTRY PATMORE. + + + +TO LUCASTA. + + ON GOING TO THE WARS. + + +Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, + That from the nunnerie +Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, + To warre and armes I flee. + +True, a new mistresse now I chase.-- + The first foe in the field; +And with a stronger faith imbrace + A sword, a horse, a shield. + +Yet this inconstancy is such + As you, too, shall adore; +I could not love thee, deare, so much, + Loved I not honour more. + +RICHARD LOVELACE. + + + +GOOD-BYE. + + +"Farewell! farewell!" is often heard + From the lips of those who part: +'Tis a whispered tone,--'tis a gentle word, + But it springs not from the heart. +It may serve for the lover's closing lay, + To be sung 'neath a summer sky; +But give to me the lips that say + The honest words, "Good-bye!" +"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear, + In the guise of courtly speech: +But when we leave the kind and dear, + 'Tis not what the soul would teach. +Whene'er we grasp the hands of those + We would have forever nigh, +The flame of Friendship bursts and glows + In the warm, frank words, "Good-bye." + +The mother, sending forth her child + To meet with cares and strife, +Breathes through her tears her doubts and fears + For the loved one's future life. +No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives + Within her choking sigh, +But the deepest sob of anguish gives, + "God bless thee, boy! Good-bye!" + +Go, watch the pale and dying one, + When the glance hast lost its beam; +When the brow is cold as the marble stone, + And the world a passing dream; +And the latest pressure of the hand, + The look of the closing eye, +Yield what the heart _must_ understand, + A long, a last Good-bye. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +AE FOND KISS BEFORE WE PART. + + +Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; +Ae fareweel, alas, forever! +Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; +Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. +Who shall say that fortune grieves him, +While the star of hope she leaves him? +Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; +Dark despair around benights me. + +I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy-- +Naething could resist my Nancy: +But to see her was to love her, +Love but her, and love forever. +Had we never loved sae kindly, +Had we never loved sae blindly, +Never met--or never parted, +We had ne'er been broken-hearted. + +Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! +Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! +Thine be ilka joy and treasure, +Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! +Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; +Ae fareweel, alas, forever! +Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, +Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee! + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +O, MY LUVE'S LIKE A RED, RED ROSE. + + +O, my Luve's like a red, red rose + That's newly sprung in June: +O, my Luve's like the melodie + That's sweetly played in tune. + +As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, + So deep in luve am I: +And I will luve thee still, my dear, + Till a' the seas gang dry: + +Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. + And the rocks melt wi' the sun: +And I will luve thee still, my dear, + While the sands o' life shall run. + +And fare thee weel, my only Luve! + And fare thee weel awhile! +And I will come again, my Luve, + Tho' it were ten thousand mile. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. + + +Maid of Athens, ere we part, +Give, O, give me back my heart! +Or, since that has left my breast, +Keep it now, and take the rest! +Hear my vow before I go, + [Greek: Zoe moy sas hagapo.][2] + +By those tresses unconfined, +Wooed by each AEgean wind; +By those lids whose jetty fringe +Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; +By those wild eyes like the roe, + [Greek: Zoe moy sas hagapo.] + +By that lip I long to taste; +By that zone-encircled waist; +By all the token-flowers that tell +What words can never speak so well; +By love's alternate joy and woe, + [Greek: Zoe moy sas hagapo.] + +Maid of Athens! I am gone. +Think of me, sweet! when alone. +Though I fly to Istambol, +Athens holds my heart and soul: +Can I cease to love thee? No! + [Greek: Zoe moy sas hagapo.] + +LORD BYRON. + + [2] _Zoe mou, sas agap[-o]_; My life. I love thee. + + + +SONG. + + OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM HIS BRIDE + BY THE "FIERY CROSS OF RODERICK DHU." + + FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE." + + +The heath this night must be my bed, +The bracken curtain for my head, +My lullaby the warder's tread, + Far, far from love and thee, Mary; +To-morrow eve, more stilly laid +My couch may be my bloody plaid, +My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! + It will not waken me, Mary! + +I may not, dare not, fancy now +The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, +I dare not think upon thy vow, + And all it promised me, Mary. +No fond regret must Norman know; +When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, +His heart must be like bended bow, + His foot like arrow free, Mary! + +A time will come with feeling fraught! +For, if I fall in battle fought, +Thy hapless lover's dying thought + Shall be a thought on thee. Mary. +And if returned from conquered foes, +How blithely will the evening close, +How sweet the linnet sing repose, + To my young bride and me, Mary! + +SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + +BLACK-EYED SUSAN. + + +All in the Downs the fleet was moored, + The streamers waving in the wind, +When black-eyed Susan came aboard; + "O, where shall I my true-love find? +Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true +If my sweet William sails among the crew." + +William, who high upon the yard + Rocked with the billow to and fro, +Soon as her well-known voice he heard + He sighed, and cast his eyes below: +The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, +And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. + +So the sweet lark, high poised in air, + Shuts close his pinions to his breast +If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, + And drops at once into her nest:-- +The noblest captain in the British fleet +Might envy William's lips those kisses sweet. + +"O Susan, Susan, lovely dear, + My vows shall ever true remain; +Let me kiss off that falling tear; + We only part to meet again. +Change as ye list, ye winds; my heart shall be +The faithful compass that still points to thee. + +"Believe not what the landmen say + Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; +They'll tell thee, sailors, when away, + In every port a mistress find; +Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, +For thou art present wheresoe'er I go. + +"If to fair India's coast we sail, + Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, +Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, + Thy skin is ivory so white. +Thus every beauteous object that I view +Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. + +"Though battle call me from thy arms, + Let not my pretty Susan mourn; +Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms + William shall to his dear return. +Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, +Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." +The boatswain gave the dreadful word, + The sails their swelling bosom spread; +No longer must she stay aboard: + They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. +Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land; + "Adieu!" she cried; and waved her lily hand. + + +JOHN GAY. + + + +THE PARTING LOVERS. + + +She says, "The cock crows,--hark!" +He says, "No! still 'tis dark." + +She says, "The dawn grows bright," +He says, "O no, my Light." + +She says, "Stand up and say, +Gets not the heaven gray?" + +He says, "The morning star +Climbs the horizon's bar." + +She says, "Then quick depart: +Alas! you now must start; + +But give the cock a blow +Who did begin our woe!" + +ANONYMOUS. From the Chinese. +Translation of WILLIAM. R. ALGER. + + + +LOCHABER NO MORE. + + +Farewell to Lochaber! and farewell, my Jean, +Where heartsome with thee I hae mony day been; +For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, +We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more! +These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, +And no for the dangers attending on wear, +Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, +Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. + +Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, +They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; +Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, +That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. +To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; +By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; +And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, +And I must deserve it before I can crave. + +Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; +Since honor commands me, how can I refuse? +Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, +And without thy favor I'd better not be. +I gae then, my lass, to win honor and fame, +And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, +I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, +And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. + +ALLAN RAMSAY. + + + +AS SLOW OUR SHIP. + + +As slow our ship her foamy track + Against the wind was cleaving. +Her trembling pennant still looked back + To that dear isle 'twas leaving. +So loath we part from all we love, + From all the links that bind us; +So turn our hearts, as on we rove, + To those we've left behind us! + +When, round the bowl, of vanished years + We talk with joyous seeming,-- +With smiles that might as well be tears, + So faint, so sad their beaming; +While memory brings us back again + Each early tie that twined us, +O, sweet's the cup that circles then + To those we've left behind us! + +And when, in other climes, we meet + Some isle or vale enchanting, +Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, + And naught but love is wanting; +We think how great had been our bliss + If Heaven had but assigned us +To live and die in scenes like this, + With some we've left behind us! + +As travellers oft look back at eve + When eastward darkly going, +To gaze upon that light they leave + Still faint behind, them glowing,-- +So, when the close of pleasure's day + To gloom hath near consigned us, +We turn to catch one fading ray + Of joy that's left behind us. + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +QUA CURSUM VENTUS. + + +As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay + With canvas drooping, side by side, +Two towers of sail at dawn of day + Are scarce long leagues apart descried. + +When fell the night, up sprang the breeze, + And all the darkling hours they plied, +Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas + By each was cleaving, side by side: + +E'en so,--but why the tale reveal + Of those whom, year by year unchanged, +Brief absence joined anew to feel, + Astounded, soul from soul estranged? + +At dead of night their sails were filled, + And onward each rejoicing steered;-- +Ah! neither blame, for neither willed + Or wist what first with dawn appeared. + +To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, + Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, +Through winds and tides one compass guides; + To that and your own selves be true. + +But O blithe breeze! and O great seas! + Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, +On your wide plain they join again,-- + Together lead them home at last. + +One port, methought, alike they sought,-- + One purpose hold where'er they fare; +O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, + At last, at last, unite them there! + +ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. + + + +ADIEU, ADIEU! MY NATIVE SHORE. + + +Adieu, adieu! my native shore + Fades o'er the waters blue; +The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, + And shrieks the wild sea-mew. +Yon sun that sets upon the sea + We follow in his flight; +Farewell awhile to him and thee, + My native Land--Good Night! + +A few short hours, and he will rise + To give the morrow birth; +And I shall hail the main and skies, + But not my mother earth. +Deserted is my own good hall, + Its hearth is desolate; +Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; + My dog howls at the gate. + +LORD BYRON. + + + +FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. + + +Fare thee well! and if forever, + Still forever, fare thee well; +Even though unforgiving, never + 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. + +Would that breast were bared before thee + Where thy head so oft hath lain, +While that placid sleep came o'er thee + Which thou ne'er canst know again: + +Would that breast, by thee glanced over, + Every inmost thought could show! +Then thou wouldst at last discover + 'Twas not well to spurn it so. + +Though the world for this commend thee,-- + Though it smile upon the blow, +Even its praises must offend thee, + Founded on another's woe: + +Though my many faults defaced me, + Could no other arm be found +Than the one which once embraced me, + To inflict a cureless wound? + +Yet, O, yet thyself deceived not: + Love may sink by slow decay; +But by sudden wrench, believe not + Hearts can thus be torn away: + +Still thy own its life retaineth,-- + Still must mine, though bleeding, beat; +And the undying thought which paineth + Is--that we no more may meet. + +These are words of deeper sorrow + Than the wail above the dead; +Both shall live, but every morrow + Wake us from a widowed bed. + +And when thou wouldst solace gather, + When our child's first accents flow, +Wilt thou teach her to say "Father!" + Though his care she must forego? + +When her little hands shall press thee, + When her lip to thine is pressed, +Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, + Think of him thy love had blessed! + +Should her lineaments resemble + Those thou nevermore mayst see, +Then thy heart will softly tremble + With a pulse yet true to me. + +All my faults perchance thou knowest, + All my madness none can know; +All my hopes, where'er thou goest, + Wither, yet with _thee_ they go. +Every feeling hath been shaken; + Pride, which not a world could bow, +Bows to thee,--by thee forsaken, + Even my soul forsakes me now; + +But 't is done; all words are idle,-- + Words from me are vainer still; +But the thoughts we cannot bridle + Force their way without the will. + +Fare thee well!--thus disunited, + Torn from every nearer tie, +Seared in heart, and lone, and blighted, + More than this I scarce can die. + +LORD BYRON. + + + +COME, LET US KISSE AND PARTE. + + +Since there's no helpe,--come, let us kisse and parte, + Nay, I have done,--you get no more of me; +And I am glad,--yea, glad with all my hearte, + That thus so cleanly I myselfe can free. +Shake hands forever!--cancel all our vows; + And when we meet at any time againe, +Be it not seene in either of our brows, + That we one jot of former love retaine. + +Now--at the last gaspe of Love's latest breath-- + When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies; +When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death, + And Innocence is closing up his eyes, +Now! if thou wouldst--when all have given him over-- + From death to life thou mightst him yet recover. + +MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + + +FAREWELL! THOU ART TOO DEAR. + + SONNET LXXXVII. + + +Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, +And like enough thou know'st thy estimate: +The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing; +My bonds in thee are all determinate. +For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? +And for that riches where is my deserving? +The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting, +And so my patent back again is swerving. +Thyself thou gav'st, thy own worth then not knowing? +Or me, to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking; +So thy great gift, upon misprision growing, +Comes home again, on better judgment making. +Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter; +In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +KATHLEEN MAVOURNEEN. + + +Kathleen Mavourneen! the gray dawn is breaking, + The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill; +The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,-- + Kathleen Mavourneen! what, slumbering still? + +Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? + Oh! hast thou forgotten this day we must part? +It may be for years, and it may be forever! + Oh, why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? +Oh! why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen? + +Kathleen Mavourneen, awake from thy slumbers! + The blue mountains glow in the sun's golden light; +Ah, where is the spell that once hung on my numbers? + Arise in thy beauty, thou star of my night! + +Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling, + To think that from Erin and thee I must part! +It may be for years, and it may be forever! + Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart? +Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen? + +JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD. + + + +WE PARTED IN SILENCE. + + +We parted in silence, we parted by night, + On the banks of that lonely river; +Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, + We met--and we parted forever! +The night-bird sung, and the stars above + Told many a touching story, +Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, + Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. + +We parted in silence,--our cheeks were wet + With the tears that were past controlling; +We vowed we would never, no, never forget, + And those vows at the time were consoling; +But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine + Are as cold as that lonely river; +And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, + Has shrouded its fires forever. + +And now on the midnight sky I look, + And my heart grows full of weeping; +Each star is to me a sealed book, + Some tale of that loved one keeping. +We parted in silence,--we parted in tears, + On the banks of that lonely river: +But the odor and bloom of those bygone years + Shall hang o'er its waters forever. + +JULIA (OR LOUISA MACARTNEY) CRAWFORD. + + + +AUF WIEDERSEHEN. + + SUMMER. + + +The little gate was reached at last, + Half hid in lilacs down the lane; +She pushed it wide, and, as she past, +A wistful look she backward cast, + And said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" +With hand on latch, a vision white + Lingered reluctant, and again +Half doubting if she did aright, +Soft as the dews that fell that night, + She said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair; + I linger in delicious pain; +Ah, in that chamber, whose rich air +To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, + Thinks she,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +'Tis thirteen years; once more I press + The turf that silences the lane; +I hear the rustle of her dress, +I smell the lilacs, and--ah, yes, + I hear,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +Sweet piece of bashful maiden art! + The English words had seemed too fain, +But these--they drew us heart to heart, +Yet held us tenderly apart; + She said,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + +PALINODE. + + AUTUMN. + + +Still thirteen years: 't is autumn now + On field and hill, in heart and brain; +The naked trees at evening sough; +The leaf to the forsaken bough + Sighs not,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +Two watched yon oriole's pendent dome, + That now is void, and dank with rain, +And one,--oh, hope more frail than foam! +The bird to his deserted home + Sings not,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +The loath gate swings with rusty creak; + Once, parting there, we played at pain; +There came a parting, when the weak +And fading lips essayed to speak + Vainly,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +Somewhere is comfort, somewhere faith, + Though thou in outer dark remain; +One sweet sad voice ennobles death, +And still, for eighteen centuries saith + Softly,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +If earth another grave must bear, + Yet heaven hath won a sweeter strain, +And something whispers my despair, +That, from an orient chamber there, + Floats down,--"_Auf wiedersehen_!" + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + +FAREWELL!--BUT WHENEVER. + + +Farewell!--but whenever you welcome the hour +That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower. +Then think of the friend that once welcomed it too. +And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. +His griefs may return--not a hope may remain +Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain-- +But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw +Its enchantment around him while lingering with you! + +And still on that evening when Pleasure fills up +To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, +Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, +My soul, happy friends! will be with you that night; +Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, +And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles-- +Too blest if it tell me that, 'mid the gay cheer, +Some kind voice has murmured, "I wish he were here!" + +Let Fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, +Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot destroy; +Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care, +And bring back the features which joy used to wear. +Long, long be my heart with such memories filled! +Like the vase in which roses have once been distilled-- +You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, +But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +PARTING OF HECTOR AND ANDROMACHE. + + FROM "THE ILIAD," BOOK VI. + + + "Too daring prince! ah whither dost thou run? +Ah too forgetful of thy wife and son! +And think'st thou not how wretched we shall be, +A widow I, a helpless orphan he! +For sure such courage length of life denies, +And thou must fall, thy virtue's sacrifice. +Greece in her single heroes strove in vain; +Now hosts oppose thee, and thou must be slain! +Oh grant me, gods! ere Hector meets his doom, +All I can ask of heaven, an early tomb! +So shall my days in one sad tenor run, +And end with sorrows as they first begun. +No parent now remains, my griefs to share, +No father's aid, no mother's tender care. +The fierce Achilles wrapt our walls in fire, +Laid Thebe waste, and slew my warlike sire! +His fate compassion in the victor bred; +Stern as he was, he yet revered the dead, +His radiant arms preserved from hostile spoil, +And laid him decent on the funeral pile; +Then raised a mountain where his bones were burned; +The mountain nymphs the rural tomb adorned; +Jove's sylvan daughters bade their elms bestow +A barren shade, and in his honor grow. + + "Yet while my Hector still survives, I see +My father, mother, brethren, all, in thee. +Alas! my parents, brothers, kindred, all, +Once more will perish if my Hector fall. +Thy wife, thy infant, in thy danger share; +Oh prove a husband's and a father's care! +That quarter most the skillful Greeks annoy, +Where yon wild fig-trees join the wall of Troy: +Thou, from this tower defend th'important post; +There Agamemnon points his dreadful host, +That pass Tydides, Ajax, strive to gain, +And there the vengeful Spartan fires his train. +Thrice our bold foes the fierce attack have given, +Or led by hopes, or dictated from heaven. +Let others in the field their arms employ, +But stay my Hector here, and guard his Troy." + + The chief replied: "That post shall be my care, +Nor that alone, but all the works of war. +[How would the sons of Troy, in arms renowned, +And Troy's proud dames, whose garments sweep the ground, +Attaint the lustre of my former name, +Should Hector basely quit the field of fame? +My early youth was bred to martial pains, +My soul impels me to th'embattled plains: +Let me be foremost to defend the throne, +And guard my father's glories, and my own. +Yet come it will, the day decreed by fates; +(How my heart trembles while my tongue relates) +The day when thou, imperial Troy! must bend, +And see thy warriors fall, thy glories end. +And yet no dire presage so wounds my mind, +My mother's death, the ruin of my kind, +Not Priam's hoary hairs denied with gore, +Not all my brothers gasping on the shore; +As thine, Andromache! thy griefs I dread; +I see thee trembling, weeping, captive led!] +In Argive looms our battles to design, +And woes of which so large a part was thine! +To bear the victor's hard commands or bring +The weight of waters from Hyperia's spring. +There, while you groan beneath the load of life, +They cry, Behold the mighty Hector's wife! +Some haughty Greek, who lives thy tears to see, +Embitters all thy woes by naming me. +The thoughts of glory past, and present shame, +A thousand griefs, shall waken at the name! +May I lie cold before that dreadful day, +Pressed with a load of monumental clay! +Thy Hector, wrapped in everlasting sleep, +Shall neither hear thee sigh, nor see thee weep." + + Thus having spoke, th' illustrious chief of Troy +Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy. +The babe clung crying to his nurse's breast, +Scared at the dazzling helm, and nodding crest. +With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled, +And Hector hasted to relieve his child; +The glittering terrors from his brows unbound, +And placed the beaming helmet on the ground. +Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air, +Thus to the gods preferred a father's prayer: + + "O thou whose glory fills th' ethereal throne, +And all ye deathless powers! protect my son! +Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown, +To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown, +Against his country's foes the war to wage, +And rise the Hector of the future age! +So when, triumphant from successful toils, +Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils, +Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim, +And say, This chief transcends his father's fame: +While pleased, amidst the general shouts of Troy, +His mother's conscious heart o'erflows with joy." + + He spoke, and fondly gazing on her charms +Restored the pleasing burden to her arms; +Soft on her fragrant breast the babe she laid, +Hushed to repose, and with a smile surveyed. +The troubled pleasure soon chastised by fear, +She mingled with the smile a tender tear. +The softened chief with kind compassion viewed, +And dried the falling drops, and thus pursued: + + "Andromache! my soul's far better part, +Why with untimely sorrows heaves thy heart? +No hostile hand can antedate my doom, +Till fate condemns me to the silent tomb. +Fixed is the term to all the race of earth, +And such the hard condition of our birth. +No force can then resist, no flight can save; +All sink alike, the fearful and the brave. +No more--but hasten to thy tasks at home, +There guide the spindle, and direct the loom: +Me glory summons to the martial scene, +The field of combat is the sphere for men. +Where heroes war, the foremost place I claim, +The first in danger as the first in fame." + + Thus having said, the glorious chief resumes +His towery helmet, black with shading plumes. +His princess parts with a prophetic sigh, +Unwilling parts, and oft reverts her eye, +That streamed at every look: then, moving slow, +Sought her own palace, and indulged her woe. +There, while her tears deplored the godlike man, +Through all her train the soft infection ran; +The pious maids their mingled sorrows shed, +And mourn the living Hector as the dead. + +From the Greek of HOMER. +Translation of ALEXANDER POPE. + + + + +HECTOR TO HIS WIFE. + + FROM THE ILIAD, BOOK VI. + +[The following extract is given as showing a more modern style of +translation. It embraces the bracketed portion of the foregoing from +Pope's version.] + + +I too have thought of all this, dear wife, but I fear the reproaches +Both of the Trojan youths and the long-robed maidens of Troja, +If like a cowardly churl I should keep me aloof from the combat: +Nor would my spirit permit; for well I have learnt to be valiant, +Fighting aye 'mong the first of the Trojans marshalled in battle, +Striving to keep the renown of my sire and my own unattainted. +Well, too well, do I know,--both my mind and my spirit agreeing, +That there will be a day when sacred Troja shall perish. +Priam will perish too, and the people of Priam, the spear-armed. +Still, I have not such care for the Trojans doomed to destruction, +No, nor for Hecuba's self, nor for Priam, the monarch, my father, +Nor for my brothers' fate, who, though they be many and valiant, +All in the dust may lie low by the hostile spears of Achaia, +As for thee, when some youth of the brazen-mailed Achaeans +Weeping shall bear thee away, and bereave thee forever of freedom. + +Translation of E.C. HAWTREY. + + + +TO LUCASTA. + + + If to be absent were to be + Away from thee; + Or that, when I am gone, + You or I were alone; + Then, my Lucasta, might I crave +Pity from blustering wind or swallowing wave. + + But I'll not sigh one blast or gale + To swell my sail, + Or pay a tear to 'suage + The foaming blue-god's rage; + For, whether he will let me pass +Or no, I'm still as happy as I was. + + Though seas and lands be 'twixt us both, + Our faith and troth, + Like separated souls, + All time and space controls: + Above the highest sphere we meet, +Unseen, unknown; and greet as angels greet. + + So, then, we do anticipate + Our after-fate, + And are alive i' the skies, + If thus our lips and eyes + Can speak like spirits unconfined +In heaven,--their earthly bodies left behind. + +RICHARD LOVELACE. + + + +TO HER ABSENT SAILOR. + + FROM "THE TENT ON THE BEACH." + + +Her window opens to the bay, +On glistening light or misty gray, +And there at dawn and set of day + In prayer she kneels: +"Dear Lord!" she saith, "to many a home +From wind and wave the wanderers come; +I only see the tossing foam + Of stranger keels. + +"Blown out and in by summer gales, +The stately ships, with crowded sails, +And sailors leaning o'er their rails, + Before me glide; +They come, they go, but nevermore, +Spice-laden from the Indian shore, +I see his swift-winged Isidore + The waves divide. + +"O Thou! with whom the night is day +And one the near and far away, +Look out on yon gray waste, and say + Where lingers he. +Alive, perchance, on some lone beach +Or thirsty isle beyond the reach +Of man, he hears the mocking speech + Of wind and sea. + +"O dread and cruel deep, reveal +The secret which thy waves conceal, +And, ye wild sea-birds, hither wheel + And tell your tale. +Let winds that tossed his raven hair +A message from my lost one bear,-- +Some thought of me, a last fond prayer + Or dying wail! + +"Come, with your dreariest truth shut out +The fears that haunt me round about; +O God! I cannot bear this doubt + That stifles breath. +The worst is better than the dread; +Give me but leave to mourn my dead +Asleep in trust and hope, instead + Of life in death!" + +It might have been the evening breeze +That whispered in the garden trees, +It might have been the sound of seas + That rose and fell; +But, with her heart, if not her ear, +The old loved voice she seemed to hear: +"I wait to meet thee: be of cheer, + For all is well!" + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + + +I LOVE MY JEAN. + + +Of a' the airts[3] the wind can blaw, + I dearly like the west; +For there the bonnie lassie lives, + The lassie I lo'e best. +There wild woods grow, and rivers row, + And monie a hill's between; +But day and night my fancy's flight + Is ever wi' my Jean. + +I see her in the dewy flowers, + I see her sweet and fair; +I hear her in the tunefu' birds, + I hear her charm the air; +There's not a bonnie flower that springs + By fountain, shaw, or green; +There's not a bonnie bird that sings, + But minds me of my Jean. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + [3] The points of the compass. + + + +JEANIE MORRISON. + + +I've wandered east, I've wandered west, + Through mony a weary way; +But never, never can forget + The luve o' life's young day! +The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en + May weel be black gin Yule; +But blacker fa' awaits the heart + Where first fond luve grows cule. + +O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, + The thochts o' bygane years +Still fling their shadows ower my path, + And blind my een wi' tears: +They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, + And sair and sick I pine, +As memory idly summons up + The blithe blinks o' langsyne. + +'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, + 'Twas then we twa did part; +Sweet time--sad time! twa bairns at scule, + Twa bairns, and but ae heart! +'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink, + To leir ilk ither lear; +And tones and looks and smiles were shed, + Remembered evermair. + +I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, + When sitting on that bink, +Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, + What our wee heads could think. +When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, + Wi' ae buik on our knee, +Thy lips were on thy lesson, but + My lesson was in thee. + +O, mind ye how we hung our heads, + How cheeks brent red wi' shame, +Whene'er the scule-weans, laughin', said + We cleeked thegither hame? +And mind ye o' the Saturdays, + (The scule then skail't at noon,) +When we ran off to speel the braes,-- + The broomy braes o' June? + +My head rins round and round about,-- + My heart flows like a sea, +As ane by ane the thochts rush back + O' scule-time, and o' thee. +O mornin' life! O mornin' luve! + O lichtsome days and lang, +When hinnied hopes around our hearts + Like simmer blossoms sprang! + +O, mind ye, luve, how aft we left + The deavin', dinsome toun, +To wander by the green burnside, + And hear its waters croon? +The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, + The flowers burst round our feet, +And in the gloamin' o' the wood + The throssil whusslit sweet; + +The throssil whusslit in the woods, + The burn sang to the trees,-- +And we, with nature's heart in tune, + Concerted harmonies; +And on the knowe abune the burn, + For hours thegither sat +In the silentness o' joy, till baith + Wi' very gladness grat. + +Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, + Tears trickled doun your cheek +Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane + Had ony power to speak! +That was a time, a blessed time, + When hearts were fresh and young, +When freely gushed all feelings forth, + Unsyllabled--unsung! + +I marvel, Jeanie Morrison, + Gin I hae been to thee +As closely twined wi' earliest thochts + As ye hae been to me? +O, tell me gin their music fills + Thine ear as it does mine! +O, say gin e'er your heart grows grit + Wi' dreamings o' langsyne? + +I've wandered east, I've wandered west, + I've borne a weary lot; +But in my wanderings, far or near, + Ye never were forgot. +The fount that first burst frae this heart + Still travels on its way; +And channels deeper, as it rins, + The luve o' life's young day. + +O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, + Since we were sindered young +I've never seen your face nor heard + The music o' your tongue; +But I could hug all wretchedness, + And happy could I dee, +Did I but ken your heart still dreamed + O' bygane days and me! + +WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. + + + +O, SAW YE BONNIE LESLIE? + + +O, saw ye bonnie Leslie + As she gaed o'er the border? +She's gane, like Alexander, + To spread her conquests farther. + +To see her is to love her, + And love but her forever; +For nature made her what she is, + And ne'er made sic anither! + +Thou art a queen, fair Leslie, + Thy subjects we, before thee; +Thou art divine, fair Leslie, + The hearts o' men adore thee. + +The deil he could na scaith thee, + Or aught that wad belang thee; +He'd look into thy bonnie face, + And say, "I canna wrang thee!" + +The Powers aboon will tent thee; + Misfortune sha' na steer[4] thee; +Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely + That ill they 'll ne'er let near thee. + +Return again, fair Leslie, + Return to Caledonie! +That we may brag we hae a lass + There's nane again sae bonnie. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + [4] Harm. + + + +THE RUSTIC LAD'S LAMENT IN THE TOWN. + +O, wad that my time were owre but, + Wi' this wintry sleet and snaw, +That I might see our house again, + I' the bonnie birken shaw! +For this is no my ain life, + And I peak and pine away +Wi' the thochts o' hame and the young flowers, + In the glad green month of May. + +I used to wauk in the morning + Wi' the loud sang o' the lark, +And the whistling o' the ploughman lads, + As they gaed to their wark; +I used to wear the bit young lambs + Frae the tod and the roaring stream; +But the warld is changed, and a' thing now + To me seems like a dream. + +There are busy crowds around me, + On ilka lang dull street; +Yet, though sae mony surround me, + I ken na are I meet: +And I think o' kind kent faces, + And o' blithe an' cheery days, +When I wandered out wi' our ain folk, + Out owre the simmer braes. + +Waes me, for my heart is breaking! + I think o' my brither sma', +And on my sister greeting, + When I cam frae hame awa. +And O, how my mither sobbit, + As she shook me by the hand, +When I left the door o' our auld house, + To come to this stranger land. + +There's nae hame like our ain hame-- + O, I wush that I were there! +There's nae hame like our ain hame + To be met wi' onywhere; +And O that I were back again, + To our farm and fields sae green; +And heard the tongues o' my ain folk, + And were what I hae been! + +DAVID MACBETH MOIR. + + + +ABSENCE. + + +What shall I do with all the days and hours + That must be counted ere I see thy face? +How shall I charm the interval that lowers + Between this time and that sweet time of grace? + +Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, + Weary with longing?--shall I flee away +Into past days, and with some fond pretence + Cheat myself to forget the present day? + +Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin + Of casting from me God's great gift of time? +Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, + Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? + +O, how or by what means may I contrive + To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? +How may I teach my drooping hope to live + Until that blessed time, and thou art here? + +I'll tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold + Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, + +In worthy deeds, each moment that is told + While thou, beloved one! art far from me. + +For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try + All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; +For thy dear sake I will walk patiently + Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. + +I will this dreary blank of absence make + A noble task-time; and will therein strive +To follow excellence, and to o'ertake + More good than I have won since yet I live. + +So may this doomed time build up in me + A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; +So may my love and longing hallowed be, + And thy dear thought an influence divine. + +FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. + + + +ROBIN ADAIR. + + +What's this dull town to me? + Robin's not near,-- +He whom I wished to see, + Wished for to hear; +Where's all the joy and mirth +Made life a heaven on earth, +O, they're all fled with thee, + Robin Adair! + +What made the assembly shine? + Robin Adair: +What made the ball so fine? + Robin was there: +What, when the play was o'er, +What made my heart so sore? +O, it was parting with + Robin Adair! + +But now thou art far from me, + Robin Adair; +But now I never see + Robin Adair; +Yet him I loved so well +Still in my heart shall dwell; +O, I can ne'er forget + Robin Adair! + +Welcome on shore again, + Robin Adair! +Welcome once more again, + Robin Adair! +I feel thy trembling hand; +Tears in thy eyelids stand, +To greet thy native land, + Robin Adair! + +Long I ne'er saw thee, love, + Robin Adair; +Still I prayed for thee, love, + Robin Adair; +When thou wert far at sea, +Many made love to me, +But still I thought on thee, + Robin Adair. + +Come to my heart again, + Robin Adair; +Never to part again, + Robin Adair; +And if thou still art true, +I will be constant too, +And will wed none but you, + Robin Adair! + +LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL. + + + +DAISY. + + +Where the thistle lifts a purple crown + Six foot out of the turf, +And the harebell shakes on the windy hill-- + O the breath of the distant surf!-- + +The hills look over on the South, + And southward dreams the sea; +And, with the sea-breeze hand in hand, + Came innocence and she. + +Where 'mid the gorse the raspberry + Red for the gatherer springs, +Two children did we stray and talk + Wise, idle, childish things. + +She listened with big-lipped surprise, + Breast-deep mid flower and spine: +Her skin was like a grape, whose veins + Run snow instead of wine. + +She knew not those sweet words she spake. + Nor knew her own sweet way; +But there's never a bird, so sweet a song + Thronged in whose throat that day! + +Oh, there were flowers in Storrington + On the turf and on the sprays; +But the sweetest flower on Sussex hills + Was the Daisy-flower that day! + +Her beauty smoothed earth's furrowed face! + She gave me tokens three:-- +A look, a word of her winsome mouth, + And a wild raspberry. + +A berry red, a guileless look, + A still word,--strings of sand! +And yet they made my wild, wild heart + Fly down to her little hand. + +For standing artless as the air, + And candid as the skies, +She took the berries with her hand, + And the love with her sweet eyes. + +The fairest things have fleetest end: + Their scent survives their close, +But the rose's scent is bitterness + To him that loved the rose! + +She looked a little wistfully, + Then went her sunshine way:-- +The sea's eye had a mist on it, + And the leaves fell from the day. + +She went her unremembering way, + She went and left in me +The pang of all the partings gone, + And partings yet to be. + +She left me marvelling why my soul + Was sad that she was glad; +At all the sadness in the sweet, + The sweetness in the sad. + +Still, still I seemed to see her, still + Look up with soft replies, +And take the berries with her hand, + And the love with her lovely eyes. + +Nothing begins, and nothing ends, + That is not paid with moan; +For we are born in others' pain, + And perish in our own. + +FRANCIS THOMPSON. + + + +SONG OF EGLA. + + +Day, in melting purple dying; +Blossoms, all around me sighing; +Fragrance, from the lilies straying; +Zephyr, with my ringlets playing; + Ye but waken my distress; + I am sick of loneliness! + +Thou, to whom I love to hearken, +Come, ere night around me darken; +Though thy softness but deceive me, +Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee; + Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, + Let me think it innocent! + +Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure; +All I ask is friendship's pleasure; +Let the shining ore lie darkling,-- +Bring no gem in lustre sparkling; + Gifts and gold are naught to me, + I would only look on thee! + +Tell to thee the high-wrought feeling, +Ecstasy but in revealing; +Paint to thee the deep sensation, +Rapture in participation; + Yet but torture, if comprest + In a lone, unfriended breast. + +Absent still! Ah! come and bless me! +Let these eyes again caress thee. +Once in caution, I could fly thee; +Now, I nothing could deny thee. + In a look if death there be, + Come, and I will gaze on thee! + +MARIA GOWEN BROOKS (_Maria del Occidente_). + + + +WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE? + + +What ails this heart o' mine? + What ails this watery ee? +What gars me a' turn pale as death + When I take leave o' thee? +Whea thou art far awa', + Thou'lt dearer grow to me; +But change o' place and change o' folk + May gar thy fancy jee. + +When I gae out at e'en, + Or walk at morning air, +Ilk rustling bush will seem to say + I used to meet thee there: +Then I'll sit down and cry, + And live aneath the tree, +And when a leaf fa's i' my lap, + I'll ca't a word frae thee. + +I'll hie me to the bower + That thou wi' roses tied, +And where wi' mony a blushing bud + I strove myself to hide. +I'll doat on ilka spot + Where I ha'e been wi' thee; +And ca' to mind some kindly word + By ilka burn and tree. + +SUSANNA BLAMIRE. + + + +LOVE'S MEMORY. + + FROM "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL," ACT I. SC. I. + + +I am undone: there is no living, none, +If Bertram be away. It were all one, +That I should love a bright particular star, +And think to wed it, he is so above me: +In his bright radiance and collateral light +Must I be comforted, not in his sphere. +The ambition in my love thus plagues itself: +The hind that would be mated by the lion +Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague, +To see him every hour; to sit and draw +His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls, +In our heart's table,--heart too capable +Of every line and trick of his sweet favor: +But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy +Must sanctify his relics. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +ABSENCE. + + +When I think on the happy days + I spent wi' you, my dearie; +And now what lands between us lie, + How can I be but eerie! + +How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, + As ye were wae and weary! +It was na sae ye glinted by + When I was wi' my dearie. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THINKIN' LONG. + + +Oh thinkin' long's the weary work! +It breaks my heart from dawn +Till all the wee, wee, friendly stars +Come out at dayli'gone. +An' thinkin' long's the weary work, +When I must spin and spin, +To drive the fearsome fancies out, +An' hold the hopeful in! + +Ah, sure my lad is far away! +My lad who left our glen +When from the soul of Ireland came +A call for fightin' men; +I miss his gray eyes glancin' bright, +I miss his liltin' song, +And that is why, the lonesome day, +I'm always thinkin' long. + +May God's kind angels guard him +When the fray is fierce and grim, +And blunt the point of every sword +That turns its hate on him. +Where round the torn yet dear green flag +The brave and lovin' throng-- +But the lasses of Glenwherry smile +At me for thinkin' long. + +ANNA MAC MANUS (_Ethna Carbery_). + + + +"TEARS, IDLE TEARS." + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + + Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, +Tears from the depth of some divine despair +Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, +In looking on the happy autumn fields, +And thinking of the days that are no more. +Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, +That brings our friends up from the under world; +Sad as the last which reddens over one +That sinks with all we love below the verge,-- +So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. + + Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns +The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds +To dying ears, when unto dying eyes +The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; +So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. + + Dear as remembered kisses after death, +And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned +On lips that are for others; deep as love, +Deep as first love and wild with all regret,-- +O Death in Life, the days that are no more. