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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41016 ***
+
+ THE LAND OF SONG
+
+ BOOK III.
+
+ _FOR UPPER GRAMMAR GRADES_
+
+ SELECTED BY
+ KATHARINE H. SHUTE
+
+ EDITED BY
+ LARKIN DUNTON, LL.D.
+ HEAD MASTER OF THE BOSTON NORMAL SCHOOL
+
+[Illustration]
+
+ SILVER, BURDETT & COMPANY
+ NEW YORK BOSTON CHICAGO
+ 1899
+
+
+ Copyright, 1899,
+ By Silver, Burdett & Company.
+
+ C. J. PETERS & SON, TYPOGRAPHERS,
+ BOSTON.
+
+ Plimpton Press
+
+ H. M. PLIMPTON & CO., PRINTERS & BINDERS,
+ NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A.
+
+
+
+
+_COMPILERS' PREFACE._
+
+
+The inestimable value of literature in supplying healthful recreation,
+in opening the mind to larger views of life, and in creating ideals that
+shall mold the spiritual nature, is conceded now by every one who has
+intelligently considered the problems of education. But the basis upon
+which literature shall be selected and arranged is still a matter of
+discussion.
+
+Chronology, race-correspondence, correlation, and ethical training
+should all be recognized incidentally; but the main purpose of the
+teacher of literature is to send children on into life with a genuine
+love for good reading. To accomplish this, three things should be true
+of the reading offered: first, it should be _literature_; second, it
+should be literature of some scope, not merely some small phase of
+literature, such as the fables, or the poetry of one of the less eminent
+poets; and third, it should appeal to children's natural interests.
+Children's interests, varied as they seem, center in the marvelous and
+the preternatural; in the natural world; and in human life, especially
+child life and the romantic and heroic aspects of mature life. In the
+selections made for each grade, we have recognized these different
+interests.
+
+To grade poetry perfectly for different ages is an impossibility; much
+of the greatest verse is for all ages--that is one reason why it _is_
+great. A child of five will lisp the numbers of Horatius with delight;
+and Scott's _Lullaby of an Infant Chief_, with its romantic color and
+its exquisite human tenderness, is dear to childhood, to manhood, and to
+old age. But the Land of Song is a great undiscovered country to the
+little child; by some road or other he must find his way into it; and
+these volumes simply attempt to point out a path through which he may be
+led into its happy fields.
+
+Our earnest thanks are due to the following publishers for permission to
+use copyrighted poems: to Houghton, Mifflin & Co. for poems by
+Longfellow, Whittier, Emerson, Holmes, Lowell, Aldrich, Bayard Taylor,
+James T. Fields, Ph[oe]be Cary, Lucy Larcom, Celia Thaxter, and Sarah
+Orne Jewett; to D. Appleton & Co. for a large number of Bryant's poems:
+to Charles Scribner's Sons for two poems by Stevenson, from
+_Underwoods_, and _A Child's Garden of Verses_; to J. B. Lippincott &
+Co. for two poems by Thomas Buchanan Read; and to Henry T. Coates & Co.
+for a poem by Charles Fenno Hoffman.
+
+The present volume is intended for the seventh, eighth, and ninth school
+years, or higher grammar grades. It is the third of three books prepared
+for use in the grades below the high school. As no collection of this
+size can supply as much poetry as may be used to advantage, and as many
+desirable poems by American writers have necessarily been omitted, we
+have noted at the end of this volume lists of poems which it would be
+well to add to the material given here, that our children may realize
+the scope and beauty of the poetry of their own land.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+ PAGE
+
+ ABIDE WITH ME 72
+ ADVERSITY 92
+ ANNIE LAURIE 168
+ ANNIE OF THARAW 199
+ ANTONY'S EULOGY ON CÆSAR 221
+ ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM, THE 13
+ APPARITIONS 253
+ AULD LANG SYNE 112
+ AWAKENING OF SPRING, THE 68
+
+
+ BALLAD OF THE BOAT, THE 119
+ BANNOCKBURN 52
+ BEFORE SEDAN 109
+ BEGGAR MAID, THE 98
+ BIRKENHEAD, THE 108
+ "BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN" 151
+ BONNIE DUNDEE 53
+ BONNIE LESLEY 167
+ BOOT AND SADDLE 231
+ BUILDING OF THE SHIP, THE 46
+
+
+ CAVALIER, THE 230
+ CONSOLATION, A 261
+ COUNTY GUY 96
+ CROSSING THE BAR 269
+ CUMNOR HALL 27
+
+
+ DEATHBED, THE 152
+ DEATH THE LEVELER 60
+ DESERTED HOUSE, THE 238
+ DORA 160
+ DOWNFALL OF WOLSEY, THE 177
+
+
+ EACH AND ALL 172
+ ELAINE 247
+ ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 184
+ EVENING (Milton) 212
+ EVENING (Scott) 97
+
+
+ FAITH 206
+ FALL OF POLAND, THE 181
+ FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON 196
+ FORBEARANCE 260
+
+
+ GLENARA 104
+ GOOD GREAT MAN, THE 59
+ GROWING OLD 253
+
+
+ HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS, THE 183
+ HELVELLYN 101
+ HERVÉ RIEL 141
+ HESTER 165
+ HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE, THE 17
+ HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD 69
+ HORATIUS 31
+ HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 214
+ HYMN OF TRUST 159
+ HYMN TO DIANA 101
+ HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR, 211
+
+
+ ICHABOD 178
+ IMMORTALITY 202
+ IN HEAVENLY LOVE ABIDING 245
+ IVRY 136
+
+
+ JACOBITE'S EPITAPH, A 236
+ JACOBITE IN EXILE, A 232
+ JAFFAR 57
+ JOHN ANDERSON 113
+
+
+ KNIGHT'S TOMB, THE 103
+
+
+ LADY OF SHALOTT, THE 76
+ LAST LEAF, THE 239
+ LAST ROSE OF SUMMER, THE 15
+ LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS, THE 111
+ LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS, THE 134
+ LOCHIEL'S WARNING 61
+ LOCHINVAR 50
+ LONDON, 1802 229
+ LORD OF HIMSELF 58
+ LOST LEADER, THE 180
+ LUCY 192
+
+
+ MAN AND NATURE 74
+ MAN THAT HATH NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF, THE 91
+ MORNING 75
+ MY DOVES 206
+ MY LOVE 254
+
+
+ NECKAN, THE 116
+ NIGHT AND DEATH 201
+ NORA'S VOW 255
+
+
+ ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON 226
+ OF OLD SAT FREEDOM 49
+ O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST 140
+ OH FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS 195
+ OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST 260
+ ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 218
+ ON HIS BLINDNESS 46
+ ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 241
+ ON THE SEA 120
+ OUTLAW, THE 257
+ OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 61
+
+
+ PATRIOT, THE 150
+ PETITION TO TIME, A 104
+ PILLAR OF THE CLOUD, THE 135
+ POET AND THE BIRD, THE 115
+
+
+ QUA CURSUM VENTUS 210
+ QUALITY OF MERCY, THE 30
+ QUIET WORK 213
+
+
+ RAISING OF LAZARUS, THE 204
+ RECESSIONAL 270
+ RHODORA, THE 174
+ ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST 82
+ ROSABELLE 24
+ RUGBY CHAPEL 147
+
+
+ SAFE HOME 133
+ ST. AGNES' EVE 246
+ SANDS OF DEE, THE 16
+ SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH 45
+ SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE, THE 106
+ SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY 99
+ SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 200
+ SIR GALAHAD 249
+ SLEEP 156
+ SLEEP, THE 153
+ SNOWSTORM, THE 67
+ SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES," 73
+ SONG OF THE CAMP, A 169
+ SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN, THE 56
+ SONG: "WHO IS SILVIA? WHAT IS SHE?" 256
+ SONNET ON CHILLON 14
+ STANZAS FOR MUSIC 196
+
+
+ TELLING THE BEES 86
+ THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE, A 157
+ THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE 231
+ THREE FISHERS, THE 236
+ TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY 95
+ TO A SKYLARK (Shelley) 261
+ TO A SKYLARK (Wordsworth) 26
+ TO THE DAISY 92
+ TRIUMPH OF CHARIS 198
+ TRUE KNIGHTHOOD 252
+ TWILIGHT CALM 70
+
+
+ ULYSSES 218
+
+
+ VILLAGE PREACHER, THE 190
+
+
+ WATERLOO 266
+ WENDELL PHILLIPS 149
+ WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH THE SHIP WOULD GO 114
+ WHITE SHIP, THE 121
+
+
+
+
+_INDEX OF AUTHORS._
+
+
+ PAGE
+
+ARNOLD, MATTHEW.
+ Quiet Work 213
+ Rugby Chapel: A Selection 147
+ The Neckan 116
+
+BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT.
+ Man and Nature 74
+ My Doves 206
+ Romance of the Swan's Nest 82
+ The Poet and the Bird 115
+ The Sleep 153
+
+BROWNING, ROBERT.
+ Apparitions 253
+ Boot and Saddle 231
+ Growing Old: A Selection 253
+ Hervé Riel 141
+ Home Thoughts from Abroad 69
+ Song from "Pippa Passes" 73
+ The Lost Leader 180
+ The Patriot 150
+
+BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN.
+ "Blessed are They that Mourn" 151
+ Hymn to the North Star 211
+ Oh Fairest of the Rural Maids 195
+ The Antiquity of Freedom 13
+
+BURNS, ROBERT.
+ Auld Lang Syne 112
+ Bannockburn 52
+ Bonnie Lesley 167
+ Flow Gently, Sweet Afton 196
+ John Anderson 113
+ Oh, wert Thou in the Cauld Blast 260
+ There'll Never be Peace 231
+ To a Mountain Daisy 95
+
+BYRON, LORD (George Noel Gordon).
+ She walks in Beauty 9
+ Sonnet on Chillon 14
+ Stanzas for Music 196
+ Waterloo: A Selection 266
+
+CAMPBELL, THOMAS.
+ Glenara 104
+ Lochiel's Warning 61
+ The Fall of Poland 181
+
+CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH.
+ Qua Cursum Ventus 210
+ Say not, the Struggle Naught availeth 45
+ Where lies the Land to which the Ship would go 114
+
+COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR.
+ Hymn before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni 214
+ The Good Great Man 59
+ The Knight's Tomb 103
+
+CORNWALL, BARRY. (See Procter.)
+
+COWPER, WILLIAM.
+ Light Shining out of Darkness, The 134
+ On the receipt of my Mother's Picture 241
+
+DOBSON, AUSTIN.
+ Before Sedan 109
+
+DOUGLAS, WILLIAM.
+ Annie Laurie. 168
+
+EMERSON, RALPH WALDO.
+ Each and All 172
+ Forbearance 260
+ The Rhodora 174
+ The Snowstorm 67
+
+GARNETT, RICHARD.
+ The Ballad of the Boat 119
+
+GOLDSMITH, OLIVER.
+ The Village Preacher 190
+
+GRAY, THOMAS.
+ Elegy written in a Country Churchyard 184
+
+HAWKER, ROBERT S.
+ The Song of the Western Men 56
+
+HERRICK, ROBERT.
+ A Thanksgiving to God for His House 157
+
+HAYWOOD, THOMAS.
+ Morning 75
+
+HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL.
+ Hymn of Trust 159
+ The Last Leaf 239
+
+HOOD, THOMAS.
+ The Deathbed 152
+
+HUNT, LEIGH.
+ Jaffar 57
+
+INGELOW, JEAN.
+ The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire 17
+
+JOHNSON, BEN.
+ Hymn to Diana 101
+ Triumph of Charis 198
+
+KEATS, JOHN.
+ On First Looking into Chapman's Homer 218
+ On the Sea 120
+
+KINGSLEY, CHARLES.
+ The Sands of Dee 16
+ The Three Fishers 236
+
+KIPLING, RUDYARD.
+ Recessional 270
+
+LAMB, CHARLES.
+ Hester 165
+
+LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH.
+ Annie of Tharaw 199
+ The Building of the Ship: A Selection 46
+
+LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL.
+ My Love 254
+ Wendell Phillips 149
+
+LYTE, HENRY F.
+ Abide with Me 72
+
+MACAULEY, THOMAS BABBINGTON.
+ A Jacobite's Epitaph 236
+ Horatius: A Selection 31
+ Ivry 136
+
+MICKLE, WILLIAM F.
+ Cumnor Hall 27
+
+MILTON, JOHN.
+ Evening: A Selection 212
+ On his Blindness 46
+
+MONTGOMERY, JAMES.
+ Immortality 202
+
+MOORE, THOMAS.
+ The Harp that once through Tara's Halls 183
+ The Last Rose of Summer 15
+ The Light of Other Days 111
+
+NEWMAN, JOHN HENRY.
+ The Pillar of the Cloud 135
+
+PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER.
+ A Petition to Time 104
+
+ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G.
+ Twilight Calm 70
+
+ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL.
+ The White Ship 121
+
+ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM.
+ Safe Home. Translated by J. M. Neale 133
+
+SCOTT, SIR WALTER.
+ Bonnie Dundee 53
+ County Guy 96
+ Evening 97
+ Helvellyn 101
+ Lochinvar 50
+ Nora's Vow 255
+ Rosabelle 24
+ The Cavalier 230
+ The Outlaw 257
+
+SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM.
+ A Consolation 261
+ Adversity: A Selection 92
+ Antony's Eulogy on Caesar: A Selection 221
+ Sleep: A Selection 156
+ Song: "Who is Silvia? what is she?"
+ From "Two Gentlemen of Verona" 256
+ The Downfall of Wolsey: A Selection 177
+ The Man that hath no Music in Himself:
+ A Selection 91
+ The Quality of Mercy: A Selection 30
+
+SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE.
+ Ozymandias of Egypt 61
+ To a Skylark 261
+
+SHIRLEY, JAMES.
+ Death the Leveler 60
+
+SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES.
+ A Jacobite in Exile 232
+
+TAYLOR, BAYARD.
+ A Song of the Camp 169
+
+TENNYSON, ALFRED.
+ Crossing the Bar 269
+ Dora 160
+ Elaine: A Selection from "The
+ Idylls of the King" 247
+ Ode on the Death of the Duke of
+ Wellington: A Selection 226
+ Of Old sat Freedom 49
+ St. Agnes' Eve 246
+ Sir Galahad 249
+ The Awakening of Spring: A Selection 68
+ The Beggar Maid 98
+ The Deserted House 238
+ The Lady of Shalott 76
+ The Raising of Lazarus: A Selection 204
+ True Knighthood: A Selection 252
+ Ulysses 218
+
+WARING, ANNA L.
+ In Heavenly Love abiding 245
+
+WATTS, ISAAC.
