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diff --git a/16786.txt b/16786.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..bf09496 --- /dev/null +++ b/16786.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: 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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