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. + + +I have had playmates, I have had companions, +In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I have been laughing, I have been carousing, +Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +I loved a Love once, fairest among women: +Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her,-- +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. +I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: +Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; +Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. + +Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, +Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, +Seeking to find the old familiar faces. + +Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, +Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? +So might we talk of the old familiar faces. + +How some they have died, and some they have left me, +And some are taken from me; all are departed; +All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + +CHARLES LAMB. + + + +COME TO ME, DEAREST. + + +Come to me, dearest, I'm lonely without thee, +Daytime and night-time, I'm thinking about thee; +Night-time and daytime, in dreams I behold thee; +Unwelcome the waking which ceases to fold thee. +Come to me, darling, my sorrows to lighten, +Come in thy beauty to bless and to brighten; +Come in thy womanhood, meekly and lowly, +Come in thy lovingness, queenly and holy. + +Swallows will flit round the desolate ruin, +Telling of spring and its joyous renewing; +And thoughts of thy love, and its manifold treasure, +Are circling my heart with a promise of pleasure. +O Spring of my spirit, O May of my bosom, +Shine out on my soul, till it bourgeon and blossom; +The waste of my life has a rose-root within it, +And thy fondness alone to the sunshine can win it. + +Figure that moves like a song through the even; +Features lit up by a reflex of heaven; +Eyes like the skies of poor Erin, our mother, +Where shadow and sunshine are chasing each other; +Smiles coming seldom, but childlike and simple, +Planting in each rosy cheek a sweet dimple;-- +thanks to the Saviour, that even thy seeming +Is left to the exile to brighten his dreaming. + +You have been glad when you knew I was gladdened; +Dear, are you sad now to hear I am saddened? +Our hearts ever answer in tune and in time, love, +As octave to octave, and rhyme unto rhyme, love: +I cannot weep but your tears will be flowing, +You cannot smile but my cheek will be glowing; +I would not die without you at my side, love, +You will not linger when I shall have died, love. + +Come to me, dear, ere I die of my sorrow, +Rise on my gloom like the sun of to-morrow; +Strong, swift, and fond as the words which I speak, love, +With a song on your lip and a smile on your cheek, love. +Come, for my heart in your absence is weary,-- +Haste, for my spirit is sickened and dreary,-- +Come to the arms which alone should caress thee. +Come to the heart that is throbbing to press thee! + +JOSEPH BRENAN. + + + +THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. + + +Linger not long. Home is not home without thee: + Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. +O, let its memory, like a chain about thee, + Gently compel and hasten thy return! + +Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy staying, + Bethink thee, can the mirth of thy friends, though dear, +Compensate for the grief thy long delaying + Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here? + +Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming, + As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell; +When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, + And silence hangs on all things like a spell! + +How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, +As night grows dark and darker on the hill! +How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! + Ah! art thou absent, art thou absent still? + +Yet I shall grieve not, though the eye that seeth me + Gazeth through tears that makes its splendor dull; +For oh! I sometimes fear when thou art with me, + My cup of happiness is all too full. + +Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling, + Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest! +Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, + Flies to its haven of securest rest! + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. + + NEGRO SONG. + + +The sun shines bright on our old Kentucky home; + 'Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; +The corn top's ripe and the meadow's in the bloom, + While the birds make music all the day; +The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, + All merry, all happy, all bright; +By'm by hard times comes a knockin' at the door,-- + Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! + +CHORUS. + +_Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! +We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For our 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 the shadow o'er the heart, + With sorrow where all was delight; +The time has come, when the darkeys have to part, + Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! + + _Weep no more, my lady_, etc. + +The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, + Wherever the darkey may go; +A few more days, and the troubles all will end, + In the field where the sugar-canes grow; +A few more days to tote the weary load, + No matter, it will never be light; +A few more days till we totter on the road, + Then, my old Kentucky home, good night! + +_Weep no more, my lady; O, weep no more to-day! +We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, + For our old Kentucky home far away._ + +STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + +OLD FOLKS AT HOME. + + +Way down upon de Swanee Ribber, + Far, far away, +Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber, + Dere's wha de old folks stay. +All up and down de whole creation + Sadly I roam, +Still longing for de old plantation, + And for de old folks at home. + + _All de world am sad and dreary, + Ebery where I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home!_ + +All round de little farm I wandered + When I was young, +Den many happy days I squandered, + Many de songs I sung. +When I was playing wid my brudder + Happy was I; +Oh, take me to my kind old mudder! + Dere let me live and die. + +One little hut among de bushes, + One dat I love, +Still sadly to my memory rushes, + No matter where I rove. +When will I see de bees a-humming + All round de comb? +When will I hear de banjo tumming, + Down in my good old home? + + _All de world am sad and dreary, + Ebery where I roam; + Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, + Far from de old folks at home!_ + +STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER. + + + +THE PRESENT GOOD. + + FROM "THE TASK," BOOK VI. + + + Not to understand a treasure's worth +Till time has stol'n away the slighted good, +Is cause of half the poverty we feel, +And makes the world the wilderness it is. + +WILLIAM COWPER. + + * * * * * + + + + +III. ADVERSITY. + + + +MAN. + + +In his own image the Creator made, + His own pure sunbeam quickened thee, O man! + Thou breathing dial! since the day began +The present hour was ever marked with shade! + +WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. + + + +THE WORLD. + + +The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man + Less than a span: +In his conception wretched, from the womb, + So to the tomb; +Curst from his cradle, and brought up to years + With cares and fears. +Who then to frail mortality shall trust, +But limns on water, or but writes in dust. + +Yet whilst with sorrow here we live opprest, + What life is best? +Courts are but only superficial schools + To dandle fools: +The rural parts are turned into a den + Of savage men: +And where's a city from foul vice so free, +But may be termed the worst of all the three? + +Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed, + Or pains his head: +Those that live single, take it for a curse, + Or do things worse: +Some would have children: those that have them, moan + Or wish them gone: +What is it, then, to have or have no wife, +But single thraldom, or a double strife? + +Our own affection still at home to please + Is a disease: +To cross the seas to any foreign soil, + Peril and toil: +Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease, + We are worse in peace;-- +What then remains, but that we still should cry +For being born, or, being born, to die? + +FRANCIS, LORD BACON. + + + +MOAN, MOAN, YE DYING GALES. + + +Moan, moan, ye dying gales! +The saddest of your tales + Is not so sad as life; +Nor have you e'er began +A theme so wild as man, + Or with such sorrow rife. + +Fall, fall, thou withered leaf! +Autumn sears not like grief, + Nor kills such lovely flowers; +More terrible the storm, +More mournful the deform, + When dark misfortune lowers. + +Hush! hush! thou trembling lyre, +Silence, ye vocal choir, + And thou, mellifluous lute, +For man soon breathes his last, +And all his hope is past, + And all his music mute. + +Then, when the gale is sighing, +And when the leaves are dying, + And when the song is o'er, +O, let us think of those +Whose lives are lost in woes, + Whose cup of grief runs o'er. + +HENRY NEELE. + + + +THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. + + +False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend + The least delight: +Thy favors cannot gain a friend, + They are so slight: +Thy morning pleasures make an end + To please at night: +Poor are the wants that thou supply'st, +And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st +With heaven: fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. + +Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales + Of endless treasure; +Thy bounty offers easy sales + Of lasting pleasure; +Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails, + And swear'st to ease her; +There's none can want where thou supply'st; +There's none can give where thou deny'st. +Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st. + +What well-advised ear regards + What earth can say? +Thy words are gold, but thy regards + Are painted clay: +Thy cunning can but pack the cards, + Thou canst not play: +Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; +If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st: +Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. + +Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint + Of new-coined treasure; +A paradise, that has no stint, + No change, no measure; +A painted cask, but nothing in 't, + Nor wealth, nor pleasure: +Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st +With man; vain man! that thou rely'st +On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth, thou ly'st. + +What mean dull souls, in this high measure, + To haberdash +In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure + Is dross and trash? +The height of whose enchanting pleasure + Is but a flash? +Are these the goods that thou supply'st +Us mortals with? Are these the high'st? +Can these bring cordial peace? false world, thou ly'st. + +FRANCIS QUARLES. + + + +BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND. + + FROM "AS YOU LIKE IT," ACT II. SC. 7. + + +Blow, blow, thou winter wind, +Thou art not so unkind + As man's ingratitude; +Thy tooth is not so keen, +Because thou art not seen, + Although thy breath be rude. +Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; +Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: + Then, heigh-ho, the holly! + This life is most jolly! + +Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, +Thou dost not bite so nigh + As benefits forgot: +Though thou the waters warp, +Thy sting is not so sharp + As friend remembered not. +Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly: +Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: + Then, heigh-ho, the holly! + This life is most jolly! + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +THE WAIL OF PROMETHEUS BOUND. + + FROM "PROMETHEUS." + + +O holy AEther, and swift-winged Winds, +And River-wells, and laughter innumerous +Of yon Sea-waves! Earth, mother of us all, +And all-viewing cyclic Sun, I cry on you,-- +Behold me a god, what I endure from gods! + Behold, with throe on throe, + How, wasted by this woe, +I wrestle down the myriad years of Time! + Behold, how fast around me +The new King of the happy ones sublime +Has flung the chain he forged, has shamed and bound me! +Woe, woe! to-day's woe and the coming morrow's + I cover with one groan. And where is found me + A limit to these sorrows? + And yet what word do I say? I have fore-known + Clearly all things that should be; nothing done + Comes sudden to my soul--and I must bear + What is ordained with patience, being aware + Necessity doth front the universe + With an invincible gesture. Yet this curse + Which strikes me now, I find it hard to brave + In silence or in speech. Because I gave + Honor to mortals, I have yoked my soul + To this compelling fate. Because I stole + The secret fount of fire, whose bubbles went + Over the ferrule's brim, and manward sent + Art's mighty means and perfect rudiment, + That sin I expiate in this agony, + Hung here in fetters, 'neath the blanching sky. + Ah, ah me! what a sound, +What a fragrance sweeps up from a pinion unseen +Of a god, or a mortal, or nature between, +Sweeping up to this rock where the earth has her bound, +To have sight of my pangs, or some guerdon obtain-- +Lo, a god in the anguish, a god in the chain! + The god Zeus hateth sore, + And his gods hate again, +As many as tread on his glorified floor, +Because I loved mortals too much evermore. +Alas me! what a murmur and motion I hear, + As of birds flying near! + And the air undersings + The light stroke of their wings-- +And all life that approaches I wait for in fear. + +From the Greek of AESCHYLUS. +Translation of ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +SAMSON ON HIS BLINDNESS. + + FROM "SAMSON AGONISTES." + + +O loss of sight, of thee I must complain! +Blind among enemies, O, worse than chains, +Dungeon, or beggary, or decrepit age! +Light, the prime work of God, to me is extinct, +And all her various objects of delight +Annulled, which might in part my grief have eased. +Inferior to the vilest now become +Of man or worm; the vilest here excel me: +They creep, yet see; I, dark in light, exposed +To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong, +Within doors or without, still as a fool, +In power of others, never in my own; +Scarce half I seem to live, dead more than half. +O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of moon, +Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse, +Without all hope of day! + +MILTON. + + + +LINES. + +[Written in the Tower, the night before his probably unjust execution +for treason.] + + +My prime of youth is but a frost of cares, + My feast of joy is but a dish of pain, +My crop of corn is but a field of tares, + And all my goodes is but vain hope of gain. +The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun; +And now I live, and now my life is done! + +My spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung, + The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green, +My youth is past, and yet I am but young, + I saw the world, and yet I was not seen. +My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; +And now I live, and now my life is done! + +I sought for death and found it in the wombe, + I lookt for life, and yet it was a shade, +I trade the ground, and knew it was my tombe, + And now I die, and now I am but made. +The glass is full, and yet my glass is run; + +And now I live, and now my life is done! + +CHEDIOCK TICHEBORNE. + + + +HENCE, ALL YE VAIN DELIGHTS. + + FROM "THE NICE VALOUR," ACT III. SC. 3. + + +Hence, all ye vain delights, +As short as are the nights + Wherein you spend your folly! + There's naught in this life sweet, + If man were wise to see't + But only melancholy, + O, sweetest melancholy! + +Welcome, folded arms, and fixed eyes, +A sigh that piercing mortifies, +A look that's fastened to the ground, +A tongue chained up without a sound! + +Fountain-heads and pathless groves, +Places which pale passion loves! +Moonlight walks, when all the fowls +Are warmly housed save bats and owls! +A midnight bell, a parting groan! +These are the sounds we feed upon; +Then stretch our bones in a still gloomy valley: +Nothing's so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy. + +JOHN FLETCHER. + + + +THE FALL OF CARDINAL WOLSEY. + + FROM "KING HENRY VIII.," ACT III. SC. 2. + + +Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear +In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me, +Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. +Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell; +And--when I am forgotten, as I shall be, +And sleep in dull, cold marble, where no mention +Of me more must be heard of--say, I taught thee, +Say, Wolsey--that once trod the ways of glory, +And sounded all the depths and shoals of honor-- +Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; +A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it. +Mark but my fall, and that that ruined me. +Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: +By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then, +The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? +Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee: +Corruption wins not more than honesty. +Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, +To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: +Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, +Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell! +Thou fall'st a blessed martyr. +Serve the king; and--pr'ythee, lead me in: +There take an inventory of all I have, +To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe, +And my integrity to heaven, is all +I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! +Had I but served my God with half the zeal +I served my king, he would not in mine age +Have left me naked to mine enemies! + + * * * * * + +Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! +This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth +The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, +And bears his blushing honors thick upon him: +The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; +And--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely +His greatness is a ripening--nips his root, +And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, +Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, +This many summers in a sea of glory; +But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride +At length broke under me; and now has left me, +Weary and old with service, to the mercy +Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. +Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: +I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched +Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! +There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, +That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, +More pangs and fears than wars or women have: +And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, +Never to hope again. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +THE APPROACH OF AGE. + + FROM "TALES OF THE HALL." + + +Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, +When Time began to play his usual tricks: +The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, +Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white; +The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, +And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. +I rode or walked as I was wont before, +But now the bounding spirit was no more; +A moderate pace would now my body heat, +A walk of moderate length distress my feet. +I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, +But said, "The view is poor, we need not climb." +At a friend's mansion I began to dread +The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed; +At home I felt a more decided taste, +And must have all things in my order placed. +I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,-- +My dinner more; I learned to play at chess. +I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute +Was disappointed that I did not shoot. +My morning walks I now could bear to lose, +And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose. +In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; +The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; +Small daily actions into habits grew, +And new dislike to forms and fashions new. +I loved my trees in order to dispose; +I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose; +Told the same story oft,--in short, began to prose. + +GEORGE CRABBE. + + + +STANZAS + + WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES. + + + The sun is warm, the sky is clear, + The waves are dancing fast and bright, + Blue isles and snowy mountains wear + The purple noon's transparent light: + The breath of the moist air is light + Around its unexpanded buds; + Like many a voice of one delight,-- + The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods',-- +The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. + + I see the Deep's untrampled floor + With green and purple sea-weeds strown; + I see the waves upon the shore + Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown: + I sit upon the sands alone; + The lightning of the noontide ocean + Is flashing round me, and a tone + Arises from its measured motion,-- +How sweet, did any heart now share in my emotion! + + Alas! I have nor hope nor health, + Nor peace within nor calm around, + Nor that Content surpassing wealth + The sage in meditation found, + And walked with inward glory crowned,-- + Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. + Others I see whom these surround; + Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; +To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. + + Yet now despair itself is mild + Even as the winds and waters are; + I could lie down like a tired child, + And weep away the life of care + Which I have borne, and yet must bear, + Till death like sleep might steal on me, + And I might feel in the warm air + My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea +Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. + + Some might lament that I were cold, + As I, when this sweet day is gone, + Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, + Insults with this untimely moan; + They might lament,--for I am one + Whom men love not,--and yet regret, + Unlike this day, which, when the sun + Shall on its stainless glory set, +Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. + +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + +ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. + +[Written in the spring of 1819, when suffering from physical depression, +the precursor of his death, which happened soon after.] + + +My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains + My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, +Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains + One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: +'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, + But being too happy in thy happiness,-- + That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, + In some melodious plot + Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, + Singest of Summer in full-throated ease. + +O for a draught of vintage, that hath been + Cooled a long age in the deep delved earth, + +Tasting of Flora and the country-green, + Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! +O for a beaker full of the warm South, + Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, + With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, + And purple-stained mouth,-- + That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, + And with thee fade away into the forest dim: + +Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget + What thou among the leaves hast never known, +The weariness, the fever, and the fret + Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; +Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, + Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; + Where but to think is to be full of sorrow + And leaden-eyed despairs, + Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, + Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. + +Away! away! for I will fly to thee, + Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, +But on the viewless wings of Poesy, + Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: +Already with thee! tender is the night, + And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, + Clustered around by all her starry Fays; + But here there is no light, + Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown + Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. + +I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, + Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, + But in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet + Wherewith the seasonable month endows +The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; + White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; + Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; + And mid-May's eldest child, + The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, + The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. +Darkling I listen; and for many a time + I have been half in love with easeful Death. +Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, + To take into the air my quiet breath; +Now, more than ever, seems it rich to die, + To cease upon the midnight, with no pain. + While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad, + In such an ecstasy!-- + Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain-- + To thy high requiem become a sod. + +Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird! + No hungry generations tread thee down; +The voice I hear this passing night was heard + In ancient days by emperor and clown: +Perhaps the self-same song that found a path + Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, + She stood in tears amid the alien corn; + The same that oft-times hath + Charmed magic casements opening on the foam + Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. + +Forlorn! the very word is like a bell, + To toll me back from thee to my sole self! +Adieu! the Fancy cannot cheat so well + As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. +Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades + Past the near meadows, over the still stream, + Up the hillside; and now 'tis buried deep + In the next valley-glades: + Was it a vision or a waking dream? + Fled is that music:--do I wake or sleep? + +JOHN KEATS. + + + +PERISHED. + + CATSKILL MOUNTAIN HOUSE. + + +Wave after wave of greenness rolling down +From mountain top to base, a whispering sea +Of affluent leaves through which the viewless breeze + Murmurs mysteriously. + +And towering up amid the lesser throng, +A giant oak, so desolately grand, +Stretches its gray imploring arms to heaven + In agonized demand. + +Smitten by lightning from a summer sky, +Or bearing in its heart a slow decay, +What matter, since inexorable fate + Is pitiless to slay. + +Ah, wayward soul, hedged in and clothed about, +Doth not thy life's lost hope lift up its head, +And, dwarfing present joys, proclaim aloud,-- + "Look on me, I am dead!" + +MARY LOUISE RITTER. + + + +BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. + + "_On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year._" + --MISSOLONGHI, JANUARY 23, 1824. + + +'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, + Since others it has ceased to move: +Yet, though I cannot be beloved, + Still let me love! + +My days are in the yellow leaf, + The flowers and fruits of love are gone: +The worm, the canker, and the grief, + Are mine alone. + +The fire that in my bosom preys + Is like to some volcanic isle; +No torch is kindled at its blaze,-- + A funeral pile. + +The hope, the fear, the jealous care, + The exalted portion of the pain +And power of love, I cannot share, + But wear the chain. + +But 'tis not _thus_,--and 'tis not _here_, + Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor _now_, +Where glory decks the hero's bier, + Or binds his brow. + +The sword, the banner, and the field, + Glory and Greece about us see; +The Spartan borne upon his shield + Was not more free. + +Awake!--not Greece,--she is awake! + Awake my spirit! think through whom +Thy life-blood tastes its parent lake, + And then strike home! + +Tread those reviving passions down, + Unworthy manhood! unto thee +Indifferent should the smile or frown + Of beauty be. + +If thou regrett'st thy youth,--why live? + The land of honorable death +Is here:--up to the field, and give + Away thy breath! + +Seek out--less often sought than found-- + A soldier's grave, for thee the best; +Then look around, and choose thy ground, + And take thy rest! + +LORD BYRON. + + + +A DOUBTING HEART. + + +Where are the swallows fled? + Frozen and dead +Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. + O doubting heart! + Far over purple seas + They wait, in sunny ease, + The balmy southern breeze +To bring them to their northern homes once more. + +Why must the flowers die? + Prisoned they lie +In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. + O doubting heart! +They only sleep below + The soft white ermine snow + While winter winds shall blow, +To breathe and smile upon you soon again. + +The sun has hid its rays + These many days; +Will dreary hours never leave the earth? + O doubting heart! + The stormy clouds on high + Veil the same sunny sky + That soon, for spring is nigh, +Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. + +Fair hope is dead, and light + Is quenched in night; +What sound can break the silence of despair? + O doubting heart! + The sky is overcast, + Yet stars shall rise at last, + Brighter for darkness past; +And angels' silver voices stir the air. + +ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. + + + +THE VOICELESS. + + +We count the broken lyres that rest + Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, +But o'er their silent sister's breast + The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? +A few can touch the magic string, + And noisy Fame is proud to win them: +Alas for those that never sing, + But die with all their music in them! + +Nay grieve not for the dead alone + Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- +Weep for the voiceless, who have known + The cross without the crown of glory! +Not where Leucadian breezes sweep + O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, +But where the glistening night-dews weep + On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. + +O hearts that break and give no sign + Save whitening lip and fading tresses, +Till Death pours out his longed-for wine + Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- +If singing breath or echoing chord + To every hidden pang were given, +What endless melodies were poured, + As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + +A LAMENT. + + +O World! O Life! O Time! +On whose last steps I climb, + Trembling at that where I had stood before; +When will return the glory of your prime? + No more,--O nevermore! + +Out of the day and night +A joy has taken flight: + Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar +Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight + No more,--O nevermore! + +PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + +"WHAT CAN AN OLD MAN DO BUT DIE?" + + + Spring it is cheery, + Winter is dreary, +Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; + When he's forsaken, + Withered and shaken, +What can an old man do but die? + + Love will not clip him, + Maids will not lip him, +Maud and Marian pass him by; + Youth it is sunny, + Age has no honey,-- +What can an old man do but die? + + June it was jolly, + O for its folly! +A dancing leg and a laughing eye! + Youth may be silly, + Wisdom is chilly,-- +What can an old man do but die? + + Friends they are scanty, + Beggars are plenty, +If he has followers, I know why; + Gold's in his clutches + (Buying him crutches!)-- +What can an old man do but die? + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. + + +Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- +I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- +I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, +As many another woman that's only half as old. + +Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! +Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer! +Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, +But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. + +What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? +Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? +True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; +But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. + +I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day +To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; +For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound, +If anybody only is willin' to have me round. + +Once I was young an' han'some--I was, upon my soul-- +Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal; +And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say, +For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way. + +'Tain't no use of boastin', or talkin' over free, +But many a house an' home was open then to me; +Many a ban'some offer I had from likely men, +And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. + +And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, +But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; +For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong, +And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. + +And so we worked together: and life was hard, but gay, +With now and then a baby for to cheer us on our way; +Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat, +An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. + +So we worked for the child'rn, and raised 'em every one; +Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done; +Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, +But every couple's child'rn 's heap the best to them. + +Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!-- +I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; +And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, +I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. + +Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, +And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; +When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be, +The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from me. + +Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall-- +Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; +And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, +Till at last he went a-courtin', and brought a wife from town. + +She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-- +She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style; +But if I ever tried to be friends, I did with her, I know; +But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. + +She had an edication, an' that was good for her; +But when she twitted me on mine, 'twas carryin' things too fur; +An' I told her once, 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), +That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a rithmetic. + +So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-- +They was a family of themselves, and I another one; +And a very little cottage one family will do, +But I never have seen a house that was big enough for two. + +An' I could never speak to suit her, never could please her eye, +An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try; +But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, +When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go. + +I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, +And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all; +And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'rn three, +'Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me. + +An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, +For Thomas's buildings'd cover the half of an acre lot; +But all the child'rn was on me--I couldn't stand their sauce-- +And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. + +An' then I wrote to Rebecca, my girl who lives out West, +And to Isaac, not far from her--some twenty miles at best; +And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there for any one so old, +And t' other had an opinion the climate was too cold. + +So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about-- +So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out; +But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, +Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town. + +Over the hill to the poor-house--my child'rn dear, good by! +Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; +And God'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray +That you shall never suffer the half I do to-day. + +WILL CARLETON. + + + +OLD. + + +By the wayside, on a mossy stone, + Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; +Oft I marked him sitting there alone. + All the landscape, like a page perusing; + Poor, unknown, +By the wayside, on a mossy stone. + +Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat; + Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding; +Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; + Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding; + There he sat! +Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. + +Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, + No one sympathizing, no one heeding, +None to love him for his thin gray hair, + And the furrows all so mutely pleading + Age and care: +Seemed it pitiful he should sit there. + +It was summer, and we went to school, + Dapper country lads and little maidens; +Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"-- + Its grave import still my fancy ladens,-- + "Here's a fool!" +It was summer, and we went to school. + +When the stranger seemed to mark our play, + Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, +I remember well, too well, that day! + Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, + Would not stay +When the stranger seemed to mark our play. + +One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, + O, to me her name was always Heaven! +She besought him all his grief to tell, + (I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) + Isabel! +One sweet spirit broke the silent spell. + +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; + Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; +Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." + Then his eyes betrayed a pearl of sorrow, + Down it rolled! +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old. + +"I have tottered here to look once more + On the pleasant scene where I delighted +In the careless, happy days of yore, + Ere the garden of ray heart was blighted + To the core: +I have tottered here to look once more. + +"All the picture now to me how dear! + E'en this old gray rock where I am seated, +Is a jewel worth my journey here; + Ah that such a scene must be completed + With a tear! +All the picture now to me how dear! + +"Old stone school-house! it is still the same; + There's the very step I so oft mounted; +There's the window creaking in its frame, + And the notches that I cut and counted + For the game. +Old stone school-house, it is still the same. + +"In the cottage yonder I was born; + Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; +There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn; + There the spring with limpid nectar swelling; + Ah, forlorn! +In the cottage yonder I was born. + +"Those two gateway sycamores you see + Then were planted just so far asunder +That long well-pole from the path to free, + And the wagon to pass safely under; + Ninety-three! +Those two gateway sycamores you see. + +"There's the orchard where we used to climb + When my mates and I were boys together, +Thinking nothing of the flight of time, + Fearing naught but work and rainy weather; + Past its prime! +There's the orchard where we used to climb. + +"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, + Bound the pasture where the flocks were grazing +Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails + In the crops of buckwheat we were raising; + Traps and trails! +There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. + +"There's the mill that ground our yellow grain; + Pond and river still serenely flowing; +Cot there nestling in the shaded lane, + Where the lily of my heart was blowing,-- + Mary Jane! +There's the mill that ground our yellow grain. + +"There's the gate on which I used to swing, + Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable; +But alas! no more the morn shall bring + That dear group around my father's table; + Taken wing! +There's the gate on which I used to swing. + +"I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled. + Yon green meadow was our place for playing +That old tree can tell of sweet things said + When around it Jane and I were straying; + She is dead! +I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled. + +"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, + Tracing silently life's changeful story, +So familiar to my dim eye, + Points me to seven that are now in glory + There on high! +Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky. + +"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, + Guided hither by an angel mother; +Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod; + Sire and sisters, and my little brother, + Gone to God! +Oft the aisle of that old church we trod. + +"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; + Bless the holy lesson!--but, ah, never +Shall I hear again those songs of praise, + Those sweet voices silent now forever! + Peaceful days! +There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways. + +"There my Mary blessed me with her hand + When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings, +Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, + Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing; + Broken band! +There my Mary blessed me with her hand. + +"I have come to see that grave once more, + And the sacred place where we delighted, +Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, + Ere the garden of my heart was blighted + To the care! +I have come to see that grave once more. + +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old; + Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, +Now, why I sit here thou hast been told." + In his eye another pearl of sorrow, + Down it rolled! +"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old." + +By the wayside, on a mossy stone, + Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing; +Still I marked him sitting there alone, + All the landscape, like a page, perusing; + Poor, unknown! +By the wayside, on a mossy stone. + +RALPH HOYT. + + + +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 + So forlorn; +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 had 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 the 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. + +OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + +THE LAST LEAF. + + YA PEREZHIL SVOI ZHELANYA. + + +I've overlived aspirings, + My fancies I disdain; +The fruit of hollow-heartedness, + Sufferings alone remain. + +'Neath cruel storms of Fate + With my crown of bay, +A sad and lonely life I lead, + Waiting my latest day. + +Thus, struck by latter cold + While howls the wintry wind, +Trembles upon the naked bough + The last leaf left behind. + +From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN. +Translation of JOHN POLLEN. + + + +THE OLD VAGABOND. + + + Here in the ditch my bones I'll lay; + Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. + "He's drunk," the passing crowd will say + 'T is well, for none will need to grieve. + Some turn their scornful heads away, + Some fling an alms in hurrying by;-- + Haste,--'t is the village holyday! +The aged beggar needs no help to die. + + Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age + I die; for hunger slays not all. + I hoped my misery's closing page + To fold within some hospital; + But crowded thick is each retreat, + Such numbers now in misery lie. + Alas! my cradle was the street! +As he was born the aged wretch must die. + + In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er, + I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade." + "Begone!--our business is not more + Than keeps ourselves,--go, beg!" they said. + Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread, + Of bones your tables gave me store, + Your straw has often made my bed;-- +In death I lay no curses at your door. + + Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;-- + No!--better still for alms to pray! +At most, I've plucked some apple, left + To ripen near the public way, + Yet weeks and weeks, in dungeons laid + In the king's name, they let me pine; + They stole the only wealth I had,-- +Though poor and old, the sun, at least, was mine. + + What country has the poor to claim? + What boots to me your corn and wine, + Your busy toil, your vaunted fame, + The senate where your speakers shine? + Once, when your homes, by war o'erswept, + Saw strangers battening on your land, + Like any puling fool, I wept! +The aged wretch was nourished by their hand. + + Mankind! why trod you not the worm, + The noxious thing, beneath your heel? + Ah! had you taught me to perform + Due labor for the common weal! + Then, sheltered from the adverse wind, + The worm and ant had learned to grow; + Ay,--then I might have loved my kind;-- +The aged beggar dies your bitter foe! + +From the French of PIERRE-JEAN DE BERANGER. + + + +THE BEGGAR. + + +Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! + Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, +Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, + O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. + +These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, + These hoary locks proclaim my lengthened years; +And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek + Has been the channel to a stream of tears. + +Yon house, erected on the rising ground, + With tempting aspect drew me from my road, +For plenty there a residence has found, + And grandeur a magnificent abode. + +(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) + Here craving for a morsel of their bread, +A pampered menial drove me from the door, + To seek a shelter in the humble shed. + +O, take me to your hospitable dome, + Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! +Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, + For I am poor and miserably old. + +Should I reveal the source of every grief, + If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, +Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, + And tears of pity could not be repressed. + +Heaven sends misfortunes,--why should we repine? + 'T is Heaven has brought me to the state you see: +And your condition may be soon like mine, + The child of sorrow and of misery. + +A little farm was my paternal lot, + Then, like the lark, I sprightly hailed the morn; +But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; + My cattle died, and blighted was my corn. + +My daughter,--once the comfort of my age! + Lured by a villain from her native home, +Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage, + And doomed in scanty poverty to roam. + +My tender wife,--sweet soother of my care!-- + Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, +Fell,--lingering fell, a victim to despair, + And left the world to wretchedness and me. + +Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! + Whose trembling limbs have born him to your door, + Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, + O, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. + +THOMAS MOSS. + + + +A ROUGH RHYME ON A ROUGH MATTER. + + THE ENGLISH GAME LAWS. + + +The merry brown hares came leaping + Over, the crest of the hill, +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping, + Under the moonlight still. +Leaping late and early, + Till under their bite and their tread, +The swedes, and the wheat, and the barley + Lay cankered, and trampled, and dead. + +A poacher's widow sat sighing + On the side of the white chalk bank, +Where, under the gloom of fire-woods, + One spot in the lea throve rank. + +She watched a long tuft of clover, + Where rabbit or hare never ran, +For its black sour haulm covered over + The blood of a murdered man. + +She thought of the dark plantation, + And the hares, and her husband's blood, +And the voice of her indignation + Rose up to the throne of God: + +"I am long past wailing and whining, + I have wept too much in my life: +I've had twenty years of pining + As an English laborer's wife. + +"A laborer in Christian England, + Where they cant of a Saviour's name, +And yet waste men's lives like the vermin's + For a few more brace of game. + +"There's blood on your new foreign shrubs, squire, + There's blood on your pointer's feet; +There's blood on the game you sell, squire, + And there's blood on the game you eat. + +"You have sold the laboring man, squire, + Both body and soul to shame, +To pay for your seat in the House, squire, + And to pay for the feed of your game. + +"You made him a poacher yourself, squire, + When you'd give neither work nor meat, +And your barley-fed hares robbed the garden + At our starving children's feet; + +"When, packed in one reeking chamber, + Man, maid, mother, and little ones lay; +While the rain pattered in on the rotten bride-bed, + And the walls let in the day; + +"When we lay in the burning fever, + On the mud of the cold clay floor, +Till you parted us all for three months, squire, + At the cursed workhouse door. + +"We quarrelled like brutes, and who wonders? + What self-respect could we keep, +Worse housed than your hacks and your pointers, + Worse fed than your hogs and your sheep? + +"Our daughters, with base-born babies, + Have wandered away in their shame; +If your misses had slept, squire, where they did, + Your misses might do the same. + +"Can your lady patch hearts that are breaking, + With handfuls of coals and rice, +Or by dealing out flannel and sheeting + A little below cost price? + +"You may tire of the jail and the workhouse, + And take to allotments and schools, +But you 've run up a debt that will never + Be repaid us by penny-club rules. + +"In the season of shame and sadness, + In the dark and dreary day. +When scrofula, gout, and madness + Are eating your race away; + +"When to kennels and liveried varlets + You have cast your daughters' bread, +And, worn out with liquor and harlots, + Your heir at your feet lies dead; + +"When your youngest, the mealy-mouthed rector, + Lets your soul rot asleep to the grave, +You will find in your God the protector + Of the freeman you fancied your slave." + +She looked at the tuft of clover, + And wept till her heart grew light; +And at last, when her passion was over, + Went wandering into the night. + +But the merry brown hares came leaping + Over the uplands still, +Where the clover and corn lay sleeping + On the side of the white chalk hill. + +CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +"THEY ARE DEAR FISH TO ME." + + +The farmer's wife sat at the door, + A pleasant sight to see; +And blithesome were the wee, wee bairns + That played around her knee. + +When, bending 'neath her heavy creel, + A poor fish-wife came by, +And, turning from the toilsome road, + Unto the door drew nigh. + +She laid her burden on the green, + And spread its scaly store; +With trembling hands and pleading words, + She told them o'er and o'er. + +But lightly laughed the young guidwife, + "We're no sae scarce o' cheer; +Tak' up your creel, and gang your ways,-- + I'll buy nae fish sae dear." + +Bending beneath her load again, + A weary sight to see; +Right sorely sighed the poor fish-wife, + "They are dear fish to me! + +"Our boat was oot ae fearfu' night, + And when the storm blew o'er, +My husband, and my three brave sons, + Lay corpses on the shore. + +"I've been a wife for thirty years, + A childless widow three; +I maun buy them now to sell again,-- + They are dear fish to me!" + +The farmer's wife turned to the door,-- + What was't upon her cheek? +What was there rising in her breast, + That then she scarce could speak? + +She thought upon her ain guidman, + Her lightsome laddies three; +The woman's words had pierced her heart,-- + "They are dear fish to me!" + +"Come back," she cried, with quivering voice, + And pity's gathering tear; +"Come in, come in, my poor woman, + Ye 're kindly welcome here. + +"I kentna o' your aching heart, + Your weary lot to dree; +I'll ne'er forget your sad, sad words: + 'They are dear fish to me!'" + +Ay, let the happy-hearted learn + To pause ere they deny +The meed of honest toil, and think + How much their gold may buy,-- + +How much of manhood's wasted strength, + What woman's misery,-- +What breaking hearts might swell the cry: + "They are dear fish to me!" + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. + + THE IRISH FAMINE. + + +Give me three grains of corn, mother,-- + Only three grains of corn; +It will keep the little life I have + Till the coming of the morn. +I am dying of hunger and cold, mother,-- + Dying of hunger and cold; +And half the agony of such a death + My lips have never told. + +It has gnawed like a wolf, at my heart, mother,-- + A wolf that is fierce for blood; +All the livelong day, and the night beside, + Gnawing for lack of food. +I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother, + And the sight was heaven to see, +I awoke with an eager, famishing lip, + But you had no bread for me. + +How could I look to you, mother,-- + How could I look to you +For bread to give to your starving boy, + When you were starving too? +For I read the famine in your cheek, + And in your eyes so wild, +And I felt it in your bony hand, + As you laid it on your child. + +The Queen has lands and gold, mother, + The Queen has lands and gold, +While you are forced to your empty breast + A skeleton babe to hold,-- +A babe that is dying of want, mother, + As I am dying now, +With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, + And famine upon its brow. + +What has poor Ireland done, mother,-- + What has poor Ireland done, +That the world looks on, and sees us starve, + Perishing one by one? +Do the men of England care not, mother,-- + The great men and the high,-- +For the suffering sons of Erin's isle, + Whether they live or die? + +There is many a brave heart here, mother, + Dying of want and cold, +While only across the Channel, mother, + Are many that roll in gold; +There are rich and proud men there, mother, + With wondrous wealth to view, +And the bread they fling to their dogs to-night + Would give life to _me_ and _you_. + +Come nearer to my side, mother. + Come nearer to my side, +And hold me fondly, as you held + My father when _he_ died; +Quick, for I cannot see you, mother, + My breath is almost gone; +Mother! dear mother! ere I die, + Give me three grains of corn. + +AMELIA BLANDFORD EDWARDS. + + + +THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. + + +With fingers weary and worn, + With eyelids heavy and red, +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, + Plying her needle and thread,-- + Stitch! stitch! stitch! +In poverty, hunger, and dirt; + And still with a voice of dolorous pitch +She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" + +"Work! work! work + While the cock is crowing aloof! +And work--work--work + Till the stars shine through the roof! +It's, O, to be a slave + Along with the barbarous Turk, +Where woman has never a soul to save, + If this is Christian work! + +"Work--work--work + Till the brain begins to swim! +Work--work--work + Till the eyes are heavy and dim! +Seam, and gusset, and band, + Band, and gusset, and seam,-- +Till over the buttons I fall asleep, + And sew them on in a dream! + +"O men with sisters dear! + O men with mothers and wives! +It is no linen you're wearing out, + But human creatures' lives! + Stitch! stitch! stitch, + In poverty, hunger, and dirt,-- +Sewing at once, with a double thread, + A shroud as well as a shirt! + +"But why do I talk of death,-- + That phantom of grisly bone? +I hardly fear his terrible shape, + It seems so like my own,-- +It seems so like my own + Because of the fasts I keep; +O God! that bread should be so dear, + And flesh and blood so cheap! + +"Work--work--work + My labor never flags; +And what are its wages? A bed of straw, + A crust of bread--and rags, +That shattered roof--and this naked floor-- + A table--a broken chair-- +And a wall so blank my shadow I thank + For sometimes falling there! + +"Work--work--work + From weary chime to chime! +Work--work--work + As prisoners work for crime! +Band, and gusset, and seam, + Seam, and gusset, and band, +Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed, + As well as the weary hand. + +"Work--work--work + In the dull December light! +And work--work--work-- + When the weather is warm and bright! +While underneath the eaves + The brooding swallows cling, +As if to show me their sunny backs, + And twit me with the Spring. + +"O, but to breathe the breath + Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,-- +With the sky above my head, + And the grass beneath my feet! +For only one short hour + To feel as I used to feel, +Before I knew the woes of want + And the walk that costs a meal! + +"O but for one short hour,-- + A respite, however brief! +No blessed leisure for love or hope, + But only time for grief! +A little weeping would ease my heart; + But in their briny bed +My tears must stop, for every drop + Hinders needle and thread!" + +With fingers weary and worn, + With eyelids heavy and red, +A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, + Plying her needle and thread,-- + Stitch! stitch! stitch, + In poverty, hunger, and dirt; +And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-- +Would that its tone could reach the rich!-- + She sang this "Song of the Shirt!" + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +THE PAUPER'S DRIVE. + + +There's a grim one-horse hearse in a jolly round trot-- +To the churchyard a pauper is going, I wot; +The road it is rough, and the hearse has no springs; +And hark to the dirge which the mad driver sings; + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +O, where are the mourners? Alas! there are none, +He has left not a gap in the world, now he's gone,-- +Not a tear in the eye of child, woman, or man; +To the grave with his carcass as fast as you can: + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns_! + +What a jolting and creaking and splashing and din! +The whip, how it cracks! and the wheels, how they spin! +How the dirt, right and left, o'er the hedges is hurled! +The pauper at length makes a noise in the world! + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +Poor pauper defunct! he has made some approach +To gentility, now that he's stretched in a coach! +He's taking a drive in his carriage at last! +But it will not be long, if he goes on so fast: + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +You bumpkins! who stare at your brother conveyed, +Behold what respect to a cloddy is paid! +And be joyful to think, when by death you 're laid low, +You've a chance to the grave like a gemman to go! + _Rattle his bones over the stones! + He's only a pauper whom nobody owns!_ + +But a truce to this strain; for my soul it is sad, +To think that a heart in humanity clad +Should make, like the brute, such a desolate end, +And depart from the light without leaving a friend! + _Bear soft his bones over the stones! + Though a pauper, he's one whom his Maker yet owns!_ + +THOMAS NOEL. + + + +UNSEEN SPIRITS. + + +The shadows lay along Broadway, + 'T was 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! + + +NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. + + + +BEAUTIFUL SNOW. + + +O the snow, the beautiful snow, +Filling the sky and the earth below! +Over the house-tops, over the street, +Over the heads of the people you meet, + Dancing, + Flirting, + Skimming along. +Beautiful snow! it can do nothing wrong. +Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek; +Clinging to lips in a frolicsome freak; +Beautiful snow, from the heavens above, +Pure as an angel and fickle as love! + +O the snow, the beautiful snow! +How the flakes gather and laugh as they go! +Whirling about in its maddening fun, +It plays in its glee with every one. + Chasing, + Laughing, + Hurrying by, +It lights up the face and it sparkles the eye; +And even the dogs, with a bark and a bound, +Snap at the crystals that eddy around. +The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, +To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. +How the wild crowd go swaying along, +Hailing each other with humor and song! +How the gay sledges like meteors flash by,-- +Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye! + Ringing, + Swinging, + Dashing they go +Over the crest of the beautiful snow: +Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, +To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by; +To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet +Till it blends with the horrible filth in the street. + + +Once I was pure as the snows,--but I fell: +Fell, like the snow-flakes, from heaven--to hell: +Fell, to be tramped as the filth of the street: +Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on, and beat. + Pleading, + Cursing, + Dreading to die, +Selling my soul to whoever would buy, +Dealing in shame for a morsel of bread, +Hating the living and fearing the dead. +Merciful God! have I fallen so low? +And yet I was once like this beautiful snow! + +Once I was fair as the beautiful snow, +With an eye like its crystals, a heart like its glow; +Once I was loved for my innocent grace,-- +Flattered and sought for the charm of my face. + Father, + Mother, + Sisters all, +God, and myself, I have lost by my fall. +The veriest wretch that goes shivering by +Will take a wide sweep, lest I wander too nigh; +For all that is on or about me, I know +There is nothing that's pure but the beautiful snow. + +How strange it should be that this beautiful snow +Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go! +How strange it would be, when the night comes again, +If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain! + Fainting, + Freezing, + Dying alone, +Too wicked for prayer, too weak for my moan +To be heard in the crash of the crazy town, +Gone mad in its joy at the snow's coming down; +To lie and to die in my terrible woe, +With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow! + +JAMES W. WATSON. + + + +LONDON CHURCHES. + + +I stood, one Sunday morning, +Before a large church door, +The congregation gathered, +And carriages a score,-- +From one out stepped a lady +I oft had seen before. + +Her hand was on a prayer-book, +And held a vinaigrette; +The sign of man's redemption +Clear on the book was set,-- +But above the cross there glistened +A golden Coronet. + +For her the obsequious beadle +The inner door flung wide; +Lightly, as up a ball-room, +Her footsteps seemed to glide,-- +There might be good thoughts in her, +For all her evil pride. + +But after her a woman +Peeped wistfully within, +On whose wan face was graven +Life's hardest discipline,-- +The trace of the sad trinity +Of weakness, pain, and sin. + +The few free-seats were crowded +Where she could rest and pray; +With her worn garb contrasted +Each side in fair array,-- +"God's house holds no poor sinners," +She sighed, and crept away. + +RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES (LORD HOUGHTON.) + + + +THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS. + + "Drowned! drowned!"--HAMLET. + + +One more unfortunate, +Weary of breath, +Rashly importunate, +Gone to her death! + +Take her up tenderly, +Lift her with care! +Fashioned so slenderly, +Young, and so fair! + +Look at her garments +Clinging like cerements, +Whilst the wave constantly +Drips from her clothing; +Take her up instantly, +Loving, not loathing! + +Touch her not scornfully! +Think of her mournfully, +Gently and humanly,-- +Not of the stains of her; +All that remains of her +Now is pure womanly. + +Make no deep scrutiny +Into her mutiny, +Rash and undutiful; +Past all dishonor, +Death has left on her +Only the beautiful. + +Still, for all slips of hers,-- +One of Eve's family,-- +Wipe those poor lips of hers, +Oozing so clammily. +Loop up her tresses +Escaped from the comb,-- +Her fair auburn tresses,-- +Whilst wonderment guesses +Where was her home? + +Who was her father? +Who was her mother? +Had she a sister? +Had she a brother? +Or was there a dearer one +Still, and a nearer one +Yet, than all other? + +Alas! for the rarity +Of Christian charity +Under the sun! +O, it was pitiful! +Near a whole city full, +Home she had none. + +Sisterly, brotherly, +Fatherly, motherly +Feelings had changed,-- +Love, by harsh evidence, +Thrown from its eminence; +Even God's providence +Seeming estranged. + +Where the lamps quiver +So far in the river, +With many a light +From window and casement, +From garret to basement, +She stood, with amazement, +Houseless by night. + +The bleak wind of March +Made her tremble and shiver; +But not the dark arch, +Or the black floating river; +Mad from life's history, +Glad to death's mystery, +Swift to be hurled-- +Anywhere, anywhere +Out of the world! + +In she plunged boldly,-- +No matter how coldly +The rough river ran-- +Over the brink of it! +Picture it--think of it, +Dissolute man! +Lave in it, drink of it, +Then, if you can! + +Take her up tenderly, +Lift her with care! +Fashioned so slenderly, +Young, and so fair! + +Ere her limbs, frigidly, +Stiffen too rigidly, +Decently, kindly! +Smooth and compose them; +And her eyes, close them, +Staring so blindly! +Dreadfully staring +Through muddy impurity, +As when with the daring +Last look of despairing +Fixed on futurity. + +Perishing gloomily, +Spurred by contumely, +Cold inhumanity, +Burning insanity, +Into her rest! +Cross her hands humbly, +As if praying dumbly, +Over her breast! + +Owning her weakness, +Her evil behavior, +And leaving, with meekness, +Her sins to her Saviour! + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY? + + +She stood at the bar of justice, + A creature wan and wild, +In form too small for a woman, + In feature too old for a child. +For a look so worn and pathetic + Was stamped on her pale young face, +It seemed long years of suffering + Must have left that silent trace. + +"Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her + With kindly look, yet keen, +"Is--?" "Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." + "And your age?" "I am turned fifteen." +"Well, Mary--" And then from a paper + He slowly and gravely read, +"You are charged here--I am sorry to say it-- + With stealing three loaves of bread. + +"You look not like an offender, + And I hope that you can show +The charge to be false. Now, tell me, + Are you guilty of this, or no?" +A passionate burst of weeping + Was at first her sole reply; +But she dried her tears in a moment, + And looked in the judge's eye. + +"I will tell you just how it was, sir; + My father and mother are dead, +And my little brothers and sisters + Were hungry, and asked me for bread. +At first I earned it for them + By working hard all day, +But somehow the times were hard, sir, + And the work all fell away. + +"I could get no more employment; + The weather was bitter cold; +The young ones cried and shivered + (Little Johnnie's but four years old). +So what was I to do, sir? + I am guilty, but do not condemn; +I _took_--oh, was it _stealing_?-- + The bread to give to them." + +Every man in the court-room-- + Graybeard and thoughtless youth-- +Knew, as he looked upon her, + That the prisoner spake the truth. +Out from their pockets came kerchiefs, + Out from their eyes sprang tears, +And out from the old faded wallets + Treasures hoarded for years. + +The judge's face was a study, + The strangest you ever saw, +As he cleared his throat and murmured + _Something_ about the _law_. +For one so learned in such matters, + So wise in dealing with men, +He seemed on a simple question + Sorely puzzled just then. + +But no one blamed him, or wondered, + When at last these words they heard, +"The sentence of this young prisoner + Is for the present deferred." +And no one blamed him, or wondered, + When he went to her and smiled, +And tenderly led from the court-room, + Himself, the "guilty" child. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THE FEMALE CONVICT. + + +She shrank from all, and her silent mood +Made her wish only for solitude: +Her eye sought the ground, as it could not brook, +For innermost shame, on another's to look; +And the cheerings of comfort fell on her ear +Like deadliest words, that were curses to hear!-- +She still was young, and she had been fair; +But weather-stains, hunger, toil, and care, +That frost and fever that wear the heart, +Had made the colors of youth depart +From the sallow cheek, save over it came +The burning flush of the spirit's shame. + +They were sailing over the salt sea-foam, +Far from her country, far from her home; +And all she had left for her friends to keep +Was a name to hide and a memory to weep! +And her future held forth but the felon's lot,-- +To live forsaken, to die forgot! +She could not weep, and she could not pray, +But she wasted and withered from day to day, +Till you might have counted each sunken vein, +When her wrist was prest by the iron chain; +And sometimes I thought her large dark eye +Had the glisten of red insanity. + +She called me once to her sleeping-place, +A strange, wild look was upon her face, +Her eye flashed over her cheek so white, +Like a gravestone seen in the pale moonlight, +And she spoke in a low, unearthly tone,-- +The sound from mine ear hath never gone!-- +"I had last night the loveliest dream: +My own land shone in the summer beam, +I saw the fields of the golden grain, +I heard the reaper's harvest strain; +There stood on the hills the green pine-tree, +And the thrush and the lark sang merrily. +A long and a weary way I had come; +But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home. +I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there, +With pale, thin face, and snow-white hair! +The Bible lay open upon his knee, +But he closed the book to welcome me. +He led me next where my mother lay, +And together we knelt by her grave to pray, +And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear, +For it echoed one to my young days dear. +This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled, +And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead! +--We have not spoken, but still I have hung +On the Northern accents that dwell on thy tongue. +To me they are music, to me they recall +The things long hidden by Memory's pall! +Take this long curl of yellow hair, +And give it my father, and tell him my prayer, +My dying prayer, was for him." ... + + Next day +Upon the deck a coffin lay; +They raised it up, and like a dirge +The heavy gale swept over the surge; +The corpse was cast to the wind and wave,-- +The convict has found in the green sea a grave. + +LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. + + + +HOPELESS GRIEF. + + +I tell you, hopeless grief is passionless,-- +That only men incredulous of despair, +Half-taught in anguish, through the midnight air +Beat upwards to God's throne in loud access +Of shrieking and reproach. Full desertness, +In souls as countries lieth silent-bare +Under the blanching, vertical eye-glare +Of the absolute heavens. Deep-hearted man, express +Grief for thy Dead in silence like to death; +Most like a monumental statue set +In everlasting watch and moveless woe, +Till itself crumble to the dust beneath. +Touch it: the marble eyelids are not wet-- +If it could weep, it could arise and go. + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + * * * * * + + + + +IV. COMFORT AND CHEER. + + + +TO MYSELF. + + +Let nothing make thee sad or fretful, + Or too regretful; + Be still; +What God hath ordered must be right; +Then find in it thine own delight, + My will. + +Why shouldst thou fill to-day with sorrow + About to-morrow. + My heart? +_One_ watches all with care most true; +Doubt not that he will give thee too + Thy part. + +Only be steadfast; never waver, + Nor seek earth's favor, + But rest: +Thou knowest what God wills must be +For all his creatures, so for thee, + The best. + +From the German of PAUL FLEMING. +Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH. + + + +THE FLOWER. + + + How fresh, O Lord, how sweet and clean +Are thy returns! even as the flowers in spring; + To which, besides their own demean, +The late-past frosts tributes of pleasure bring. + Grief melts away + Like snow in May, + As if there were no such cold thing. + + Who would have thought my shrivelled heart +Could have recovered greenness? It was gone + Quite underground; as flowers depart +To see their mother root, when they have blown; + Where they together + All the hard weather, + Dead to the world, keep house unknown. + + These are thy wonders, Lord of power, +Killing and quickning, bringing down to hell + And up to heaven in an houre; +Making a chiming of a passing-bell. + We say amisse + This or that is: + Thy word is all, if we could spell. + + O that I once past changing were, +Fast in thy paradise, where no flower can wither! + Many a spring I shoot up fair, +Off'ring at heav'n, growing and groning thither; + Nor doth my flower + Want a spring-showre, + My sinnes and I joining together. + + But, while I grow in a straight line, +Still upwards bent, as if heav'n were mine own, + Thy anger comes, and I decline: +What frost to that? what pole is not the zone + Where all things burn, + When thou dost turn, + And the least frown of thine is shown? + + And now in age I bud again; +After so many deaths I live and write; + I once more smell the dew and rain, +And relish versing: O my only light, + It cannot be + That I am he + On whom thy tempests fell all night! + + These are thy wonders, Lord of love, +To make us see we are but flowers that glide; + Which when we once can finde and prove, +Thou hast a garden for us where to bide. + Who would be more, + Swelling through store, + Forfeit their paradise by their pride. + +GEORGE HERBERT. + + + +SONNET. + + TO CYRIACK SKINNER. + + +Cyriack, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, + To outward view, of blemish or of spot, + Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot: +Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear +Of sun, or moon, or stars, throughout the year, + Or man or woman, yet I argue not + Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot +Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer +Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? +The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied +In Liberty's defence, my noble task, +Of which all Europe rings from side to side. +This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, +Content, though blind, had I no better guide. + +MILTON. + + + +INVICTUS. + + +Out of the night that covers me, + Black as the pit from pole to pole, +I thank whatever gods may be + For my unconquerable soul. + +In the fell clutch of circumstance + I have not winced nor cried aloud; +Under the bludgeonings of chance + My head is bloody, but unbowed. + +Beyond this place of wrath and tears + Looms but the Horror of the shade, + +And yet the menace of the years + Finds and shall find me unafraid. + +It matters not how strait the gate, + How charged with punishments the scroll, +I am the master of my fate; + I am the captain of my soul. + +WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY. + + + +AFAR IN THE DESERT. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side: +When the sorrows of life the soul o'ercast, +And, sick of the present, I cling to the past; +When the eye is suffused with regretful tears, +From the fond recollections of former years; +And shadows of things that have long since fled +Flit over the brain, like the ghosts of the dead,-- +Bright visions of glory that vanished too soon; +Day-dreams, that departed ere manhood's noon; +Attachments by fate or falsehood reft; +Companions of early days lost or left; +And my native land, whose magical name +Thrills to the heart like electric flame; +The home of my childhood; the haunts of my prime; +All the passions and scenes of that rapturous time +When the feelings were young, and the world was new, +Like the fresh bowers of Eden unfolding to view; +All, all now forsaken, forgotten, foregone! +And I, a lone exile remembered of none, +My high aims abandoned, my good acts undone, +Aweary of all that is under the sun, +With that sadness of heart which no stranger may scan, +I fly to the desert afar from man. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side! +When the wild turmoil of this wearisome life, +With its scenes of oppression, corruption, and strife, +The proud man's frown, and the base man's fear, +The scorner's laugh, and the sufferer's tear, +And malice, and meanness, and falsehood, and folly, +Dispose me to musing and dark melancholy; +When my bosom is full, and my thoughts are high, +And my soul is sick with the bondman's sigh,-- +O, then there is freedom, and joy, and pride, +Afar in the desert alone to ride! +There is rapture to vault on the champing steed, +And to bound away with the eagle's speed, +With the death-fraught firelock in my hand,-- +The only law of the Desert Land! + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +Away, away from the dwellings of men, +By the wild deer's haunt, by the buffalo's glen; +By valleys remote where the oribi plays, +Where the gnu, the gazelle, and the hartebeest graze, +And the kudu and eland unhunted recline +By the skirts of gray forest o'erhung with wild vine; +Where the elephant browses at peace in his wood, +And the river-horse gambols unscared in the flood, +And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will +In the fen where the wild ass is drinking his fill. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride, +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +O'er the brown karroo, where the bleating cry +Of the springbok's fawn sounds plaintively; +And the timorous quagga's shrill whistling neigh +Is heard by the fountain at twilight gray; +Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane. +With wild hoof scouring the desolate plain; +And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste +Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste, +Hieing away to the home of her rest, +Where she and her mate have scooped their nest, +Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view +In the pathless depths of the parched karroo. + +Afar in the desert I love to ride. +With the silent Bush-boy alone by my side, +Away, away, in the wilderness vast +Where the white man's foot hath never passed, +And the quivered Coranna or Bechuan +Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan,-- +A region of emptiness, howling and drear, +Which man hath abandoned from famine and fear; +Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, +With the twilight bat from the yawning stone; +Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root, +Save poisonous thorns that pierce the foot; +And the bitter-melon, for food and drink, +Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink; +A region of drought, where no river glides, +Nor rippling brook with osiered sides; +Where sedgy pool, nor bubbling fount, +Nor tree, nor cloud, nor misty mount, +Appears, to refresh the aching eye; +But the barren earth and the burning sky, +And the blank horizon, round and round, +Spread,--void of living sight or sound. +And here, while the night-winds round me sigh, +And the stars burn bright in the midnight sky, +As I sit apart by the desert stone, +Like Elijah at Horeb's cave, alone, +"A still small voice" comes through the wild +(Like a father consoling his fretful child), +Which banishes bitterness, wrath, and fear, +Saying,--Man is distant, but God is near! + +THOMAS PRINGLE. + + + +SAD IS OUR YOUTH, FOR IT IS EVER GOING. + + +Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, +Crumbling away beneath our very feet; +Sad is our life, for onward it is flowing +In current unperceived, because so fleet; +Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing,-- +But tares, self-sown, have overtopped the wheat; +Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, +And still, O, still their dying breath is sweet; +And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us +Of that which made our childhood sweeter still; +And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us +A nearer good to cure an older ill; +And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them, +Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them! + +AUBREY THOMAS DE VERE. + + + +MY WIFE AND CHILD.[5] + + +The tattoo beats,--the lights are gone, + The camp around in slumber lies, +The night with solemn pace moves on, + The shadows thicken o'er the skies; +But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, + And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. + +I think of thee, O darling one, + Whose love my early life hath blest-- +Of thee and him--our baby son-- + Who slumbers on thy gentle breast. +God of the tender, frail, and lone, + O, guard the tender sleeper's rest! + +And hover gently, hover near + To her whose watchful eye is wet,-- + +To mother, wife,--the doubly dear, + In whose young heart have freshly met +Two streams of love so deep and clear, + And cheer her drooping spirits yet. + +Now, while she kneels before thy throne, + O, teach her, Ruler of the skies, +That, while by thy behest alone + Earth's mightiest powers fall and rise, +No tear is wept to thee unknown, + No hair is lost, no sparrow dies! + +That thou canst stay the ruthless hands + Of dark disease, and soothe its pain; +That only by thy stern commands + The battle's lost, the soldier's slain; +That from the distant sea or land + Thou bring'st the wanderer home again. + +And when upon her pillow lone + Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, +May happier visions beam upon + The brightened current of her breast, +No frowning look or angry tone + Disturb the Sabbath of her rest! + +Whatever fate these forms may show, + Loved with a passion almost wild, +By day, by night, in joy or woe, + By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, +From every danger, every foe, + O God, protect my wife and child! + +HENRY R. JACKSON. + + [5] Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the writer being at that time +Colonel of the 1st regiment of Georgia Volunteers. + + + +THE RAINY DAY. + + +The day is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +The vine still clings to the moldering wall, +But at every gust the dead leaves fall, + And the day is dark and dreary. + +My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; +It rains, and the wind is never weary; +My thoughts still cling to the moldering Past, +But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast, + And the days are dark and dreary. + +Be still, sad heart! and cease repining; +Behind the clouds is the sun still shining; +Thy fate is the common fate of all, +Into each life some rain must fall, + Some days must be dark and dreary. + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +TIMES GO BY TURNS. + + +The lopped tree in time may grow again; +Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower; +The sorest wight may find release of pain, +The driest soil suck in some moist'ning shower; +Times go by turns and chances change by course, +From foul to fair, from better hap to worse. +The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow, +She draws her favors to the lowest ebb; +Her time hath equal times to come and go, +Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web; +No joy so great but runneth to an end, +No hap so hard but may in fine amend. + +Not always fall of leaf nor ever spring, +No endless night yet not eternal day; +The saddest birds a season find to sing, +The roughest storm a calm may soon allay; +Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all, +That man may hope to rise yet fear to fall. + +A chance may win that by mischance was lost; +The well that holds no great, takes little fish; +In some things all, in all things none are crossed, +Few all they need, but none have all they wish; +Unmeddled joys here to no man befall, +Who least hath some, who most hath never all. + +ROBERT SOUTHWELL. + + + +COMPENSATION. + + +Tears wash away the atoms in the eye + That smarted for a day; +Rain-clouds that spoiled the splendors of the sky + The fields with flowers array. + +No chamber of pain but has some hidden door + That promises release; +No solitude so drear but yields its store + Of thought and inward peace. + +No night so wild but brings the constant sun + With love and power untold; +No time so dark but through its woof there run + Some blessed threads of gold. + +And through the long and storm-tost centuries burn + In changing calm and strife +The Pharos-lights of truth, where'er we turn,-- + The unquenched lamps of life. + +O Love supreme! O Providence divine! + What self-adjusting springs +Of law and life, what even scales, are thine, + What sure-returning wings + +Of hopes and joys, that flit like birds away, + When chilling autumn blows, +But come again, long ere the buds of May + Their rosy lips unclose! + +What wondrous play of mood and accident + Through shifting days and years; +What fresh returns of vigor overspent + In feverish dreams and fears! + +What wholesome air of conscience and of thought + When doubts and forms oppress; +What vistas opening to the gates we sought + Beyond the wilderness; + +Beyond the narrow cells, where self-involved, + Like chrysalids, we wait +The unknown births, the mysteries unsolved + Of death and change and fate! + +O Light divine! we need no fuller test + That all is ordered well; +We know enough to trust that all is best + Where love and wisdom dwell. + +CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. + + + +THE CHANGED CROSS. + + +It was a time of sadness, and my heart, +Although it knew and loved the better part, +Felt wearied with the conflict and the strife, +And all the needful discipline of life. + +And while I thought on these, as given to me, +My trial-tests of faith and love to be, +It seemed as if I never could be sure +That faithful to the end I should endure. + +And thus, no longer trusting to his might +Who says, "We walk by faith and not by sight," +Doubting, and almost yielding to despair, +The thought arose, "My cross I cannot bear. + +"Far heavier its weight must surely be +Than those of others which I daily see; +Oh! if I might another burden choose, +Methinks I should not fear my crown to lose." + +A solemn silence reigned on all around, +E'en Nature's voices uttered not a sound; +The evening shadows seemed of peace to tell, +And sleep upon my weary spirit fell. + +A moment's pause,--and then a heavenly light +Beamed full upon my wondering, raptured sight; +Angels on silvery wings seemed everywhere, +And angels' music thrilled the balmy air. + +Then One, more fair than all the rest to see, +One to whom all the others bowed the knee, +Came gently to me, as I trembling lay, +And, "Follow me," he said; "I am the Way." + +Then, speaking thus, he led me far above, +And there, beneath a canopy of love, +Grosses of divers shape and size were seen, +Larger and smaller than my own had been. + +And one there was, most beauteous to behold,-- +A little one, with jewels set in gold. +"Ah! this," methought, "I can with comfort wear, +For it will be an easy one to bear." + +And so the little cross I quickly took, +But all at once my frame beneath it shook; +The sparkling jewels, fair were they to _see_, +But far too heavy was their _weight_ for me. + +"This may not be," I cried, and looked again, +To see if there was any here could ease my pain; +But, one by one, I passed them slowly by, +Till on a lovely one I cast my eye. + +Fair flowers around its sculptured form entwined, +And grace and beauty seemed in it combined. +Wondering, I gazed,--and still I wondered more, +To think so many should have passed it o'er. + +But oh! that form so beautiful to see +Soon made its hidden sorrows known to me; +Thorns lay beneath those flowers and colors fair; +Sorrowing, I said, "This cross I may not bear." + +And so it was with each and all around,-- +Not one to suit my _need_ could there be found; +Weeping, I laid each heavy burden down, +As my Guide gently said, "No cross,--no crown." + +At length to him I raised my saddened heart; +He knew its sorrows, bade its doubts depart; +"Be not afraid," he said, "but trust in me; +My perfect love shall now be shown to thee." + +And then, with lightened eyes and willing feet, +Again I turned my earthly cross to meet; +With forward footsteps, turning not aside, +For fear some hidden evil might betide; + +And there--in the prepared, appointed way, +Listening to hear, and ready to obey-- +A cross I quickly found of plainest form, +With only words of love inscribed thereon. + +With thankfulness I raised it from the rest, +And joyfully acknowledged it the best, +The only one, of all the many there. +That I could feel was good for me to bear. + +And, while I thus my chosen one confessed, +I saw a heavenly brightness on it rest; +And as I bent, my burden to sustain, +I recognized _my own old cross_ again. + +But oh! how different did it seem to be, +Now I had learned its preciousness to see! +No longer could I unbelieving say +"Perhaps another is a better way." + +Ah, no! henceforth my one desire shall be, +That he who knows me best should choose for me; +And so, whate'er his love sees good to send, +I'll trust it's best,--because he knows the end. + +HON. MRS. CHARLES HOBART. + + + +SOMETHING BEYOND. + + +Something beyond! though now, with joy unfound, + The life-task falleth from thy weary hand, +Be brave, be patient! In the fair beyond + Thou'lt understand. + +Thou'lt understand why our most royal hours + Couch sorrowful slaves bound by low nature's greed; +Why the celestial soul's a minion made + To narrowest need. + +In this pent sphere of being incomplete, + The imperfect fragment of a beauteous whole, +For yon rare regions, where the perfect meet, + Sighs the lone soul. + +Sighs for the perfect! Far and fair it lies; + It hath no half-fed friendships perishing fleet, +No partial insights, no averted eyes, + No loves unmeet. + +Something beyond! Light for our clouded eyes! + In this dark dwelling, in its shrouded beams, +Our best waits masked, few pierce the soul's disguise; + How sad it seems! + +Something beyond! Ah, if it were not so, + Darker would be thy face, O brief To-day; +Earthward we 'd bow beneath life's smiting woe, + Powerless to pray. + +Something beyond! The immortal morning stands + Above the night; clear shines her precious brow; +The pendulous star in her transfigured hands + Brightens the Now. + +MARY CLEMMER AMES HUDSON. + + + +DESPONDENCY REBUKED. + + +Say not, the struggle nought availeth, + The labor and the wounds are vain, +The enemy faints not, nor faileth, + And as things have been they remain. + +If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; + It may be, in you smoke concealed, +Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, + And, but for you, possess the field. + +For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, + Seem here no painful inch to gain, +Far back, through creeks and inlets making, + Comes silent, flooding in, the main. + +And not by eastern windows only. + When daylight comes, comes in the light; +In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, + But westward, look, the land is bright. + +ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. + + + +GOD'S SURE HELP IN SORROW. + + + Leave all to God, +Forsaken one, and stay thy tears; + For the Highest knows thy pain, +Sees thy sufferings and thy fears; + Thou shalt not wait his help in vain; + Leave all to God! + + Be still and trust! +For his strokes are strokes of love, + Thou must for thy profit bear; +He thy filial fear would move, + Trust thy Father's loving care, + Be still and trust! + + Know, God is near! +Though thou think him far away, + Though his mercy long have slept, +He will come and not delay, + When his child enough hath wept, + For God is near! + + Oh, teach him not +When and how to hear thy prayers; + Never doth our God forget; +He the cross who longest bears + Finds his sorrows' bounds are set; + Then teach him not! + + If thou love him, +Walking truly in his ways, + Then no trouble, cross, or death +E'er shall silence faith and praise; + All things serve thee here beneath, + If thou love God. + +From the German of ANTON ULEICH, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK, 1667. +Translation of CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855. + + + +SONNET. + + +While yet these tears have power to flow + For hours for ever past away; +While yet these swelling sighs allow + My faltering voice to breathe a lay; +While yet my hand can touch the chords, + My tender lute, to wake thy tone; +While yet my mind no thought affords, + But one remembered dream alone, +I ask not death, whate'er my state: + But when my eyes can weep no more, + My voice is lost, my hand untrue. + And when my spirit's fire is o'er, + Nor can express the love it knew, +Come, Death, and cast thy shadows o'er my fate! + +From the French of LOUISE LABE. +Translation of LOUISE STUART COSTELLO. + + + +WAITING. + + +Serene, I fold my hands and wait, + Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; +I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, + For, lo! my own shall come to me. + +I stay my haste, I make delays, + For what avails this eager pace? +I stand amid the eternal ways, + And what is mine shall know my face. + +Asleep, awake, by night or day. + The friends I seek are seeking me; +No wind can drive my bark astray, + Nor change the tide of destiny. + +What matter if I stand alone? + I wait with joy the coming years; +My heart shall reap where it has sown, + And garner up its fruit of tears. + +The waters know their own and draw + The brook that springs in yonder height; + +So flows the good with equal law + Unto the soul of pure delight. + +The stars come nightly to the sky; + The tidal wave unto the sea; +Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, + Can keep my own away from me. + +JOHN BURROUGHS. + + + +AUNT PHILLIS'S GUEST. + + ST. HELENA ISLAND, SOUTH CAROLINA, IN 1863. + + +I was young and "Harry" was strong, +The summer was bursting from sky and plain, +Thrilling our blood as we bounded along,-- +When a picture flashed, and I dropped the rein. + +A black sea-creek, with snaky run +Slipping through low green leagues of sedge, +An ebbing tide, and a setting sun; +A hut and a woman by the edge. + +Her back was bent and her wool was gray; +The wrinkles lay close on the withered face; +Children were buried and sold away,-- +The Freedom had come to the last of a race! + +She lived from a neighbor's hominy-pot; +And praised the Lord, if "the pain" passed by; +From the earthen floor the smoke curled out +Through shingles patched with the bright blue sky. + +"Aunt Phillis, you live here all alone?" +I asked, and pitied the gray old head; +Sure as a child, in quiet tone, +"Me and Jesus, Massa," she said. + +I started, for all the place was aglow +With a presence I had not seen before; +The air was full of a music low, +And the Guest Divine stood at the door! + +Ay, it was true that the Lord of Life, +Who seeth the widow give her mite, +Had watched this slave in her weary strife, +And shown himself to her longing sight. + +The hut and the dirt, the rags and the skin, +The grovelling want and the darkened mind,-- +I looked on this; but the Lord, within: +I would what he saw was in me to find! + +A childlike soul, whose faith had force +To see what the angels see in bliss: +She lived, and the Lord lived; so, of course, +They lived together,--she knew but this. + +And the life that I had almost despised +As something to pity, so poor and low, +Had already borne fruit that the Lord so prized +He loved to come near and see it grow. + +No sorrow for her that life was done: +A few more days of the hut's unrest, +A little while longer to sit in the sun,-- +Then--He would be host, and she would be guest! + +And up above, if an angel of light +Should stop on his errand of love some day +To ask, "Who lives in the mansion bright?" +"Me and Jesus," Aunt Phillis will say. + + * * * * * + +A fancy, foolish and fond, does it seem? +And things are not as Aunt Phillises dream? + + Friend, surely so! + For this I know,-- +That our faiths are foolish by falling below, +Not coming above, what God will show; +That his commonest thing hides a wonder vast, +To whose beauty our eyes have never passed; +That his face in the present, or in the to-be, +Outshines the best that we think we see. + +WILLIAM CHANNING GANNETT. + + + +ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW. + + +Confide ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, +And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind, +Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha'e faith and ye 'll win through, +For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +Gin reft frae friends or crest in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been, +Grief lies deep hidden in your heart or tears flow frae your een, +Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you, +For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky +Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry, +The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew, +And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie, +And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's ee, +Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo, +But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew. + +JAMES BALLANTINE. + + + +UNCHANGING. + + +In early days methought that all must last; + Then I beheld all changing, dying, fleeting; +But though my soul now grieves for much that's past, +And changeful fortunes set my heart oft beating, +I yet believe in mind that all will last, +Because the old in new I still am meeting. + +From the German of +FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON BODENSTEDT. + + + +I HOLD STILL. + + +Pain's furnace heat within me quivers, + God's breath upon the flame doth blow, +And all my heart in anguish shivers, + And trembles at the fiery glow: +And yet I whisper, As God will! +And in his hottest fire hold still. + +He comes and lays my heart, all heated, + On the hard anvil, minded so +Into his own fair shape to beat it + With his great hammer, blow on blow: +And yet I whisper, As God will! +And at his heaviest blows hold still. + +He takes my softened heart and beats it,-- + The sparks fly off at every blow; +He turns it o'er and o'er, and heats it, + And lets it cool, and makes it glow: +And yet I whisper, As God will! +And, in his mighty hand, hold still. + +Why should I murmur? for the sorrow + Thus only longer-lived would be; +Its end may come, and will, to-morrow, + When God has done his work in me; +So I say, trusting, As God will! +And, trusting to the end, hold still. + +He kindles for my profit purely + Affliction's glowing fiery brand, +And all his heaviest blows are surely + Inflicted by a Master-hand: +So I say, praying, As God will! +And hope in him, and suffer still. + +From the German of JULIUS STURM. + + + +THE GOOD GREAT MAN. + + +How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits + Honor or wealth with all his worth and pains! +It sounds like stories from the land of spirits. +If any man obtain that which he merits, + Or any merit that which he obtains. + + * * * * * + +For shame, dear Friend; renounce this canting strain! +What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain? +Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain-- +Or throne of corses which his sword has slain? +Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends! + +Hath he not always treasures, always friends, +The good great man? three treasures,--love, and light, +And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath; +And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- +Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. + +SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. + + + +WHEN MY SHIP COMES IN. + + +Somewhere, out on the blue seas sailing, + Where the winds dance and spin; +Beyond the reach of my eager hailing, + Over the breakers' din; +Out where the dark storm-clouds are lifting, +Out where the blinding fog is drifting, +Out where the treacherous sand is shifting, + My ship is coming in. + +Oh, I have watched till my eyes were aching, + Day after weary day; +Oh, I have hoped till my heart was breaking, + While the long nights ebbed away; +Could I but know where the waves had tossed her, +Could I but know what storms had crossed her, +Could I but know where the winds had lost her, + Out in the twilight gray! + +But though the storms her course have altered, + Surely the port she'll win; +Never my faith in my ship has faltered, + I know she is coming in. +For through the restless ways of her roaming, +Through the mad rush of the wild waves foaming, +Through the white crest of the billows combing, + My ship is coming in. + +Breasting the tides where the gulls are flying, + Swiftly she's coming in; +Shallows and deeps and rocks defying, + Bravely she's coming in; +Precious the love she will bring to bless me, +Snowy the arms she will bring to caress me, +In the proud purple of kings she will dress me. + My ship that is coming in. + +White in the sunshine her sails will be gleaming, + See, where my ship comes in; +At mast-head and peak her colors streaming, + Proudly she's sailing in; +Love, hope, and joy on her decks are cheering. +Music will welcome her glad appearing. +And my heart will sing at her stately nearing, + When my ship comes in. + +ROBERT JONES BURDETTE. + + + +NEVER DESPAIR.