+ O God, our Help in Ages Past 140
+
+WHITE, JOSEPH BLANCO.
+ Night and Death 201
+
+WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF.
+ Ichabod 178
+ Telling the Bees 86
+
+WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM.
+ Faith: A Selection 206
+ London, 1802 229
+ Lucy 192
+ She was a Phantom of Delight 200
+ The Seven Sisters: or, The Solitude
+ of Binnorie 106
+ To a Skylark 26
+ To the Daisy 92
+
+WOTTON, SIR HENRY.
+ Lord of Himself 58
+
+YULE, SIR HENRY.
+ The Birkenhead 108
+
+
+
+
+THE LAND OF SONG: BOOK III.
+
+_PART I._
+
+[Illustration: TITO CONTI. IRIS.]
+
+_The Land of Song: Book III._
+
+PART ONE.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM.
+
+A SELECTION.
+
+
+ Oh Freedom! thou art not, as poets dream,
+ A fair young girl, with light and delicate limbs,
+ And wavy tresses gushing from the cap
+ With which the Roman master crowned his slave
+ When he took off the gyves. A bearded man,
+ Armed to the teeth, art thou; one mailèd hand
+ Grasps the broad shield, and one the sword; thy brow,
+ Glorious in beauty though it be, is scarred
+ With tokens of old wars; thy massive limbs
+ Are strong with struggling. Power at thee has launched
+ His bolts, and with his lightnings smitten thee;
+ They could not quench the life thou hast from heaven.
+ Merciless power has dug thy dungeon deep,
+ And his swart armorers, by a thousand fires,
+ Have forged thy chain; yet, while he deems thee bound,
+ The links are shivered, and the prison walls
+ Fall outward; terribly thou springest forth,
+ As springs the flame above a burning pile,
+ And shoutest to the nations, who return
+ Thy shoutings, while the pale oppressor flies.
+
+ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+SONNET ON CHILLON.
+
+
+ Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
+ Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
+ For there thy habitation is the heart--
+ The heart which love of thee alone can bind;
+ And when thy sons to fetters are consigned--
+ To fetters, and the damp vault's day less gloom,
+ Their country conquers with their martyrdom,
+ And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
+ Chillon! thy prison is a holy place,
+ And thy sad floor an altar--for 'twas trod,
+ Until his very steps have left a trace
+ Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod,
+ By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface!
+ For they appeal from tyranny to God.
+
+ LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
+
+
+ 'Tis the last rose of summer,
+ Left blooming alone;
+ All her lovely companions
+ Are faded and gone;
+ No flower of her kindred,
+ No rosebud is nigh,
+ To reflect back her blushes,
+ Or give sigh for sigh!
+
+ I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
+ To pine on the stem;
+ Since the lovely are sleeping,
+ Go, sleep thou with them;
+ Thus kindly I scatter
+ Thy leaves o'er the bed
+ Where thy mates of the garden
+ Lie scentless and dead.
+
+ So soon may I follow,
+ When friendships decay,
+ And from love's shining circle
+ The gems drop away!
+ When true hearts lie withered,
+ And fond ones are flown,
+ O, who would inhabit
+ This bleak world alone?
+
+ THOMAS MOORE.
+
+
+
+
+THE SANDS OF DEE.
+
+
+ "O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
+ And call the cattle home,
+ And call the cattle home,
+ Across the sands of Dee."
+ The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
+ And all alone went she.
+
+ The western tide crept up along the sand,
+ And o'er and o'er the sand,
+ And round and round the sand,
+ As far as eye could see.
+ The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
+ And never home came she.
+
+ "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,--
+ A tress of golden hair,
+ A drownèd maiden's hair,
+ Above the nets at sea?
+ Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
+ Among the stakes on Dee."
+
+ They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
+ The cruel crawling foam,
+ The cruel hungry foam,
+ To her grave beside the sea.
+ But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home,
+ Across the sands of Dee.
+
+ CHARLES KINGSLEY.
+
+[Illustration: JEAN INGELOW.]
+
+
+
+
+THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE.
+
+(1571.)
+
+
+ The old mayor climbed the belfry tower,
+ The ringers ran by two, by three;
+ "Pull, if ye never pulled before;
+ Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he.
+ "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells!
+ Play all your changes, all your swells,
+ Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'"
+
+ Men say it was a stolen tyde--
+ The Lord that sent it, He knows all;
+ But in myne ears doth still abide
+ The message that the bells let fall:
+ And there was naught of strange, beside
+ The flights of mews and peewits pied
+ By millions crouched on the old sea wall.
+
+ I sat and spun within the doore,
+ My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes;
+ The level sun, like ruddy ore,
+ Lay sinking in the barren skies;
+ And dark against day's golden death
+ She moved where Lindis wandereth,
+ My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth.
+
+ "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
+ Ere the early dews were falling,
+ Farre away I heard her song.
+ "Cusha! Cusha!" all along;
+ Where the reedy Lindis floweth,
+ Floweth, floweth,
+ From the meads where melick groweth
+ Faintly came her milking song--
+
+ "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
+ "For the dews will soone be falling;
+ Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
+ Mellow, mellow;
+ Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
+ Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
+ Quit the stalks of parsley hollow,
+ Hollow, hollow;
+ Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
+ From the clovers lift your head;
+ Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot,
+ Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow,
+ Jetty, to the milking shed."
+
+ If it be long, ay, long ago,
+ When I beginne to think how long,
+ Againe I hear the Lindis flow,
+ Swifte as an arrow, sharpe and strong;
+ And all the aire, it seemeth mee,
+ Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee),
+ That ring the time of Enderby.
+
+ Alle fresh the level pasture lay,
+ And not a shadow mote be seene,
+ Save where full fyve miles away
+ The steeple towered from out the greene;
+ And lo! the great bell farre and wide
+ Was heard in all the country side
+ That Saturday at eventide.
+
+ The swanherds where their sedges are
+ Moved on in sunset's golden breath,
+ The shepherde lads I heard afarre,
+ And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth;
+ Till floating o'er the grassy sea
+ Came downe that kyndly message free,
+ The "Brides of Mavis Enderby."
+
+ Then some looked uppe into the sky,
+ And all along where Lindis flows
+ To where the goodly vessels lie,
+ And where the lordly steeple shows.
+ They sayde, "And why should this thing be?
+ What danger lowers by land or sea?
+ They ring the tune of Enderby!
+
+ "For evil news from Mablethorpe,
+ Of pyrate galleys warping down;
+ For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe,
+ They have not spared to wake the towne:
+ But while the west bin red to see,
+ And storms be none, and pyrates flee,
+ Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?"
+
+ I looked without, and lo! my sonne
+ Came riding downe with might and main:
+ He raised a shout as he drew on,
+ Till all the welkin rang again,
+ "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"
+ (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
+ Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.)
+
+ "The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe,
+ The rising tide comes on apace,
+ And boats adrift in yonder towne
+ Go sailing uppe the market-place."
+ He shook as one that looks on death:
+ "God save you, mother!" straight he saith,
+ "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?"
+
+ "Good sonne, where Lindis winds her way,
+ With her two bairns I marked her long;
+ And ere yon bells beganne to play
+ Afar I heard her milking song."
+ He looked across the grassy lea,
+ To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"
+ They rang "The Brides of Enderby!"
+
+ With that he cried and beat his breast;
+ For, lo! along the river's bed
+ A mighty eygre reared his crest,
+ And uppe the Lindis raging sped.
+ It swept with thunderous noises loud;
+ Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
+ Or like a demon in a shroud.
+
+ And rearing Lindis backward pressed
+ Shook all her trembling bankes amaine;
+ Then madly at the eygre's breast
+ Flung uppe her weltering walls againe.
+ Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout--
+ Then beaten foam flew round about--
+ Then all the mighty floods were out.
+
+ So farre, so fast the eygre drave,
+ The heart had hardly time to beat,
+ Before a shallow seething wave
+ Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet:
+ The feet had hardly time to flee
+ Before it brake against the knee,
+ And all the world was in the sea.
+
+ Upon the roofe we sate that night,
+ The noise of bells went sweeping by;
+ I marked the lofty beacon light
+ Stream from the church tower, red and high--
+ A lurid mark and dread to see;
+ And awsome bells they were to mee,
+ That in the dark rang "Enderby."
+
+ They rang the sailor lads to guide
+ From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed;
+ And I--my sonne was at my side,
+ And yet the ruddy beacon glowed;
+ And yet he moaned beneath his breath,
+ "O come in life, or come in death!
+ O lost! my love, Elizabeth."
+
+ And didst thou visit him no more?
+ Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter deare;
+ The waters laid thee at his doore,
+ Ere yet the early dawn was clear.
+ Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
+ The lifted sun shone on thy face,
+ Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place.
+
+ That flow strewed wrecks upon the grass,
+ That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea;
+ A fatal ebbe and flow, alas!
+ To manye more than myne and mee:
+ But each will mourn his own (she saith);
+ And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
+ Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.
+
+ I shall never hear her more
+ By the reedy Lindis shore,
+ "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling,
+ Ere the early dews be falling;
+ I shall never hear her song,
+ "Cusha! Cusha!" all along
+ Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
+ Goeth, floweth;
+ From the meads where melick groweth,
+ When the water winding down,
+ Onward floweth to the town.
+
+ I shall never see her more
+ Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
+ Shiver, quiver;
+ Stand beside the sobbing river,
+ Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
+ To the sandy lonesome shore;
+ I shall never hear her calling,
+ "Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
+ Mellow, mellow;
+ Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow;
+ Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot;
+ Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,
+ Hollow, hollow;
+ Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow;
+ Lightfoot, Whitefoot,
+ From your clovers lift the head;
+ Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow,
+ Jetty, to the milking shed."
+
+ JEAN INGELOW.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ROSABELLE.
+
+
+ O listen, listen, ladies gay!
+ No haughty feat of arms I tell;
+ Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
+ That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
+
+ "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
+ And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!
+ Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
+ Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
+
+ "The blackening wave is edged with white;
+ To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
+ The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
+ Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
+
+ "Last night the gifted Seer did view
+ A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;
+ Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
+ Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"
+
+ "'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
+ To-night at Roslin leads the ball,
+ But that my ladye-mother there
+ Sits lonely in her castle hall.
+
+ "'Tis not because the ring they ride,
+ And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
+ But that my sire the wine will chide,
+ If 'tis not filled by Rosabelle."
+
+ O'er Roslin all that dreary night,
+ A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
+ 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,
+ And redder than the bright moonbeam.
+
+ It glared on Roslin's castle rock,
+ It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
+ 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,
+ And seen from caverned Hawthornden.
+
+ Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,
+ Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie,
+ Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
+ Sheathed in his iron panoply.
+
+ Seemed all on fire within, around,
+ Deep sacristy and altar's pale;
+ Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
+ And glimmered all the dead men's mail.
+
+ Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
+ Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--
+ So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
+ The lordly line of high St. Clair.
+
+ There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold
+ Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
+ Each one the holy vault doth hold--
+ But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!
+
+ And each St. Clair was buried there,
+ With candle, with book, and with knell;
+ But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
+ The dirge of lovely Rosabelle!
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TO A SKYLARK.
+
+
+ Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
+ Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
+ Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye
+ Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground?
+ Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
+ Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
+
+ To the last point of vision, and beyond,
+ Mount, daring warbler!--that love-prompted strain
+ --'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond--
+ Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
+ Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege, to sing
+ All independent of the leafy spring.
+
+ Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
+ A privacy of glorious light is thine;
+ Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood
+ Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
+ Type of the wise who soar, but never roam;
+ True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+CUMNOR HALL.
+
+
+ The dews of summer night did fall;
+ The moon, sweet regent of the sky,
+ Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall,
+ And many an oak that grew thereby.
+
+ Now naught was heard beneath the skies,
+ The sounds of busy life were still,
+ Save an unhappy lady's sighs
+ That issued from that lonely pile.
+
+ "Leicester!" she cried, "is this thy love
+ That thou so oft hast sworn to me,
+ To leave me in this lonely grove,
+ Immured in shameful privity?
+
+ "No more thou com'st with lover's speed
+ Thy once-belovèd bride to see;
+ But, be she alive, or be she dead,
+ I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee.
+
+ "Not so the usage I received
+ When happy in my father's hall;
+ No faithless husband then me grieved,
+ No chilling fears did me appall.
+
+ "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?
+
+ "But, Leicester, or I much am wrong,
+ Or, 'tis 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.
+
+ "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.
+
+ "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 aërial voice was heard to call,
+ And thrice the raven flapped its wing
+ Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
+
+ The mastiff howled at village door,
+ The oaks were shattered on the green;
+ Woe was the hour--for never more
+ 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 mossgrown wall;
+ Nor ever lead the merry dance
+ Among the groves of Cumnor Hall.
+
+ Full many a traveler oft hath sighed
+ And pensive wept the countess' fall,
+ As wand'ring onwards they've espied
+ The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall.
+
+ WILLIAM F. MICKLE.
+
+
+
+
+THE QUALITY OF MERCY.
+
+
+ The quality of mercy is not strained,
+ It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
+ Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
+ It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
+ 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
+ The thronèd monarch better than his crown:
+ His scepter shows the force of temporal power,
+ The attribute to awe and majesty,
+ Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
+ But mercy is above this sceptered sway;
+ It is enthronèd in the heart of kings,
+ It is an attribute to God himself;
+ And earthly power doth then show likest God's
+ When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
+ Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
+ That, in the course of justice, none of us
+ Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
+ And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
+ The deeds of mercy.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _The "Merchant of Venice."_
+
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+HORATIUS.
+
+A SELECTION.
+
+
+ But the Consul's brow was sad,
+ And the Consul's speech was low,
+ And darkly looked he at the wall,
+ And darkly at the foe.
+ "Their van will be upon us
+ Before the bridge goes down;
+ And if they once may win the bridge,
+ What hope to save the town?"
+
+ Then out spake brave Horatius,
+ The Captain of the Gate:
+ "To every man upon this earth
+ Death cometh soon or late.
+ And how can man die better
+ Than facing fearful odds,
+ For the ashes of his fathers,
+ And the temples of his Gods;
+
+ "And for the tender mother
+ Who dandled him to rest,
+ And for the wife who nurses
+ His baby at her breast,
+ And for the holy maidens
+ Who feed the eternal flame,
+ To save them from false Sextus
+ That wrought the deed of shame?
+
+ "Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul,
+ With all the speed ye may;
+ I, with two more to help me,
+ Will hold the foe in play.
+ In yon straight path a thousand
+ May well be stopped by three.
+ Now who will stand on either hand,
+ And keep the bridge with me?"
+
+ Then out spake Spurius Lartius;
+ A Ramnian proud was he:
+ "Lo, I will stand at thy right hand,
+ And keep the bridge with thee."
+ And out spake strong Herminius;
+ Of Titian blood was he:
+ "I will abide on thy left side,
+ And keep the bridge with thee."