[6] + + +Never despair! Let the feeble in spirit + Bow like the willow that stoops to the blast. +Droop not in peril! 'T is manhood's true merit + Nobly to struggle and hope to the last. + +When by the sunshine of fortune forsaken + Faint sinks the heart of the feeble with fear, +Stand like the oak of the forest--unshaken, + Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair. + +Never despair! Though adversity rages, + + Fiercely and fell as the surge on the shore, +Firm as the rock of the ocean for ages, + Stem the rude torrent till danger is o'er. +Fate with its whirlwind our joys may all sever, + True to ourselves, we have nothing to fear. +Be this our hope and our anchor for ever-- + Never despair--Boys--oh! never despair. + +WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN. + + [6] These lines were sent to me by William Smith O'Brien, the evening of +Monday, October 8, 1848, the day on which sentence of death was passed +upon him. + +THOMAS FRANCIS MEAGHER. October 12, 1848. + + + +THE SADDEST FATE. + + + To touch a broken lute, + To strike a jangled string, + To strive with tones forever mute + The dear old tunes to sing-- +What sadder fate could any heart befall? +_Alas! dear child, never to sing at all_. + + To sigh for pleasures flown. + To weep for withered flowers, + To count the blessings we have known, + Lost with the vanished hours-- +What sadder fate could any heart befall? +_Alas! dear child, ne'er to have known them all_. + + To dream of love and rest, + To know the dream has past, +To bear within an aching breast + Only a void at last-- +What sadder fate could any heart befall? +_Alas! dear child, ne'er to have loved at all_. + + To trust an unknown good, + To hope, but all in vain, + Over a far-off bliss to brood, + Only to find it pain-- +What sadder fate could any soul befall? +_Alas! dear child, never to hope at all_. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THE SONG OF THE SAVOYARDS. + + +Far poured past Broadway's lamps alight, + The tumult of her motley throng. +When high and clear upon the night + Rose an inspiring song. +And rang above the city's din +To sound of harp and violin; + A simple but a manly strain, + And ending with the brave refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +And now where rose that song of cheer. + Both old and young stood still for joy; +Or from the windows hung to hear + The children of Savoy: +And many an eye with rapture glowed, +And saddest hearts forgot their load, + And feeble souls grew strong again, + So stirring was the brave refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +Alone, with only silence there, + Awaiting his life's welcome close, +A sick man lay, when on the air + That clarion arose; +So sweet the thrilling cadence rang, +It seemed to him an angel sang, + And sang to him; and he would fain + Have died upon that heavenly strain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +A sorrow-stricken man and wife, + With nothing left them but to pray, +Heard streaming over their sad life + That grand, heroic lay: +And through the mist of happy tears +They saw the promise-laden years; + And in their joy they sang again, + And carolled high the fond refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +Two artists, in the cloud of gloom + Which hung upon their hopes deferred, +Resounding through their garret-room + That noble chanson heard; +And as the night before the day +Their weak misgivings fled away; + And with the burden of the strain + They made their studio ring again-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +Two poets, who in patience wrought + The glory of an aftertime,-- +Lords of an age which knew them not, + Heard rise that lofty rhyme; +And on their hearts it fell, as falls +The sunshine upon prison-walls; + And one caught up the magic strain + And to the other sang again-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +And unto one, who, tired of breath, + And day and night and name and fame, +Held to his lips a glass of death, + That song a savior came; +Beseeching him from his despair, +As with the passion of a prayer; + And kindling in his heart and brain + The valor of its blest refrain-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +O thou, with earthly ills beset, + Call to thy lips those words of joy, +And never in thy life forget + The brave song of Savoy! +For those dear words may have the power +To cheer thee in thy darkest hour; + The memory of that loved refrain + Bring gladness to thy heart again!-- +Courage! courage, mon camarade! + +HENRY AMES BLOOD. + + * * * * * + + + + +V. DEATH AND BEREAVEMENT. + + + +LIFE. + + +We are born; we laugh; we weep; + We love; we droop; we die! +Ah! wherefore do we laugh or weep? + Why do we live or die? +Who knows that secret deep? + Alas not I! + +Why doth the violet spring + Unseen by human eye? +Why do the radiant seasons bring + Sweet thoughts that quickly fly? +Why do our fond hearts cling + To things that die? + +We toil--through pain and wrong; + We fight--and fly; +We love; we lose; and then, ere long, + Stone-dead we lie, +O life! is all thy song + "Endure and--die?" + +BRYAN WALLER PROCTER _(Barry Cornwall)._ + + + +SOLILOQUY ON DEATH. + + FROM "HAMLET," ACT III. SC. I. + + +HAMLET.--To be, or not to be,--that is the question +Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer +The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, +Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, +And, by opposing, end them?--To die, to sleep;-- +No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end +The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks +That flesh is heir to,--'t is a consummation +Devoutly to be wished. To die,--to sleep;-- +To sleep! perchance to dream:--ay, there's the rub; +For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, +When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, +Must give us pause: there's the respect +That makes calamity of so long life; +For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, +The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, +The pains of despised love, the law's delay, +The insolence of office, and the spurns +That patient merit of the unworthy takes, +When he himself might his quietus make +With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, +To grunt and sweat under a weary life, +But that the dread of something after death,-- +The undiscovered country, from whose bourn +No traveller returns,--puzzles the will, +And makes us rather bear those ills we have, +Than fly to others that we know not of? +Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; +And thus the native hue of resolution +Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; +And enterprises of great pith and moment, +With this regard, their currents turn awry, +And lose the name of action. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +SIC VITA.[7] + +Like to the falling of a star, +Or as the flights of eagles are, +Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, +Or silver drops of morning dew, + +Or like a wind that chafes the flood, +Or bubbles which on water stood,-- + +E'en such is man, whose borrowed light +Is straight called in, and paid to-night. +The wind blows out, the bubble dies, +The spring entombed in autumn lies, +The dew dries up, the star is shot, +The flight is past,--and man forgot! + +HENRY KING. + + [7] Claimed for Francis Beaumont by some authorities. + + + +DEATH THE LEVELLER. + +[These verses are said to have "chilled the heart" of Oliver Cromwell.] + + +The glories of our blood and state + Are shadows, not substantial things; +There is no armor against fate; + Death lays his icy hand on kings: + Sceptre and crown + Must tumble down. +And in the dust be equal made +With the poor crooked scythe and spade. + +Some men with swords may reap the field, + And plant fresh laurels where they kill; +But their strong nerves at last must yield; + They tame but one another still: + Early or late, + They stoop to fate. +And must give up their murmuring breath, +When they, pale captives, creep to death. + +The garlands wither on your brow, + Then boast no more your mighty deeds; +Upon death's purple altar now + See where the victor-victim bleeds: + Your heads must come + To the cold tomb; +Only the actions of the just +Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. + +JAMES SHIRLEY. + + + +VIRTUE IMMORTAL. + + +Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, +The bridall of the earth and skie; +The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; + For thou must die. +Sweet Rose, whose hue angrie and brave +Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, +Thy root is ever in its grave, + And all must die. + +Sweet Spring, full of sweet dayes and roses, +A box where sweets compacted lie, +Thy musick shows ye have your closes, + And all must die. + +Onely a sweet and vertuous soul, +Like seasoned timber, never gives; +But, though the whole world, turn to coal, + Then chiefly lives. + +GEORGE HERBERT. + + + +MAN'S MORTALITY. + + + Like as the damask rose you see, + Or like the blossom on the tree, + Or like the dainty flower in May, + Or like the morning of the day, + Or like the sun, or like the shade, + Or like the gourd which Jonas had,-- + E'en such is man; whose thread is spun, + Drawn out, and cut, and so is done.-- +The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, +The flower fades, the morning hasteth, +The sun sets, the shadow flies, +The gourd consumes,--and man he dies! + + Like to the grass that's newly sprung, + Or like a tale that's new begun, +Or like the bird that's here to-day, + Or like the pearled dew of May, + Or like an hour, or like a span, + Or like the singing of a swan,-- + E'en such is man; who lives by breath, + Is here, now there, in life and death.-- +The grass withers, the tale is ended, +The bird is flown, the dew's ascended. +The hour is short, the span is long, +The swan's near death,--man's life is done! + +SIMON WASTELL. + + + +MORTALITY. + + +O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? +Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, +A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, +He passes from life to his rest in the grave. + +The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, +Be scattered around and together be laid; +And the young and the old, and the low and the high, +Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. + +The child that a mother attended and loved, +The mother that infant's affection that proved, +The husband that mother and infant that blessed, +Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest. + +The maid on whose cheek on whose brow, in whose eye, +Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; +And the memory of those that beloved her and praised +Are alike from the minds of the living erased. + +The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, +The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, +The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, +Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. + +The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, +The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, +The beggar that wandered in search of his bread, +Have faded away like the grass that we tread. + +The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven, +The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, +The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, +Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. + +So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed +That wither away to let others succeed; +So the multitude comes, even those we behold, +To repeat every tale that hath often been told. + +For we are the same that our fathers have been; +We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- +We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun, +And we run the same course that our fathers have run. + +The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think; +From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; +To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling; +But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. + +They loved, but their story we cannot unfold; +They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; +They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come; +They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. + +They died, ay! they died! and we things that are now, +Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, +Who make in their dwellings a transient abode, +Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. + +Yea! hope and despondence, and pleasure and pain, +Are mingled together like sunshine and rain; +And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, +Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. + +'Tis the wink of an eye, 't is the draught of a breath, +From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, +From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud;-- +why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + +WILLIAM KNOX. + + + + +THE HOUR OF DEATH. + + + Leaves have their time to fall, +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, + And stars to set--but all, +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. + + Day is for mortal care, +Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, + Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer-- +But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth. + + The banquet hath its hour, +Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; + There comes a day of griefs overwhelming power, +A time for softer tears--but all are thine. + + Youth and the opening rose +May look like things too glorious for decay, + And smile at thee--but thou art not of those +That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. + + Leaves have their time to fall, +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, + And stars to set--but all, +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. + + We know when moons shall wane, +When summer-birds from far shall cross the sea, + When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-- +But who shall teach us when to look for thee? + + Is it when Spring's first gale +Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? + Is it when roses in our paths grow pale? +They have _one_ season--_all_ are ours to die! + + Thou art where billows foam, +Thou art where music melts upon the air; + Thou art around us in our peaceful home, +And the world calls us forth--and thou art there. + + Thou art where friend meets friend, +Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest-- + Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend +The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. + + Leaves have their time to fall, +And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, + And stars to set--but all. +Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh! Death. + +FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. + + + +THE TERM OF DEATH. + + +Between the falling leaf and rose-bud's breath; + The bird's forsaken nest and her new song +(And this is all the time there is for Death); + The worm and butterfly--it is not long! + +SARAH MORGAN BRYAN PIATT. + + + +A PICTURE OF DEATH. + + FROM "THE GIAOUR." + + + He who hath bent him o'er the dead +Ere the first day of death is fled, +The first dark day of nothingness, +The last of danger and distress, +(Before Decay's effacing fingers +Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) +And marked the mild angelic air, +The rapture of repose, that's there, +The fixed yet tender traits that streak +The languor of the placid cheek, +And--but for that sad shrouded eye, +That fires not, wins not, weeps not now, +And but for that chill, changeless brow, +Where cold Obstruction's apathy +Apalls the gazing mourner's heart, +As if to him it could impart +The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon; +Yes, but for these and these alone, +Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, +He still might doubt the tyrant's power; + So fair, so calm, so softly sealed, + The first, last look by death revealed! + Such is the aspect of this shore; + 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more! + So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, + We start, for soul is wanting there. + Hers is the loveliness in death, + That parts not quite with parting breath; + But beauty with that fearful bloom, + That hue which haunts it to the tomb, + Expression's last receding ray, + A gilded halo hovering round decay, + The farewell beam of Feeling past away; +Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, +Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth! + +LORD BYRON. + + + +THE TWO MYSTERIES. + + +["In the middle of the room, in its white coffin, lay the dead child, +the nephew of the poet. Near it, in a great chair, sat Walt Whitman, +surrounded by little ones, and holding a beautiful little girl on his +lap. She looked wonderingly at the spectacle of death, and then +inquiringly into the old man's face. 'You don't know what it is, do you, +my dear?' said he, and added, 'We don't, either.'"] + +We know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still; +The folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill; +The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; +The strange white solitude of peace that settles over all. + +We know not what it means, dear, this desolate heart-pain; +This dread to take our daily way, and walk in it again; +We know not to what other sphere the loved who leave us go, +Nor why we 're left to wonder still, nor why we do not know. + +But this we know: Our loved and dead, if they should come this day-- +Should come and ask us, "What is life?" not one of us could say. +Life is a mystery, as deep as ever death can be; +Yet, O, how dear it is to us, this life we live and see! + +Then might they say--these vanished ones--and blessed is the thought, +"So death is sweet to us, beloved! though we may show you nought; +We may not to the quick reveal the mystery of death-- +Ye cannot tell us, if ye would, the mystery of breath." + +The child who enters life comes not with knowledge or intent, +So those who enter death must go as little children sent. +Nothing is known. But I believe that God is overhead; +And as life is to the living, so death is to the dead. + +MARY MAPLES DODGE. + + + +THANATOPSIS. + + + To him who, in the love of Nature, holds +Communion with her visible forms, she speaks +A various language: for his gayer hours +She has a voice of gladness, and a smile +And eloquence of beauty; and she glides +Into his darker musings with a mild +And healing sympathy, that steals away +Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts +Of the last bitter hour come like a blight +Over thy spirit, and sad images +Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, +And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, +Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, +Go forth under the open sky, and list +To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- +Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- +Comes a still voice:--Yet a few days, and thee +The all-beholding sun shall see no more +In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, +Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, +Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist +Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim +Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; +And, lost each human trace, surrendering up +Thine individual being, shalt thou go +To mix forever with the elements; +To be a brother to the insensible rock, +And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain +Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak +Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. + Yet not to thine eternal resting-place +Shalt thou retire alone,--nor couldst thou wish +Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down +With patriarchs of the infant world,--with kings, +The powerful of the earth,--the wise, the good, +Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, +All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, +Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales +Stretching in pensive quietness between; +The venerable woods; rivers that move +In majesty, and the complaining brooks, +That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, +Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- +Are but the solemn decorations all +Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, +The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, +Are shining on the sad abodes of death, +Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread +The globe are but a handful to the tribes +That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings +Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, +Or lose thyself in the continuous woods +Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound +Save his own dashings,--yet the dead are there! +And millions in those solitudes, since first +The flight of years began, have laid them down +In their last sleep,--the dead reign there alone! +So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw +In silence from the living, and no friend +Take note of thy departure? All that breathe +Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh +When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care +Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase +His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave +Their mirth and their employments, and shall come +And make their bed with thee. As the long train +Of ages glide away, the sons of men-- +The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes +In the full strength of years, matron and maid, +And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- +Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side +By those who in their turn shall follow them. + + So live, that when thy summons comes to join +The innumerable caravan that moves +To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take +His chamber in the silent halls of death, +Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, +Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed +By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave +Like one who wraps the drappery of his conch +About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + +A MORNING THOUGHT. + + +What if some morning, when the stars were paling, + And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear, +Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence + Of a benignant spirit standing near; + +And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:-- + "This is our earth--most friendly earth, and fair; +Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow + Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air; + +"There is blest living here, loving and serving, + And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear: +But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer-- + His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!" + +And what if then, while the still morning brightened, + And freshened in the elm the summer's breath, +Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel, + And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"? + +EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. + + + +NOW AND AFTERWARDS. + + "Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." + --RUSSIAN PROVERB. + + +"Two hands upon the breast, + And labor's done; +Two pale feet crossed in rest,-- + The race is won; +Two eyes with coin-weights shut, + And all tears cease; +Two lips where grief is mute, + Anger at peace:" +So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; +God in his kindness answereth not. + +"Two hands to work addrest + Aye for his praise; +Two feet that never rest + Walking his ways; +Two eyes that look above + Through all their tears; +Two lips still breathing love, + Not wrath, nor fears:" +So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; +Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these! + +DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK + + + +THE GRAVE OF SOPHOCLES. + + +Tenderly, ivy, on Sophocles' grave--right tenderly--twine +Garlanding over the mound network of delicate green. + +Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine +Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen. + +All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine; +Priest of the gay and profound, sweetest of singers terrene. + +From the Greek of SIMMIAS. +Translation of WILLIAM M. HAUDINGE. + + + +INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE ABBEY. + + +The earth goes on the earth glittering in gold, +The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; +The earth builds on the earth castles and towers, +The earth says to the earth--All this is ours. + + + +ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. + + +Mortality, behold and fear +What a change of flesh is here! +Think how many royal bones +Sleep within these heaps of stones; +Here they lie, had realms and lands, +Who now want strength to stir their hands, +Where from their pulpits sealed with dust +They preach, "In greatness is no trust." +Here's an acre sown indeed +With the richest royallest seed +That the earth did e'er suck in +Since the first man died for sin: +Here the bones of birth have cried +"Though gods they were, as men they died!" +Here are sands, ignoble things, +Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: +Here's a world of pomp and state +Buried in dust, once dead by fate. + +FRANCIS BEAUMONT. + + + +ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. + + +The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, +The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, + And leaves the world to darkness and to me. + +Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. + And all the air a solemn stillness holds, +Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, + And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: + +Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, + The moping owl does to the moon complain +Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, + Molest her ancient solitary reign. + +[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around + Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; +In still small accents whispering from the ground + The grateful earnest of eternal peace.][8] + +Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. + Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, +Each in his narrow cell forever laid, + The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. + +The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, + The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, +The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, + No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. + +For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, + Or busy housewife ply her evening care; +No children run to lisp their sire's return, + Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. + +Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, + Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; +How jocund did they drive their team afield! + How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke! + +Let not ambition mock their useful toil, + Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; +Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile + The short and simple annals of the poor. + +The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, + And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, +Awaits alike the inevitable hour. + The paths of glory lead but to the grave. + +Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, + If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, +Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, + The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. + +Can storied urn or animated bust: + Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? +Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, + Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death? + +Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid; + Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; +Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, + Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre; + +But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, + Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; +Chill penury repressed their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + +Full many a gem of purest ray serene; + The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; +Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, + And waste its sweetness on the desert air. + +Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, + The little tryant of his fields withstood, +Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, + Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. + +Th' applause of listening senates to command, + The threats of pain and ruin to despise, +To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, + And read their history in a nation's eyes, + +Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone + Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; +Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, + And shut the gates of mercy on mankind, + +The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, + To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, +Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride + With incense kindled at the muse's flame. + +Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, + Their sober wishes never learned to stray; +Along the cool sequestered vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + +Yet even these bones from insult to protect, + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, +With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + +Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse, + The place of fame and elegy supply; +And many a holy text around she strews, + That teach the rustic moralist to die. + +For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, + This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, +Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, + Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? + +On some fond breast the parting soul relies, + Some pious drops the closing eye requires; +E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. + +For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, + Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, +If chance, by lonely contemplation led, + Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, + +Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, + "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn +Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, + To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. + +"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, + That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, +His listless length at noontide would he stretch, + And pore upon the brook that babbles by. + +"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, + Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; +Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. + Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. + +"One morn I missed him on the customed hill, + Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; +Another came; nor yet beside the rill, + Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; + +"The next, with dirges due in sad array, + Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. +Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay + Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." + + THE EPITAPH. + +Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth + A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; +Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy marked him for her own. + +Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, + Heaven did a recompense as largely send; +He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, + He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. + +No farther seek his merits to disclose, + Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, +(There they alike in trembling hope repose) + The bosom of his Father and his God. + +THOMAS GRAY. + + [8] Removed by the author from the original poem. + + + +GOD'S-ACRE. + + +I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls + The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; +It consecrates each grave within its walls, + And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. + +God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts + Comfort to those who in the grave have sown +The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, + Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. + +Into its furrows shall we all be cast, + In the sure faith that we shall rise again +At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast + Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. + +Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, + In the fair gardens of that second birth; +And each bright blossom mingle its perfume + With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth. + +With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, + And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; +This is the field and Acre of our God, + This is the place where human harvests grow! + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +SLEEPY HOLLOW. + + +No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops, + No winding torches paint the midnight air; +Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops + Along the modest pathways, and those fair +Pale asters of the season spread their plumes + Around this field, fit garden for our tombs. + +And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell + Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place, +Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell, + But in its kind and supplicating grace, +It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more + Friend to the friendless than thou wast before; + +Learn from the loved one's rest serenity: + To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound, +And thou repose beneath the whispering tree, + One tribute more to this submissive ground;-- +Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride, + Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride: + +Rather to those ascents of being turn, + Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year +Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn + Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,-- +Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, + God's mercy in thy thought and life confest. + +WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING. + + + +THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD. + + +Four straight brick walls, severely plain, + A quiet city square surround; +A level space of nameless graves,-- + The Quakers' burial-ground. + +In gown of gray, or coat of drab, + They trod the common ways of life, +With passions held in sternest leash, + And hearts that knew not strife. + +To yon grim meeting-house they fared, + With thoughts as sober as their speech, +To voiceless prayer, to songless praise, + To hear the elders preach. + +Through quiet lengths of days they came, + With scarce a change to this repose; +Of all life's loveliness they took + The thorn without the rose. + +But in the porch and o'er the graves, + Glad rings the southward robin's glee, +And sparrows fill the autumn air + With merry mutiny; + +While on the graves of drab and gray + The red and gold of autumn lie, +And wilful Nature decks the sod + In gentlest mockery. + +SILAS WEIR MITCHELL. + + + +GREENWOOD CEMETERY. + + +How calm they sleep beneath the shade + Who once were weary of the strife, +And bent, like us, beneath the load + Of human life! + +The willow hangs with sheltering grace + And benediction o'er their sod, +And Nature, hushed, assures the soul + They rest in God. + +O weary hearts, what rest is here, + From all that curses yonder town! +So deep the peace, I almost long + To lay me down. + +For, oh, it will be blest to sleep, + Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, +Till wakened in immortal strength + And heavenly light! + +CRAMMOND KENNEDY. + + + +THE DEAD. + + +The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold +Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still: +They have forged our chains of being for good or ill; +And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. +Our perishable bodies are the mould +In which their strong imperishable will-- +Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil-- +Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold. +Vibrations infinite of life in death, +As a star's travelling light survives its star! +So may we hold our lives, that when we are +The fate of those who then will draw this breath, +They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar, +And curse the heritage which we bequeath. + +MATHILDE BLIND. + + + +ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD. + + +Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow, + For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven, +For a great sign the icy stair shall go + Between the heights to heaven. + +One moment stood he as the angels stand, + High in the stainless eminence of air; +The next, he was not, to his fatherland + Translated unaware. + +FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS. + + + +THE EMIGRANT LASSIE. + + +As I came wandering down Glen Spean, + Where the braes are green and grassy, +With my light step I overtook + A weary-footed lassie. + +She had one bundle on her back, + Another in her hand, +And she walked as one who was full loath + To travel from the land. + +Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"--for she + Had hair of flowing gold, +And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, + Right pleasant to behold-- + +"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee, + On this bright summer day, +To travel sad and shoeless thus + Upon the stony way? + +"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod, + And thou art burdened so; +March lightly now, and let me bear + The bundles as we go." + +"No, no!" she said, "that may not be; + What's mine is mine to bear; +Of good or ill, as God may will, + I take my portioned share." + +"But you have two, and I have none; + One burden give to me; +I'll take that bundle from thy back + That heavier seems to be. + +"No, no!" she said; "_this_, if you will, + _That_ holds--no hand but mine +May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean + 'Cross the Atlantic brine!" + +"Well, well! but tell me what may be + Within that precious load, +Which thou dost bear with such fine care + Along the dusty road? + +"Belike it is some present rare + From friend in parting hour; +Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont, + Thou tak'st with thee thy dower" + +She drooped her head, and with her hand + She gave a mournful wave: +"Oh, do not jest, dear sir!