+
+ "Horatius," quoth the Consul,
+ "As thou sayest, so let it be."
+ And straight against that great array
+ Forth went the dauntless Three.
+ For Romans in Rome's quarrel
+ Spared neither land nor gold,
+ Nor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life,
+ In the brave days of old.
+
+ Then none was for a party;
+ Then all were for the state;
+ Then the great man helped the poor,
+ And the poor man loved the great:
+ Then lands were fairly portioned;
+ Then spoils were fairly sold:
+ The Romans were like brothers
+ In the brave days of old.
+
+ Now Roman is to Roman
+ More hateful than a foe,
+ And the Tribunes beard the high,
+ And the Fathers grind the low,
+ As we wax hot in faction,
+ In battle we wax cold:
+ Wherefore men fight not as they fought
+ In the brave days of old.
+
+ Now while the Three were tightening
+ Their harness on their backs,
+ The Consul was the foremost man
+ To take in hand an ax:
+ And Fathers mixed with Commons
+ Seized hatchet, bar, and crow,
+ And smote upon the planks above,
+ And loosed the props below.
+
+ Meanwhile the Tuscan army,
+ Right glorious to behold,
+ Came flashing back the noonday light,
+ Rank behind rank, like surges bright
+ Of a broad sea of gold.
+ Four hundred trumpets sounded
+ A peal of warlike glee,
+ As that great host, with measured tread,
+ And spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
+ Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head,
+ Where stood the dauntless Three.
+
+ The Three stood calm and silent,
+ And looked upon the foes,
+ And a great shout of laughter
+ From all the vanguard rose;
+ And forth three chiefs came spurring
+ Before that deep array;
+ To earth they sprang, their swords they drew,
+ And lifted high their shields, and flew
+ To win the narrow way;
+
+ Aunus from green Tifernum,
+ Lord of the Hill of Vines;
+ And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
+ Sicken in Ilva's mines;
+ And Picus, long to Clusium
+ Vassal in peace and war,
+ Who led to fight his Umbrian powers
+ From that gray crag where, girt with towers,
+ The fortress of Nequinum towers
+ O'er the pale waves of Nar.
+
+ Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus
+ Into the stream beneath:
+ Herminius struck at Seius,
+ And clove him to the teeth:
+ At Picus Brave Horatius
+ Darted one fiery thrust;
+ And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms
+ Clashed in the bloody dust.
+
+ Then Ocnus of Falerii
+ Rushed on the Roman Three;
+ And Lausulus of Urgo,
+ The rover of the sea;
+ And Aruns of Volsinium,
+ Who slew the great wild boar,
+ The great wild boar that had his den
+ Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,
+ And wasted fields, and slaughtered men,
+ Along Albinia's shore.
+
+ Herminius smote down Aruns:
+ Lartius laid Ocnus low:
+ Right to the heart of Lausulus
+ Horatius sent a blow.
+ "Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate!
+ No more, aghast and pale,
+ From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark
+ The track of thy destroying bark.
+ No more Campania's hinds shall fly
+ To woods and caverns when they spy
+ Thy thrice accursèd sail."
+
+ But now no sound of laughter
+ Was heard among the foes,
+ A wild and wrathful clamor
+ From all the vanguard rose.
+ Six spears' lengths from the entrance
+ Halted that deep array,
+ And for a space no man came forth
+ To win the narrow way.
+
+ But hark! the cry is "Astur";
+ And lo! the ranks divide;
+ And the great Lord of Luna
+ Comes with his stately stride.
+ Upon his ample shoulders
+ Clangs loud the fourfold shield,
+ And in his hand he shakes the brand
+ Which none but he can wield.
+
+ He smiled on those bold Romans
+ A smile serene and high;
+ He eyed the flinching Tuscans,
+ And scorn was in his eye.
+ Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter
+ Stands savagely at bay:
+ But will ye dare to follow,
+ If Astur clears the way?"
+
+ Then, whirling up his broadsword
+ With both hands to the height,
+ He rushed against Horatius,
+ And smote with all his might.
+ With shield and blade Horatius
+ Right deftly turned the blow.
+ The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh;
+ It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh;
+ The Tuscans raised a joyful cry
+ To see the red blood flow.
+
+ He reeled, and on Herminius
+ He leaned one breathing-space;
+ Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds,
+ Sprang right at Astur's face.
+ Through teeth, and skull, and helmet
+ So fierce a thrust he sped,
+ The good sword stood a hand-breadth out
+ Behind the Tuscan's head.
+
+ And the great Lord of Luna
+ Fell at that deadly stroke,
+ As falls on Mount Alvernus
+ A thunder-smitten oak.
+ Far o'er the crashing forest
+ The giant arms lie spread;
+ And the pale augurs, muttering low,
+ Gaze on the blasted head.
+
+ On Astur's throat Horatius
+ Right firmly pressed his heel,
+ And thrice and four times tugged amain,
+ Ere he wrenched out the steel.
+ "And see," he cried, "the welcome,
+ Fair guests, that waits you here!
+ What noble Lucumo comes next
+ To taste our Roman cheer?"
+
+ But at his haughty challenge
+ A sullen murmur ran,
+ Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread,
+ Along that glittering van.
+ There lacked not men of prowess,
+ Nor men of lordly race;
+ For all Etruria's noblest
+ Were round the fatal place.
+
+ But all Etruria's noblest
+ Felt their hearts sink to see
+ On the earth the bloody corpses,
+ In the path the dauntless Three.
+ And from the ghastly entrance
+ Where those bold Romans stood,
+ All shrank, like boys who unaware,
+ Ranging the woods to start a hare,
+ Come to the mouth of the dark lair
+ Where, growling low, a fierce old bear
+ Lies amidst bones and blood.
+
+ Was none who would be foremost
+ To lead such dire attack:
+ But those behind cried, "Forward!"
+ And those before cried, "Back!"
+ And backward now and forward
+ Wavers the deep array;
+ And on the tossing sea of steel,
+ To and fro the standards reel;
+ And the victorious trumpet-peal
+ Dies fitfully away.
+
+ Yet one man for one moment
+ Stood out before the crowd;
+ Well known was he to all the Three,
+ And they gave him greeting loud.
+ "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus!
+ Now welcome to thy home!
+ Why dost thou stay, and turn away,
+ Here lies the road to Rome."
+
+ Thrice looked he at the city;
+ Thrice looked he at the dead;
+ And thrice came on in fury,
+ And thrice turned back in dread;
+ And, white with fear and hatred,
+ Scowled at the narrow way
+ Where, wallowing in a pool of blood,
+ The bravest Tuscans lay.
+
+ But meanwhile ax and lever
+ Have manfully been plied;
+ And now the bridge hangs tottering
+ Above the boiling tide.
+ "Come back, come back, Horatius!"
+ Loud cried the Fathers all,
+ "Back, Lartius! back, Herminius!
+ Back, ere the ruin fall!"
+
+ Back darted Spurius Lartius;
+ Herminius darted back:
+ And, as they passed, beneath their feet
+ They felt the timbers crack.
+ But when they turned their faces,
+ And on the farther shore
+ Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
+ They would have crossed once more.
+
+ But with a crash like thunder
+ Fell every loosened beam,
+ And, like a dam, the mighty wreck
+ Lay right athwart the stream;
+ And a long shout of triumph
+ Rose from the walls of Rome,
+ As to the highest turret-tops
+ Was splashed the yellow foam.
+
+ And like a horse unbroken
+ When first he feels the rein,
+ The furious river struggled hard,
+ And tossed his tawny mane,
+ And burst the curb, and bounded,
+ Rejoicing to be free;
+ And whirling down, in fierce career,
+ Battlement, and plank, and pier,
+ Rushed headlong to the sea.
+
+ Alone stood brave Horatius,
+ But constant still in mind;
+ Thrice thirty thousand foes before,
+ And the broad flood behind.
+ "Down with him!" cried false Sextus,
+ With a smile on his pale face.
+ "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena,
+ "Now yield thee to our grace."
+
+ Round turned he, as not deigning
+ Those craven ranks to see;
+ Naught spake he to Lars Porsena,
+ To Sextus naught spake he;
+ But he saw on Palatinus
+ The white porch of his home;
+ And he spake to the noble river
+ That rolls by the towers of Rome.
+
+ "Oh, Tiber! father Tiber!
+ To whom the Romans pray,
+ A Roman's life, a Roman's arms,
+ Take thou in charge this day."
+ So he spake, and speaking sheathed
+ The good sword by his side,
+ And with his harness on his back,
+ Plunged headlong in the tide.
+
+ No sound of joy or sorrow
+ Was heard from either bank;
+ But friends and foes, in dumb surprise,
+ With parted lips and straining eyes,
+ Stood gazing where he sank;
+ And when above the surges
+ They saw his crest appear,
+ All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry,
+ And even the ranks of Tuscany
+ Could scarce forbear to cheer.
+
+ But fiercely ran the current,
+ Swollen high by months of rain:
+ And fast his blood was flowing
+ And he was sore in pain,
+ And heavy with his armor,
+ And spent with changing blows:
+ And oft they thought him sinking,
+ But still again he rose.
+
+ Never, I ween, did swimmer,
+ In such an evil case,
+ Struggle through such a raging flood
+ Safe to the landing-place:
+ But his limbs were borne up bravely
+ By the brave heart within;
+ And our good father Tiber
+ Bore bravely up his chin.
+
+ "Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus;
+ "Will not the villain drown?
+ But for this stay, ere close of day
+ We should have sacked the town!"
+ "Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena,
+ "And bring him safe to shore;
+ For such a gallant feat of arms
+ Was never seen before."
+
+ And now he feels the bottom;
+ Now on dry earth he stands;
+ Now round him throng the Fathers
+ To press his gory hands;
+ And now, with shouts and clapping,
+ And noise of weeping loud,
+ He enters through the River-Gate,
+ Borne by the joyous crowd.
+
+ They gave him of the corn-land,
+ That was of public right,
+ As much as two strong oxen
+ Could plow from morn till night;
+ And they made a molten image,
+ And set it up on high,
+ And there it stands unto this day
+ To witness if I lie.
+
+ It stands in the Comitium,
+ Plain for all folk to see;
+ Horatius in his harness,
+ Halting upon one knee:
+ And underneath is written,
+ In letters all of gold,
+ How valiantly he kept the bridge,
+ In the brave days of old.
+
+ And still his name sounds stirring
+ Unto the men of Rome,
+ As the trumpet-blast that cries to them
+ To charge the Volscian home;
+ And wives still pray to Juno
+ For boys with hearts as bold
+ As his who kept the bridge so well
+ In the brave days of old.
+
+ And in the nights of winter,
+ When the cold north winds blow,
+ And the long howling of the wolves
+ Is heard amidst the snow;
+ When round the lonely cottage
+ Roars loud the tempest's din,
+ And the good logs of Algidus
+ Roar louder yet within;
+
+ When the oldest cask is opened,
+ And the largest lamp is lit;
+ When the chestnuts glow in the embers,
+ And the kid turns on the spit;
+ When young and old in circle
+ Around the firebrands close;
+ When the girls are weaving baskets,
+ And the lads are shaping bows;
+
+ When the goodman mends his armor,
+ And trims his helmet's plume;
+ When the goodwife's shuttle merrily
+ Goes flashing through the loom;
+ With weeping and with laughter
+ Still is the story told,
+ How well Horatius kept the bridge
+ In the brave days of old.
+
+ THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
+
+[Illustration: THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.]
+
+
+
+
+SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NAUGHT AVAILETH.
+
+
+ Say not, the struggle naught 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 yon 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.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ON HIS BLINDNESS.
+
+
+ When I consider how my light is spent,
+ Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
+ And that one talent, which is death to hide,
+ Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
+ To serve therewith my Maker, and present
+ My true account, lest He, returning, chide,--
+ "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?"
+ I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent
+ That murmur, soon replies, "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."
+
+ JOHN MILTON.
+
+[Illustration: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.]
+
+
+
+
+THE BUILDING OF THE SHIP.
+
+A SELECTION.
+
+
+ All is finished! and at length
+ Has come the bridal day
+ Of beauty and of strength.
+ To-day the vessel shall be launched!
+ With fleecy clouds the sky is blanched,
+ And o'er the bay,
+ Slowly, in all his splendors dight,
+ The great sun rises to behold the sight.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ On the deck another bride
+ Is standing by her lover's side.
+ Shadows from the flags and shrouds,
+ Like the shadows cast by clouds,
+ Broken by many a sunny fleck,
+ Fall around them on the deck.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Then the Master,
+ With a gesture of command,
+ Waved his hand;
+ And at the word,
+ Loud and sudden there was heard,
+ All around them and below,
+ The sound of hammers, blow on blow,
+ Knocking away the shores and spurs.
+ And see! she stirs!
+ She starts,--she moves,--she seems to feel
+ The thrill of life along her keel,
+ And, spurning with her foot the ground,
+ With one exulting, joyous bound,
+ She leaps into the ocean's arms!
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Sail forth into the sea of life,
+ O gentle, loving, trusting wife,
+ And safe from all adversity
+ Upon the bosom of that sea
+ Thy comings and thy goings be!
+ For gentleness and love and trust
+ Prevail o'er angry wave and gust;
+ And in the wreck of noble lives
+ Something immortal still survives!
+
+ Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State!
+ Sail on, O UNION, strong and great!
+ Humanity with all its fears,
+ With all the hopes of future years,
+ Is hanging breathless on thy fate!
+ We know what Master laid thy keel,
+ What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel,
+ Who made each mast, and sail, and rope,
+ What anvils rang, what hammers beat,
+ In what a forge and what a heat
+ Were shaped the anchors of thy hope!
+ Fear not each sudden sound and shock,
+ 'Tis of the wave and not the rock;
+ Tis but the flapping of the sail,
+ And not a rent made by the gale!
+ In spite of rock and tempest's roar,
+ In spite of false lights on the shore,
+ Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea!
+ Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee,
+ Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears,
+ Our faith triumphant o'er our fears,
+ Are all with thee,--are all with thee!
+
+ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+OF OLD SAT FREEDOM.
+
+
+ Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
+ The thunders breaking at her feet:
+ Above her shook the starry lights:
+ She heard the torrents meet.
+
+ There in her place she did rejoice,
+ Self-gathered in her prophet-mind,
+ But fragments of her mighty voice
+ Came rolling on the wind.
+
+ Then stept she down thro' town and field
+ To mingle with the human race,
+ And part by part to men revealed
+ The fullness of her face--
+
+ Grave mother of majestic works,
+ From her isle-altar gazing down,
+ Who, godlike, grasps the triple forks,
+ And kinglike, wears the crown:
+
+ Her open eyes desire the truth.
+ The wisdom of a thousand years
+ Is in them. May perpetual youth
+ Keep dry their light from tears;
+
+ That her fair form may stand and shine,
+ Make bright our days and light our dreams,
+ Turning to scorn with lips divine
+ The falsehood of extremes!
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+
+
+
+LOCHINVAR.
+
+
+ Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west.
+ Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,
+ And save his good broadsword he weapons had none;
+ He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
+ So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
+ There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
+
+ He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
+ He swam the Eske River where ford there was none;
+ But ere he alighted at Netherby gate
+ The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
+ For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war
+ Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
+
+ So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,
+ Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all:
+ Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword
+ (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),
+ "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
+ Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
+
+ "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;--
+ Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide--
+ And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,
+ To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
+ There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
+ That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
+
+ The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up;
+ He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
+ She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
+ With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
+ He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,--
+ "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
+
+ So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
+ That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
+ While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
+ And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume,
+ And the bridemaidens whispered, "'Twere better by far
+ To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
+
+ One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
+ When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near;
+ So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
+ So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
+ "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
+ They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
+
+ There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;
+ Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
+ There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
+ But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
+ So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
+ Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+BANNOCKBURN.
+
+
+ Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
+ Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
+ Welcome to your gory bed,
+ Or to victorie!
+
+ Now's the day, and now's the hour;
+ See the front o' battle lour:
+ See approach proud Edward's pow'r--
+ Chains and slaverie!
+
+ Wha will be a traitor-knave?
+ Wha can fill a coward's grave?
+ Wha sae base as be a slave?
+ Let him turn and flee!
+
+ Wha for Scotland's king and law,
+ Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
+ Freeman stand, or freeman fa',
+ Let him follow me!
+
+ By oppression's woes and pains!
+ By our sons in servile chains!
+ We will drain our dearest veins,
+ But they shall be free!
+
+ Lay the proud usurpers low!
+ Tyrants fall in every foe!
+ Liberty's in every blow!--
+ Let us do or die!
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+BONNIE DUNDEE.
+
+
+ To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke,
+ "Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;
+ So let each Cavalier who loves honor and me,
+ Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
+ Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
+ Come open the West Port, and let me gang free,
+ And it's room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!"
+
+ Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
+ The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
+ But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be,
+ The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee!"
+
+ As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
+ Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
+ But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
+ Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee!
+
+ With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed,
+ As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;
+ There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e,
+ As they watched for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
+ And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers;
+ But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free,
+ At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
+ And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke;
+ "Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three
+ For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee."
+
+ The Gordon demands of him which way he goes:
+ "Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
+ Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
+ Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ "There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth,
+ If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North;
+ There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
+ Will cry _hoigh!_ for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ "There's brass on the target of barkened bull hide;
+ There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;
+ The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
+ At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ "Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,
+ Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
+ And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
+ You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!"
+
+ He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,
+ The kettledrums clashed, and the horsemen rode on,
+ Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee
+ Died away the wild war notes of Bonnie Dundee.
+
+ Come fill up my cup, and fill up my can,
+ Come saddle the horses and call up the men,
+ Come open your gates, and let me gae free,
+ For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN.
+
+
+ A good sword and a trusty hand!
+ A merry heart and true!
+ King James's men shall understand
+ What Cornish lads can do.
+
+ And have they fixed the where and when?
+ And shall Trelawny die?
+ Here's twenty thousand Cornish men
+ Will know the reason why!
+
+ Out spake their captain brave and bold,
+ A merry wight was he:
+ "If London Tower were Michael's hold,
+ We'll set Trelawny free!
+
+ "We'll cross the Tamar, land to land,
+ The Severn is no stay,
+ With one and all, and hand in hand,
+ And who shall bid us nay?
+
+ "And when we come to London Wall,
+ A pleasant sight to view,
+ Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all,
+ Here's men as good as you.
+
+ "Trelawny he's in keep and hold,
+ Trelawny he may die;
+ But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold
+ Will know the reason why!"
+
+ ROBERT S. HAWKER.
+
+
+
+
+JAFFAR.
+
+
+ Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier,
+ The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,--
+ Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust;
+ And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust
+ Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say,
+ Ordained that no man living, from that day,
+ Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.
+ All Araby and Persia held their breath.
+
+ All but the brave Mondeer.--He, proud to show
+ How far for love a grateful soul could go,
+ And facing death for very scorn and grief,
+ For his great heart wanted a great relief,
+ Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square
+ Where once had stood a happy home, and there
+ Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar
+ On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.
+
+ "Bring me this man," the caliph cried: the man
+ Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began
+ To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he;
+ "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me;
+ From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears;
+ Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears;
+ Restored me, loved me, put me on a par
+ With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"
+
+ Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this
+ The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss,
+ Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate
+ Might smile upon another half as great.
+ He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will;
+ The caliph's judgment shall be master still.
+
+ "Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem,
+ The richest in the Tartar's diadem,
+ And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."
+ "Gifts!" cried the friend. He took: and holding it
+ High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star,
+ Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar."
+
+ LEIGH HUNT.
+
+
+
+
+LORD OF HIMSELF.
+
+
+ How happy is he born or taught
+ Who serveth not another's will;
+ Whose armor is his honest thought,
+ And simple truth his highest skill:
+
+ Whose passions not his masters are;
+ Whose soul is still prepared for death--
+ Not tied unto the world with care
+ Of prince's ear or vulgar breath;
+
+ Who hath his ear from rumors freed;
+ Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
+ Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
+ Nor ruin make oppressors great;
+
+ Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
+ Or vice; who never understood
+ How deepest wounds are given with praise,
+ Nor rules of state but rules of good;
+ Who God doth late and early pray
+ More of his grace than gifts to lend,
+ And entertains the harmless day
+ With a well-chosen book or friend--
+
+ This man is free from servile bands
+ Of hope to rise or fear to fall:
+ Lord of himself, though not of lands,
+ And, having nothing, yet hath all.
+
+ SIR HENRY WOTTON.
+
+
+
+
+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 hath 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 infants' breath;
+ And three firm friends, more sure than day and night--
+ Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
+
+ SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+DEATH THE LEVELER.
+
+
+ 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:
+ Scepter 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.
+
+
+
+
+OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.
+
+
+ I met a traveler from an antique land
+ Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
+ Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
+ Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
+ And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
+ Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
+ Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
+ The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
+ And on the pedestal these words appear:
+ "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
+ Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
+ Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
+ Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
+ The lone and level sands stretch far away.
+
+ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
+
+[Illustration: THOMAS CAMPBELL.]
+
+
+
+
+LOCHIEL'S WARNING.
+
+WIZARD--LOCHIEL.
+
+
+WIZARD.
+
+ Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day
+ When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
+ For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
+ And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.
+ They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
+ Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down!
+ Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
+ And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
+ But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
+ What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
+ 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
+ Like a love-lighted watch fire, all night at the gate.
+ A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
+ But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
+ Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
+ Oh weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead:
+ For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
+ Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
+
+
+LOCHIEL.
+
+ Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer;
+ Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
+ Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
+ This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.
+
+
+WIZARD.
+
+ Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
+ Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!
+ Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
+ From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
+ Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
+ Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;
+ But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
+ Ah! home let him speed,--for the spoiler is nigh.
+ Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
+ Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
+ 'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
+ From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
+ Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
+ Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
+ Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
+ Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!
+ For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
+ And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
+
+
+LOCHIEL.
+
+ False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled my clan,
+ Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
+ They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
+ And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
+ Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
+ Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
+ But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
+ When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
+ When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
+ Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
+ All plaided and plumed in their tartan array--
+
+
+WIZARD.
+
+ --Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day;
+ For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
+ But man cannot cover what God would reveal;
+ 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
+ And coming events cast their shadows before.
+ I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
+ With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
+ Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath,
+ Behold where he flies on his desolate path!
+ Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight:
+ Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
+ 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors:
+ Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.
+ But where is the ironbound prisoner? Where?
+ For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
+ Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn,
+ Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?
+ Ah no! for a darker departure is near;
+ The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
+ His death bell is tolling: oh! mercy, dispel
+ Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
+ Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
+ And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
+ Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet,
+ Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
+ With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale--
+
+
+LOCHIEL.
+
+ --Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale:
+ For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
+ So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat.
+ Tho' my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
+ Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
+ Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
+ While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
+ Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
+ With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
+ And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
+ Look proudly to Heaven from the deathbed of fame.
+
+ THOMAS CAMPBELL.
+
+[Illustration: _"Announced by all the trumpets of the sky"_]
+
+
+
+
+THE SNOWSTORM.
+
+
+ Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
+ Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
+ Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air
+ Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
+ And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end.
+ The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet
+ Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
+ Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed
+ In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
+
+ Come see the north wind's masonry.
+ Out of an unseen quarry evermore
+ Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer
+ Curves his white bastions with projected roof
+ Round every windward stake, or tree, or door.
+ Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work
+ So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he
+ For number or proportion. Mockingly,
+ On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths;
+ A swanlike form invests the hidden thorn:
+ Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall,
+ Maugre the farmer's sighs; and at the gate
+ A tapering turret overtops the work.
+ And when his hours are numbered, and the world
+ Is all his own, retiring, as he were not,
+ Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art
+ To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone,
+ Built in an age, the mad wind's night work,
+ The frolic architecture of the snow.
+
+ RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE AWAKENING OF SPRING.
+
+
+ Now fades the last long streak of snow,
+ Now bourgeons every maze of quick
+ About the flowering squares, and thick
+ By ashen roots the violets blow.
+
+ Now rings the woodland loud and long,
+ The distance takes a lovelier hue,
+ And drowned in yonder living blue
+ The lark becomes a sightless song.
+
+ Now dance the lights on lawn and lea,
+ The flocks are whiter down the vale,
+ And milkier every milky sail
+ On winding stream or distant sea;
+
+ Where now the seamew pipes, or dives
+ In yonder greening gleam, and fly
+ The happy birds, that change their sky
+ To build and brood; that live their lives
+
+ From land to land; and in my breast
+ Spring wakens too; and my regret
+ Becomes an April violet,
+ And buds and blossoms like the rest.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+ _From "In Memoriam."_
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+HOME THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD.
+
+
+ Oh, to be in England now that April's there,
+ And whoever wakes in England sees, some morning, unaware,
+ That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
+ Round the elm tree hole are in tiny leaf,
+ While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
+ In England--now!
+ And after April, when May follows,
+ And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
+ Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge
+ Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
+ Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray's edge--
+ That's the wise thrush: he sings each song twice over
+ Lest you should think he never could recapture
+ The first fine careless rapture!
+ And, though the fields look rough with hoary dew
+ All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
+ The buttercups, the little children's dower
+ --Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower!
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+TWILIGHT CALM.
+
+
+ O Pleasant eventide!
+ Clouds on the western side
+ Grow gray and grayer, hiding the warm sun:
+ The bees and birds, their happy labors done,
+ Seek their close nests and bide.
+
+ Screened in the leafy wood
+ The stockdoves sit and brood:
+ The very squirrel leaps from bough to bough
+ But lazily; pauses; and settles now
+ Where once he stored his food.
+
+ One by one the flowers close,
+ Lily and dewy rose
+ Shutting their tender petals from the moon:
+ The grasshoppers are still; but not so soon
+ Are still the noisy crows.
+
+ The dormouse squats and eats
+ Choice little dainty bits
+ Beneath the spreading roots of a broad lime;
+ Nibbling his fill he stops from time to time
+ And listens where he sits.
+
+ From far the lowings come
+ Of cattle driven home:
+ From farther still the wind brings fitfully
+ The vast continual murmur of the sea,
+ Now loud, now almost dumb.
+
+ The gnats whirl in the air,
+ The evening gnats; and there
+ The owl opes broad his eyes and wings to sail
+ For prey; the bat wakes; and the shell-less snail
+ Comes forth, clammy and bare.
+
+ Hark! that's the nightingale.
+ Telling the selfsame tale
+ Her song told when this ancient earth was young:
+ So echoes answered when her song was sung
+ In the first wooded vale.
+
+ We call it love and pain,
+ The passion of her strain;
+ And yet we little understand or know:
+ Why should it not be rather joy that so
+ Throbs in each throbbing vein?
+
+ In separate herds the deer
+ Lie; here the bucks, and here
+ The does, and by its mother sleeps the fawn:
+ Through all the hours of night until the dawn
+ They sleep, forgetting fear.
+
+ The hare sleeps where it lies,
+ With wary half-closed eyes:
+ The cock has ceased to crow, the hen to cluck:
+ Only the fox is out, some heedless duck
+ Or chicken to surprise.
+
+ Remote, each single star
+ Comes out, till there they are
+ All shining brightly: how the dews fall damp!
+ While close at hand the glowworm lights her lamp
+ Or twinkles from afar.
+
+ But evening now is done
+ As much as if the sun
+ Day-giving had arisen in the east:
+ For night has come; and the great calm has ceased,
+ The quiet sands have run.
+
+ CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ABIDE WITH ME.
+
+
+ Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide;
+ The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!
+ When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
+ Help of the helpless, O abide with me!
+
+ Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;
+ Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away:
+ Change and decay in all around I see;
+ O Thou, who changest not, abide with me!
+
+ Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word,
+ But as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord,
+ Familiar, condescending, patient, free,
+ Come, not to sojourn, but abide with me!
+
+ Come not in terrors, as the King of kings;
+ But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings:
+ Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea:--
+ Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!
+
+ Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,
+ And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,
+ Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee;
+ On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!
+
+ I need Thy presence every passing hour:
+ What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power?
+ Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be?
+ Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!
+
+ I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless:
+ Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.
+ Where is Death's sting? where, Grave, thy victory?
+ --I triumph still, if Thou abide with me.
+
+ Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
+ Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies:
+ Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:--
+ In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!
+
+ HENRY F. LYTE.
+
+
+
+
+SONG FROM "PIPPA PASSES."
+
+
+ The year's at the spring,
+ And day's at the morn;
+ Morning's at seven;
+ The hillside's dew-pearled;
+ The lark's on the wing;
+ The snail's on the thorn;
+ God's in His heaven--
+ All's right with the world.
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+MAN AND NATURE.
+
+
+ A sad man on a summer day
+ Did look upon the earth and say--
+ "Purple cloud, the hilltop binding,
+ Folded hills, the valleys wind in,
+ Valleys, with fresh streams among you,
+ Streams, with bosky trees along you,
+ Trees, with many birds and blossoms,
+ Birds, with music-trembling bosoms,
+ Blossoms, dropping dews that wreathe you
+ To your fellow flowers beneath you,
+ Flowers, that constellate on earth,
+ Earth, that shakest to the mirth
+ Of the merry Titan ocean,
+ All his shining hair in motion!
+ Why am I thus the only one
+ Who can be dark beneath the sun?"
+
+ But when the summer day was past,
+ He looked to heaven and smiled at last,
+ Self-answered so--
+ "Because, O cloud,
+ Pressing with thy crumpled shroud
+ Heavily on mountain top,--
+ Hills, that almost seem to drop,
+ Stricken with a misty death,
+ To the valleys underneath,--
+ Valleys, sighing with the torrent,--
+ Waters, streaked with branches horrent,--
+ Branchless trees, that shake your head
+ Wildly o'er your blossoms spread
+ Where the common flowers are found,--
+ Flowers, with foreheads to the ground,--
+ Ground, that shriekest while the sea
+ With his iron smiteth thee--
+ I am, besides, the only one
+ Who can be bright _without_ the sun."