--it is + Turf from my mother's grave!" + +I spoke no word: we sat and wept + By the road-side together; +No purer dew on that bright day + Was dropped upon the heather. + +JOHN STUART BLACKIE. + + + +THE OLD SEXTON. + + +Nigh to a grave that was newly made, +Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; +His work was done, and he paused to wait +The funeral train at the open gate. +A relic of bygone days was he, +And his locks were white as the foamy sea; +And these words came from his lips so thin: +"I gather them in: I gather them in. + +"I gather them in! for man and boy, +Year after year of grief and joy, +I 've builded the houses that lie around, +In every nook of this burial ground; +Mother and daughter, father and son, +Come to my solitude, one by one: +But come they strangers or come they kin-- +I gather them in, I gather them in. + +"Many are with me, but still I'm alone, +I'm king of the dead--and I make my throne +On a monument slab of marble cold; +And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold: +Come they from cottage or come they from hall, +Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! +Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin-- +I gather them in, I gather them in. + +"I gather them in, and their-final rest +Is here, down here, in earth's dark breast!" +And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train +Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain! +And I said to my heart, when time is told, +A mightier voice than that sexton's old +Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din-- +"I gather them in, I gather them in." + +PARK BENJAMIN. + + + +THE FIRST SNOW-FALL. + + +The snow had begun in the gloaming, + And busily all the night +Had been heaping field and highway + With a silence deep and white. +Every pine and fir and hemlock + Wore ermine too dear for an earl, +And the poorest twig on the elm-tree + Was ridged inch deep with pearl. + +From sheds new-roofed with Carrara + Came Chanticleer's muffled crow. +The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, + And still fluttered down the snow. + +I stood and watched by the window + The noiseless work of the sky, +And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, + Like brown leaves whirling by. + +I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn + Where a little headstone stood; +How the flakes were folding it gently, + As did robins the babes in the wood. + +Up spoke our own little Mabel, + Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" +And I told of the good All-father + Who cares for us here below. + +Again I looked at the snow-fall, + And thought of the leaden sky +That arched o'er our first great sorrow, + When that mound was heaped so high. + +I remember the gradual patience + That fell from that cloud like snow, +Flake by flake, healing and hiding + The scar of our deep-plunged woe. + +And again to the child I whispered, + "The snow that husheth all, +Darling, the merciful Father + Alone can make it fall!" + +Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; + And she, kissing back, could not know +That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, + Folded close under deepening snow. + +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + +THE MORNING-GLORY. + + +We wreathed about our darling's head + The morning-glory bright; +Her little face looked out beneath + So full of life and light, +So lit as with a sunrise, + That we could only say, +"She is the morning-glory true, + And her poor types are they." + +So always from that happy time + We called her by their name, +And very fitting did it seem,-- + For sure as morning came, +Behind her cradle bars she smiled + To catch the first faint ray, +As from the trellis smiles the flower + And opens to the day. + +But not so beautiful they rear + Their airy cups of blue, +As turned her sweet eyes to the light, + Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; +And not so close their tendrils fine + Round their supports are thrown, +As those dear arms whose outstretched plea + Clasped all hearts to her own. + +We used to think how she had come, + Even as comes the flower, +The last and perfect added gift + To crown Love's morning hour; +And how in her was imaged forth + The love we could not say, +As on the little dewdrops round + Shines back the heart of day. + +We never could have thought, O God, + That she must wither up, +Almost before a day was flown, + Like the morning-glory's cup; +We never thought to see her droop + Her fair and noble head, +Till she lay stretched before our eyes, + Wilted, and cold, and dead! + +The morning-glory's blossoming + Will soon be coming round,-- +We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves + Upspringing from the ground; +The tender things the winter killed + Renew again their birth, +But the glory of our morning + Has passed away from earth. + +Earth! in vain our aching eyes + Stretch over thy green plain! +Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, + Her spirit to sustain; +But up in groves of Paradise + Full surely we shall see +Our morning-glory beautiful + Twine round our dear Lord's knee. + +MARIA WHITE LOWELL. + + + +THE WIDOW'S MITE. + + +A widow--she had only one! +A puny and decrepit son; + But, day and night, +Though fretful oft, and weak and small, +A loving child, he was her all-- + The Widow's Mite. + +The Widow's Mite--ay, so sustained, +She battled onward, nor complained, + Though friends were fewer: +And while she toiled for daily fare, +A little crutch upon the stair + Was music to her. + +I saw her then,--and now I see +That, though resigned and cheerful, she + Has sorrowed much: +She has, He gave it tenderly, +Much faith; and carefully laid by, + The little crutch. + +FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. + + + +ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME? + + +Each day, when the glow of sunset + Fades in the western sky, +And the wee ones, tired of playing, + Go tripping lightly by, +I steal away from my husband, + Asleep in his easy-chair, +And watch from the open door-way + Their faces fresh and fair. + +Alone in the dear old homestead + That once was full of life, +Ringing with girlish laughter, + Echoing boyish strife, +We two are waiting together; + And oft, as the shadows come, +With tremulous voice he calls me, + "It is night! are the children home?" + +"Yes, love!" I answer him gently, + "They're all home long ago;"-- +And I sing, in my quivering treble, + A song so soft and low, +Till the old man drops to slumber, + With his head upon his hand, +And I tell to myself the number + At home in the better land. + +At home, where never a sorrow + Shall dim their eyes with tears! +Where the smile of God is on them + Through all the summer years! +I know,--yet my arms are empty, + That fondly folded seven, +And the mother heart within me + Is almost starved for heaven. + +Sometimes, in the dusk of evening, + I only shut my eyes, +And the children are all about me, + A vision from the skies: +The babes whose dimpled fingers + Lost the way to my breast, +And the beautiful ones, the angels, + Passed to the world of the blest. + +With never a cloud upon them, + I see their radiant brows; +My boys that I gave to freedom,-- + The red sword sealed their vows! +In a tangled Southern forest, + Twin brothers bold and brave, +They fell; and the flag they died for, + Thank God! floats over their grave. + +A breath, and the vision is lifted + Away on wings of light, +And again we two are together, + All alone in the night. +They tell me his mind is failing, + But I smile at idle fears; +He is only back with the children, + In the dear and peaceful years. + +And still, as the summer sunset + Fades away in the west, +And the wee ones, tired of playing, + Go trooping home to rest, +My husband calls from his corner, + "Say, love, have the children come?" +And I answer, with eyes uplifted, + "Yes, dear! they are all at home." + +MARGARET E.M. SANGSTER. + + + +JIM'S KIDS. + + +Jim was a fisherman, up on the hill, + Over the beach lived he and his wife, +In a little house--you can see it still-- + An' their two fair boys; upon my life +You never seen two likelier kids, + In spite of their antics an' tricks an' noise, + Than them two boys! + +Jim would go out in his boat on the sea, + Just as the rest of us fishermen did, +An' when he come back at night thar'd be, + Up to his knees in the surf, each kid, +A beck'nin' and cheer-in' to fisherman Jim; + He'd hear 'em, you bet, above the roar + Of the waves on the shore. + +But one night Jim came a sailin' home + And the little kids weren't on the sands; +Jim kinder wondered they hadn't come, + And a tremblin' took hold o' his knees and hands, +And he learnt the worst up on the hill, + In the little house, an' he bowed his head, + "The fever," they said. + +'T was an awful time for fisherman Jim, + With them darlin's a dyin' afore his eyes, +They kep' a callin' an' beck'nin' him, + For they kinder wandered in mind. Their cries +Were about the waves and fisherman Jim + And the little boat a sailin' for shore + Till they spoke no more. + +Well, fisherman Jim lived on and on, + And his hair grew white and the wrinkles came, +But he never smiled and his heart seemed gone, + And he never was heard to speak the name +Of the little kids who were buried there, + Upon the hill in sight o' the sea, + Under a willow tree. + +One night they came and told me to haste + To the house on the hill, for Jim was sick, +And they said I hadn't no time to waste, + For his tide was ebbin' powerful quick +An' he seemed to be wand'rin' and crazy like, + An' a seein' sights he oughtn't to see, + An' had called for me. + +And fisherman Jim sez he to me, + "It's my last, last cruise, you understand, +I'm sailin' a dark and dreadful sea, + But off on the further shore, on the sand, +Are the kids, who's a beck'nin' and callin' my name + Jess as they did, oh, mate, you know, + In the long ago." + +No, sir! he wasn't afeard to die, + For all that night he seemed to see +His little boys of the years gone by, + And to hear sweet voices forgot by me; +An' just as the mornin' sun came up, + "They're a holdin' me by the hands," he cried, + And so he died. + +EUGENE FIELD. + + + +THE MAY QUEEN. + + +You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; +To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year,-- +Of all the glad new-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +There's many a black, black eye, they say, but _none_ so bright as mine; +There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; +But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say: +So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, +If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break; +But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay; +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see +But Robin leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree? +He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday,-- +But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white; +And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. +They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, +For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. + +They say he's dying all for love,--but that can never be; +They say his heart is breaking, mother,--what is that to me? +There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, +And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; +For the shepherd lads on every side'll come from far away; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, +And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; +And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, +And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; +There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day; +And I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +All the valley, mother, 'll be fresh and green and still, +And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, +And the rivulet in the flowery dale'll merrily glance and play, +For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + +So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; +To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year; +To-morrow'll be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, +For I'm to be Queen o'the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o'the May. + + +NEW YEAR'S EVE. + +If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, +For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. +It is the last new-year that I shall ever see,-- +Then you may lay me low i' the mold, and think no more of me. + +To-night I saw the sun set,--he set and left behind +The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; +And the new-year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see +The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. + +Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day,-- +Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; +And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, +Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. + +There's not a flower on all the hills,--the frost is on the pane; +I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again. +I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high,-- +I long to see a flower so before the day I die. + +The building-rook'll caw from the windy tall elm-tree, +And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, +And the swallow'll come back again with summer o'er the wave, +But I shall lie alone, mother, within the moldering grave. + +Upon the chancel casement, and upon that grave of mine, +In the early, early morning the summer sun'll shine, +Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill,-- +When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. + +When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waning light +You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; +When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool +On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. + +You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, +And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. +I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, +With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. + +I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now; +You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; +Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; +You should not fret for me, mother--you have another child. + +If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; +Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; +Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say. +And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away. + +Good night! good night! when I have said good night forevermore, +And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, +Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green,-- +She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. + +She'll find my garden tools upon the granary floor. +Let her take 'em--they are hers; I shall never garden more. +But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rosebush that I set +About the parlor window and the box of mignonette. + +Good night, sweet-mother! Call me before the day is born. +All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; +But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year,-- +So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. + + +CONCLUSION. + +I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am; +And in the fields all around I hear the bleating of the lamb. +How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! +To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. + +O, sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies; +And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise; +And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow; +And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go. + +It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, +And now it seems as hard to stay; and yet, His will be done! +But still I think it can't be long before I find release; +And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. + +O, blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair, +And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there! +O, blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head! +A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. + +He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the sin; +Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in. +Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be; +For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. + +I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat,-- +There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet; +But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, +And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. + + +All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call,-- +It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; +The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, +And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. + +For, lying broad awake, T thought of you and Effie dear; +I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here; +With all my strength I prayed for both,--and so I felt resigned, +And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. + +I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; +And then did something speak to me,--I know not what was said; +For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, +And up the valley came again the music on the wind. + +But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them,--it's mine;" +And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. +And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars; +Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among the stars. + +So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know +The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. +And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day; +But Effie, you must comfort _her_ when I am past away. +And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; +There's many a worthier than I, would make him happy yet. +If I had lived--I cannot tell--I might have been his wife; +But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. + +O, look! the sun begins to rise! the heavens are in a glow; +He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. +And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine,-- +Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. + +O, sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done +The voice that now is speaking may be beyond the sun,-- +Forever and forever with those just souls and true,-- +And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? + +Forever and forever, all in a blessed home,-- +And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come,-- +To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast,-- +And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +ON ANNE ALLEN. + + +The wind blew keenly from the Western sea, +And drove the dead leaves slanting from the tree-- + Vanity of vanities, the Preacher saith-- +Heaping them up before her Father's door +When I saw her whom I shall see no more-- + We cannot bribe thee, Death. + +She went abroad the falling leaves among, +She saw the merry season fade, and sung-- + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +Freely she wandered in the leafless wood, +And said that all was fresh, and fair, and good-- + She knew thee not, O Death. + +She bound her shining hair across her brow, +She went into the garden fading now; + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +And if one sighed to think that it was sere, +She smiled to think that it would bloom next year! + She feared thee not, O Death. + +Blooming she came back to the cheerful room +With all the fairer flowers yet in bloom-- + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +A fragrant knot for each of us she tied, +And placed the fairest at her Father's side-- + She cannot charm thee, Death. + +Her pleasant smile spread sunshine upon all; +We heard her sweet clear laughter in the Hall-- + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +We heard her sometimes after evening prayer, +As she went singing softly up the stair-- + No voice can charm thee, Death. + +Where is the pleasant smile, the laughter kind, +That made sweet music of the winter wind? + Vanity of vanities the Preacher saith-- +Idly they gaze upon her empty place, +Her kiss hath faded from her Father's face-- + She is with thee, O Death. + +EDWARD FITZGERALD. + + + +SONNET. + + (SUGGESTED BY MR. WATTS'S PICTURE OF LOVE AND DEATH.) + + +Yea, Love is strong as life; he casts out fear, +And wrath, and hate, and all our envious foes; +He stands upon the threshold, quick to close +The gate of happiness ere should appear +Death's dreaded presence--ay, but Death draws near, +And large and gray the towering outline grows, +Whose face is veiled and hid; and yet Love knows +Full well, too well, alas! that Death is here. +Death tramples on the roses; Death comes in, +Though Love, with outstretched arms and wings outspread, +Would bar the way--poor Love, whose wings begin +To droop, half-torn as are the roses dead +Already at his feet--but Death must win, +And Love grows faint beneath that ponderous tread! + +LADY LINDSAY. + + + +JEUNE FILLE ET JEUNE FLEUR. + + +The bier descends, the spotless roses too, + The father's tribute in his saddest hour: +O Earth! that bore them both, thou hast thy due,-- + The fair young girl and flower. + +Give them not back unto a world again, + Where mourning, grief, and agony have power,-- +Where winds destroy, and suns malignant reign,-- + That fair young girl and flower. + +Lightly thou sleepest, young Eliza, now, + Nor fear'st the burning heat, nor chilling shower; +They both have perished in their morning glow,-- + The fair young girl and flower. + +But he, thy sire, whose furrowed brow is pale, + Bends, lost in sorrow, o'er thy funeral bower, +And Time the old oak's roots doth now assail, + O fair young girl and flower! + +From the French of FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE CHATEAUBRIAND. + + + +THE DEATH-BED. + + +We watched her breathing through the night, + Her breathing soft and low, +As in her breast the wave of life + Kept heaving to and fro. + +So silently we seemed to speak, + So slowly moved about, +As we had lent her half our powers + To eke her living out. + +Our very hopes belied our fears, + Our fears our hopes belied-- +We thought her dying when she slept, + And sleeping when she died. + +For when the morn came, dim and sad, + And chill with early showers, +Her quiet eyelids closed--she had + Another morn than ours. + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +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! + +JAMES ALDRICH. + + + +REQUIESCAT. + + +Strew on her roses, roses, + And never a spray of yew. +In quiet she reposes: + Ah! would that I did too. + +Her mirth the world required: + She bathed it in smiles of glee. +But her heart was tired, tired, + And now they let her be. + +Her life was turning, turning, + In mazes of heat and sound. +But for peace her soul was yearning, + And now peace laps her round. + +Her cabined, ample Spirit, + It fluttered and failed for breath. +To-night it doth inherit + The vasty Hall of Death. + +MATTHEW ARNOLD. + + + +"THE UNILLUMINED VERGE." + + TO A FRIEND DYING. + + +They tell you that Death's at the turn of the road, + That under the shade of a cypress you'll find him, +And, struggling on wearily, lashed by the goad + Of pain, you will enter the black mist behind him. + +I can walk with you up to the ridge of the hill, + And we'll talk of the way we have come through the valley; +Down below there a bird breaks into a trill, + And a groaning slave bends to the oar of his galley. + +You are up on the heights now, you pity the slave-- + "Poor soul, how fate lashes him on at his rowing! +Yet it's joyful to live, and it's hard to be brave + When you watch the sun sink and the daylight is going." + +We are almost there--our last walk on this height-- + I must bid you good-bye at that cross on the mountain. +See the sun glowing red, and the pulsating light + Fill the valley, and rise like the flood in a fountain! + +And it shines in your face and illumines your soul; + We are comrades as ever, right here at your going; +You may rest if you will within sight of the goal, + While I must return to my oar and the rowing. + +We must part now? Well, here is the hand of a friend; + I will keep you in sight till the road makes its turning +Just over the ridge within reach of the end + Of your arduous toil,--the beginning of learning. + +You will call to me once from the mist, on the verge, + "An revoir!" and "Good night!" while the twilight is creeping +Up luminous peaks, and the pale stars emerge? + Yes, I hear your faint voice: "This is rest, and like sleeping!" + +ROBERT BRIDGES (_Droch_). + + + +CORONACH. + + FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO III. + + +He is gone on the mountain, + He is lost to the forest, +Like a summer-dried fountain + When our need was the sorest. +The font, reappearing, + From the rain-drops shall borrow, +But to us comes no cheering, + To Duncan no morrow: + +The hand of the reaper + Takes the ears that are hoary; +But the voice of the weeper + Wails manhood in glory. +The autumn winds rushing + Waft the leaves that are searest, +But our flower was in flushing + When blighting was nearest. + +Fleet foot on the correi, + Sage counsel in cumber, +Red hand in the foray, + How sound is thy slumber! +Like the dew on the mountain, + Like the foam on the river, +Like the bubble on the fountain, + Thou art gone, and forever! + +SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + + +EVELYN HOPE. + + +Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! + Sit and watch by her side an hour. +That is her book-shelf, this her bed; + She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, +Beginning to die too, in the glass. + Little has yet been changed, I think; +The shutters are shut,--no light may pass + Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. + +Sixteen years old when she died! + Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,-- +It was not her time to love; beside, + Her life had many a hope and aim, +Duties enough and little cares; + And now was quiet, now astir,-- +Till God's hand beckoned unawares, + And the sweet white brow is all of her. + +Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? + What! your soul was pure and true; +The good stars met in your horoscope, + Made you of spirit, fire, and dew; +And just because I was thrice as old, + And our paths in the world diverged so wide, +Each was naught to each, must I be told? + We were fellow-mortals,--naught beside? + +No, indeed! for God above + Is great to grant as mighty to make, +And creates the love to reward the love; + I claim you still, for my own love's sake! +Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, + Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few; +Much is to learn and much to forget + Ere the time be come for taking you. + +But the time will come--at last it will-- + When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, +In the lower earth,--in the years long still,-- + That body and soul so pure and gay? +Why your hair was amber I shall divine, + And your mouth of your own geranium's red,-- +And what you would do with me, in fine, + In the new life come in the old one's stead. + +I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, + Given up myself so many times, +Gained me the gains of various men. + Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; +Yet one thing--one--in my soul's full scope, + Either I missed or itself missed me,-- +And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! + What is the issue? let us see! + +I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; + My heart seemed full as it could hold,-- +There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, + And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. +So, hush! I will give you this leaf to keep; + See, I shut it inside the sweet, cold hand. +There, that is our secret! go to sleep; + You will wake, and remember, and understand. + +ROBERT BROWNING. + + + +ANNABEL LEE. + + +It was many and many a year ago, + In a kingdom by the sea, +That a maiden 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 high-born kinsmen came, + And bore her away from me, +To shut her up in a sepulchre, + In this kingdom by the sea. + +The angels, not 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 heayen 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. + +EDGAR ALLAN FOE. + + + +THY BRAES WERE BONNY. + + +Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream! + When first on them I met my lover; +Thy braes how dreary, Yarrow stream! + When now thy waves his body cover. + +Forever now, O Yarrow stream! + Thou art to me a stream of sorrow; +For never on thy banks shall I + Behold my love, the flower of Yarrow. + +He promised me a milk-white steed, + To bear me to his father's bowers; +He promised me a little page, + To 'squire me to his father's towers; +He promised me a wedding-ring,-- + The wedding-day was fixed to-morrow; +Now he is wedded to his grave, + Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow! + +Sweet were his words when last we met; + My passion I as freely told him! +Clasped in his arms, I little thought + That I should nevermore behold him! +Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost; + It vanished with a shriek of sorrow; +Thrice did the water-wraith ascend, + And gave a doleful groan through Yarrow. + +His mother from the window looked + With all the longing of a mother; +His little sister weeping walked + The greenwood path to meet her brother. +They sought him east, they sought him west, + They sought him all the forest thorough, +They only saw the cloud of night, + They only heard the roar of Yarrow! + +No longer from thy window look, + Thou hast no son, thou tender mother! +No longer walk, thou lovely maid; + Alas, thou hast no more a brother! +No longer seek him east or west, + And search no more the forest thorough; +For, wandering in the night so dark, + He fell a lifeless corse in Yarrow. + +The tear shall never leave my cheek, + No other youth shall be my marrow; +I'll seek thy body in the stream, + And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow. + +JOHN LOGAN. + + + +FAREWELL TO THEE, ARABY'S DAUGHTER. + + FROM "THE FIRE-WORSHIPPERS." + + +Farewell,--farewell to thee, Araby's daughter! + (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea;) +No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water + More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. + +O, fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, + How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, +Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, + And hushed all its music and withered its frame! + +But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, + Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom +Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, + With naught but the sea-star to light up her tomb. + +And still, when the merry date-season is burning, + And calls to the palm-grove the young and the old, +The happiest there, from their pastime returning + At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. + +The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses + Her dark flowing-hair for some festival day, +Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, + She mournfully turns from the mirror away. + +Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee-- + Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start, +Close, close by the side of that hero she'll set thee, + Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. + +Farewell!--be it ours to embellish thy pillow + With everything beauteous that grows in the deep; +Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow + Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. + +Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber + That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept; +With many a shell, in whose hollow-wreathed chamber, + We, Peris of ocean, by moonlight have slept. + +We'll dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, + And plant all the rosiest stems at thy head; +We'll seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, + And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. + +Farewell!--farewell!--until pity's sweet fountain + Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, +They'll weep for the Chieftain who died on that mountain. + They'll weep for the Maiden who sleeps in the wave. + +THOMAS MOORE. + + + +SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. + + +Softly woo away her breath, + Gentle death! +Let her leave thee with no strife, + Tender, mournful, murmuring life! +She hath seen her happy day,-- + She hath had her bud and blossom; +Now she pales and shrinks away, + Earth, into thy gentle bosom! + +She hath done her bidding here, + Angels dear! +Bear her perfect soul above. + Seraph of the skies,--sweet love! +Good she was, and fair in youth; + And her mind was seen to soar. +And her heart was wed to truth: + Take her, then, forevermore,-- + Forever--evermore-- + +BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall._) + + + +SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. + + +She died in beauty,--like a rose + Blown from its parent stem; +She died in beauty,--like a pearl + Dropped from some diadem. + +She died in beauty,--like a lay + Along a moonlit lake; +She died in beauty,--like the song + Of birds amid the brake. + +She died in beauty,--like the snow + On flowers dissolved away; +She died in beauty,--like a star + Lost on the brow of day. + +She lives in glory,--like night's gems + Set round the silver moon; +She lives in glory,--like the sun + Amid the blue of June. + +CHARLES DOYNE SILLERY. + + + +THE DEATH OF MINNEHAHA. + + FROM "THE SONG OF HIAWATHA." + + +All day long roved Hiawatha +In that melancholy forest, +Through the shadows of whose thickets, +In the pleasant days of Summer, +Of that ne'er forgotten Summer. +He had brought his young wife homeward +From the land of the Dacotahs; +When the birds sang in the thickets, +And the streamlets laughed and glistened, +And the air was full of fragrance, +And the lovely Laughing Water +Said with voice that did not tremble, +"I will follow you, my husband!" + In the wigwam with Nokomis, +With those gloomy guests that watched her, +With the Famine and the Fever, +She was lying, the Beloved, +She, the dying Minnehaha. + "Hark!" she said; "I hear a rushing, +Hear a roaring and a rushing, +Hear the Falls of Minnehaha +Calling to me from a distance!" +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, +"'T is the night-wind in the pine-trees!" + "Look!" she said; "I see my father +Standing lonely at his doorway. +Beckoning to me from his wigwam +In the land of the Dacotahs!" +"No, my child!" said old Nokomis, +"'T is the smoke, that waves and beckons!" + "Ah!" said she, "the eyes of Panguk +Glare upon me in the darkness, +I can feel his icy fingers +Clasping mine amid the darkness! +Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" + And the desolate Hiawatha, +Far away amid the forest, +Miles away among the mountains, +Heard that sudden cry of anguish, +Heard the voice of Minnehaha +Calling to him in the darkness, +"Hiawatha! Hiawatha!" + Over snow-fields waste and pathless, +Under snow-encumbered branches, +Homeward hurried Hiawatha, +Empty-handed, heavy-hearted, +Heard Nokomis moaning, wailing: +"Wahonowin! Wahonowin! +Would that I had perished for you, +Would that I were dead as you are! +Wahonowin! Wahonowin!" + And he rushed into the wigwam, +Saw the old Nokomis slowly +Rocking to and fro and moaning, +Saw his lovely Minnehaha +Lying dead and cold before him, +And his bursting heart within him +Uttered such a cry of anguish, +That the forest moaned and shuddered, +That the very stars in heaven +Shook and trembled with his anguish. + Then he sat down, still and speechless, +On the bed of Minnehaha, +At the feet of Laughing Water, +At those willing feet, that never +More would lightly run to meet him, +Never more would lightly follow. + With both hands his face he covered, +Seven long days and nights he sat there, +As if in a swoon he sat there, +Speechless, motionless, unconscious +Of the daylight or the darkness. + Then they buried Minnehaha; +In the snow a grave they made her, +In the forest deep and darksome, +Underneath the moaning hemlocks; +Clothed her in her richest garments, +Wrapped her in her robes of ermine, +Covered her with snow, like ermine; +Thus they buried Minnehaha. + And at night a fire was lighted, +On her grave four times was kindled, +For her soul upon its journey +To the Islands of the Blessed. +From his doorway Hiawatha +Saw it burning in the forest, +Lighting up the gloomy hemlocks; +From his sleepless bed uprising, +From the bed of Minnehaha, +Stood and watched it at the doorway, +That it might not be extinguished, +Might not leave her in the darkness. + "Farewell!" said he, "Minnehaha! +Farewell, O my Laughing Water! +All my heart is buried with you, +All my thoughts go onward with you, +Come not back again to labor, +Come not back again to suffer, +Where the Famine and the Fever +Wear the heart and waste the body. +Soon my task will be completed, +Soon your footsteps I shall follow +To the Islands of the Blessed, +To the Kingdom of Ponemah, +To the Land of the Hereafter!" + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +MOTHER AND POET. + + TURIN,--AFTER NEWS FROM GAETA, 1861. + + Laura Savio of Turin, a poetess and patriot, whose sons were + killed at Ancona and Gaeta. + + +Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the east, + And one of them shot in the west by the sea. +Dead! both my boys! When you sit at the feast, + And are wanting a great song for Italy free, + Let none look at me! + +Yet I was a poetess only last year, + And good at my art, for a woman, men said. +But this woman, this, who is agonized here, + The east sea and west sea rhyme on in her head + Forever instead. + +What art can a woman be good at? O, vain! + What art is she good at, but hurting her breast +With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? + Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, + And I proud by that test. + +What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees + Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throat +Cling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees + And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! + To dream and to dote. + +To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed + Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt, +That a country's a thing men should die for at need. + I prated of liberty, rights, and about + The tyrant turned out. + +And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ... + I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheels +Of the guns, and denied not.--But then the surprise, + When one sits quite alone!--Then one weeps, then one kneels! + --God! how the house feels! + +At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled + With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and how +They both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, + In return would fan off every fly from my brow + With their green laurel-bough. + +Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!" + And some one came out of the cheers in the street +With a face pale as stone, to say something to me. +--My Guido was dead!--I fell down at his feet, + While they cheered in the street. + +I bore it;--friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime + As the ransom of Italy. One boy remained +To be leant on and walked with, recalling the time + When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained + To the height he had gained. + +And letters still came,--shorter, sadder, more strong, + Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint. +One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long: + And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint, + Who forbids our complaint." + +My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware + Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprest +It was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, + And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, + To live on for the rest." + +On which without pause up the telegraph line + Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:--"Shot. +Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine." + No voice says "my mother" again to me. What! + You think Guido forgot? + +Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, + They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe? +I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven + Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so + The above and below. + +O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark + To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray. +How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, + Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, + And no last word to say! + +Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all + Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one. +'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. + And when Italy's made, for what end is it done + If we have not a son? + +Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? + When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sport +Of the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? + When your guns at Cavalli with final retort + Have cut the game short,-- + +When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, + When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red, +When you have your country from mountain to sea, + When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, + (And I have my dead,) + +What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, + And burn your lights faintly!--My country is there, +Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, + My Italy's there,--with my brave civic pair, + To disfranchise despair. + +Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, + And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn. +But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length + Into such wail as this!--and we sit on forlorn + When the man-child is born. + +Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west, + And one of them shot in the east by the sea! +Both! both my boys!--If in keeping the feast + You want a great song for your Italy free, + Let none look at me! + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +FEAR NO MORE THE HEAT O' THE SUN. + + FROM "CYMBELINE," ACT IV, SC. 2. + + +Fear no more the heat o' the sun, + Nor the furious winter's rages; +Thou thy worldly task hast done, + Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: +Golden lads and girls all must, +As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. + +Fear no more the frown o' the great, + Thou art past the tyrant's stroke; +Care no more to clothe, and eat; + To thee the reed is as the oak: +The sceptre, learning, physic, must +All follow this and come to dust. + +Fear no more the lightning flash + Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone; +Fear not slander, censure rash; + Thou hast finished joy and moan: +All lovers young, all lovers must +Consign to thee, and come to dust. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +HIGHLAND MARY. + + +Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o' Montgomery, +Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie! +There Simmer first unfald her robes + And there she langest tarry! +For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + +How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! + How rich the hawthorn's blossom! +As underneath their fragrant shade + I clasped her to my bosom! +The golden hours, on angel wings, + Flew o'er me and my dearie; +For dear to me as light and life + Was my sweet Highland Mary. + +Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace + Our parting was fu' tender; +And pledging aft to meet again, + We tore ourselves asunder; +But, oh! fell death's untimely frost, + That nipt my flower sae early! +Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, + That wraps my Highland Mary! + +Oh pale, pale now, those rosy lips + I aft hae kissed sae fondly! +And closed for aye the sparkling glance + That dwelt on me sae kindly! +And mould'ring now in silent dust + That heart that lo'ed me dearly! +But still within my bosom's core + Shall live my Highland Mary. + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +FAIR HELEN. + + +I wish I were where Helen lies; +Night and day on me she cries; +O that I were where Helen lies + On fair Kirconnell lea! + +Curst be the heart that thought the thought, +And curst the hand that fired the shot, +When in my arms burd Helen dropt, + And died to succor me! + +O think na but my heart was sair +When my Love dropt down and spak nae mair! +I laid her down wi' meikle care + On fair Kirconnell lea. + +As I went down the water-side, +None but my foe to be my guide, +None but my foe to be my guide, + On fair Kirconnell lea; + +I lighted down my sword to draw, +I hacked him in pieces sma', +I hacked him in pieces sma', + For her sake that died for me. + +O Helen fair, beyond compare! +I'll make a garland of thy hair +Shall bind my heart for evermair + Until the day I die. + +O that I were where Helen lies! +Night and day on me she cries; +Out of my bed she bids me rise, + Says, "Haste and come to me!" + +O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! +If I were with thee, I were blest, +Where thou lies low and takes thy rest + On fair Kirconnell lea. + +I wish my grave were growing green, +A winding-sheet drawn ower my een, +And I in Helen's arms lying, + On fair Kirconnell lea. + +I wish I were where Helen lies; +Night and day on me she cries; +And I am weary of the skies, + Since my Love died for me. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +OH THAT 'T WERE POSSIBLE. + + FROM "MAUD." + + +Oh that 't were possible, + After long grief and pain, +To find the arms of my true love + Round me once again! + +When I was wont to meet her + In the silent woody places +Of the laud that gave me birth, + We stood tranced in long embraces +Mixt with kisses sweeter, sweeter + Than anything on earth. + +A shadow flits before me, + Not thou, but like to thee; +Ah Christ, that it were possible + For one short hour to see +The souls we loved, that they might tell us + What and where they be! + +It leads me forth at evening, + It lightly winds and steals +In a cold white robe before me, + When all my spirit reels +At the shouts, the leagues of lights, + And the roaring of the wheels. + +Half the night I waste in sighs, + Half in dreams I sorrow after +The delight of early skies; + In a wakeful doze I sorrow +For the hand, the lips, the eyes-- + For the meeting of the morrow, + The delight of happy laughter, +The delight of low replies. + +'Tis a morning pure and sweet, + And a dewy splendor falls +On the little flower that clings + To the turrets and the walls; +'T is a morning pure and sweet, +And the light and shadow fleet: + She is walking in the meadow, +And the woodland echo rings. +In a moment we shall meet; + She is singing in the meadow, +And the rivulet at her feet + Ripples on in light and shadow +To the ballad that she sings. + +Do I hear her sing as of old, + My bird with the shining head, +My own dove with the tender eye? +But there rings on a sudden a passionate cry-- + There is some one dying or dead; +And a sullen thunder is rolled; + For a tumult shakes the city, + And I wake--my dream is fled; +In the shuddering dawn, behold, + Without knowledge, without pity, + By the curtains of my bed +That abiding phantom cold! + +Get thee hence, nor come again! + Mix not memory with doubt, +Pass, thou deathlike type of pain, + Pass and cease to move about! +'T is the blot upon the brain +That _will_ show itself without. + +Then I rise; the eave-drops fall, + And the yellow vapors choke +The great city sounding wide; +The day comes--a dull red ball + Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke +On the misty river-tide. + +Through the hubbub of the market + I steal, a wasted frame; +It crosses here, it crosses there, +Through all that crowd confused and loud + The shadow still the same; +And on my heavy eyelids + My anguish hangs like shame. + +Alas for her that met me, + That heard me softly call, +Came glimmering through the laurels + At the quiet evenfall, +In the garden by the turrets + Of the old manorial hall! + +Would the happy spirit descend + From the realms of light and song, +In the chamber or the street. + As she looks among the blest, +Should I fear to greet my friend + Or to say "Forgive the wrong," +Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet, + To the regions of thy rest?" + +But the broad light glares and beats, +And the shadow flits and Meets + And will not let me be; +And I loathe the squares and streets, +And the faces that one meets, + Hearts with no love for me; +Always I long to creep +Into some still cavern deep, +There to weep, and weep, and weep + My whole soul out to thee. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +TOO LATE. + + "Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." + + +Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, + In the old likeness that I knew, +I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + +Never a scornful word should grieve ye, + I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do; +Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + +Oh, to call back the days that are not! + My eyes were blinded, your words were few: +Do you know the truth now, up in heaven, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? + +I never was worthy of you, Douglas; + Not half worthy the like of you: +Now all men beside seem to me like shadows-- + I love you, Douglas, tender and true. + +Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, + Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew; +As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true! + +DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK. + + + +AFTER SUMMER. + + +We'll not weep for summer over,-- + No, not we: +Strew above his head the clover,-- + Let him be! + +Other eyes may weep his dying, + Shed their tears +There upon him, where he's lying + With his peers. + +Unto some of them he proffered + Gifts most sweet; +For our hearts a grave he offered,-- + Was this meet? + +All our fond hopes, praying, perished + In his wrath,-- +All the lovely dreams we cherished + Strewed his path. + +Shall we in our tombs, I wonder, + Far apart, +Sundered wide as seas can sunder + Heart from heart, + +Dream at all of all the sorrows + That were ours,-- +Bitter nights, more bitter morrows; + Poison-flowers + +Summer gathered, as in madness, + Saying, "See, +These are yours, in place of gladness,-- + Gifts from me"? + +Nay, the rest that will be ours + Is supreme, +And below the poppy flowers + Steals no dream. + +PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON. + + + +LAMENT FOR HELIODORE. + + +Tears for my lady dead-- + Heliodore! +Salt tears, and strange to shed, + Over and o'er; +Tears to my lady dead, + Love do we send, +Longed for, remembered, + Lover and friend! +Sad are the songs we sing, + Tears that we shed, +Empty the gifts we bring + Gifts to the dead! +Go, tears, and go, lament, + Fare from her tomb, +Wend where my lady went + Down through the gloom! +Ah, for my flower, my love, + Hades hath taken I +Ah, for the dust above + Scattered and shaken! +Mother of blade and grass, + Earth, in thy breast +Lull her that gentlest was + Gently to rest! + +From the Greek of MELEAGER. +Translation of ANDREW LANG. + + + +ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I. + + +'T is done! a father, mother, gone, + A sister, brother, torn away, +My hope is now in God alone, + Whom heaven and earth alike obey. +Above, beneath, to him is known,-- +The world's wide compass is his own. + +I love,--but in the world no more, + Nor in gay hall, or festal bower; +Not the fair forms I prized before,-- + But him, all beauty, wisdom, power, +My Saviour, who has cast a chain +On sin and ill, and woe and pain! + +I from my memory have effaced + All former joys, all kindred, friends; +All honors that my station graced + I hold but snares that fortune sends: +Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast, +That we may be his own at last! + +From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, QUEEN OF NAVARRE. +Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO. + + + +TO MARY IN HEAVEN. + +[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he +heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.] + + +Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + That lov'st to greet the early morn, +Again thou usher'st in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn. +O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? +See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + +That sacred hour can I forget,-- + Can I forget the hallowed grove, +Where by the winding Ayr we met + To live one day of parting love? +Eternity will not efface + Those records dear of transports past; +Thy image at our last embrace; + Ah! little thought we 't was our last! + +Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; +The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, + Twined amorous round the raptured scene; +The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, + The birds sang love on every spray,-- +Till soon, too soon, the glowing west + Proclaimed the speed of winged day. + +Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! +Time but the impression stronger makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. +My Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? +See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + +ROBERT BURNS. + + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + + +O sing unto my roundelay! + O, drop the briny tear with me! +Dance no more at holiday; + Like a running river be. + _My love is dead, + Gone to his death-bed, + All under the willow-tree._ + +Black his hair as the winter night, + White his neck as the summer snow, +Ruddy his face as the morning light; + Cold he lies in the grave below. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; + Quick in dance as thought can be; +Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; + O, lie lies by the willow-tree! + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Hark! the raven flaps his wing + In the briered dell below; +Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the nightmares as they go. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my-true-love's shroud, +Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Here, upon my true-love's grave + Shall the barren flowers be laid, +Nor one holy saint to save + All the coldness of a maid. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +With my hands I'll bind the briers + Round his holy corse to gre; +Ouphant fairy, light your fires; + Here my body still shall be. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my heart's blood away; +Life and all its good I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day. + _My love is dead_, etc. + +Water-witches, crowned with reytes, + Bear me to your lethal tide. +I die! I come! my true-love waits.... + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + +THOMAS CHATTERTON. + + + +THE PASSAGE. + + +Many a year is in its grave +Since I crossed this restless wave: +And the evening, fair as ever. +Shines on ruin, rock, and river. + +Then in this same boat beside. +Sat two comrades old and tried,-- +One with all a father's truth, +One with all the fire of youth. + +One on earth in silence wrought, +And his grave in silence sought; +But the younger, brighter form +Passed in battle and in storm. + +So, whene'er I turn mine eye +Back upon the days gone by, +Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, +Friends that closed their course before me. + +But what binds us, friend to friend, +But that soul with soul can blend? +Soul-like were those hours of yore; +Let us walk in soul once more. + +Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee, +Take, I give it willingly; +For, invisible to thee, +Spirits twain have crossed with me. + +From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND. +Translation of SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN. + + + +LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. + + +I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, + Where we sat side by side +On a bright May mornin' long ago, + When first you were my bride; +The corn was springin' fresh and green. + And the lark sang loud and high-- +And the red was on your lip, Mary, + And the love-light in your eye. + +The place is little changed, Mary; + The day is bright as then; +The lark's loud song is in my ear, + And the corn is green again; +But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, + And your breath, warm on my cheek; +And I still keep list'nin' for the words + You nevermore will speak. + +'Tis but a step down yonder lane, + And the little church stands near-- +The church where we were wed, Mary; + I see the spire from here. +But the graveyard lies between, Mary, + And my step might break your rest-- +For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep, + With your baby on your breast. + +I'm very lonely now, Mary. + For the poor make no new friends: +But, oh, they love the better still + The few our Father sends! +And you were all I had, Mary-- + My blessin' and my pride! +There's nothing left to care for now, + Since my poor Mary died. + +Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, + That still kept hoping on. +When the trust in God had left my soul, + And my arm's young strength was gone; +There was comfort ever on your lip, + And the kind look on your brow,-- +I bless you, Mary, for that same, + Though you cannot hear me now. + +I thank you for the patient smile + When your heart was fit to break,-- +When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, + And you hid it for my sake; +I bless you for the pleasant word, + When your heart was sad and sore,-- +O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, + Where grief can't reach you more! + +I'm biddin' you a long farewell, + My Mary--kind and true! +But I'll not forget you, darling, + In the land I'm goin' to; +They say there's bread and work for all, + And the sun shines always there-- +But I'll not forget old Ireland, + Were it fifty times as fair! + +And often in those grand old woods + I'll sit, and shut my eyes, +And my heart will travel back again + To the place where Mary lies; +And I'll think I see the little stile + Where we sat side by side, +And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, + When first you were my bride. + +LADY DUFFERIN. + + + +HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD. + + FROM "THE PRINCESS." + + +Home they brought her warrior dead: + She nor swooned, nor uttered cry; +All her maidens, watching, said, + "She must weep or she will die." + +Then they praised him, soft and low, + Called him worthy to be loved, +Truest friend and noblest foe; + Yet she neither spoke nor moved. + +Stole a maiden from her place, + Lightly to the warrior stept, +Took the face-cloth from the face; + Yet she neither moved nor wept. + +Rose a nurse of ninety years, + Set his child upon her knee,-- +Like summer tempest came her tears, + "Sweet my child, I live for thee." + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE. + + +Word was brought to the Danish king + (Hurry!) +That the love of his heart lay suffering, +And pined for the comfort his voice would bring; + (O, ride as though you were flying!) +Better he loves each golden curl +On the brow of that Scandinavian girl +Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl: + And his rose of the isles is dying! + +Thirty nobles saddled with speed; + (Hurry!) +Each one mounting a gallant steed +Which he kept for battle and days of need; + (O, ride as though you were flying!) +Spurs were struck in the foaming flank; +Worn out chargers staggered and sank; +Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst; +But ride as they would, the king rode first, + For his rose of the isles lay dying! + +His nobles are beaten, one by one; + (Hurry!) +They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; +His little fair page now follows alone, + For strength and for courage trying! +The king looked back at that faithful child; +Wan was the face that answering smiled; +They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, +Then he dropped; and only the king rode in + Where his rose of the isles lay dying! + +The king blew a blast on his bugle horn; + (Silence!) +No answer came; but faint and forlorn +An echo returned on the cold gray morn, + Like the breath of a spirit sighing. +The castle portal stood grimly wide; +None welcomed the king from that weary ride; +For dead, in the light of the dawning day, +The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, + Who had yearned for his voice while dying! + +The panting steed, with a drooping crest, + Stood weary. +The king returned from her chamber of rest, +The thick sobs choking in his breast; + And, that dumb companion eyeing, +The tears gushed forth which he strove to check; +He bowed his head on his charger's neck: +"O steed, that every nerve didst strain, +Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain + To the halls where my love lay dying!" + +CAROLINE E.S. NORTON. + + + +GRIEF. + + FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2. + + + QUEEN.--Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off, +And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark. +Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids +Seek for thy noble father in the dust: +Thou know'st 'tis common,--all that live must die, +Passing through nature to eternity. + + HAMLET.--Ay, madam, it is common. + + QUEEN.--If it be, +Why seems it so particular with thee? + + HAMLET.--Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems. +'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, +Nor customary suits of solemn black, +Nor windy suspiration of forced breath, +No, nor the fruitful river in the eye, +Nor the dejected havior of the visage, +Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief, +That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem, +For they are actions that a man might play: +But I have that within, which passeth show; +These, but the trappings and the suits of woe. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + + +SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM." + +[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.] + + +GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE. + + +V. + +I sometimes hold it half a sin + To put in words the grief I feel: + For words, like Nature, half reveal +And half conceal the Soul within. + +But, for the unquiet heart and brain, + A use in measured language lies; + The sad mechanic exercise, +Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. + +In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, + Like coarsest clothes against the cold; + But that large grief which these enfold +Is given in outline and no more. + + +DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND. + + +IX. + +Fair ship, that from the Italian shore + Sailest the placid ocean-plains + With my lost Arthur's loved remains, +Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er. + +So draw him home to those that mourn + In vain; a favorable speed + Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead +Through prosperous floods his holy urn. +All night no ruder air perplex + Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright + As our pure love, through early light +Shall glimmer on the dewy decks. + +Sphere all your lights around, above; + Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow; + Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now, +My friend, the brother of my love; + +My Arthur, whom I shall not see + Till all my widowed race be run; + Dear as the mother to the son, +More than my brothers are to me. + + +THE PEACE OF SORROW + + +XI. + +Calm is the morn without a sound, + Calm as to suit a calmer grief, + And only through the faded leaf +The chestnut pattering to the ground: + +Calm and deep peace on this high wold + And on these dews that drench the furze, + And all the silvery gossamers +That twinkle into green and gold: + +Calm and still light on yon great plain + That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, + And crowded farms, and lessening towers, +To mingle with the bounding main: + +Calm and deep peace in this wide air, + These leaves that redden to the fall; + And in my heart, if calm at all, +If any calm, a calm despair: + +Calm on the seas, and silver sleep, + And waves that sway themselves in rest, + And dead calm in that noble breast +Which heaves but with the heaving deep. + + +TIME AND ETERNITY. + + +XLII. + +If Sleep and Death be truly one, + And every spirit's folded bloom + Through all its intervital gloom +In some long trance should slumber on; + +Unconscious of the sliding hour, + Bare of the body, might it last, + And silent traces of the past +Be all the color of the flower: + +So then were nothing lost to man; + So that still garden of the souls + In many a figured leaf enrolls +The total world since life began; + +And love will last as pure and whole + As when he loved me here in Time, + And at the spiritual prime +Rewaken with the dawning soul. + + +PERSONAL RESURRECTION. + + +XLVI. + +That each, who seems a separate whole, + Should move his rounds, and fusing all + The skirts of self again, should fall +Remerging in the general Soul, + +Is faith as vague as all unsweet: + Eternal form shall still divide + The eternal soul from all beside; +And I shall know him when we meet: + +And we shall sit at endless feast, + Enjoying each the other's good: + What vaster dream can hit the mood +Of Love on earth? He seeks at least + +Upon the last and sharpest height, + Before the spirits fade away, + Some landing-place to clasp and say, +"Farewell! We lose ourselves in light." + + +SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP. + + +XCIII. + +How pure at heart and sound in head, + With what divine affections bold, + Should be the man whose thought would hold +An hour's communion with the dead. + +In vain shalt thou, or any, call + The spirits from their golden day, +Except, like them, thou too canst say, +My spirit is at peace with all. + +They haunt the silence of the breast, + Imaginations calm and fair, + The memory like a cloudless air, +The conscience as a sea at rest: + +But when the heart is full of din, + And doubt beside the portal waits, + They can but listen at the gates, +And hear the household jar within. + + +L. + +Do we indeed desire the dead + Should still be near us at our side? + Is there no baseness we would hide? +No inner vileness that we dread? + +Shall he for whose applause I strove, + I had such reverence for his blame, + See with clear eye some hidden shame, +And I be lessened in his love? + +I wrong the grave with fears untrue: + Shall love be blamed for want of faith? + There must be wisdom with great Death: +The dead shall look me through and through. + +Be near us when we climb or fall: + Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours + With larger other eyes than ours, +To make allowance for us all. + + +DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME. + + +LXXII. + +So many worlds, so much to do, + So little done, such things to be, + How know I what had need of thee? +For thou wert strong as thou wert true. + +The fame is quenched that I foresaw, + The head hath missed an earthly wreath: + I curse not nature, no, nor death; +For nothing is that errs from law. + +We pass; the path that each man trod + Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: + What fame is left for human deeds +In endless age? It rests with God. + +O hollow wraith of dying fame, + Fade wholly, while the soul exults, + And self-enfolds the large results +Of force that would have forged a name. + + +THE POET'S TRIBUTE. + + +LXXVI. + +What hope is here for modern rhyme + To him who turns a musing eye + On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie +Foreshortened in the tract of time? + +These mortal lullabies of pain + May bind a book, may line a box, + May serve to curl a maiden's locks: +Or when a thousand moons shall wane +A man upon a stall may find, + And, passing, turn the page that tells. + A grief, then changed to something else, +Sung by a long-forgotten mind. + +But what of that? My darkened ways + Shall ring with music all the same; + To breathe my loss is more than fame, +To utter love more sweet than praise. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +APRES. + + +Down, down, Ellen, my little one, +Climbing so tenderly up to my knee; +Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me, +Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me? + +Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one, +Warbling so fairily close to my ear; +Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me, +This that I made for your mother to hear? + +Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one, +Wailing so wearily under the stars; +Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me +Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars? + +Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one! +Is she not like her whenever she stirs? +Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me, +Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers? + +Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one. +Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave, +Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,-- +Something to cling to and something to crave. + +Love, love, Ellen, my little one! +Love indestructible, love undefiled, +Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me, +Oft as I look on the face of her child. + +ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY. + + + +THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES. + + Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the + age of twenty-two. + + +To make my lady's obsequies + My love a minster wrought, +And, in the chantry, service there + Was sung by doleful thought; +The tapers were of burning sighs, + That light and odor gave: +And sorrows, painted o'er with tears, + Enlumined her grave; +And round about, in quaintest guise, +Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies +The fairest thing in mortal eyes." +Above her lieth spread a tomb + Of gold and sapphires blue: +The gold doth show her blessedness, + The sapphires mark her true; +For blessedness and truth in her + Were livelily portrayed, +When gracious God with both his hands + Her goodly substance made. +He framed her in such wondrous wise, +She was, to speak without disguise, +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. + +No more, no more! my heart doth faint + When I the life recall +Of her who lived so free from taint, + So virtuous deemed by all,-- + That in herself was so complete + I think that she was ta'en +By God to deck his paradise, + And with his saints to reign, +Whom while on earth each one did prize +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. + +But naught our tears avail, or cries; + All soon or late in death shall sleep; + Nor living wight long time may keep +The fairest thing in mortal eyes. + +From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS. +Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY. + + + +BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. + + +Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O sea! +And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + +O well for the fisherman's boy + That he shouts with his sister at play! +O well for the sailor lad + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + +And the stately ships go on, + To the haven under the hill; +But O for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + +Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O sea! +But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + +ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + +LAVENDER. + + +How prone we are to hide and hoard +Each little treasure time has stored, + To tell of happy hours! +We lay aside with tender care +A tattered book, a lock of hair, + A bunch of faded flowers. + +When death has led with silent hand +Our darlings to the "Silent Land," + Awhile we sit bereft; +But time goes on; anon we rise, +Our dead are buried from our eyes, + We gather what is left. + +The books they loved, the songs they sang, +The little flute whose music rang + So cheerily of old; +The pictures we had watched them paint, +The last plucked flower, with odor faint, + That fell from fingers cold. + +We smooth and fold with reverent care +The robes they living used to wear; + And painful pulses stir +As o'er the relics of our dead, +With bitter rain of tears, we spread + Pale purple lavender. + +And when we come in after years, +With only tender April tears + On cheeks once white with care, +To look on treasures put away +Despairing on that far-off day, + A subtile scent is there. + +Dew-wet and fresh we gather them, +These fragrant flowers; now every stem + Is bare of all its bloom: +Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here +To lend our relics, sacred, dear, + Their beautiful perfume. + +The scent abides on book and lute, +On curl and flower, and with its mute + But eloquent appeal + It wins from us a deeper sob +For our lost dead, a sharper throb +Than we are wont to feel. + +It whispers of the "long ago;" +Its love, its loss, its aching woe, + And buried sorrows stir; +And tears like those we shed of old +Roll down our cheeks as we behold + Our faded lavender. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +WHAT OF THE DARKNESS? + + TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE. + + +What of the darkness? Is it very fair? +Are there great calms? and find we silence there? +Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow +With some strange peace our faces never know, +With some strange faith our faces never dare,-- +Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there? + +Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie? +Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry? +Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap? +Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep? +Day shows us not such comfort anywhere-- +Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there? + +Out of the Day's deceiving light we call-- +Day that shows man so great, and God so small, +That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass-- +O is the Darkness too a lying glass! +Or undistracted, do you find truth there? +What of the Darkness? Is it very fair? + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. + + + +VAN ELSEN. + + +God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul; +He spake by sickness first and made him whole; + Van Elsen heard him not, + Or soon forgot. + +God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured +Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord; + Van Elsen's heart grew fat + And proud thereat. + +God spake the third time when the great world smiled, +And in the sunshine slew his little child; + Van Elsen like a tree + Fell hopelessly. + +Then in the darkness came a voice which said, +"As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled, + As I have need of thee, + Thou needest me." + +That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, +And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet, + Praised Him with fervent breath + Who conquered death. + +FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT. + + + + +WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED. + + [THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.] + + +1. + +When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed, +And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night, +I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. + +Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, +Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, +And thought of him I love. + + +2. + +O powerful western fallen star! +O shades of night--O moody, tearful night! +O great star disappeared--O the black murk that hides the star! +O cruel hands that hold me powerless--O helpless soul of me! +O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul! + + +3. + +In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed + palings, +Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich + green, +With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I + love, +With every leaf a miracle;--and from this bush in the door-yard, +With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, +A sprig with its flower I break. + + +4. + +In the swamp in secluded recesses, +A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song. + +Solitary the thrush, +The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, +Sings by himself a song.-- + +Song of the bleeding throat, +Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know, +If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die). + + +5. + +Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, +Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from + the ground, spotting the gray debris, +Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless + grass, +Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the + dark-brown fields up-risen, +Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, +Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, +Night and day journeys a coffin. + + +6. + +Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, +Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, +With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black, +With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing, +With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, +With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the + unbared heads, +With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, +With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong + and solemn, +With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin, +The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--where amid these you + journey, +With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang, +Here, coffin that slowly passes, +I give you my sprig of lilac. + + +7. + +(Nor for you, for one alone,-- +Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring; +For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and + sacred death. +All over bouquets of roses, +O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, +But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, +Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, +With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, +For you and the coffins all of you, O death.) + + +8. + +O western orb sailing the heaven, +Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked, +As I walked in silence the transparent shadowy night, +As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night, +As you drooped from the sky low down as if to my side (while the other + stars all looked on), +As we wandered together the solemn night (for something, I know not + what, kept me from sleep), +As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you + were of woe, +As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent + night, +As I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward black of + the night, +As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad orb. +Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone. + + +9. + +Sing on there in the swamp, +O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes, I hear your call, +I hear, I come presently, I understand you; +But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detained me, +The star my departing comrade holds and detains me. + + +10. + +O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved? +And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone? +And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love? + +Sea-winds blown from east and west, +Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on + the prairies meeting, +These and with these and the breath of my chant, +I'll perfume the grave of him I love. + + +11. + +O what shall I hang on the chamber walls? +And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls, +To adorn the burial-house of him I love? +Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes, +With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright, +With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, + burning, expanding the air, +With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of + the trees prolific, +In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a + wind-dapple here and there, +With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and + shadows, +And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys, +And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward + returning. + + +12. + +Lo, body and soul--this land, +My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and + the ships, +The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's + shores and flashing Missouri, +And ever the far-spreading prairies covered with grass and corn. +Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty, +The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes, +The gentle soft-born measureless light, +The miracle spreading, bathing all, the fulfilled noon, +The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars, +Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land. + + +13. + +Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird! +Sing from the swamps, the recesses; pour your chant from the bushes, +Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines. + +Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song, +Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe. + +O liquid and free and tender! +O wild and loose to my soul--O wondrous singer! +You only I hear--yet the star holds me (but will soon depart), +Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me. + + +14. + +Now while I sat in the day and looked forth, +In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the + farmers preparing their crops, +In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests. +In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturbed winds and the storms), +Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices + of children and women, +The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sailed, +And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with + labor, +And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its + meals and minutia of daily usages, +And the streets how their throbbings throbbed, and the cities pent--lo, + then and there, +Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest, +Appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail, +And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death. + +Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me, +And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me, +And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of + companions, +I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not, +Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness, +To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still. + +And the singer so shy to the rest received me, +The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three, +And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love. + +From deep secluded recesses, +From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still, +Came the carol of the bird. + +And the charm of the carol rapt me, +As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night, +And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird. + +_Come, lovely and soothing death. +Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving, +In the, day, in the night, to all, to each, +Sooner or later, delicate death_. + +_Praised be the fathomless universe, +For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious, +And for love, sweet love--but praise! praise! praise! +For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death_. + +_Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet, +Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? +Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all, +I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly._ + +_Approach, strong deliveress! +When it is so, when thou, hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead, +Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, +Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death_. + +_From me to thee glad serenades, +Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for + thee; +And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, +And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night--_ + +_The night in silence under many a star, +The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, +And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death, +And the body gratefully nestling close to thee_. + +_Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, +Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the + prairies wide, +Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, +I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O death_. + + +15. + +To the tally of my soul, +Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird, +With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night, + +Loud in the pines and cedars dim. +Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume, +And I with my comrades there in the night. + +While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed, +As to long panoramas of visions. + +And I saw askant the armies, +I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags, +Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles I saw + them, +And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody. +And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence), +And the staffs all splintered and broken. + +I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them, +And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them; +I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war, +But I saw they were not as was thought, +They themselves were fully at rest, they suffered not: +The living remained and suffered, the mother suffered, +And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered, +And the armies that remained suffered. + + +16. + +Passing the visions, passing the night, +Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands, +Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul, +Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song, +As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding + the night, +Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting + with joy, +Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven, +As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses, +Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves, +I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring. + +I cease from my song for thee, +From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee, +O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night. +Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night, +The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird, +And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul, +With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe. +With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird, +Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the + dead I loved so well. +For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands--and this for his + dear sake, +Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul, +There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim. + +WALT WHITMAN. + + + +IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. + + + If I should die to-night, +My friends would look upon my quiet face +Before they laid it in its resting-place, +And deem that death had left it almost fair; +And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair. +Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, +And fold my hands with lingering caress-- +Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! + + If I should die to-night, +My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, +Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought; +Some gentle word the frozen lips had said; +Errands on which the willing feet had sped; +The memory of my selfishness and pride, +My hasty words, would all be put aside, +And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. + + If I should die to-night, +Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, +Recalling other days remorsefully; +The eyes that chill me with averted glance +Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, +And soften, in the old familiar way; +For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay? +So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night. + + Oh, friends, I pray to-night, +Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow-- +The way is lonely; let me feel them now. +Think gently of me; I am travel-worn; +My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. +Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! +When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need +The tenderness for which I long to-night. + +BELLE E. SMITH. + + + +AWAKENING. + + +Down to the borders of the silent land + He goes with halting feet; +He dares not trust; he cannot understand + The blessedness complete +That waits for God's beloved at his right hand. + +He dreads to see God's face, for though the pure + Beholding him are blest, +Yet in his sight no evil can endure; + And still with fear oppressed +He looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?" + +The world beyond is strange; the golden streets, + The palaces so fair, +The seraphs singing in the shining seats, + The glory everywhere,-- +And to his soul he solemnly repeats + +The visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries, + "That world is all too grand; +Among those splendors and those majesties + I would not dare to stand; +For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!" + +Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stood + Through service and through pain; +The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good; + Sure, dying must be gain +To one who living hath done what he could. + +The light is fading in the tired eyes, + The weary race is run; +Not as the victor that doth seize the prize. + But as the fainting one, +He nears the verge of the eternities. + +And now the end has come, and now he sees + The happy, happy shore; +O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are these + The things thou fearedst before-- +The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace? + +This land is home; no stranger art thou here; + Sweet and familiar words +From voices silent long salute thine ear; + And winds and songs of birds, +And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near. + +The seraphs--they are men of kindly mien; + The gems and robes--but signs +Of minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean; + The glory--such as shines +Wherever faith or hope or love is seen. + +And he, O doubting child! the Lord of grace + Whom thou didst fear to see-- +He knows thy sin--but look upon his face! + Doth it not shine on thee +With a great light of love that fills the place? + +O happy soul, be thankful now and rest! + Heaven is a goodly land; +And God is love; and those he loves are blest;-- + Now thou dost understand; +The least thou hast is better than the best + +That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyes + The new life opens fair; +Before thy feet the Blessed journey lies + Through homelands everywhere; +And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise. + +WASHINGTON GLADDEN. + + + +BEYOND THE SMILING AND THE WEEPING. + + +Beyond the smiling and the weeping + I shall be soon; +Beyond the waking and the sleeping, +Beyond the sowing and the reaping, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home! + Sweet hope! + Lord, tarry not, but come._ + +Beyond the blooming and the fading + I shall be soon; +Beyond the shining and the shading, +Beyond the hoping and the dreading, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the rising and the setting + I shall be soon; +Beyond the calming and the fretting, +Beyond remembering and forgetting, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the gathering and the strowing + I shall be soon; +Beyond the ebbing and the flowing. +Beyond the coming and the going, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the parting and the meeting + I shall be soon; +Beyond the farewell and the greeting, +Beyond this pulse's fever beating, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home!_ etc. + +Beyond the frost chain and the fever + I shall be soon; +Beyond the rock waste and the river, +Beyond the ever and the never, + I shall be soon. + _Love, rest, and home! + Sweet hope! + Lord, tarry not, but come._ + +HORATIUS BONAR. + + + +THE LAND O' THE LEAL. + + +I'm wearing awa', Jean, +Like snaw when it's thaw, Jean; +I'm wearing awa', + To the land o' the leal. +There's nae sorrow there, Jean, +There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, +The day is aye fair + In the land o' the leal. + +Ye were aye leal and true, Jean; +Your task's ended noo, Jean, +And I'll welcome you + To the land o' the leal. +Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, +She was baith guid and fair, Jean: +O, we grudged her right sair + To the land o' the leal! + +Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean, +My soul langs to be free, Jean, +And angels wait on me + To the land o' the leal! +Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean, +This warld's care is vain, Jean; +We'll meet and aye be fain + In the land o' the leal. + +CAROLINA, BARONESS NAIRNE. + + + +ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. + + "I am dying, Egypt, dying."--SHAKESPEARE'S + _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act iv. Sc. 13. + + +I am dying, Egypt, dying. + Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, +And the dark Plutonian shadows + Gather on the evening blast; +Let thine arms, O Queen, enfold me, + Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear; +Listen to the great heart-secrets, + Thou, and thou alone, must hear. + +Though my scarred and veteran legions + Bear their eagles high no more. +And my wrecked and scattered galleys + Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, +Though no glittering guards surround me, + Prompt to do their master's will, +I must perish like a Roman, + Die the great Triumvir still. + +Let not Caesar's servile minions + Mock the lion thus laid low; +'T was no foeman's arm that felled him, + 'T was his own that struck the blow: +His who, pillowed on thy bosom, + Turned aside from glory's ray, +His who, drunk with thy caresses, + Madly threw a world away. + +Should the base plebeian rabble + Dare assail my name at Rome, +Where my noble spouse, Octavia, + Weeps within her widowed home, +Seek her; say the gods bear witness-- + Altars, augurs, circling wings-- +That her blood, with mine commingled, + Yet shall mount the throne of kings. + +As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian! + Glorious sorceress of the Nile! +Light the path to Stygian horrors + With the splendors of thy smile. +Give the Caesar crowns and arches, + Let his brow the laurel twine; +I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, + Triumphing in love like thine. + +I am dying, Egypt, dying; + Hark! the insulting foeman's cry. +They are coming--quick, my falchion! + Let me front them ere I die. +Ah! no more amid the battle + Shall my heart exulting swell; +Isis and Osiris guard thee! + Cleopatra--Rome--farewell! + +WILLIAM HAINES LYTLE. + + + +HABEAS CORPUS.[9] + + +My body, eh? Friend Death, how now? + Why all this tedious pomp of writ? +Thou hast reclaimed it sure and slow + For half a century, bit by bit. + +In faith thou knowest more to-day + Than I do, where it can be found! +This shrivelled lump of suffering clay, + To which I now am chained and bound, + +Has not of kith or kin a trace + To the good body once I bore; +Look at this shrunken, ghastly face: + Didst ever see that face before? + +Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art; + Thy only fault thy lagging gait, +Mistaken pity in thy heart + For timorous ones that bid thee wait. + +Do quickly all thou hast to do, + Nor I nor mine will hindrance make; +I shall be free when thou art through; + I grudge thee naught that thou must take! + +Stay! I have lied: I grudge thee one, + Yes, two I grudge thee at this last,-- +Two members which have faithful done + My will and bidding in the past. + +I grudge thee this right hand of mine; + I grudge thee this quick-beating heart; +They never gave me coward sign, + Nor played me once a traitor's part. + +I see now why in olden days + Men in barbaric love or hate +Nailed enemies' hands at wild crossways, + Shrined leaders' hearts in costly state: + +The symbol, sign, and instrument + Of each soul's purpose, passion, strife, +Of fires in which are poured and spent + Their all of love, their all of life. + +O feeble, mighty human hand! + O fragile, dauntless human heart! +The universe holds nothing planned + With such sublime, transcendent art! + +Yes, Death, I own I grudge thee mine + Poor little hand, so feeble now; +Its wrinkled palm, its altered line, + Its veins so pallid and so slow-- + + (_Unfinished here_) + +Ah, well, friend Death, good friend thou art: + I shall be free when thou art through. +Take all there is--take hand and heart: + There must be somewhere work to do. + + HELEN HUNT JACKSON. + + [9] Her last poem: 7 August, 1885. + + + +FAREWELL, LIFE. + + WRITTEN DURING SICKNESS, APRIL, 1845. + + +Farewell, life! my senses swim. +And the world is growing dim; +Thronging shadows cloud the light, +Like the advent of the night,-- +Colder, colder, colder still, +Upward steals a vapor chill; +Strong the earthly odor grows,-- +I smell the mold above the rose! + +Welcome, life! the spirit strives! +Strength returns and hope revives; +Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn +Fly like shadows at the morn,-- +O'er the earth there comes a bloom; +Sunny light for sullen gloom, +Warm perfume for vapor cold,-- +smell the rose above the mold! + +THOMAS HOOD. + + + +FOR ANNIE. + + +Thank Heaven! the crisis,-- + The danger is past, +And the lingering illness + Is over at last,-- +And the fever called "Living" + Is conquered at last. + +Sadly, I know, + I am shorn of my strength, +And no muscle I move + As I lie at full length,-- +But no matter!