+
+ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+MORNING.
+
+
+ Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day,
+ With night we banish sorrow,
+ Sweet air blow soft, mount lark aloft
+ To give my Love good morrow.
+ Wings from the wind, to please her mind,
+ Notes from the lark I'll borrow;
+ Bird prune thy wing, nightingale sing,
+ To give my Love good morrow;
+ To give my Love good morrow
+ Notes from them all I'll borrow.
+
+ Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,
+ Sing birds in every furrow,
+ And from each hill, let music shrill,
+ Give my fair Love good morrow:
+ Blackbird and thrush, in every bush,
+ Stare, linnet, and cock sparrow!
+ You pretty elves, amongst yourselves
+ Sing my fair Love good morrow.
+ To give my Love good morrow
+ Sing birds in every furrow.
+
+ THOMAS HEYWOOD.
+
+
+
+
+THE LADY OF SHALOTT.
+
+PART I.
+
+
+ On either side the river lie
+ Long fields of barley and of rye,
+ That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
+ And thro' the field the road runs by
+ To many-towered Camelot;
+ And up and down the people go,
+ Gazing where the lilies blow
+ Round an island there below,
+ The island of Shalott.
+
+ Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
+ Little breezes dusk and shiver
+ Thro' the wave that runs forever
+ By the island in the river
+ Flowing down to Camelot.
+ Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
+ Overlook a space of flowers,
+ And the silent isle imbowers
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+ By the margin, willow-veiled,
+ Slide the heavy barges trailed
+ By slow horses; and unhailed
+ The shallop flitteth silken-sailed,
+ Skimming down to Camelot:
+ But who hath seen her wave her hand?
+ Or at the casement seen her stand?
+ Or is she known in all the land,
+ The Lady of Shalott?
+
+ Only reapers, reaping early
+ In among the bearded barley,
+ Hear a song that echoes cheerly
+ From the river winding clearly,
+ Down to towered Camelot:
+ And by the moon the reaper weary,
+ Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
+ Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
+ Lady of Shalott."
+
+PART II.
+
+ There she weaves by night and day
+ A magic web with colors gay.
+ She has heard a whisper say,
+ A curse is on her if she stay
+ To look down to Camelot.
+ She knows not what the curse may be,
+ And so she weaveth steadily,
+ And little other care hath she,
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+ And moving thro' a mirror clear
+ That hangs before her all the year,
+ Shadows of the world appear.
+ There she sees the highway near
+ Winding down to Camelot;
+ There the river eddy whirls,
+ And there the surly village churls,
+ And the red cloaks of market-girls,
+ Pass onward from Shalott.
+
+ Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
+ An abbot on an ambling pad,
+ Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
+ Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
+ Goes by to towered Camelot;
+ And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
+ The knights come riding two and two;
+ She hath no loyal knight and true,
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+ But in her web she still delights
+ To weave the mirror's magic sights,
+ For often thro' the silent nights
+ A funeral, with plumes and lights,
+ And music, went to Camelot:
+ Or when the moon was overhead,
+ Came two young lovers lately wed;
+ "I am half sick of shadows," said
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+PART III.
+
+ A bowshot from her bower eaves,
+ He rode between the barley sheaves,
+ The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
+ And flamed upon the brazen greaves
+ Of bold Sir Lancelot.
+ A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
+ To a lady in his shield,
+ That sparkled on the yellow field,
+ Beside remote Shalott.
+
+ The gemmy bridle glittered free,
+ Like to some branch of stars we see
+ Hung in the golden Galaxy.
+ The bridle bells rang merrily
+ As he rode down to Camelot:
+ And from his blazoned baldric slung
+ A mighty silver bugle hung,
+ And as he rode his armor rung,
+ Beside remote Shalott.
+
+ All in the blue unclouded weather
+ Thick-jeweled shone the saddle leather,
+ The helmet and the helmet feather
+ Burned like one burning flame together,
+ As he rode down to Camelot.
+ As often thro' the purple night,
+ Below the starry clusters bright,
+ Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
+ Moves over still Shalott.
+
+ His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed;
+ On burnished hooves his war horse trode;
+ From underneath his helmet flowed
+ His coal-black curls as on he rode,
+ As he rode down to Camelot.
+ From the bank and from the river
+ He flashed into the crystal mirror,
+ "Tirra, lirra," by the river
+ Sang Sir Lancelot.
+
+ She left the web, she left the loom,
+ She made three paces thro' the room,
+ She saw the water lily bloom,
+ She saw the helmet and the plume,
+ She looked down to Camelot.
+ Out flew the web and floated wide;
+ The mirror cracked from side to side;
+ "The curse is come upon me," cried
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+PART IV.
+
+ In the stormy east wind straining,
+ The pale yellow woods were waning,
+ The broad stream in his banks complaining,
+ Heavily the low sky raining
+ Over towered Camelot;
+ Down she came and found a boat
+ Beneath a willow left afloat,
+ And round about the prow she wrote
+ _The Lady of Shalott_.
+
+ And down the river's dim expanse--
+ Like some bold seër in a trance,
+ Seeing all his own mischance--
+ With a glassy countenance
+ Did she look to Camelot.
+ And at the closing of the day
+ She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
+ The broad stream bore her far away,
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+ Lying, robed in snowy white
+ That loosely flew to left and right--
+ The leaves upon her falling light--
+ Thro' the noises of the night
+ She floated down to Camelot:
+ And as the boat head wound along
+ The willowy hills and fields among,
+ They heard her singing her last song,
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+ Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
+ Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
+ Till her blood was frozen slowly,
+ And her eyes were darkened wholly,
+ Turned to towered Camelot;
+ For ere she reached upon the tide
+ The first house by the water-side,
+ Singing in her song she died,
+ The Lady of Shalott.
+
+ Under tower and balcony,
+ By garden wall and gallery,
+ A gleaming shape she floated by,
+ Dead-pale between the houses high,
+ Silent into Camelot.
+ Out upon the wharfs they came,
+ Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
+ And round the prow they read her name,
+ _The Lady of Shalott_.
+
+ Who is this? and what is here?
+ And in the lighted palace near
+ Died the sound of royal cheer;
+ And they crossed themselves for fear,
+ All the knights at Camelot:
+ But Lancelot mused a little space;
+ He said, "She has a lovely face;
+ God in his mercy lend her grace,
+ The Lady of Shalott."
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.
+
+
+ Little Ellie sits alone
+ 'Mid the beeches of the meadow,
+ By a stream-side on the grass;
+ And the trees are showering down
+ Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
+ On her shining hair and face.
+
+ She has thrown her bonnet by;
+ And her feet she has been dipping
+ In the shallow water's flow.
+ Now she holds them nakedly
+ In her hands, all sleek and dripping,
+ While she rocketh to and fro.
+
+ Little Ellie sits alone,
+ And the smile she softly uses,
+ Fills the silence like a speech;
+ While she thinks what shall be done,--
+ And the sweetest pleasure chooses
+ For her future within reach.
+
+ Little Ellie in her smile
+ Chooses, "I will have a lover,
+ Riding on a steed of steeds!
+ He shall love me without guile;
+ And to _him_ I will discover
+ That swan's nest among the reeds.
+
+ "And the steed shall be red-roan,
+ And the lover shall be noble,
+ With an eye that takes the breath;
+ And the lute he plays upon,
+ Shall strike ladies into trouble,
+ As his sword strikes men to death!
+
+ "And the steed it shall be shod
+ All in silver, housed in azure,
+ And the mane shall swim the wind;
+ And the hoofs, along the sod,
+ Shall flash onward and keep measure,
+ Till the shepherds look behind.
+
+ "But my lover will not prize
+ All the glory that he rides in,
+ When he gazes in my face;
+ He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes
+ Build the shrine my soul abides in;
+ And I kneel here for thy grace.'
+
+ "Then, ay, then he shall kneel low,
+ With the red-roan steed anear him,
+ Which shall seem to understand--
+ Till I answer, 'Rise, and go!'
+ For the world must love and fear him
+ Whom I gift with heart and hand.
+
+ "Then he will arise so pale,
+ I shall feel my own lips tremble
+ With a _yes_ I must not say--
+ Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,'
+ I will utter and dissemble--
+ 'Light to-morrow with to-day.'
+
+ "Then he'll ride among the hills
+ To the wide world past the river,
+ There to put away all wrong,
+ To make straight distorted wills,
+ And to empty the broad quiver
+ Which the wicked bear along.
+
+ "Three times shall a young foot-page
+ Swim the stream and climb the mountain,
+ And kneel down beside my feet--
+ 'Lo! my master sends this gage,
+ Lady, for thy pity's counting!
+ What wilt thou exchange for it?'
+
+ "And the first time I will send
+ A white rosebud for a guerdon,
+ And the second time a glove;
+ But the third time--I may bend
+ From my pride, and answer--'Pardon,
+ If he comes to take my love.'
+
+ "Then the young foot-page will run--
+ Then my lover will ride faster,
+ Till he kneeleth at my knee:
+ 'I am a duke's eldest son!
+ Thousand serfs do call me master,
+ But, O Love, I love but _thee_!'
+
+ "He will kiss me on the mouth
+ Then; and lead me as a lover,
+ Through the crowds that praise his deeds;
+ And, when soul-tied by one troth,
+ Unto _him_ I will discover
+ That swan's nest among the reeds."
+
+ Little Ellie, with her smile
+ Not yet ended, rose up gayly,
+ Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe--
+ And went homeward, round a mile,
+ Just to see, as she did daily,
+ What more eggs were with the _two_.
+
+ Pushing through the elm-tree copse
+ Winding by the stream, light-hearted,
+ Where the osier pathway leads,
+ Past the boughs she stoops, and stops.
+ Lo, the wild swan had deserted--
+ And a rat had gnawed the reeds!
+
+ Ellie went home sad and slow.
+ If she found the lover ever,
+ With his red-roan steed of steeds,
+ Sooth, I know not! but I know
+ She could never show him--never,
+ That swan's nest among the reeds.
+
+ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TELLING THE BEES.
+
+
+ Here is the place; right over the hill
+ Runs the path I took;
+ You can see the gap in the old wall still,
+ And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
+
+ There is the house, with the gate red-barred,
+ And the poplars tall;
+ And the barn's brown length, and the cattle yard,
+ And the white horns tossing above the wall.
+
+ There are the beehives ranged in the sun;
+ And down by the brink
+ Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun,
+ Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
+
+ A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
+ Heavy and slow;
+ And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows,
+ And the same brook sings of a year ago.
+
+ There's the same sweet clover smell in the breeze;
+ And the June sun warm
+ Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
+ Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
+
+ I mind me how with a lover's care
+ From my Sunday coat
+ I brushed off the burs, and smoothed my hair,
+ And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
+
+ Since we parted, a month had passed,--
+ To love, a year;
+ Down through the beeches I looked at last
+ On the little red gate and the well sweep near.
+
+ I can see it all now,--the slantwise rain
+ Of light through the leaves,
+ The sundown's blaze on her windowpane,
+ The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
+
+ Just the same as a month before,--
+ The house and the trees,
+ The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door,--
+ Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
+
+ Before them, under the garden wall,
+ Forward and back,
+ Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
+ Draping each hive with a shred of black.
+
+ Trembling, I listened: the summer sun
+ Had the chill of snow;
+ For I knew she was telling the bees of one
+ Gone on the journey we all must go!
+
+ Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps
+ For the dead to-day:
+ Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
+ The fret and the pain of his age away."
+
+ But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
+ With his cane to his chin,
+ The old man sat; and the chore-girl still
+ Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
+
+ And the song she was singing ever since
+ In my ears sounds on:--
+ "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence!
+ Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"
+
+ JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+THE LAND OF SONG: Book III.
+
+_PART II_.
+
+[Illustration: WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.]
+
+[Illustration: SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHPLACE.]
+
+PART TWO.
+
+
+
+
+THE MAN THAT HATH NO MUSIC IN HIMSELF.
+
+
+ The man that hath no music in himself,
+ Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
+ Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils;
+ The motions of his spirit are dull as night
+ And his affections dark as Erebus:
+ Let no such man be trusted.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _From "The Merchant of Venice."_
+
+
+
+
+ADVERSITY.
+
+
+ Sweet are the uses of adversity,
+ Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
+ Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
+ And this our life exempt from public haunt
+ Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
+ Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _From_ "_As You Like It._"
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TO THE DAISY.
+
+
+ In youth from rock to rock I went,
+ From hill to hill in discontent
+ Of pleasure high and turbulent,
+ Most pleased when most uneasy.
+ But now my own delights I make,--
+ My thirst at every rill can slake,
+ And gladly Nature's love partake,
+ Of thee, sweet daisy!
+
+ Thee winter in the garland wears
+ That thinly decks his few gray hairs;
+ Spring parts the clouds with softest airs
+ That she may sun thee;
+ Whole summer fields are thine by right:
+ And autumn, melancholy wight!
+ Doth in thy crimson head delight
+ When rains are on thee.
+
+ In shoals and bands, a morrice train,
+ Thou greet'st the traveler in the lane;
+ Pleased at his greeting thee again;
+ Yet nothing daunted,
+ Nor grieved if thou be set at naught:
+ And oft alone in nooks remote
+ We meet thee, like a pleasant thought,
+ When such are wanted.
+
+ Be violets in their secret mews
+ The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose;
+ Proud be the rose, with rains and dews
+ Her head impearling.
+ Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim,
+ Yet hast not gone without thy fame;
+ Thou art indeed by many a claim
+ The poet's darling.
+
+ If to a rock from rains he fly,
+ Or, some bright day of April sky,
+ Imprisoned by hot sunshine, lie
+ Near the green holly,
+ And wearily at length should fare;
+ He needs but look about, and there
+ Thou art!--a friend at hand, to scare
+ His melancholy.
+
+ A hundred times, by rock or bower,
+ Ere thus I have lain couched an hour,
+ Have I derived from thy sweet power
+ Some apprehension;
+ Some steady love; some brief delight;
+ Some memory that had taken flight;
+ Some chime of fancy wrong or right;
+ Or stray invention.
+
+ If stately passions in me burn,
+ And one chance look to thee should turn,
+ I drink out of an humbler urn
+ A lowlier pleasure;
+ The homely sympathy that heeds
+ The common life, our nature breeds;
+ A wisdom fitted to the needs
+ Of hearts at leisure.
+
+ Fresh-smitten by the morning ray,
+ When thou art up, alert and gay,
+ Then, cheerful flower! my spirits play
+ With kindred gladness:
+ And when, at dusk, by dews opprest
+ Thou sink'st, the image of thy rest
+ Hath often eased my pensive breast
+ Of careful sadness.
+
+ And all day long I number yet,
+ All seasons through, another debt,
+ Which I, wherever thou art met,
+ To thee am owing;
+ An instinct call it, a blind sense;
+ A happy, genial influence,
+ Coming one knows not how, nor whence,
+ Nor whither going.
+
+ Child of the Year! that round dost run
+ Thy pleasant course,--when day's begun
+ As ready to salute the sun
+ As lark or leveret,
+ Thy long-lost praise thou shalt regain;
+ Nor be less dear to future men
+ Than in old time;--thou not in vain
+ Art Nature's favorite.
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY.
+
+ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOW IN APRIL, 1786.
+
+A SELECTION.
+
+
+ Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
+ Thou's met me in an evil hour;
+ For I maun crush amang the stoure
+ Thy slender stem:
+ To spare thee now is past my pow'r,
+ Thou bonnie gem.
+
+ Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
+ The bonnie lark, companion meet!
+ Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
+ Wi' spreckled breast,
+ When upward springing, blythe, to greet
+ The purpling east.
+
+ Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
+ Upon thy early, humble birth;
+ Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
+ Amid the storm,
+ Scarce reared above the parent earth
+ Thy tender form.
+
+ The flaunting flowers our gardens yield,
+ High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield;
+ But thou, beneath the random bield
+ O' clod or stane,
+ Adorns the histie stibble-field,
+ Unseen, alane.
+
+ There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
+ Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
+ Thou lifts thy unassuming head
+ In humble guise;
+ But now the share uptears thy bed,
+ And low thou lies!
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+COUNTY GUY.
+
+
+ Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
+ The sun has left the lea,
+ The orange flower perfumes the bower,
+ The breeze is on the sea.
+ The lark, his lay who trilled all day,
+ Sits hushed his partner nigh;
+ Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour--
+ But where is County Guy?
+
+ The village maid steals through the shade,
+ Her shepherd's suit to hear;
+ To beauty shy, by lattice high,
+ Sings highborn Cavalier.
+ The star of Love, all stars above,
+ Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
+ And high and low the influence know--
+ But where is County Guy?
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+EVENING.
+
+
+ The sun upon the lake is low,
+ The wild birds hush their song;
+ The hills have evening's deepest glow,
+ Yet Leonard tarries long.
+ Now all whom varied toil and care
+ From home and love divide,
+ In the calm sunset may repair
+ Each to the loved one's side.
+
+ The noble dame on turret high,
+ Who waits her gallant knight,
+ Looks to the western beam to spy
+ The flash of armor bright.
+ The village maid, with hand on brow
+ The level ray to shade,
+ Upon the footpath watches now
+ For Colin's darkening plaid.
+
+ Now to their mates the wild swans row,
+ By day they swam apart;
+ And to the thicket wanders slow
+ The hind beside the hart.
+ The wood lark at his partner's side
+ Twitters his closing song--
+ All meet whom day and care divide,--
+ But Leonard tarries long!
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+THE BEGGAR MAID.
+
+
+ Her arms across her breast she laid;
+ She was more fair than words can say:
+ Barefooted came the beggar maid
+ Before the king Cophetua.
+ In robe and crown the king stept down,
+ To meet and greet her on her way;
+ "It is no wonder," said the lords,
+ "She is more beautiful than day."
+
+ As shines the moon in clouded skies,
+ She in her poor attire was seen:
+
+ One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
+ One her dark hair and lovesome mien.
+ So sweet a face, such angel grace,
+ In all that land had never been:
+ Cophetua sware a royal oath:
+ "This beggar maid shall be my queen!"
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+
+
+
+SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.
+
+
+ She walks in beauty, like the night
+ Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
+ And all that's best of dark and bright
+ Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
+ Thus mellowed to that tender light
+ Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
+
+ One shade the more, one ray the less,
+ Had half impaired the nameless grace
+ Which waves in every raven tress,
+ Or softly lightens o'er her face;
+ Where thoughts serenely sweet express
+ How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
+
+ And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
+ So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
+ The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
+ But tell of days in goodness spent,
+ A mind at peace with all below,
+ A heart whose love is innocent!
+
+ LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.
+
+[Illustration: DIANA.]
+
+
+
+
+HYMN TO DIANA.
+
+
+ Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair,
+ Now the sun is laid to sleep,
+ Seated in thy silver chair,
+ State in wonted manner keep:
+ Hesperus entreats thy light,
+ Goddess, excellently bright.
+
+ Earth, let not thy envious shade
+ Dare itself to interpose;
+ Cynthia's shining orb was made
+ Heaven to clear, when day did close:
+ Bless us then with wishèd sight,
+ Goddess, excellently bright.
+
+ Lay thy bow of pearl apart
+ And thy crystal shining quiver;
+ Give unto the flying hart
+ Space to breathe, how short soever:
+ Thou that mak'st a day of night,
+ Goddess, excellently bright.
+
+ BEN JONSON.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+HELVELLYN.
+
+
+ I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,
+ Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide,
+ All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
+ And starting around me the echoes replied.
+ On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
+ And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
+ One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
+ When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
+
+ Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,
+ Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,
+ Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
+ Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay.
+ Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
+ For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended,
+ The much-loved remains of her master defended,
+ And chased the hill fox and the raven away.
+
+ How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
+ When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
+ How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
+ Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
+ And, O, was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'er him,
+ No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
+ And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him--
+ Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?
+
+ When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded,
+ The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
+ With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
+ And pages stand mute by the canopied pall;
+ Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming,
+ In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming,
+ Far adown the long isle sacred music is streaming,
+ Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
+
+ But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
+ To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb;
+ When, 'wildered, he drops from some rock huge in stature,
+ And draws his last sob by the side of his dam;
+ And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
+ Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
+ With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
+ In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.
+
+
+ Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
+ Where may the grave of that good man be?--
+ By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
+ Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
+ The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
+ And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
+ And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
+ Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.
+ The knight's bones are dust,
+ And his good sword rust;--
+ His soul is with the saints, I trust.
+
+ SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
+
+
+
+
+A PETITION TO TIME.
+
+
+ Touch us gently, Time!
+ Let us glide adown thy stream
+ Gently,--as we sometimes glide
+ Through a quiet dream!
+ Humble voyagers are we,
+ Husband, wife, and children three,--
+ (One is lost,--an angel, fled
+ To the azure overhead!)
+
+ Touch us gently, Time!
+ We've not proud nor soaring wings,
+ Our ambition, our content,
+ Lies in simple things.
+ Humble voyagers are we,
+ O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea,
+ Seeking only some calm clime;--
+ Touch us gently, gentle Time!
+
+ BRYAN WALLER PROCTER (_Barry Cornwall_).
+
+
+
+
+GLENARA.
+
+
+ O heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
+ Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
+ 'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
+ And her sire, and the people, are called to her bier.
+
+ Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
+ Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud:
+ Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around;
+ They marched all in silence,--they looked on the ground.
+
+ In silence they reached over mountain and moor,
+ To a heath, where the oak tree grew lonely and hoar:
+ "Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn:
+ Why speak ye no word?"--said Glenara the stern.
+
+ "And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse,
+ Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows?"
+ So spake the rude chieftain:--no answer is made,
+ But each mantle unfolding, a dagger displayed.
+
+ "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,"
+ Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud:
+ "And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:
+ Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
+
+ O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
+ When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen;
+ When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
+ 'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:
+
+ "I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
+ I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:
+ On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
+ Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!"
+
+ In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
+ And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
+ From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne--
+ Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn!
+
+ THOMAS CAMPBELL.
+
+
+
+
+THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE.
+
+
+ Seven daughters had Lord Archibald,
+ All children of one mother:
+ You could not say in one short day
+ What love they bore each other.
+ A garland, of seven lilies wrought!
+ Seven sisters that together dwell;
+ But he, bold knight as ever fought,
+ Their father, took of them no thought,
+ He loved the wars so well.
+ Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
+ The solitude of Binnorie!
+
+ Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,
+ And from the shores of Erin,
+ Across the wave, a rover brave
+ To Binnorie is steering:
+ Right onward to the Scottish strand
+ The gallant ship is borne;
+ The warriors leap upon the land,
+ And hark! the leader of the band
+ Hath blown his bugle horn.
+ Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
+ The solitude of Binnorie!
+
+ Beside a grotto of their own,
+ With boughs above them closing,
+ The seven are laid, and in the shade
+ They lie like fawns reposing.
+ But now upstarting with affright
+ At noise of man and steed,
+ Away they fly, to left, to right--
+ Of your fair household, father knight,
+ Methinks you take small heed!
+ Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
+ The solitude of Binnorie!
+
+ Away the seven fair Campbells fly;
+ And, over hill and hollow,
+ With menace proud, and insult loud,
+ The youthful rovers follow.
+ Cried they, "Your father loves to roam:
+ Enough for him to find
+ The empty house when he comes home;
+ For us your yellow ringlets comb,
+ For us be fair and kind!"
+ Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
+ The solitude of Binnorie!
+
+ Some close behind, some side by side,
+ Like clouds in stormy weather,
+ They run and cry, "Nay, let us die,
+ And let us die together."
+ A lake was near; the shore was steep;
+ There foot had never been;
+ They ran, and with a desperate leap
+ Together plunged into the deep,
+ Nor ever more were seen.
+ Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
+ The solitude of Binnorie!
+
+ The stream that flows out of the lake,
+ As through the glen it rambles,
+ Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,
+ For those seven lovely Campbells.
+ Seven little islands, green and bare,
+ Have risen from out the deep:
+ The fishers say those sisters fair
+ By fairies are all buried there,
+ And there together sleep.
+ Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully,
+ The solitude of Binnorie!
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+THE BIRKENHEAD.
+
+
+ Amid the loud ebriety of War,
+ With shouts of "la République" and "la Gloire,"
+ The Vengeur's crew, 'twas said, with flying flag
+ And broadside blazing level with the wave
+ Went down erect, defiant, to their grave
+ Beneath the sea.--Twas but a Frenchman's brag,
+ Yet Europe rang with it for many a year.
+ Now we recount no fable; Europe, hear!
+ And when they tell thee "England is a fen
+ Corrupt, a kingdom tottering to decay,
+ Her nerveless burghers lying an easy prey
+ For the first comer," tell how the other day
+ A crew of half a thousand Englishmen
+ Went down into the deep in Simon's Bay!
+ Not with the cheer of battle in the throat,
+ Or cannon-glare and din to stir their blood,
+ But, roused from dreams of home to find their boat
+ Fast sinking, mustered on the deck they stood,
+ Biding God's pleasure and their chief's command.
+ Calm was the sea, but not less calm that band
+ Close ranged upon the poop, with bated breath,
+ But flinching not though eye to eye with Death! Heroes!
+ Who were those Heroes? Veterans steeled
+ To face the King of Terrors mid the scaith
+ Of many a hurricane and trenchèd field?
+ Far other: weavers from the stocking frame;
+ Boys from the plow; cornets with beardless chin,
+ But steeped in honor and in discipline!
+
+ Weep, Britain, for the Cape whose ill-starred name,
+ Long since divorced from Hope suggests but shame,
+ Disaster, and thy Captains held at bay
+ By naked hordes; but as thou weepest, thank
+ Heaven for those undegenerate sons who sank
+ Aboard the Birkenhead in Simon's Bay!
+
+ SIR HENRY YULE.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+BEFORE SEDAN.
+
+
+ Here in this leafy place
+ Quiet he lies,
+ Cold, with his sightless face
+ Turned to the skies;
+ 'Tis but another dead;
+ All you can say is said.
+
+ Carry his body hence,--
+ Kings must have slaves;
+ Kings climb to eminence
+ Over men's graves;
+ So this man's eyes are dim;--
+ Throw the earth over him.
+
+ What was the white you touched
+ There at his side?
+ Paper his hand had clutched
+ Tight ere he died;--
+ Message or wish, may be;--
+ Smooth the folds out and see.
+
+ Hardly the worst of us
+ Here could have smiled!--
+ Only the tremulous
+ Words of a child;--
+ Prattle, that has for stops
+ Just a few ruddy drops.
+
+ Look. She is sad to miss,
+ Morning and night,
+ His--her dead father's--kiss,
+ Tries to be bright,
+ Good to mamma, and sweet;
+ That is all. "Marguerite."
+
+ Ah, if beside the dead
+ Slumbered the pain!
+ Ah, if the hearts that bled
+ Slept with the slain!
+ If the grief died;--but no;--
+ Death will not have it so.
+
+ AUSTIN DOBSON.
+
+
+
+
+THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS.
+
+
+ Oft in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain has bound me
+ Fond Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me:
+ The smiles, the tears
+ Of boyhood's years,
+ The words of love then spoken;
+
+ The eyes that shone,
+ Now dimmed and gone,
+ The cheerful hearts now broken!
+ Thus in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+ Sad Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me.
+
+ When I remember all
+ The friends so linked together
+ I've seen around me fall,
+ Like leaves in wintry weather,
+ I feel like one
+ Who treads alone
+ Some banquet hall deserted,
+ Whose lights are fled,
+ Whose garlands dead,
+ And all but he departed!
+ Thus in the stilly night,
+ Ere slumber's chain has bound me,
+ Sad Memory brings the light
+ Of other days around me.
+
+ THOMAS MOORE.
+
+[Illustration: ROBERT BURNS.]
+
+
+
+
+AULD LANG SYNE.
+
+
+ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
+ And never brought to min'?
+ Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
+ And days o' lang syne?
+ For auld lang syne, my dear,
+ For auld lang syne,
+ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
+ For auld lang syne!
+
+ We twa hae run about the braes,
+ And pu't the gowans fine;
+ But we've wandered mony a weary foot,
+ Sin' auld lang syne.
+ For auld lang syne, my dear,
+ For auld lang syne,
+ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
+ For auld lang syne!
+
+ We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
+ Frae mornin' sun till dine:
+ But seas between us braid hae roared,
+ Sin' auld lang syne.
+ For auld lang syne, my dear,
+ For auld lang syne,
+ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
+ For auld lang syne!
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+JOHN ANDERSON.
+
+
+ John Andersson, my jo, John,
+ When we were first acquent,
+ Your locks were like the raven,
+ Your bonnie brow was brent;
+ But now your brow is beld, John,
+ Your locks are like the snaw;
+ But blessings on your frosty pow,
+ John Anderson, my jo.
+
+ John Anderson, my jo, John,
+ We clamb the hill thegither;
+ And mony a canty day, John,
+ We've had wi' are anither:
+ Now we maun totter down, John,
+ But hand in hand we'll go;
+ And sleep thegither at the foot,
+ John Anderson, my jo.
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+WHERE LIES THE LAND TO WHICH THE SHIP WOULD GO?
+
+
+ Where lies the land to which the ship would go;
+ Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
+ And where the land she travels from? Away,
+ Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
+
+ On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face,
+ Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace;
+ Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below
+ The foaming wake far widening as we go.