--I feel + I am better at length. + +And I rest so composedly + Now, in my bed, +That any beholder + Might fancy me dead,-- +Might start at beholding me, + Thinking me dead. + +The moaning and groaning, + The sighing and sobbing, +Are quieted now, + With that horrible throbbing +At heart,--ah, that horrible, + Horrible throbbing! + +The sickness, the nausea, + The pitiless pain, +Have ceased, with the fever + That maddened my brain,-- +With the fever called "Living" + That burned in my brain. + +And O, of all tortures + _That_ torture the worst +Has abated,--the terrible + Torture of thirst +For the naphthaline river + Of Passion accurst! +I have drunk of a water + That quenches all thirst, + +Of a water that flows, + With a lullaby sound. +From a spring but a very few + Feet under ground, +From a cavern not very far + Down under ground. + +And ah! let it never + Be foolishly said +That my room it is gloomy + And narrow my bed; +For man never slept + In a different bed,-- +And, to _sleep_ you must slumber + In just such a bed. + +My tantalized spirit + Here blandly reposes, +Forgetting, or never + Regretting, its roses,-- +Its old agitations + Of myrtles and roses: + +For now, while so quietly + Lying, it fancies +A holier odor + About it, of pansies,-- +A rosemary odor, + Commingled with pansies, +With rue and the beautiful + Puritan pansies. + +And so it lies happily, + Bathing in many +A dream of the truth + And the beauty of Annie,-- +Drowned in a bath + Of the tresses of Annie. + +She tenderly kissed me, + She fondly caressed, +And then I fell gently + To sleep on her breast,-- +Deeply to sleep + From the heaven of her breast. + +When the light was extinguished, + She covered me warm, +And she prayed to the angels + To keep me from harm,-- +To the queen of the angels + To shield me from harm. + +And I lie so composedly + Now in my bed, +(Knowing her love,) + That you fancy me dead;-- +And I rest so contentedly + Now in my bed, +(With her love at my breast,) + That you fancy me dead,-- +That you shudder to look at me, + Thinking me dead: + + +But my heart it is brighter + Than all of the many +Stars in the sky; + For it sparkles with Annie,-- +It glows with the light + Of the love of my Annie, +With the thought of the light + Of the eyes of my Annie. + +EDGAR ALLAN POE + + + +THALATTA! THALATTA! + + CRY OF THE TEN THOUSAND. + + +I stand upon the summit of my life, +Behind, the camp, the court, the field, the grove, +The battle, and the burden: vast, afar +Beyond these weary ways. 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 horizon dim-- +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. + +JOSEPH BROWNLEE BROWN. + + + +THE SLEEP. + + "He giveth his beloved sleep."--PSALM cxxvii. 2. + + +Of all the thoughts of God that are +Borne inward unto souls afar, +Among the Psalmist's music deep, +Now tell me if that any is, +For gift or grace, surpassing this,-- +"He giveth his beloved sleep "? + +What would we give to our beloved? +The hero's heart, to be unmoved,-- +The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep,-- +The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse,-- +The monarch's crown, to light the brows? +"He giveth _his_ beloved sleep." + +What do we give to our beloved? +A little faith, all undisproved,-- +A little dust to overweep, +And bitter memories, to make +The whole earth blasted for our sake, +"He giveth _his_ beloved sleep." + +"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, +But have no tune to charm away +Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep; +But never doleful dream again +Shall break the happy slumber when +"He giveth _his_ beloved sleep." + +O earth, so full of dreary noise! +O men, with wailing in your voice! +O delved gold the wailers heap! +O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! +God strikes a silence through you all, +"He giveth his beloved sleep." + +His dews drop mutely on the hill, +His cloud above it saileth still. +Though on its slope men sow and reap; +More softly than the dew is shed, +Or cloud is floated overhead, +"He giveth his beloved sleep." + +For me, my heart, that erst did go +Most like a tired child at a show. +That sees through tears the mummers leap, +Would now its wearied vision close, +Would childlike on his love repose +Who "giveth his beloved sleep." + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +PROSPICE + + +Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat, + The mist in my face, +When the snows begin, and the blasts denote + I am nearing the place, +The power of the night, the press of the storm, + The post of the foe; +Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, + Yet the strong man must go: +For the journey is done and the summit attained, + And the barriers fall, +Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, + The reward of it all. +I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more, + The best and the last! +I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, + And bade me creep past. +No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers + The heroes of old, +Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears + Of pain, darkness and cold. +For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, + The black minute's at end, +And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, + Shall dwindle, shall blend, +Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain. + + Then a light, then thy breast, +O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, + And with God be the rest! + +ROBERT BROWNING. + + + +I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. + + +I would not live alway--live alway below! +Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go: +The days of our pilgrimage granted us here +Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer: +Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God, +Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod? +Like a spirit unblest, o'er the earth would I roam, +While brethren and friends are all hastening home? + +I would not live alway: I ask not to stay +Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; +Where seeking for rest we but hover around, +Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; +Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air. +Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair, +And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, +Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. + +I would not live alway--thus fettered by sin, +Temptation without and corruption within; +In a moment of strength if I sever the chain, +Scarce the victory's mine, ere I'm captive again; +E'en the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, +And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears: +The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, +But my spirit her own _miserere_ prolongs. + +I would not live alway--no, welcome the tomb, +Since Jesus hath lain there I dread not its gloom; +Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head, +All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed. +Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night, +The orient gleam of the angels of light, +With their clarion call for the sleepers to rise. +And chant forth their matins, away to the skies. + +Who, who would live alway? away from his God, +Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, +Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, +And the noontide of glory eternally reigns; +Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, +Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, +While the songs of salvation exultingly roll +And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul. + +That heavenly music! what is it I hear? +The notes of the harpers ring sweet in mine ear! +And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold, +The King all arrayed in his beauty behold! +Oh give me, oh give me, the wings of a dove, +To adore him--be near him--enwrapt with his love; +I but wait for the summons, I list for the word-- +Alleluia--Amen--evermore with the Lord! + +WILLIAM AUGUSTUS MUeHLENBERG. + + + +FAREWELL. + + +I strove with none, for none was worth my strife; + Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; +I warmed both hands before the fire of life,-- + It sinks, and I am ready to depart. + +WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. + + + +LOVE AND DEATH. + + +Alas! that men must see + Love, before Death! +Else they content might be + With their short breath; +Aye, glad, when the pale sun +Showed restless day was done, +And endless Rest begun. + +Glad, when with strong, cool hand + Death clasped their own, +And with a strange command + Hushed every moan; +Glad to have finished pain, +And labor wrought in vain, +Blurred by Sin's deepening stain. + +But Love's insistent voice + Bids self to flee-- +"Live that I may rejoice, + Live on, for me!" +So, for Love's cruel mind, +Men fear this Rest to find, +Nor know great Death is kind! + + +MARGARETTA WADE DELAND. + + + +TO DEATH. + + +Methinks it were no pain to die +On such an eve, when such a sky + O'er-canopies the west; +To gaze my fill on yon calm deep, +And, like an infant, fall asleep + On Earth, my mother's breast. + +There's peace and welcome in yon sea +Of endless blue tranquillity: + These clouds are living things; +I trace their veins of liquid gold, +I see them solemnly unfold + Their soft and fleecy wings. + +These be the angels that convey +Us weary children of a day-- + Life's tedious nothing o'er-- +Where neither passions come, nor woes, +To vex the genius of repose + On Death's majestic shore. + +No darkness there divides the sway +With startling dawn and dazzling day; + But gloriously serene +Are the interminable plains: +One fixed, eternal sunset reigns + O'er the wide silent scene. + +I cannot doff all human fear; +I know thy greeting is severe + To this poor shell of clay: +Yet come, O Death! thy freezing kiss +Emancipates! thy rest is bliss! + I would I were away! + +From the German of GLUCK. + + + +ASLEEP, ASLEEP. + + "And so saying, he fell asleep." + + MARTYRDOM OF SAINT STEPHEN. + + +Asleep! asleep! men talk of "sleep," +When all adown the silent deep + The shades of night are stealing; +When like a curtain, soft and vast, +The darkness over all is cast, +And sombre stillness comes at last, + To the mute heart appealing. + +Asleep! asleep! when soft and low +The patient watchers come and go, + Their loving vigil keeping; +When from the dear eyes fades the light, +When pales the flush so strangely bright, +And the glad spirit takes its flight, + We speak of death as "sleeping." + +Or when, as dies the orb of day, +The aged Christian sinks away, + And the lone mourner weepeth; +When thus the pilgrim goes to rest, +With meek hands folded on his breast, +And his last sigh a prayer confessed-- + We say of such, "He sleepeth." + +But when amidst a shower of stones, +And mingled curses, shrieks, and groans, + The death-chill slowly creepeth; +When falls at length the dying head, +And streams the life-blood dark and red, +A thousand voices cry, "He's dead"; + But who shall say, "He sleepeth"? + +"He fell asleep." A pen divine +Hath writ that epitaph of thine; + And though the days are hoary, +Yet beautiful thy rest appears-- +Unsullied by the lapse of years-- +And still we read, with thankful tears, + The tale of grace and glory. + +Asleep! asleep! though not for thee +The touch of loving lips might be, + In sadly sweet leave-taking: +Though not for thee the last caress, +The look of untold tenderness, +The love that dying hours can press + From hearts with silence breaking. + +LUCY A. BENNETT. + + + +REST. + + +I lay me down to sleep, + With little 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 the blue be dim; +These stripes as well as stars + Lead after him. + +MARY WOOLSEY HOWLAND. + + + +IN HARBOR. + + +I think it is over, over, + I think it is over at last: +Voices of foemen and lover, +The sweet and the bitter, have passed: +Life, like a tempest of ocean +Hath outblown its ultimate blast: +There's but a faint sobbing seaward +While the calm of the tide deepens leeward, +And behold! like the welcoming quiver +Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, + Those lights in the harbor at last, + The heavenly harbor at last! + +I feel it is over! over! + For the winds and the waters surcease; +Ah, few were the days of the rover + That smiled in the beauty of peace, +And distant and dim was the omen +That hinted redress or release! +From the ravage of life, and its riot, +What marvel I yearn for the quiet + Which bides in the harbor at last,-- +For the lights, with their welcoming quiver +That throb through the sanctified river, + Which girdle the harbor at last, + This heavenly harbor at last? + +I know it is over, over, + I know it is over at last! +Down sail! the sheathed anchor uncover, +For the stress of the voyage has passed: +Life, like a tempest of ocean, + Hath outbreathed its ultimate blast: +There's but a faint sobbing seaward, +While the calm of the tide deepens leeward; +And behold! like the welcoming quiver +Of heart-pulses throbbed through the river, + Those lights in the harbor at last, + The heavenly harbor at last! + +PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. + + + +HUSH! + + +Oh, hush thee, Earth! Fold thou thy weary palms! + The sunset glory fadeth in the west; + The purple splendor leaves the mountain's crest; +Gray twilight comes as one who beareth alms, +Darkness and silence and delicious calms. + Take thou the gift, O Earth! On Night's soft breast + Lay thy tired head and sink to dreamless rest, +Lulled by the music of her evening psalms. + Cool darkness, silence, and the holy stars, + Long shadows when the pale moon soars on high, + One far lone night-bird singing from the hill, +And utter rest from Day's discordant jars; + O soul of mine! when the long night draws nigh + Will such deep peace thine inmost being fill? + +JULIA C.R. DORR. + + + +LIFE. + + "Animula, vagula, blandula." + + + Life! I know not what thou art, +But know that thou and I must part; +And when, or how, or where we met +I own to me's a secret yet. +But this I know, when thou art fled, +Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, +No clod so valueless shall be, +As all that then remains of me. +O, whither, whither dost thou fly, +Where bend unseen thy trackless course, + And in this strange divorce, +Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I? + +To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, + From whence thy essence came, + Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed + From matter's base uncumbering weed? + Or dost thou, hid from sight, + Wait, like some spell-bound knight, +Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hour +To break thy trance and reassume thy power? +Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be? +O, say what art thou, when no more thou'rt thee? + +Life! we've been long together, +Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; + 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear,-- + Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear: + Then steal away, give little warning, + Choose thine own time; +Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good Morning. + +ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD. + + * * * * * + + + + +VI. CONSOLATION. + + + +THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. + + A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. + + +To weary hearts, to mourning homes, +God's meekest Angel gently comes: +No power has he to banish pain, +Or give us back our lost again; +And yet in tenderest love our dear +And heavenly Father sends him here. + +There's quiet in that Angel's glance, +There's rest in his still countenance! +He mocks no grief with idle cheer, +Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear; +But ills and woes he may not cure +He kindly trains us to endure. + +Angel of Patience! sent to calm +Our feverish brows with cooling palm; +To lay the storms of hope and fear, +And reconcile life's smile and tear; +The throbs of wounded pride to still, +And make our own our Father's will! + +O thou who mournest on thy way, +With longings for the close of day; +He walks with thee, that Angel kind, +And gently whispers, "Be resigned: +Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell +The dear Lord ordereth all things well!" + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + + +THEY ARE ALL GONE. + + +They are all gone into the world of light, + And I alone sit lingering here! +Their very memory is fair and bright, + And my sad thoughts doth clear; + +It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, + Like stars upon some gloomy grove,-- +Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest + After the sun's remove. + +I see them walking in an air of glory, + Whose light doth trample on my days,-- +My days which are at best but dull and hoary, + Mere glimmering and decays. + +O holy hope! and high humility,-- + High as the heavens above! +These are your walks, and you have showed them me + To kindle my cold love. + +Dear, beauteous death,--the jewel of the just,-- + Shining nowhere but in the dark! +What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, + Could man outlook that mark! + +He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, + At first sight, if the bird be flown; +But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, + That is to him unknown. + +And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams + Call to the soul when man doth sleep, +So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, + And into glory peep. + +If a star were confined into a tomb, + Her captive flames must needs burn there, +But when the hand that locked her up gives room, + She'll shine through all the sphere. + +O Father of eternal life, and all + Created glories under thee! +Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall + Into true liberty. + +Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill + My perspective still as they pass; +Or else remove me hence unto that hill + Where I shall need no glass. + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + + +THE BOTTOM DRAWER. + + +In the best chamber of the house, + Shut up in dim, uncertain light, +There stood an antique chest of drawers, + Of foreign wood, with brasses bright. +One day a woman, frail and gray, + Stepped totteringly across the floor-- +"Let in," said she, "the light of day, + Then, Jean, unlock the bottom drawer." + +The girl, in all her youth's loveliness, + Knelt down with eager, curious face; +Perchance she dreamt of Indian silks, + Of jewels, and of rare old lace. +But when the summer sunshine fell + Upon the treasures hoarded there, +The tears rushed to her tender eyes, + Her heart was solemn as a prayer. + +"Dear Grandmamma," she softly sighed, + Lifting a withered rose and palm; +But on the elder face was naught + But sweet content and peaceful calm. +Leaning upon her staff, she gazed + Upon a baby's half-worn shoe; +A little frock of finest lawn; + A hat with tiny bows of blue; + +A ball made fifty years ago; + A little glove; a tasselled cap; +A half-done "long division" sum; + Some school-books fastened with a strap. +She touched them all with trembling lips-- + "How much," she said, "the heart can bear! +Ah, Jean! I thought that I should die + The day that first I laid them there. + +"But now it seems so good to know + That through these weary, troubled years +Their hearts have been untouched by grief, + Their eyes have been unstained by tears. +Dear Jean, we see with clearer sight + When earthly love is almost o'er; +Those children wait me in the skies, + For whom I locked that sacred drawer." + +AMELIA EDITH BARR. + + + +OVER THE RIVER. + + +Over the river they beckon to me, + Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, +The gleam of their snowy robes I see, + But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. +There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, + And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; +He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, + And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. +We saw not the angels who met him there, + The gates of the city we could not see: +Over the river, over the river, + My brother stands waiting to welcome me. + +Over the river the boatman pale + Carried another, the household pet; +Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, + Darling Minnie! I see her yet. +She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, + And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; +We felt it glide from the silver sands, + And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; +We know she is safe on the farther side, + Where all the ransomed and angels be: +Over the river, the mystic river, + My childhood's idol is waiting for me. + +For none returns from those quiet shores, + Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; +We hear the dip of the golden oars, + And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; +And lo! they have passed from our yearning hearts, + They cross the stream and are gone for aye. +We may not sunder the veil apart + That hides from our vision the gates of day; +We only know that their barks no more + May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; +Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, + They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. + +And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold + Is flushing river and hill and shore, +I shall one day stand by the water cold, + And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; +I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, + I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, +I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, + To the better shore of the spirit land. +I shall know the loved who have gone before, + And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, +When over the river, the peaceful river, + The angel of death shall carry me. + +NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST. + + + +GRIEF FOR THE DEAD. + + +O hearts that never cease to yearn! + O brimming tears that ne'er are dried! +The dead, though they depart, return + As though they had not died! + +The living are the only dead; + The dead live,--nevermore to die; +And often, when we mourn them fled, + They never were so nigh! + +And though they lie beneath the waves, + Or sleep within the churchyard dim, +(Ah! through how many different graves + God's children go to him!)-- + +Yet every grave gives up its dead + Ere it is overgrown with grass; +Then why should hopeless tears be shed, + Or need we cry, "Alas"? + +Or why should Memory, veiled with gloom, + And like a sorrowing mourner craped, +Sit weeping o'er an empty tomb, + Whose captives have escaped? + +'Tis but a mound,--and will be mossed + Whene'er the summer grass appears; +The loved, though wept, are never lost; + We only lose--our tears! + +Nay, Hope may whisper with the dead + By bending forward where they are; +But Memory, with a backward tread, + Communes with them afar. + +The joys we lose are but forecast, + And we shall find them all once more; +We look behind us for the Past, + But lo! 'tis all before! + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +THE TWO WAITINGS. + + +I. + +Dear hearts, you were waiting a year ago + For the glory to be revealed; +You were wondering deeply, with bated breath, + What treasure the days concealed. + +O, would it be this, or would it be that? + Would it be girl or boy? +Would it look like father or mother most? + And what should you do for joy? + +And then, one day, when the time was full, + And the spring was coming fast, +The tender grace of a life outbloomed, + And you saw your baby at last. + +Was it or not what you had dreamed? + It was, and yet it was not; +But O, it was better a thousand times + Than ever you wished or thought. + + +II. + +And now, dear hearts, you are waiting again, + While the spring is coming fast; +For the baby that was a future dream + Is now a dream of the past: + +A dream of sunshine, and all that's sweet; + Of all that is pure and bright; +Of eyes that were blue as the sky by day, + And as clear as the stars by night. + +You are waiting again for the fulness of time, + And the glory to be revealed; +You are wondering deeply with aching hearts + What treasure is now concealed. + +O, will she be this, or will she be that? + And what will there be in her face +That will tell you sure that she is your own, + When you meet in the heavenly place? + +As it was before, it will be again, + Fashion your dream as you will; +When the veil is rent, and the glory is seen, + It will more than your hope fulfil. + +JOHN WHITE CHADWICK. + + + +FOR CHARLIE'S SAKE. + + +The night is late, the house is still; +The angels of the hour fulfil +Their tender ministries, and move +From couch to couch in cares of love. +They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, +The happiest smile of Charlie's life, +And lay on baby's lips a kiss, +Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; +And, as they pass, they seem to make +A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's sake." + +My listening heart takes up the strain, +And gives it to the night again, +Fitted with words of lowly praise, +And patience learned of mournful days, +And memories of the dead child's ways. +His will be done, His will be done! +Who gave and took away my son, +In "the far land" to shine and sing +Before the Beautiful, the King, +Who every day does Christmas make, +All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. + +For Charlie's sake I will arise; +I will anoint me where he lies, +And change my raiment, and go in +To the Lord's house, and leave my sin +Without, and seat me at his board, +Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. +For wherefore should I fast and weep, +And sullen moods of mourning keep? +I cannot bring him back, nor he, +For any calling, come to me. +The bond the angel Death did sign, +God sealed--for Charlie's sake, and mine. + +I'm very poor--this slender stone +Marks all the narrow field I own; +Yet, patient husbandman, I till +With faith and prayers, that precious hill, +Sow it with penitential pains, +And, hopeful, wait the latter rains; +Content if, after all, the spot +Yield barely one forget-me-not-- +Whether or figs or thistle make +My crop content for Charlie's sake. + +I have no houses, builded well-- +Only that little lonesome cell, +Where never romping playmates come, +Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb-- +An April burst of girls and boys, +Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys +Born with their songs, gone with their toys; +Nor ever is its stillness stirred +By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, +Or mother's twilight legend, told +Of Horner's pie, or Tiddler's gold, +Or fairy hobbling to the door, +Red-cloaked and weird, banned and poor, +To bless the good child's gracious eyes, +The good child's wistful charities, +And crippled changeling's hunch to make +Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. + +How is it with the child? 'Tis well; +Nor would I any miracle +Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, +Or plague his painless countenance: +I would not any seer might place +His staff on my immortal's face. +Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, +Charm back his pale mortality. +No, Shunamite! I would not break +God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. + +For Charlie's sake my lot is blest: +No comfort like his mother's breast, +No praise like hers; no charm expressed +In fairest forms hath half her zest. +For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed +That death left lonely in the nest; +For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, +As for its birthday, in its best; +For Charlie's sake we leave the rest. +To Him who gave, and who did take, +And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. + +JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER. + + + +WATCHING FOR PAPA. + + +She always stood upon the steps + Just by the cottage door, +Waiting to kiss me when I came + Each night home from the store. +Her eyes were like two glorious stars, + Dancing in heaven's own blue-- +"Papa," she'd call like a wee bird, + "_I's looten out for oo!_" + +Alas! how sadly do our lives + Change as we onward roam! +For now no birdie voice calls out + To bid me welcome home. +No little hands stretched out for me, + No blue eyes dancing bright, +No baby face peeps from the door + When I come home at night. + +And yet there's comfort in the thought + That when life's toil is o'er, +And passing through the sable flood + I gain the brighter shore, +My little angel at the gate, + With eyes divinely blue, +Will call with birdie voice, "Papa, + _I's looten out for oo!_" + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +MY CHILD. + + + I cannot make him dead! + His fair sunshiny head +Is ever bounding round my study chair; + Yet when my eyes, now dim + With tears, I turn to him, +The vision vanishes,--he is not there! + + I walk my parlor floor, + And, through the open door, +I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; + I'm stepping toward the hall + To give the boy a call; +And then bethink me that--he is not there! + + I thread the crowded street; + A satchelled lad I meet, +With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; + And, as he's running by, + Follow him with my eye, +Scarcely believing that--he is not there! + + I know his face is hid + Under the coffin lid; +Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; + My hand that marble felt; + O'er it in prayer I knelt; +Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there! + + I cannot make him dead! + When passing by the bed, +So long watched over with parental care, + My spirit and my eye + Seek him inquiringly, +Before the thought comes, that--he is not there! + + When, at the cool gray break + Of day, from sleep I wake. +With my first breathing of the morning air + My soul goes up, with joy, + To Him who gave my boy; +Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there! + + When at the day's calm close, + Before we seek repose, +I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; + Whate'er I may be saying, + I am in spirit praying +For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there! + + Not there!--Where, then, is he? + The form I used to see +Was but the raiment that he used to wear. + The grave, that now doth press + Upon that cast-off dress, +Is but his wardrobe locked--he is not there! + + He lives!--In all the past + He lives; nor, to the last, +Of seeing him again will I despair; + In dreams I see him now; + And, on his angel brow, +I see it written, "Thou shalt see me _there_!" +Yes, we all live to God! + Father, thy chastening rod +So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, + That, in the spirit land, + Meeting at thy right hand, +'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there! + +JOHN PIERPONT. + + + +SONG. + + +She's somewhere in the sunlight strong, + Her tears are in the falling rain, +She calls me in the wind's soft song, + And with the flowers she comes again. + +Yon bird is but her messenger, + The moon is but her silver car; +Yea! sun and moon are sent by her, + And every wistful waiting star. + +RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. + + + +THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. + + +There is a Reaper whose name is Death, + And, with his sickle keen, +He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, + And the flowers that grow between. + +"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; + "Have naught but the bearded grain?-- +Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, + I will give them all back again." + +He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, + He kissed their drooping leaves; +It was for the Lord of Paradise + He bound them in his sheaves. + +"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," + The Reaper said, and smiled; +"Dear tokens of the earth are they, + Where he was once a child. + +"They shall all bloom in fields of light, + Transplanted by my care, +And saints, upon their garments white, + These sacred blossoms wear." + +And the mother gave, in tears and pain, + The flowers she most did love; +She knew she should find them all again + In the fields of light above. + +O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, + The Reaper came that day; +'Twas an angel visited the green earth, + And took the flowers away. + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +"ONLY A YEAR." + + +One year ago,--a ringing voice, + A clear blue eye, +And clustering curls of sunny hair, + Too fair to die. + +Only a year,--no voice, no smile, + No glance of eye, +No clustering curls of golden hair, + Fair but to die! + +One year ago,--what loves, what schemes + Far into life! +What joyous hopes, what high resolves, + What generous strife! + +The silent picture on the wall, + The burial-stone, +Of all that beauty, life, and joy, + Remain alone! + +One year,--one year,--one little year, + And so much gone! +And yet the even flow of life + Moves calmly on. + +The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair, + Above that head; +No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray + Says he is dead. + +No pause or hush of merry birds + That sing above +Tells us how coldly sleeps below + The form we love. + +Where hast thou been this year, beloved? + What hast thou seen,-- +What visions fair, what glorious life, + Where hast thou been? + +The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! + 'Twixt us and thee; +The mystic veil! when shall it fall, + That we may see? + +Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone, + But present still, +And waiting for the coming hour + Of God's sweet will. + +Lord of the living and the dead, + Our Saviour dear! +We lay in silence at thy feet + This sad, sad year. + +HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. + + + +BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN. + + +Oh, deem not they are blest alone + Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep; +The Power who pities man, has shown + A blessing for the eyes that weep. + +The light of smiles shall fill again + The lids that overflow with tears; +And weary hours of woe and pain + Are promises of happier years. + +There is a day of sunny rest + For every dark and troubled night; +And grief may bide an evening guest, + But joy shall come with early light. + +And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bier + Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, +Hope that a brighter, happier sphere + Will give him to thy arms again. + +Nor let the good man's trust depart, + Though life its common gifts deny,-- +Though with a pierced and bleeding heart, + And spurned of men, he goes to die. + +For God hath marked each sorrowing day + And numbered every secret tear, +And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay + For all his children suffer here. + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + +DE PROFUNDIS. + + +The face which, duly as the sun, +Rose up for me with life begun, +To mark all bright hours of the day +With daily love, is dimmed away-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +The tongue which, like a stream, could run +Smooth music from the roughest stone, +And every morning with "Good day" +Make each day good, is hushed away-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +The heart which, like a staff, was one +For mine to lean and rest upon, +The strongest on the longest day, +With steadfast love is caught away-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +The world goes whispering to its own, +"This anguish pierces to the bone." +And tender friends go sighing round, +"What love can ever cure this wound?" + My days go on, my days go on. + +The past rolls forward on the sun +And makes all night. O dreams begun, +Not to be ended! Ended bliss! +And life, that will not end in this! + My days go on, my days go on. + +Breath freezes on my lips to moan: +As one alone, once not alone, +I sit and knock at Nature's door, +Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor, + Whose desolated days go on. + +I knock and cry--Undone, undone! +Is there no help, no comfort--none? +No gleaning in the wide wheat-plains +Where others drive their loaded wains? + My vacant days go on, go on. + +This Nature, though the snows be down, +Thinks kindly of the bird of June. +The little red hip on the tree +Is ripe for such. What is for me, + Whose days so winterly go on? + +No bird am I to sing in June, +And dare not ask an equal boon. +Good nests and berries red are Nature's +To give away to better creatures-- + And yet my days go on, go on. + +_I_ ask less kindness to be done-- +Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon +(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet +Cool deathly touch to these tired feet, + Till days go out which now go on. + +Only to lift the turf unmown +From off the earth where it has grown, +Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold, +Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold, + Forgetting how the days go on." + +A Voice reproves me thereupon, +More sweet than Nature's, when the drone +Of bees is sweetest, and more deep +Than when the rivers overleap + The shuddering pines, and thunder on. + +God's Voice, not Nature's--night and noon +He sits upon the great white throne, +And listens for the creature's praise. +What babble we of days and days? + The Dayspring he, whose days go on! + +He reigns above, he reigns alone: +Systems burn out and leave his throne: +Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall +Around him, changeless amid all-- + Ancient of days, whose days go on! + +He reigns below, he reigns alone-- +And having life in love forgone +Beneath the crown of sovran thorns, +He reigns the jealous God. Who mourns + Or rules with HIM, while days go on? + +By anguish which made pale the sun, +I hear him charge his saints that none +Among the creatures anywhere +Blaspheme against him with despair, + However darkly days go on. + +Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown: +No mortal grief deserves that crown. +O supreme Love, chief misery, +The sharp regalia are for _Thee_, + Whose days eternally go on! + +For us, ... whatever's undergone, +Thou knowest, willest what is done. +Grief may be joy misunderstood: +Only the Good discerns the good. + I trust Thee while my days go on. + +Whatever's lost, it first was won! +We will not struggle nor impugn. +Perhaps the cup was broken here +That Heaven's new wine might show more clear. + I praise Thee while my days go on. + +I praise Thee while my days go on; +I love Thee while my days go on! +Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost, +With emptied arms and treasure lost, + I thank thee while my days go on! + +And, having in thy life-depth thrown +Being and suffering (which are one), +As a child drops some pebble small +Down some deep well, and hears it fall + Smiling--so I! THY DAYS GO ON! + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +BLESSED ARE THEY. + + +To us across the ages borne, + Comes the deep word the Master said: +"Blessed are they that mourn; + They shall be comforted!" + +Strange mystery! It is better then + To weep and yearn and vainly call, +Till peace is won from pain, + Than not to grieve at all! + +Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet, + Life does not thrill to joy alone. +The harp is incomplete + That has no deeper tone. + +Unclouded sunshine overmuch + Falls vainly on the barren plain; +But fruitful is the touch + Of sunshine after rain! + +Who only scans the heavens by day + Their story but half reads, and mars; +Let him learn how to say, + "The night is full of stars!" + +We seek to know Thee more and more, + Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest, +Since sorrow is the door + Whereby Thou enterest. + +Nor can our hearts so closely come + To Thine in any other place, +As where, with anguish dumb, + We faint in Thine embrace. + +ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND. + + + +LINES + + TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860. + + "Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest + thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, + Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast + laid him."