+
+ On stormy nights when wild northwesters rave,
+ How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave!
+ The dripping sailor on the reeling mast
+ Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past.
+
+ Where lies the land to which the ship would go?
+ Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know.
+ And where the land she travels from? Away,
+ Far, far behind, is all that they can say.
+
+ ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.
+
+
+
+
+THE POET AND THE BIRD.
+
+
+ Said a people to a poet--"Go out from among us
+ straightway!
+ While we are thinking earthly things, thou singest of
+ divine.
+ There's a little fair brown nightingale, who, sitting in the
+ gateway,
+ Makes fitter music to our ear, than any song of thine!"
+
+ The poet went out weeping--the nightingale ceased
+ chanting,
+ "Now, wherefore, O thou nightingale, is all thy sweetness
+ done?"--
+ --"I cannot sing my earthly things, the heavenly poet
+ wanting,
+ Whose highest harmony includes the lowest under the sun."
+
+ The poet went out weeping,--and died abroad, bereft
+ there.
+ The bird flew to his grave and died amid a thousand
+ wails.
+ And, when I last came by the place, I swear the music left
+ there
+ Was only of the poet's song, and not the nightingale's.
+
+ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration: MATTHEW ARNOLD.]
+
+
+
+
+THE NECKAN.
+
+
+ In summer, on the headlands,
+ The Baltic Sea along,
+ Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
+ And sings his plaintive song.
+
+ Green rolls beneath the headlands,
+ Green rolls the Baltic Sea;
+ And there, below the Neckan's feet,
+ His wife and children be.
+
+ He sings not of the ocean,
+ Its shells and roses pale;
+ Of earth, of earth the Neckan sings,
+ He hath no other tale.
+
+ He sits upon the headlands,
+ And sings a mournful stave
+ Of all he saw and felt on earth,
+ Far from the kind sea wave.
+
+ Sings how, a knight, he wandered
+ By castle, field, and town--
+ But earthly knights have harder hearts
+ Than the sea children own.
+
+ Sings of his earthly bridal--
+ Priests, knights, and ladies gay.
+ "--And who art thou," the priest began,
+ "Sir Knight, who wedd'st to-day?"--
+
+ "--I am no knight," he answered;
+ "From the sea waves I come."--
+ The knights drew sword, the ladies screamed,
+ The surpliced priest stood dumb.
+
+ He sings how from the chapel
+ He vanished with his bride,
+ And bore her down to the sea halls,
+ Beneath the salt sea tide.
+
+ He sings how she sits weeping
+ 'Mid shells that round her lie.
+ "--False Neckan shares my bed," she weeps;
+ "No Christian mate have I."--
+
+ He sings how through the billows
+ He rose to earth again,
+ And sought a priest to sign the cross,
+ That Neckan Heaven might gain.
+
+ He sings how, on an evening,
+ Beneath the birch trees cool,
+ He sate and played his harp of gold,
+ Beside the river pool.
+
+ Beside the pool sate Neckan--
+ Tears filled his mild blue eye.
+ On his white mule, across the bridge,
+ A cassocked priest rode by.
+
+ "--Why sitt'st thou there, O Neckan,
+ And play'st thy harp of gold?
+ Sooner shall this my staff bear leaves,
+ Than thou shalt Heaven behold."--
+
+ But, lo, the staff, it budded!
+ It greened, it branched, it waved.
+ "--O ruth of God," the priest cried out,
+ "This lost sea creature saved!"
+
+ The cassocked priest rode onwards,
+ And vanished with his mule;
+ But Neckan in the twilight gray
+ Wept by the river pool.
+
+ He wept: "The earth hath kindness,
+ The sea, the starry poles;
+ Earth, sea, and sky, and God above--
+ But, ah, not human souls!"
+
+ In summer, on the headlands,
+ The Baltic Sea along,
+ Sits Neckan with his harp of gold,
+ And sings this plaintive song.
+
+ MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT.
+
+
+ The stream was smooth as glass; we said, "Arise and let's
+ away:"
+ The Siren sang beside the boat that in the rushes lay;
+ And spread the sail, and strong the oar; we gayly took
+ our way.
+ When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find
+ the bay?
+
+ The broadening flood swells slowly out o'er cattle-dotted
+ plains,
+ The stream is strong and turbulent, and dark with heavy
+ rains;
+ The laborer looks up to see our shallop speed away.
+ When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find
+ the bay?
+
+ Now are the clouds like fiery shrouds; the sun, superbly
+ large,
+ Slow as an oak to woodman's stroke sinks flaming at their
+ marge.
+ The waves are bright with mirrored light as jacinths on
+ our way.
+ When shall the sandy bar be crossed? when shall we find
+ the bay?
+
+ The moon is high up in the sky, and now no more we see
+ The spreading river's either bank, and surging distantly
+ There booms a sudden thunder as of breakers far away.
+ Now shall the sandy bar be crossed, now shall we find the
+ bay!
+
+ The seagull shrieks high overhead, and dimly to our sight
+ The moonlit crests of foaming waves gleam towering
+ through the night.
+ We'll steal upon the mermaid soon, and start her from her
+ lay,
+ When once the sandy bar is crossed, and we are in the bay.
+
+ What rises white and awful as a shroud-enfolded ghost?
+ What roar of rampant tumult bursts in clangor on the
+ coast?
+ Pull back! pull back! The raging flood sweeps every oar
+ away.
+ O stream, is this thy bar of sand? O boat, is this the
+ bay?
+
+ RICHARD GARNETT.
+
+
+
+
+ON THE SEA.
+
+
+ It keeps eternal whisperings around
+ Desolate shores, and with its mighty swell
+ Gluts twice ten thousand caverns, till the spell
+ Of Hecate leaves them their old shadowy sound.
+ Often 'tis in such gentle temper found,
+ That scarcely will the very smallest shell
+ Be moved for days from where it sometime fell,
+ When last the winds of heaven were unbound.
+ O ye! who have your eyeballs vexed and tired,
+ Feast them upon the wideness of the sea;
+ O ye! whose ears are dinned with uproar rude,
+ Or fed too much with cloying melody,--
+ Sit ye near some old cavern's mouth, and brood
+ Until ye start, as if the sea-nymphs quired!
+
+ JOHN KEATS.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE WHITE SHIP.
+
+HENRY I. OF ENGLAND.--25th NOVEMBER, 1120.
+
+
+ By none but me can the tale be told,
+ The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.
+ (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)
+
+ 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
+ Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
+ (_The sea hath no King but God alone._)
+
+ King Henry held it as life's whole gain
+ That after his death his son should reign.
+
+ 'Twas so in my youth I heard men say,
+ And my old age calls it back to-day.
+
+ King Henry of England's realm was he,
+ And Henry Duke of Normandy.
+
+ The times had changed when on either coast
+ "Clerkly Harry" was all his boast.
+
+ Of ruthless strokes full many a one
+ He had struck to crown himself and his son;
+ And his elder brother's eyes were gone.
+
+ And when to the chase his court would crowd,
+ The poor flung plowshares on his road,
+ And shrieked: "Our cry is from King to God!"
+
+ But all the chiefs of the English land
+ Had knelt and kissed the Prince's hand.
+
+ And next with his son he sailed to France
+ To claim the Norman allegiance:
+
+ And every baron in Normandy
+ Had taken the oath of fealty.
+
+ 'Twas sworn and sealed, and the day had come
+ When the King and the Prince might journey home:
+
+ For Christmas cheer is to home hearts dear,
+ And Christmas now was drawing near.
+
+ Stout Fitz-Stephen came to the King,--
+ A pilot famous in seafaring;
+
+ And he held to the King, in all men's sight,
+ A mark of gold for his tribute's right.
+
+ "Liege Lord! my father guided the ship
+ From whose boat your father's foot did slip
+ When he caught the English soil in his grip,
+
+ "And cried: 'By this clasp I claim command
+ O'er every rood of English land!'
+
+ "He was borne to the realm you rule o'er now
+ In that ship with the archer carved at her prow:
+
+ "And thither I'll bear, an' it be my due,
+ Your father's son and his grandson too.
+
+ "The famed White Ship is mine in the bay;
+ From Harfleur's harbor she sails to-day,
+
+ "With masts fair-pennoned as Norman spears
+ And with fifty well-tried mariners."
+
+ Quoth the King: "My ships are chosen each one,
+ But I'll not say nay to Stephen's son.
+
+ "My son and daughter and fellowship
+ Shall cross the water in the White Ship."
+
+ The King set sail with the eve's south wind,
+ And soon he left that coast behind.
+
+ The Prince and all his, a princely show,
+ Remained in the good White Ship to go.
+
+ With noble knights and with ladies fair,
+ With courtiers and sailors gathered there,
+ Three hundred living souls we were:
+
+ And I Berold was the meanest hind
+ In all that train to the Prince assigned.
+
+ The Prince was a lawless, shameless youth;
+ From his father's loins he sprang without ruth:
+
+ Eighteen years till then he had seen,
+ And the devil's dues in him were eighteen.
+
+ And now he cried: "Bring wine from below;
+ Let the sailors revel ere yet they row:
+
+ "Our speed shall o'ertake my father's flight
+ Though we sail from the harbor at midnight."
+
+ The rowers made good cheer without check;
+ The lords and ladies obeyed his beck;
+ The night was light, and they danced on the deck.
+
+ But at midnight's stroke they cleared the bay,
+ And the White Ship furrowed the water way.
+
+ The sails were set, and the oars kept tune
+ To the double flight of the ship and the moon:
+
+ Swifter and swifter the White Ship sped
+ Till she flew as the spirit flies from the dead:
+
+ As white as a lily glimmered she
+ Like a ship's fair ghost upon the sea.
+
+ And the Prince cried, "Friends, 'tis the hour to sing!
+ Is a song bird's course so swift on the wing?"
+
+ And under the winter stars' still throng,
+ From brown throats, white throats, merry and strong,
+ The knights and the ladies raised a song.
+
+ A song,--nay, a shriek that rent the sky,
+ That leaped o'er the deep!--the grievous cry
+ Of three hundred living that now must die.
+
+ An instant shriek that sprang to the shock
+ As the ship's keel felt the sunken rock.
+
+ 'Tis said that afar--a shrill strange sigh--
+ The King's ships heard it and knew not why.
+
+ Pale Fitz-Stephen stood by the helm
+ 'Mid all those folk that the waves must whelm.
+
+ A great King's heir for the waves to whelm,
+ And the helpless pilot pale at the helm!
+
+ The ship was eager and sucked athirst,
+ By the stealthy stab of the sharp reef pierced:
+
+ And like the moil round a sinking cup,
+ The waters against her crowded up.
+
+ A moment the pilot's senses spin,--
+ The next he snatched the Prince 'mid the din,
+ Cut the boat loose, and the youth leaped in.
+
+ A few friends leaped with him, standing near.
+ "Row! the sea's smooth and the night is clear!"
+
+ "What! none to be saved but these and I?"
+ "Row, row as you'd live! All here must die!"
+
+ Out of the churn of the choking ship,
+ Which the gulf grapples and the waves strip,
+ They struck with the strained oars' flash and dip.
+
+[Illustration: J. M. W. TURNER.
+THE SHIPWRECK.]
+
+ 'Twas then o'er the splitting bulwarks' brim
+ The Prince's sister screamed to him.
+
+ He gazed aloft, still rowing apace,
+ And through the whirled surf he knew her face.
+
+ To the toppling decks clave one and all
+ As a fly cleaves to a chamber wall.
+
+ I, Berold, was clinging anear;
+ I prayed for myself and quaked with fear,
+ But I saw his eyes as he looked at her.
+
+ He knew her face and he heard her cry,
+ And he said, "Put back! she must not die!"
+
+ And back with the current's force they reel
+ Like a leaf that's drawn to a water wheel.
+
+ 'Neath the ship's travail they scarce might float,
+ But; he rose and stood in the rocking boat.
+
+ Low the poor ship leaned on the tide:
+ O'er the naked keel as she best might slide,
+ The sister toiled to the brother's side.
+
+ He reached an oar to her from below,
+ And stiffened his arms to clutch her so.
+
+ But now from the ship some spied the boat,
+ And "Saved!" was the cry from many a throat.
+
+ And down to the boat they leaped and fell:
+ It turned as a bucket turns in a well,
+ And nothing was there but the surge and swell.
+
+ The Prince that was and the King to come,
+ There in an instant gone to his doom,
+ Despite of all England's bended knee
+ And maugre the Norman fealty!
+
+ He was a Prince of lust and pride;
+ He showed no grace till the hour he died.
+
+ When he should be King, he oft would vow,
+ He'd yoke the peasant to his own plow.
+ O'er him the ships score their furrows now.
+
+ God only knows where his soul did wake,
+ But I saw him die for his sister's sake.
+
+ By none but me can the tale be told,
+ The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.
+ (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)
+
+ 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
+ Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
+ (_The sea hath no King but God alone._)
+
+ And now the end came o'er the water's womb
+ Like the last great day that's yet to come.
+
+ With prayers in vain and curses in vain,
+ The White Ship sundered on the midmain:
+
+ And what were men and what was a ship,
+ Were toys and splinters in the sea's grip.
+
+ I, Berold, was down in the sea;
+ And passing strange though the thing may be,
+ Of dreams then known I remember me.
+
+ Blithe is the shout on Harfleur's strand
+ When morning lights the sails to land:
+
+ And blithe is Honfleur's echoing gloam
+ When mothers call the children home:
+
+ And high do the bells of Rouen beat
+ When the Body of Christ goes down the street.
+
+ These things and the like were heard and shown
+ In a moment's trance 'neath the sea alone;
+
+ And when I rose, 'twas the sea did seem,
+ And not these things, to be all in a dream.
+
+ The ship was gone and the crowd was gone,
+ And the deep shuddered and the moon shone:
+
+ And in a straight grasp my arms did span
+ The mainyard rent from the mast where it ran;
+ And on it with me was another man.
+
+ Where lands were none 'neath the dim sea sky,
+ We told our names, that man and I.
+
+ "O I am Godefroy de l'Aigle hight,
+ And son I am to a belted knight."
+
+ "And I am Berold the butcher's son
+ Who slays the beasts in Rouen town."
+
+ Then cried we upon God's name, as we
+ Did drift on the bitter winter sea.
+
+ But lo! a third man o'er the wave,
+ And we said, "Thank God! us three may He save!"
+
+ He clutched to the yard with panting stare,
+ And we looked and knew Fitz-Stephen there.
+
+ He clung, and "What of the Prince?" quoth he.
+ "Lost, lost!" we cried. He cried, "Woe on me!"
+ And loosed his hold and sank through the sea.