--JOHN xx. 15. + + +In the fair gardens of celestial peace + Walketh a gardener in meekness clad; +Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks, + And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad. + +Fair are the silent foldings of his robes, + Falling with saintly calmness to his feet; +And when he walks, each floweret to his will + With living pulse of sweet accord doth beat. + +Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart, + In the mild summer radiance of his eye; +No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost, + Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh. + +And all our pleasant haunts of earthly love + Are nurseries to those gardens of the air; +And his far-darting eye, with starry beam, + Watching the growing of his treasures there. + +We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears, + O'erwatched with restless longings night and day; +Forgetful of the high, mysterious right + He holds to bear our cherished plants away. + +But when some sunny spot in those bright fields + Needs the fair presence of an added flower, +Down sweeps a starry angel in the night: + At morn the rose has vanished from our bower. + +Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave! + Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above, +Like a new star outblossomed in the skies, + The angels hail an added flower of love. + +Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound, + Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf, +Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eye + Beyond the autumn mists of earthly grief. + +Thy garden rosebud bore within its breast + Those mysteries of color, warm and bright, +That the bleak climate of this lower sphere + Could never waken into form and light. + +Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence, + Nor must thou ask to take her thence away; +Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour, + Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day. + +HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. + + + +DEATH IN YOUTH. + + FROM "FESTUS." + + +For to die young is youth's divinest gift; +To pass from one world fresh into another, +Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret, +And feel the immortal impulse from within +Which makes the coming life cry always, On! +And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy. +There is a fire-fly in the south, but shines +When on the wing. So is't with mind. When once +We rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul, +As unto the earth for ever. On it goes, +A rejoicing native of the infinite, +As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven. + +PHILIP JAMES BAILEY. + + + +IN MEMORIAM F.A.S. + + +Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O remember + How of human days he lived the better part. +April came to bloom and never dim December + Breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. +Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a being + Trod the flowery April blithely for a while, +Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing, + Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile. + +Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished, + You alone have crossed the melancholy stream, +Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminished + Undecaying gladness, undeparted dream. + +All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason, + Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name. +Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing season + And ere the day of sorrow departed as he came. + +ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +Davos, 1881. + + + +TEARS. + + +Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not +More grief than ye can weep for. That is well-- +That is light grieving! lighter, none befell, +Since Adam forfeited the primal lot. +Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot, +The mother singing; at her marriage bell +The bride weeps; and before the oracle +Of high-faned hills, the poet has forgot +Such moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace, +Ye who weep only! If, as some have done, +Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place, +And touch but tombs,--look up! Those tears will run +Soon in long rivers down the lifted face, +And leave the vision clear for stars and sun. + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +RESIGNATION. + + +There is no flock, however watched and tended, + But one dead lamb is there! +There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, + But has one vacant chair! + +The air is full of farewells to the dying, + And mournings for the dead; +The heart of Rachel, for her children crying, + Will not be comforted! + +Let us be patient! These severe afflictions + Not from the ground arise, +But oftentimes celestial benedictions + Assume this dark disguise. + +We see but dimly through the mists and vapors; + Amid these earthly damps +What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers + May be heaven's distant lamps. + +There is no death! What seems so is transition: + This life of mortal breath +Is but a suburb of the life elysian, + Whose portal we call Death. + +She is not dead,--the child of our affection,-- + But gone unto that school +Where she no longer needs our poor protection, + And Christ himself doth rule. + +In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, + By guardian angels led, +Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, + She lives whom we call dead. + +Day after day we think what she is doing + In those bright realms of air; +Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, + Behold her grown more fair. + +Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken + The bond which nature gives, +Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, + May reach her where she lives. + +Not as a child shall we again behold her; + For when with raptures wild +In our embraces we again enfold her, + She will not be a child: + +But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, + Clothed with celestial grace; +And beautiful with all the soul's expansion + Shall we behold her face. + +And though, at times, impetuous with emotion + And anguish long suppressed, +The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, + That cannot be at rest,-- + +We will be patient, and assuage the feeling + We may not wholly stay; +By silence sanctifying, not concealing, + The grief that must have way. + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR. + + +Beside the dead I knelt for prayer, + And felt a presence as I prayed. +Lo! it was Jesus standing there. + He smiled: "Be not afraid!" + +"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know; + Restore again to life," I said, +"This one who died an hour ago." + He smiled: "She is not dead!" + +"Asleep then, as thyself did say; + Yet thou canst lift the lids that keep +Her prisoned eyes from ours away!" + He smiled: "She doth not sleep!" + +"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake, + And look upon some fairer dawn, +Restore her to our hearts that ache!" + He smiled: "She is not gone!" + +"Alas! too well we know our loss, + Nor hope again our joy to touch, +Until the stream of death we cross." + He smiled: "There is no such!" + +"Yet our beloved seem so far, + The while we yearn to feel them near, +Albeit with Thee we trust they are." + He smiled: "And I am here!" + +"Dear Lord, how shall we know that they + Still walk unseen with us and Thee, +Nor sleep, nor wander far away?" + He smiled: "Abide in Me." + +ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND. + + + +COMFORT. + + +Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet +From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, +Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so +Who art not missed by any that entreat. +Speak to me as Mary at thy feet-- +And if no precious gums my hands bestow, +Let my tears drop like amber, while I go +In reach of thy divinest voice complete +In humanest affection--thus in sooth, +To lose the sense of losing! As a child +Whose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore, +Is sung to instead by mother's mouth; +Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, +He sleeps the faster that he wept before. + +ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + + +THE SECRET OF DEATH. + +"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away; +Kiss her and leave her,--thy love is clay!" + +They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair; +On her forehead of stone they laid it fair; + +Over her eyes that gazed too much +They drew the lids with a gentle touch; + +With a tender touch they closed up well +The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; + +About her brows and beautiful face +They tied her veil and her marriage-lace, + +And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes-- +Which were the whitest no eye could choose! + +And over her bosom they crossed her hands. +"Come away!" they said; "God understands!" +And there was silence, and nothing there +But silence, and scents of eglantere, + +And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary; +And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she." + +And they held their breath till they left the room, +With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom. + +But he who loved her too well to dread +The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead, + +He lit his lamp and took the key +And turned it. Alone again--he and she! + +He and she; but she would not speak, +Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek. + +He and she; yet she would not smile, +Though he called her the name she loved ere-while. + +He and she; still she did not move +To any one passionate whisper of love. + +Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath, +Is there no voice, no language of death, + +"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, +But to heart and to soul distinct, intense? + +"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear; +What was the secret of dying, dear? + +"Was it the infinite wonder of all +That you ever could let life's flower fall? + +"Or was it a greater marvel to feel +The perfect calm o'er the agony steal? + +"Was the miracle greater to find how deep +Beyond all dreams sank downward that sleep? + +"Did life roll back its records, dear, +And show, as they say it does, past things clear? + +"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss +To find out, so, what a wisdom love is? + +"O perfect dead! O dead most dear, +I hold the breath of my soul to hear! + +"I listen as deep as to horrible hell, +As high as to heaven, and you do not tell. + +"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet, +To make you so placid from head to feet! + +"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead, +And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,-- + +"I would say, though the angel of death had laid +His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid. + +"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes, +Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise, + +"The very strangest and suddenest thing +Of all the surprises that dying must bring." + +Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead! +Though he told me, who will believe it was said? + +Who will believe that he heard her say, +With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way: + +"The utmost wonder is this,--I hear, +And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear; + +"And am your angel, who was your bride, +And know that, though dead, I have never died." + +SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. + + + +PEACE. + + +There is the peace that cometh after sorrow, + Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled; +A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow, + But calmly on a tempest that is stilled. + +A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses, + Nor in the happy life of love secure, +But in the unerring strength the heart possesses, + Of conflicts won, while learning to endure. + +A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded, + A life subdued, from will and passion free; +'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded, + But that which triumphed in Gethsemane. + +ANONYMOUS. + + + +FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. + + +When the hours of day are numbered, + And the voices of the night +Wake the better soul that slumbered + To a holy, calm delight,-- + +Ere the evening lamps are lighted, + And, like phantoms grim and tall, +Shadows from the fitful firelight + Dance upon the parlor wall; + +Then the forms of the departed + Enter at the open door,-- +The beloved ones, the true-hearted, + Come to visit me once more: + +He, the young and strong, who cherished + Noble longings for the strife, +By the roadside fell and perished, + Weary with the march of life! + +They, the holy ones and weakly, + Who the cross of suffering bore, +Folded their pale hands so meekly, + Spake with us on earth no more! + +And with them the being beauteous + Who unto my youth was given, +More than all things else to love me, + And is now a saint in heaven. + +With a slow and noiseless footstep, + Comes that messenger divine, +Takes the vacant chair beside me, + Lays her gentle hand in mine; + +And she sits and gazes at me + With those deep and tender eyes, +Like the stars, so still and saint-like, + Looking downward from the skies. + +Uttered not, yet comprehended, + Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, +Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, + Breathing from her lips of air. + +O, though oft depressed and lonely, + All my fears are laid aside +If I but remember only + Such as these have lived and died! + +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + +HAPPY ARE THE DEAD. + + +I walked the other day, to spend my hour, + Into a field, +Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield + A gallant flower: +But winter now had ruffled all the bower + And curious store + I knew there heretofore. + +Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer + In the face of things, +Thought with myself, there might be other springs + Beside this here, +Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; + And so the flower + Might have some other bower. + +Then taking up what I could nearest spy, + I digged about +That place where I had seen him to grow out; + And by and by +I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, + Where fresh and green + He lived of us unseen. + +Many a question intricate and rare + Did I there strow; +But all I could extort was, that he now + Did there repair +Such losses as befell him in this air, + And would erelong + Come forth most fair and young. + +This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head; + And, stung with fear +Of my own frailty, dropped down many a tear + Upon his bed; +Then, sighing, whispered, _Happy are the dead! + What peace doth now + Rock him asleep below!_ + +And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs + From a poor root +Which all the winter sleeps here under foot, + And hath no wings +To raise it to the truth and light of things, + But is still trod + By every wandering clod! + +O thou whose spirit did at first inflame + And warm the dead! +And by a sacred incubation fed + With life this frame, +Which once had neither being, form, nor name! + Grant I may so + Thy steps track here below, + +That in these masks and shadows I may see + Thy sacred way; +And by those hid ascents climb to that day + Which breaks from thee, +Who art in all things, though invisibly: + Show me thy peace, + Thy mercy, love, and ease. + +And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign, + Lead me above, +Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move + Without all pain: +There, hid in thee, show me his life again + At whose dumb urn + Thus all the year I mourn. + +HENRY VAUGHAN. + + + +THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW. + + +The work of the sun is slow, +But as sure as heaven, we know; + So we'll not forget, + When the skies are wet, +There's green grass under the snow. + +When the winds of winter blow, +Wailing like voices of woe, + There are April showers, + And buds and flowers, +And green grass under the snow. + +We find that it's ever so +In this life's uneven flow; + We've only to wait, + In the face of fate, +For the green grass under the snow. + +ANNIE A. PRESTON. + + + +THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE. + + +Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies, + And yet the monument proclaims it not, +Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wrought + The emblems of a fame that never dies, +Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf, +Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf. + A simple name alone, + To the great world unknown, +Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round, +Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground, + Lean lovingly against the humble stone. + +Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apart + No man of iron mould and bloody hands, +Who sought to wreck upon the cowering lands + The passions that consumed his restless heart: +But one of tender spirit and delicate frame, + Gentlest in mien and mind, + Of gentle womankind, +Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame; +One in whose eyes the smile of kindness made + Its haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May, +Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shade + Of sweeter sadness chased the smile away. + +Nor deem that when the hand that molders here +Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear, + And armies mustered at the sign, as when +Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East, + Gray captains leading bands of veteran men +And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast. +Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave +The victory to her who fills this grave; + Alone her task was wrought, + Alone the battle fought; +Through that long strife her constant hope was staid + On God alone, nor looked for other aid. + +She met the hosts of sorrow with a look + That altered not beneath the frown they wore, +And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took, + Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. +Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath, + And calmly broke in twain + The fiery shafts of pain, +And rent the nets of passion from her path. + By that victorious hand despair was slain. +With love she vanquished hate and overcame +Evil with good, in her Great Master's name. + +Her glory is not of this shadowy state, + Glory that with the fleeting season dies; +But when she entered at the sapphire gate + What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! +How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung, +And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung! + And He who, long before, + Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, +The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet, +Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat; +He who returning, glorious, from the grave, +Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave. + +See, as I linger here, the sun grows low; + Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. +Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go + Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. + Brief is the time, I know, + The warfare scarce begun; +Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won. +Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee; + The victors' names are yet too few to fill +Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory, + That ministered to thee, is open still. + +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + + + +THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. + + +Thou art gone to the grave--but we will not deplore thee, + Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; +The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee, + And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom. + +Thou art gone to the grave--we no longer behold thee, + Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; +But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee, + And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died. + +Thou art gone to the grave--and, its mansion forsaking, + Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, +But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking, + And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song. + +Thou art gone to the grave--but 't were wrong to deplore thee, + When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; +He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee, + Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died. + +REGINALD HEBER. + + + +LYCIDAS. + +Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more +Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, +I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude +And with forced fingers rude +Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year, +Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, +Compels me to disturb your season due; +For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, +Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. +Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew +Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. +He must not float upon his watery bier +Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, +Without the meed of some melodious tear. + Begin then, sisters of the sacred well, +That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, +Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. +Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse; +So may some gentle muse +With lucky words favor my destined urn, +And as he passes turn, +And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud; +For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, +Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. +Together both, ere the high lawns appeared +Under the opening eyelids of the morn, +We drove a-field, and both together heard +What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, +Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night, +Oft till the star that rose at evening bright +Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel. +Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, +Tempered to the oaten flute; +Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heel +From the glad song would not be absent long, +And old Damaetas loved to hear our song. + But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone-- +Now thou art gone, and never must return! +Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves, +With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, +And all their echoes, mourn; +The willows, and the hazel copses green, +Shall now no more be seen, +Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. +As killing as the canker to the rose, +Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, +Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear, +When first the white-thorn blows; +Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. + Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deep +Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas? +For neither were ye playing on the steep, +Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie, +Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, +Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream-- +Ay me! I fondly dream, +Had ye been there; for what could that have done? +What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore, +The muse herself for her enchanting son, +Whom universal nature did lament, +When, by the rout that made the hideous roar, +His gory visage down the stream was sent, +Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? + Alas! what boots it with incessant care +To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, +And strictly meditate the thankless muse? +Were it not better done, as others use, +To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, +Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? +Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise +(That last infirmity of noble minds) +To scorn delights, and live laborious days; +But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, +And think to burst out into sudden blaze, +Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears, +And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, +Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears; +Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, +Nor in the glistering foil +Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies; +But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes +And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; +As he pronounces lastly on each deed, +Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed. + O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood, +Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds, +That strain I heard was of a higher mood; +But now my oat proceeds, +And listens to the herald of the sea +That came in Neptune's plea; +He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds, +What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain? +And questioned every gust of rugged winds +That blows from off each beaked promontory; +They knew not of his story; +And sage Hippotades their answer brings, +That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed; +The air was calm, and on the level brine +Sleek Panope with all her sisters played. +It was that fatal and perfidious bark, +Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark, +That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. + Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, +His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, +Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge, +Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe. +Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? +Last came, and last did go, +The pilot of the Galilean Lake; +Two massy keys he bore of metals twain +(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain); +He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: +How well could I have spared for thee, young swain, +Enow of such as for their bellies' sake +Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? +Of other care they little reckoning make, +Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast, +And shove away the worthy bidden guest; +Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold +A sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the least +That to the faithful herdsman's art belongs! +What recks it them? what need they? they are sped; +And when they list, their lean and flashy songs +Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; +The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, +But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw, +Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; +Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw +Daily devours apace, and nothing said; +But that two-handed engine at the door, +Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. + Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past, +That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse, +And call the vales, and bid them hither cast +Their bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues. +Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use +Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, +On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks, +Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes, +That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers, +And purple all the ground with vernal flowers. +Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, +The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine, +The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet, +The glowing violet, +The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine, +With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, +And every flower that sad embroidery wears. +Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, +And daffodillies fill their cups with tears, +To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies, +For so to interpose a little ease, +Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. +Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas +Wash far away where'er thy bones are hurled, +Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, +Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide +Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; +Or whether thou to our moist vows denied, +Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, +Where the great vision of the guarded mount +Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold; +Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth! +And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth! + Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more! +For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, +Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor. +So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, +And yet anon repairs his drooping head, +And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore +Flames in the forehead of the morning sky; +So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, +Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, +Where, other groves and other streams along, +With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, +And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, +In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. +There entertain him all the saints above, +In solemn troops and sweet societies, +That sing, and singing in their glory move, +And wipe the tears forever from his eyes. +Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more; +Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore, +In thy large recompense, and shalt be good +To all that wander in that perilous flood. + Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills, +While the still morn went out with sandals gray; +He touched the tender stops of various quills, +With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. +And now the sun had stretched out all the hills, +And now was dropt into the western bay; +At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue: +To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new. + +MILTON. + + + +AFTER DEATH. + + FROM "PEARLS OF THE FAITH." + + _He made life--and He takes it--but instead + Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu'hid!_ + + +He who dies at Azan[11] sends +This to comfort faithful friends:-- + +Faithful friends! it lies, I know, +Pale and white and cold as snow; +And ye says, "Abdullah's dead!" +Weeping at my feet and head. +I can see your falling tears, +I can hear your cries and prayers, +Yet I smile and whisper this:-- +"I am not that thing you kiss; +Cease your tears and let it lie: +It was mine, it is not I." + +Sweet friends! what the women lave +For its last bed in the grave +Is a tent which I am quitting, +Is a garment no more fitting, +Is a cage from which at last +Like a hawk my soul hath passed. +Love the inmate, not the room; +The wearer, not the garb; the plume +Of the falcon, not the bars +Which kept him from the splendid stars. +Loving friends! be wise, and dry +Straightway every weeping eye: +What ye lift upon the bier +Is not worth a wistful tear. +'Tis an empty sea-shell, one +Out of which the pearl is gone. +The shell is broken, it lies there; +The pearl, the all, the soul, is here. +'Tis an earthen jar whose lid +Allah sealed, the while it hid +That treasure of His treasury, +A mind which loved him: let it lie! +Let the shard be earth's once more, +Since the gold shines in His store! + +Allah Mu'hid, Allah most good! +Now thy grace is understood: +Now my heart no longer wonders +What Al-Barsakh is, which sunders +Life from death, and death from heaven: +Nor the "Paradises Seven" +Which the happy dead inherit; +Nor those "birds" which bear each spirit +Toward the Throne, "green birds and white," +Radiant, glorious, swift their flight! +Now the long, long darkness ends. +Yet ye wail, my foolish friends, +While the man whom ye call "dead" +In unbroken bliss instead +Lives, and loves you: lost, 'tis true +By any light which shines for you; +But in light ye cannot see +Of unfulfilled felicity, +And enlarging Paradise; +Lives the life that never dies. + +Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; +Where I am, ye too shall dwell. +I am gone before your face +A heart-beat's time, a gray ant's pace. +When ye come where I have stepped, +Ye will marvel why ye wept; +Ye will know, by true love taught, +That here is all, and there is naught. +Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-- +Sunshine still must follow rain! +Only not at death, for death-- +Now I see--is that first breath +Which our souls draw when we enter +Life, that is of all life center. + +Know ye Allah's law is love, +Viewed from Allah's Throne above; +Be ye firm of trust, and come +Faithful onward to your home! +"_La Allah ilia Allah!_ Yea, +Mu'hid! Restorer! Sovereign!" say! + +_He who died at Asan gave +This to those that made his grave._ + +SIR EDWIN ARNOLD. + + [11] The hour of prayer; esteemed a blessed time to die. + + + +IT IS NOT DEATH TO DIE. + + +It is not death to die, + To leave this weary road, +And, midst the brotherhood on high, + To be at home with God. + +It is not death to close + The eye long dimmed by tears, +And wake in glorious repose, + To spend eternal years. + +It is not death to bear + The wrench that sets us free +From dungeon-chain, to breathe the air + Of boundless liberty. + +It is not death to fling + Aside this sinful dust, +And rise on strong, exulting wing, + To live among the just. + +Jesus, thou Prince of Life, + Thy chosen cannot die! +Like Thee they conquer in the strife, + To reign with Thee on high. + +GEORGE WASHINGTON BETHUNE. + + + +THERE IS NO DEATH. + + +There is no death! the stars go down + To rise upon some other shore, +And bright in heaven's jewelled crown + They shine forever more. + +There is no death! the forest leaves + Convert to life the viewless air; +The rocks disorganize to feed + The hungry moss they bear. + +There is no death! the dust we tread + Shall change, beneath the summer showers, +To golden grain, or mellow fruit, + Or rainbow-tinted flowers. + +There is no death! the leaves may fall. + The flowers may fade and pass away-- +They only wait, through wintry hours, + The warm sweet breath of May. + +There is no death! the choicest gifts + That heaven hath kindly lent to earth +Are ever first to seek again + The country of their birth. + +And all things that for growth of joy + Are worthy of our love or care, +Whose loss has left us desolate, + Are safely garnered there. + +Though life become a dreary waste, + We know its fairest, sweetest flowers, +Transplanted into paradise, + Adorn immortal bowers. + +The voice of bird-like melody + That we have missed and mourned so long +Now mingles with the angel choir + In everlasting song. + +There is no death! although we grieve + When beautiful, familiar forms +That we have learned to love are torn + From our embracing arms; + +Although with bowed and breaking heart, + With sable garb and silent tread, +We bear their senseless dust to rest, + And say that they are "dead." + +They are not dead! they have but passed + Beyond the mists that blind us here +Into the new and larger life + Of that serener sphere. + +They have but dropped their robe of clay + To put their shining raiment on; +They have not wandered far away-- + They are not "lost" or "gone." + +Though disenthralled and glorified, + They still are here and love us yet; +The dear ones they have left behind + They never can forget. + +And sometimes, when our hearts grow faint + Amid temptations fierce and deep, +Or when the wildly raging waves + Of grief or passion sweep, + +We feel upon our fevered brow + Their gentle touch, their breath of balm; +Their arms enfold us, and our hearts + Grow comforted and calm. + +And ever near us, though unseen, + The dear, immortal spirits tread; +For all the boundless universe + Is life--there are no dead. + +JAMES L. M'CREERY. + +1863. + + + +GOING AND COMING. + + +Going--the great round Sun, + Dragging the captive Day +Over behind the frowning hill, + Over beyond the bay,-- + Dying: +Coming--the dusky Night, + Silently stealing in, +Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch + Where the golden-haired Day hath been + Lying. + +Going--the bright, blithe Spring; + Blossoms! how fast ye fall, +Shooting out of your starry sky + Into the darkness all + Blindly! +Coming--the mellow days: + Crimson and yellow leaves; +Languishing purple and amber fruits + Kissing the bearded sheaves + Kindly! + +Going--our early friends; + Voices we loved are dumb; +Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; + Fainter the echoes come + Ringing: +Coming to join our march,-- + Shoulder to shoulder pressed,-- +Gray-haired veterans strike their tents + For the far-off purple West-- + Singing! + +Going--this old, old life; + Beautiful world, farewell! +Forest and meadow! river and hill! + Ring ye a loving knell + O'er us! +Coming--a nobler life; + Coming--a better land; +Coming--a long, long, nightless day; + Coming--the grand, grand + Chorus! + +EDWARD A. JENKS. + + + +BLIND. + + +Laughing, the blind boys +Run 'round their college lawn, +Playing such games of buff +Over its dappled grass! + +See the blind frolicsome +Girls in blue pinafores, +Turning their skipping ropes! + +How full and rich a world +Theirs to inhabit is! +Sweet scent of grass and bloom, +Playmates' glad symphony. +Cool touch of western wind, +Sunshine's divine caress. +How should they know or feel +They are in darkness? + +But--O the miracle! +If a Redeemer came, +Laid fingers on their eyes-- +One touch--and what a world +New born in loveliness! + +Spaces of green and sky, +Hulls of white cloud adrift, +Ivy-grown college walls, +Shining loved faces! + +What a dark world--who knows? +Ours to inhabit is! +One touch, and what a strange +Glory might burst on us! +What a hid universe! + +Do we sport carelessly, +Blindly, upon the verge +Of an Apocalypse? + +ISRAEL ZANGWILL. + + + +THE DEATH OF DEATH. + + SONNET CXLVI. + + +Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, +Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array, +Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth, +Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? +Why so large cost, having so short a lease, +Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? +Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, +Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end? +Then, soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, +And let that pine to aggravate thy store; +Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross; +Within be fed, without be rich no more. + So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men, + And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then. + +SHAKESPEARE. + + * * * * * + + + + +INDEX: TITLES AND AUTHORS + +_For occupation, nativity, etc., of Authors, and the American publishers +of the American poetical works, see General Index of Authors, Volume X._ + + + +AESCHYLUS. PAGE. + Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (_Mrs. Browning's Translation_) 156 + +AGATHIAS. + Time's Revenge (_Bland's Translation_) 72 + +ALDRICH, JAMES. + Death-Bed, A 306 + +ALGER, WILLIAM ROUNSEVILLE. + Parting Lovers, The (_From the Chinese_) 104 + +ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM. + Dirty Old Man, The 55 + +ARNOLD, SIR EDWIN. + After Death in Arabia. 452 + Secret of Death, The 434 + +ARNOLD, MATTHEW. + Requiescat 307 + +AUSTIN, ALFRED. + Agatha 13 + +AUSTIN, SARAH TAYLOR. + Passage, the (_German of Uhland_) 342 + +AYTON OR AYTOUN, SIR ROBERT. + Woman's Inconstancy 71 + + +BACON, FRANCIS, BARON VERULAM. + World, The 151 + +BAILEY, PHILIP JAMES. + Death in Youth (_Festus_) 428 + +BALLANTINE, JAMES. + "Ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew" 241 + +BARBAULD, ANNA LAETITIA. + Life 400 + +BARNARD, LADY ANNE. + Auld Robin Gray 32 + +BARR, AMELIA EDITH. + Bottom Drawer, The 405 + +BEAUMONT, FRANCIS. + On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey 269 + +BENJAMIN, PARK. + Old Sexton, The 282 + +BENNETT, LUCY A. + "Asleep! asleep!" 396 + +BERANGER, PIERRE-JEAN DE. + Old Vagabond, The (_Translation_) 188 + +BETHUNE, GEORGE WASHINGTON. + "It is not death to die" 455 + +BJOeRNSON, BJOeRSTJERNE. + Princess, The (_Dole's Translation_) 9 + +BLACKIE, JOHN STUART. + Emigrant Lassie, The 280 + +BLAMIRE, SUSANNA. + "What ails this heart o' mine" 139 + +BLAND, ROBERT. + Time's Revenge (_Greek of Agathias_) 72 + +BLOOD, HENRY AMES. + Song of Savoyards 248 + +BODENSTEDT, FRIEDRICH MARTIN VON. + Unchanging (_Translation_) 242 + +BONAR, HORATIUS. + "Beyond the smiling and the weeping" + +BRENAN, JOSEPH. + "Come to me, dearest" 144 + +BRIDGES, ROBERT (_Droch_). + Unillumined Verge, The 308 + +BONAR, HORATIUS. + "Beyond the smiling and the weeping" 378 + +BROOKS, MARIA GOWEN (_Maria del Occidente_). + Song of Egla 138 + +BROWN, JOSEPH BROWNLEE. + Thalatta! Thalatta! 388 + +BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT. + Comfort 433 + De Profundis 421 + Hopeless Grief 217 + Mother and Poet 323 + Sleep, The 389 + Tears 429 + Wail of Prometheus Bound, The (_Greek of AEschylus_) 156 + +BROWNING, ROBERT. + Evelyn Hope 310 + Prospice 391 + +BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN. + Blessed are They that Mourn 420 + Conqueror's Grave, The 442 + Thanatopsis 264 + +BURDETTE, ROBERT JONES. + "When my ship comes in" 245 + +BURNS, ROBERT. + "Ae fond kiss, and then we sever" 98 + Banks o' Doon, The 12 + Highland Mary 329 + "I love my Jean" 126 + Mary in Heaven, To 339 + "O my Luve's like a red, red rose" 99 + "O, saw ye bonnie Leslie" 130 + +BURROUGHS, JOHN. + Waiting 238 + +BYRON, GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD. + "Adieu, adieu, my native shore" 108 + Dream, The 73 + Farewell to his Wife 109 + Latest Verses 169 + "Maid of Athens, ere we part" 100 + Picture of Death, A (The Giaour) 261 + + +CAMOENS, LUIS DE. + Blighted Love (_Strongford's Translation_) 81 + +CARLETON, WILL. + "Over the hill to the poor-house" 175 + +CARY, HENRY FRANCIS. + "The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (_French of Duke of Orleans_) 356 + +CHADWICK, JOHN WHITE. + Two Waitings, The 409 + +CHANNING, WILLIAM ELLERY. + Sleepy Hollow 277 + +CHATEAUBRIAND, FRANCOIS AUGUSTE, VICOMTE DE. + Jeune Fille et Jeune Fleur (_Translation_) 305 + +CHATTERTON, THOMAS. + Minstrel's Song 340 + +CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. + Despondency Rebuked 235 + Qua Cursum Ventus 107 + +COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. + Good, Great Man, The 244 + +COSTELLO, LOUISE STUART. + On the Death of Francis I. (_French of Marguerite_) 338 + Sonnet (_French of Labe) 237 + To Diane de Poitiers (_French of Marat_) 69 + +COWPER, WILLIAM. + Present Good, The (_The Task_) 150 + +CRABBE, GEORGE. + Approach of Age, The (_Tales of the Hall_) 163 + +CRAIK, DINAH MARIA MULOCK. + Now and Afterwards 268 + Only a Woman 86 + Too Late 335 + +CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE. + Compensation 229 + +CRAWFORD, JULIA (or LOUISA MACARTNEY). + Kathleen Mavourneen 112 + "We parted in silence" 113 + + +DELAND, MARGARETTA WADE. + Love and Death 394 + +DE VERE, AUBREY THOMAS. + "Sad is our youth, for it is ever going" 225 + +DE VERE, MARY AINGE (_Madeline Bridges_). + Spinner, The 70 + +DOBELL, SYDNEY THOMPSON. + Home, Wounded 58 + +DOBSON, AUSTIN. + Sun-Dial, The 15 + +DODGE, MARY ELIZABETH MAPES. + Two Mysteries, The (_Along the Way_) 262 + +DOLE, NATHAN HASKELL. + Princess, The (_Norwegian of Bjornson_) 9 + +DORR, JULIA CAROLINE RIPLEY. + Hush! (_After glow_) 400 + +DRAYTON, MICHAEL. + "Come, let us kisse and parte" 111 + +DUFFERIN, HELEN BELINDA SHERIDAN, LADY (_afterwards_ LADY GIFFORD). + Lament of the Irish Emigrant 343 + + +EASTMAN, ELAINE GOODALE. + Ashes of Roses 51 + +EDWARDS, AMELIA BLANDFORD. + "Give me three grains of corn, mother" 197 + + +FIELD, EUGENE. + Jim's Kids 290 + +FITZGERALD, EDWARD. + Anne Allen, On 303 + +FLEMING, PAUL. + Myself, To (_Winkworth's Translation_) 218 + +FLETCHER, JOHN. + "Hence, all ye vain delights" 160 + "Take, O, take those lips away" (_Bloody Brother_) 71 + +FOSTER, STEPHEN COLLINS. + My Old Kentucky Home 147 + Old Folks at Home 148 + + +GANNETT, WILLIAM CHANNING. + Aunt Phillis's Guest 239 + +GAY, JOHN. + Black-Eyed Susan 102 + +GLADDEN, WASHINGTON. + Awakening 375 + +GLUCK, ---- + To Death (_Translation_) 395 + +GRAY, THOMAS. + Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 270 + + +HARDINGE, WILLIAM M. + Grave of Sophocles (_Greek of Simmias_) 200 + +HAWTREY, E.C. + Hector to his Wife (_Greek of Homer_) 122 + +HAY, JOHN. + Woman's Love, A 52 + +HAYNE, PAUL HAMILTON. + In Harbor 398 + +HEBER, REGINALD. + "Thou art gone to the grave" 445 + +HEINE, HEINRICH. + Palm and the Pine, The (_Houghton's Translation_) 40 + +HEMANS. FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE. + Hour of Death, The 259 + +HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST. + Invictus 221 + +HERBERT, GEORGE. + Flower, The 219 + Virtue Immortal 254 + +HOBART, MRS. CHARLES. + Changed Cross, The 231 + +HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. + Last Leaf, The 185 + Voiceless, The 172 + +HOMER. + Hector to his Wife (_Hawtrey's Translation_) 122 + Parting of Hector and Andromache (_Pope's Translation_) 118 + +HOOD, THOMAS. + Bridge of Sighs, The 208 + Death-Bed, The 300 + "Farewell, Life" 384 + Song of the Shirt, The 199 + "What can an old man do but die" 174 + +HOUGHTON, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, LORD. + London Churches 207 + Palm and the Pine, The (_German of Heine_) 40 + +HOWLAND, MARY WOOLSEY. + Rest 397 + +HOYT, RALPH. + Old 180 + +HUDSON, MARY CLEMMER AMES. + Something Beyond 234 + + +INGELOW, JEAN. + Divided 64 + + +JACKSON, HELEN FISKE HUNT (_H.H._). + Habeas Corpus 382 + +JACKSON, HENRY R. + My Wife and Child 226 + +JENKS, EDWARD A. + Going and Coming 458 + + +KEATS, JOHN. + Nightingale, Ode to a 166 + +KEMBLE, FRANCES ANNE. + Absence 133 + Faith 95 + +KENNEDY, CRAMMOND. + Greenwood Cemetery 279 + +KEPPEL, LADY CAROLINE. + Robin Adair 134 + +KING, HENRY. + Sic Vita 253 + +KINGSLEY, CHARLES. + Rough Rhyme on a Rough Matter, A 191 + +KNOX, WILLIAM. + Mortality 256 + + +LABE, LOUISE. + Sonnet (_Costello's Translation_) 237 + +LAMB, CHARLES. + Old Familiar Faces, The 143 + +LANDON, LETITIA ELIZABETH (_later_ MRS. MACLEAN). + Female Convict, The 215 + +LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. + Farewell 394 + Man 151 + +LANG, ANDREW. + Lament for Heliodore (_Greek of Meleager_) 337 + +LE GALLIENNE, RICHARD. + Song (_Robert Louis Stevenson an Elegy and other Poems_) 417 + What of the Darkness (_English_ Poems) 360 + +LE ROUX, GUIRAUD. + Fidelity in Doubt (_Preston's Translation_) 95 + +LINDSAY, BLANCHE ELIZABETH FITZROY, LADY. + Sonnet 304 + +LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK. + Widow's Mite, The 287 + +LOGAN, JOHN. + "Thy braes were bonny" 314 + +LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. + Death of Minnehaha, The (Song of Hiawatha) 319 + Footsteps of Angels 438 + God's Acre 276 + Rainy Day, The 228 + Reaper and the Flowers, The 417 + Resignation 430 + +LOVELACE, COLONEL RICHARD. + Lucasta, To 123 + Lucasta, on Going to the Wars, To 97 + +LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. + Auf Wiedersehen 114 + First Snow-Fall, The 283 + Palinode 115 + +LOWELL, MARIA WHITE. + Morning-Glory, The 285 + +LYTLE, WILLIAM HAINES. + Antony and Cleopatra 380 + +LYTTON, EDWARD ROBERT BULWER, EARL OF (_Owen Meredith_). + Portrait, The 82 + + +MCCLEERY, J.L. + "There is no death" 456 + +MACMANUS, ANNA JOHNSTON (MRS. SEUMAS) (_Ethna Carbery_). + Thinkin' Long 141 + +MARGUERITE DE VALOIS. + On the Death of Francis I. (_Costello's Translation_) 338 + +MAROT, CLEMENT. + To Diane de Poitiers (_Costello's Translation_) 69 + +MARSTON, PHILIP BOURKE. + After Summer 336 + +MELEAGER. + Lament for Heliodore (_Lang's Translation_) 337 + +MICKLE, WILLIAM JULIUS. + Cumnor Hall 41 + +MILTON, JOHN. + Lycidas 446 + Samson on his Blindness (_Samson Agonistes_) 158 + Sonnet: To Cyriack Skinner 220 + +MITCHELL, SILAS WEIR. + Quaker Graveyard, The 278 + +MOIR, DAVID MACBETH. + Rustic Lad's Lament in the Town, The 131 + +MOORE, THOMAS. + "Alas, how light a cause" (_The Light of the Harem_) 80 + "As slow our ship" 106 + "Farewell!--but whenever" 116 + "Farewell to thee, Araby's daughter" (_Fire Worshippers_) 316 + Linda to Hafed (_Fire Worshippers_) 6 + +MOSS, THOMAS. + Beggar, The 189 + +MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM. + Jeanie Morrison 127 + "My heid is like to rend, Willie" 49 + +MUHLENBERG, WILLIAM AUGUSTUS. + "I would not live alway" 392 + +MUNBY, ARTHUR JOSEPH. + Apres 355 + + +NAIRNE, CAROLINA OLIPHANT, LADY. + Land o' the Leal, The 379 + +NEELE, HENRY. + "Moan, moan, ye dying gales" 152 + +NOEL, THOMAS. + Pauper's Drive, The 202 + +NORTON, CAROLINE E.S. SHERIDAN (LADY STIRLING MAXWELL). + King of Denmark's Ride, The 340 + "Love not" 8 + + +O'BRIEN, WILLIAM SMITH. + Never Despair 246 + +ORLEANS, CHARLES, DUKE OF. + "The fairest thing in mortal eyes" (_Cary's Trans._) 356 + +O'SHAUGHNESSY, ARTHUR WILLIAM EDGAR. + "Has summer come without the rose?" 54 + + +PALMER, JOHN WILLIAMSON. + For Charlie's Sake 411 + +PATMORE, COVENTRY [KEARSEY DEIGHTON]. + Parting 96 + +PIATT, SARAH MORGAN BRYAN. + Term of Death, The 261 + +PIERPONT, JOHN. + My Child 415 + +POE, EDGAR ALLAN. + Annabel Lee 312 + For Annie 385 + +POLLEN, JOHN. + Last Leaf, The (_Russian of Poushkin_) 187 + +POPE, ALEXANDER. + Parting of Hector and Andromache (_Greek of Homer_) 118 + +POUSHKIN, ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH. + Last Leaf, The (_Pollen's Translation_) 187 + +PRESTON, ANNIE A. + "The green grass under the snow" 442 + +PRESTON, HARRIET WATERS. + Fidelity in Doubt (_French of Le Roux_) 95 + +PRIEST, NANCY AMELIA WOODBURY. + Over the River 406 + +PRINGLE, THOMAS. + Afar in the Desert 222 + +PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE. + Doubting Heart, A 171 + +PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER (_Barry Cornwall_). + Life 251 + "Softly woo away her breath" 318 + + +QUARLES, FRANCIS. + Vanity of the World, The 153 + + +RAMSAY, ALLAN. + Lochaber no More 105 + +RAYMOND, ROSSITER WORTHINGTON. + "Blessed are They" 425 + Christus Consolator 432 + +RITTER, MARY LOUISE. + Perished 169 + +ROGERS, ROBERT CAMERON. + Shadow Rose, The 53 + +ROSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL. + Nevermore, The 82 + + +SANGSTER, MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON. + "Are the children at home?" 288 + +SCOTT, FREDERICK GEORGE. + Van Elsen 361 + +SCOTT, SIR WALTER. + Coronach (_Lady of the Lake_) 309 + Song 31 + Song of the Young Highlander 101 + +SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. + "Blow, blow, thou winter wind" (_As You Like It_) 155 + Course of True Love, The (_Midsummer Night's Dream_) 3 + Death of Death 460 + Fall of Cardinal Wolsey, The (_Henry VIII._) 161 + "Farewell! thou art too dear" 112 + "Fear no more the heat o' the sun" (_Gymbeline_) 328 + Grief (_Hamlet_) 348 + Love's Memory (_All's Well that ends Well_) 140 + Soliloquy on Death (_Hamlet_) 252 + "Take, O, take those lips away" 71 + Unrequited Love (_Twelfth Night_) 9 + +SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. + Lament, A 173 + "The sun is warm, the sky is clear" 164 + +SHIRLEY, JAMES. + Death the Leveler 253 + +SIDNEY, SIR PHILIP. + "With how sad steps" (_Astrophel and Stella_) 13 + +SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND. + Morning Thought, A 267 + +SILLERY, CHARLES DOYNE. + "She died in beauty" 319 + +SIMMIAS. + Grave of Sophocles, The (_Hardinge's Translation_) 269 + +SMITH, BELLE E. + "If I should die to-night" 374 + +SOUTHWELL, ROBERT. + "Times go by turns" 228 + +SPOFFORD, HARRIET ELIZABETH PRESCOTT. + Nun and Harp, The 93 + +STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS BALFOUR. + In Memoriam F.A.S. 428 + +STOWE, HARRIET BEECHER. + Lines to the Memory of "Annie" 426 + "Only a year" 418 + +STRANGFORD, LORD. + Blighted Love (_Portuguese of Camoens_) 81 + +STURM. JULIUS. + I Hold Still (_Translation_) 243 + +SYMONS, ARTHUR. + Portrait, To a 34 + + +TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD. + "Break, break, break" 358 + "Home they brought her warrior dead" (_Princess_) 345 + Lady Clare Vere de Vere 4 + Locksley Hall 17 + May Queen, The 292 + "Oh that 'twere possible" (_Maud_) 331 + Selections from "In Memoriam" 340 + "Tears, idle tears" 142 + +THOMPSON, FRANCIS. + Daisy 130 + +TICHEBORNE, CHEDIOCK. + Lines written in the Tower 159 + +TIMROD, HENRY. + At Magnolia Cemetery 279 + +TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND. + Dorothy in the Garret 89 + + +UHLAND, LUDWIG. + Passage, The (_Austin's Translation_) 342 + +ULRICH, ANTON, DUKE OF BRUNSWICK. + God's Sure Help in Sorrow (_Winkworth's Translation_) 236 + +VAUGHAN, HENRY. + "Happy are the dead" 439 + "They are all gone" 403 + + +WASTELL, SIMON. + Man's Mortality 255 + +WATSON, JOHN WHITTAKER. + Beautiful Snow 205 + +WHITMAN, WALT. + "When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed" 362 + +WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF. + Absent Sailor, To her (_The Tent on the Beach_) 124 + Angel of Patience, The 402 + Maud Muller 35 + +WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. + Unseen Spirits 204 + +WINKWORTH, CATHARINE. + God's Sure Help in Sorrow (_German of Ulrich_) 236 + Myself, To (_German of Flemming_) 218 + + +ZANGWILL, ISRAEL. + Blind 461 + + +ANONYMOUS. + Absence 141 + Fair Helen 330 + Good Bye 97 + Grief for the Dead 408 + Guilty or Not Guilty 212 + Lady Ann Bothwell's Lament 47 + Lavender 355 + Parting Lovers, The 104 + Peace 437 + Saddest Fate, The 247 + "They are dear fish to me" 195 + "Waly, waly" 45 + Watching for Papa 414 + Wife to her Husband, The 146 + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's The World's Best Poetry, Volume 3, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOLUME 3 *** + +***** This file should be named 16786.txt or 16786.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/7/8/16786/ + +Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Victoria Woosley and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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