+
+ And soul with soul again in that space
+ We two were together face to face:
+
+ And each knew each, as the moments sped,
+ Less for one living than for one dead:
+
+ And every still star overhead
+ Seemed an eye that knew we were but dead.
+
+ And the hours passed; till the noble's son
+ Sighed, "God be thy help! my strength's foredone!
+
+ "O farewell, friend, for I can no more!"
+ "Christ take thee!" I moaned; and his life was o'er.
+
+ Three hundred souls were all lost but one,
+ And I drifted over the sea alone.
+
+ At last the morning rose on the sea
+ Like an angel's wing that beat towards me.
+
+ Sore numbed I was in my sheepskin coat;
+ Half dead I hung, and might nothing note,
+ Till I woke sun-warmed in a fisher boat.
+
+ The sun was high o'er the eastern brim
+ As I praised God and gave thanks to Him.
+
+ That day I told my tale to a priest,
+ Who charged me, till the shrift was released,
+ That I should keep it in mine own breast.
+
+ And with the priest I thence did fare
+ To King Henry's court at Winchester.
+
+ We spoke with the King's high chamberlain,
+ And he wept and mourned again and again,
+ As if his own son had been slain:
+
+ And round us ever there crowded fast
+ Great men with faces all aghast:
+
+ And who so bold that might tell the thing
+ Which now they knew to their lord the King?
+ Much woe I learnt in their communing.
+
+ The King had watched with a heart sore stirred
+ For two whole days, and this was the third:
+
+ And still to all his court would he say,
+ "What keeps my son so long away?"
+
+ And they said: "The ports lie far and wide
+ That skirt the swell of the English tide;
+
+ "And England's cliffs are not more white
+ Than her women are, and scarce so light
+ Her skies as their eyes are blue and bright;
+
+ "And in some port that he reached from France
+ The Prince has lingered for his pleasance."
+
+ But once the King asked: "What distant cry
+ Was that we heard 'twixt the sea and sky?"
+
+ And one said: "With suchlike shouts, pardie!
+ Do the fishers fling their nets at sea."
+
+ And one: "Who knows not the shrieking quest
+ When the seamew misses its young from the nest?"
+
+ 'Twas thus till now they had soothed his dread,
+ Albeit they knew not what they said:
+
+ But who should speak to-day of the thing
+ That all knew there except the King?
+
+ Then pondering much they found a way,
+ And met round the King's high seat that day:
+
+ And the King sat with a heart sore stirred,
+ And seldom he spoke and seldom heard.
+
+ 'Twas then through the hall the King was 'ware
+ Of a little boy with golden hair,
+
+ As bright as the golden poppy is
+ That the beach breeds for the surf to kiss:
+
+ Yet pale his cheek as the thorn in spring,
+ And his garb black like the raven's wing.
+
+ Nothing was heard but his foot through the hall,
+ For now the lords were silent all.
+
+ And the King wondered, and said, "Alack!
+ Who sends me a fair boy dressed in black?
+
+ "Why, sweet heart, do you pace through the hall
+ As though my court were a funeral?"
+
+ Then lowly knelt the child at the dais,
+ And looked up weeping in the King's face.
+
+ "O wherefore black, O King, ye may say,
+ For white is the hue of death to-day.
+
+ "Your son and all his fellowship
+ Lie low in the sea with the White Ship."
+
+ King Henry fell as a man struck dead;
+ And speechless still he stared from his bed
+ When to him next day my rede I read.
+
+ There's many an hour must needs beguile
+ A King's high heart that he should smile,--
+
+ Full many a lordly hour, full fain
+ Of his realm's rule and pride of his reign:--
+ But this King never smiled again.
+
+ By none but me can the tale be told,
+ The butcher of Rouen, poor Berold.
+ (_Lands are swayed by a King on a throne._)
+
+ 'Twas a royal train put forth to sea,
+ Yet the tale can be told by none but me.
+ (_The sea hath no King but God alone._)
+
+ DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
+
+
+
+
+SAFE HOME.
+
+
+ Safe home, safe home in port!
+ Rent cordage, shattered deck,
+ Tom sails, provisions short,
+ And only not a wreck:
+ But, oh, the joy upon the shore,
+ To tell our voyage,--perils o'er!
+
+ The prize, the prize secure!
+ The athlete nearly fell;
+ Bare all he _could_ endure,
+ And bare not always well:
+ But he may smile at troubles gone,
+ Who sets the victor-garland on!
+
+ No more the foe can harm;
+ No more of leaguered camp,
+ And cry of night alarm,
+ And need of ready lamp:
+ And yet how nearly he had failed,--
+ How nearly had that foe prevailed!
+
+ The exile is at home!
+ O nights and days of tears,
+ O longings not to roam,
+ O sins, and doubts, and fears:
+ What matter now this bitter fray?
+ The King has wiped those tears away.
+
+ ST. JOSEPH OF THE STUDIUM, A.D. 870 (translated by J. M. Neale).
+
+
+
+
+THE LIGHT SHINING OUT OF DARKNESS.
+
+
+ GOD moves in a mysterious way,
+ His wonders to perform;
+ He plants His footsteps in the sea,
+ And rides upon the storm.
+
+ Deep in unfathomable mines
+ Of never-failing skill,
+ He treasures up His bright designs,
+ And works His sovereign will.
+
+ Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
+ The clouds ye so much dread
+ Are big with mercy, and shall break
+ In blessings on your head.
+
+ Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
+ But trust Him for His grace;
+ Behind a frowning Providence
+ He hides a smiling face.
+
+ His purposes will ripen fast,
+ Unfolding every hour;
+ The bud may have a bitter taste,
+ But sweet will be the flower.
+
+ Blind unbelief is sure to err
+ And scan His work in vain;
+ God is His own interpreter,
+ And He will make it plain.
+
+ WILLIAM COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+THE PILLAR OF THE CLOUD.
+
+
+ LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
+ Lead Thou me on!
+ The night is dark, and I am far from home--
+ Lead Thou me on!
+ Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
+ The distant scene,--one step enough for me.
+
+ I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
+ Shouldst lead me on.
+ I loved to choose and see my path; but now
+ Lead Thou me on!
+ I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
+ Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
+
+ So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
+ Will lead me on,
+ O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
+ The night is gone;
+ And with the morn those angel faces smile
+ Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
+
+ JOHN HENRY NEWMAN.
+
+
+
+
+IVRY.
+
+A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS.
+
+
+ Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
+ And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!
+ Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,
+ Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant
+ land of France!
+ And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,
+ Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.
+ As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,
+ For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy
+ walls annoy.
+ Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war,
+ Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.
+
+ Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
+ We saw the army of the league drawn out in long array;
+ With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
+ And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
+ There rose the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
+ And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:
+ And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled
+ flood,
+ And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;
+ And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
+ To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.
+
+ The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest,
+ And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest,
+ He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;
+ He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high.
+ Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing,
+ Down all our line, a deafening shout, "God save our Lord
+ the King!"
+ "And if my standard bearer fall, as fall full well he may,
+ For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,
+ Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks
+ of war,
+ And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre."
+
+ Hurrah! the foes are moving! Hark to the mingled din
+ Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
+ The fiery duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
+ With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
+ Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
+ Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance!
+ A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
+ A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white
+ crest;
+ And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding
+ star,
+ Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.
+
+ Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned
+ his rein.
+ D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain.
+ Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
+ The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and
+ cloven mail.
+ And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
+ "Remember St. Bartholomew," was passed from man to man.
+ But out spake gentle Henry, "No Frenchman is my foe:
+ Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go."
+ Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war,
+ As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?
+
+ Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France
+ to-day,
+ And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.
+ But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;
+ And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white.
+ Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,
+ The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false
+ Lorraine.
+ Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know
+ How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His
+ church such woe.
+ Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point
+ of war,
+ Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
+
+ Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne;
+ Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall
+ return.
+ Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles,
+ That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spear-men's
+ souls.
+ Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be
+ bright;
+ Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.
+ For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the
+ slave,
+ And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave.
+ Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are;
+ And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.
+
+ THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
+
+
+
+
+O GOD, OUR HELP IN AGES PAST.
+
+
+ O God, our help in ages past,
+ Our hope for years to come,
+ Our shelter from the stormy blast,
+ And our eternal home:
+
+ Under the shadow of Thy throne
+ Thy saints have dwelt secure;
+ Sufficient is Thine arm alone,
+ And our defense is sure.
+
+ Before the hills in order stood,
+ Or earth received her frame,
+ From everlasting Thou art God,
+ To endless years the same.
+
+ A thousand ages in Thy sight
+ Are like an evening gone;
+ Short as the watch that ends the night
+ Before the rising sun.
+
+ Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
+ Bears all its sons away;
+ They fly forgotten, as a dream
+ Dies at the opening day.
+
+ O God, our help in ages past;
+ Our hope for years to come;
+ Be Thou our guard while troubles last,
+ And our eternal home!
+
+ ISAAC WATTS.
+
+
+
+
+HERVÉ RIEL.
+
+
+ On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two,
+ Did the English fight the French,--woe to France!
+ And the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue,
+ Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue,
+ Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance,
+ With the English fleet in view.
+
+ 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase;
+ First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship,
+ Damfreville;
+ Close on him fled, great and small,
+ Twenty-two good ships in all;
+ And they signaled to the place,
+ "Help the winners of a race!
+ Get us guidance, give us harbor, take us quick--or, quicker
+ still,
+ Here's the English can and will!"
+
+ Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board;
+ "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?"
+ laughed they:
+ "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred
+ and scored,
+ Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns
+ Think to make the river mouth by the single narrow way,
+ Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons,
+ And with flow at full beside?
+ Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide.
+ Reach the mooring? Rather say,
+ While rock stands or water runs,
+ Not a ship will leave the bay!"
+
+ Then was called a council straight.
+ Brief and bitter the debate:
+ "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take
+ in tow
+ All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow,
+ For a prize to Plymouth Sound?
+ Better run the ships aground!"
+ (Ended Damfreville his speech.)
+ Not a minute more to wait!
+ "Let the Captains all and each
+ Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach!
+ France must undergo her fate.
+
+ Give the word!" But no such word
+ Was ever spoke or heard;
+ For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these
+ --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third?
+ No such man of mark, and meet
+ With his betters to compete!
+ But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the
+ fleet,
+ A poor coasting pilot he, Hervé Riel the Croisickese.
+
+ And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Hervé Riel:
+ "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or
+ rogues?
+ Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell
+ On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell
+ 'Twixt the offing here and Grève where the river disembogues?
+ Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for?
+ Morn and eve, night and day,
+ Have I piloted your bay,
+ Entered free and anchored fast at the foot of Solidor.
+
+[Illustration: HERVÉ RIEL AND THE ADMIRAL.]
+
+ "Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fifty
+ Hogues!
+ Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's
+ a way!
+ Only let me lead the line,
+ Have the biggest ship to steer,
+ Get this _Formidable_ clear,
+ Make the others follow mine,
+ And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well,
+ Right to Solidor past Grève,
+ And there lay them safe and sound;
+ And if one ship misbehave,
+ --Keel so much as grate the ground,
+ Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries
+ Hervé Riel.
+
+ Not a minute more to wait.
+ "Steer us in, then, small and great!
+ Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried its
+ chief.
+ "Captains, give the sailor place!
+ He is Admiral, in brief."
+ Still the north wind, by God's grace!
+ See the noble fellow's face,
+ As the big ship with a bound,
+ Clears the entry like a hound,
+ Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas
+ profound!
+ See, safe thro' shoal and rock,
+ How they follow in a flock,
+ Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground,
+ Not a spar that comes to grief!
+ The peril, see, is past,
+ All are harbored to the last,
+ And just as Hervé Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate
+ Up the English come, too late!
+
+ So, the storm subsides to calm:
+ They see the green trees wave
+ On the heights o'erlooking Grève.
+ Hearts that bled are stanched with balm.
+ "Just our rapture to enhance,
+ Let the English rake the bay,
+ Gnash their teeth and glare askance,
+ As they cannonade away!
+ 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!"
+ How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance!
+ Out burst all with one accord,
+ "This is Paradise for Hell!
+ Let France, let France's King
+ Thank the man that did the thing!"
+ What a shout, and all one word,
+ "Hervé Riel!"
+ As he stepped in front once more,
+ Not a symptom of surprise
+ In the frank blue Breton eyes,
+ Just the same man as before.
+
+ Then said Damfreville, "My friend,
+ I must speak out at the end,
+ Though I find the speaking hard.
+ Praise is deeper than the lips:
+ You have saved the King his ships,
+ You must name your own reward.
+ 'Faith our sun was near eclipse!
+ Demand whate'er you will,
+ France remains your debtor still.
+ Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville."
+
+ Then a beam of fun outbroke
+ On the bearded mouth that spoke,
+ As the honest heart laughed through
+ Those frank eyes of Breton blue:
+ "Since I needs must say my say,
+ Since on board the duty's done,
+ And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?--
+ Since 'tis ask and have, I may--
+ Since the others go ashore--
+ Come! A good whole holiday!
+ Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!"
+ That he asked and that he got,--nothing more.
+
+ Name and deed alike are lost:
+ Not a pillar nor a post
+ In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell;
+ Not a head in white and black
+ On a single fishing smack,
+ In memory of the man but for whom had gone to wrack
+ All that France saved from the fight whence England bore
+ the bell.
+ Go to Paris: rank on rank
+ Search the heroes flung pell-mell
+ On the Louvre, face and flank!
+ You shall look long enough ere you come to Hervé Riel.
+ So, for better and for worse,
+ Hervé Riel, accept my verse!
+ In my verse, Hervé Riel, do thou once more
+ Save the squadron, honor France, love thy wife, the Belle
+ Aurore!
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+RUGBY CHAPEL.
+
+
+ But thou wouldst not _alone_
+ Be saved, my father! _alone_
+ Conquer and come to thy goal,
+ Leaving the rest in the wild.
+ We were weary, and we
+ Fearful, and we in our march
+ Fain to drop down and die.
+ Still thou turnedst, and still
+ Beckonedst the trembler, and still
+ Gavest the weary thy hand.
+ If, in the paths of the world,
+ Stones might have wounded thy feet,
+ Toil or dejection have tried
+ Thy spirit, of that we saw
+ Nothing--to us thou wast still
+ Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!
+ Therefore to thee it was given
+ Many to save with thyself;
+ And, at the end of thy day,
+ O faithful shepherd! to come,
+ Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.
+
+ And through thee I believe
+ In the noble and great who are gone;
+ Pure souls honored and blest
+ By former ages....
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Servants of God!--or sons
+ Shall I not call you? because
+ Not as servants ye knew
+ Your Father's innermost mind,
+ His, who unwillingly sees
+ One of His little ones lost--
+ Yours is the praise, if mankind
+ Hath not as yet in its march
+ Fainted, and fallen, and died!
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Then, in such hour of need
+ Of your fainting, dispirited race,
+ Ye, like angels, appear,
+ Radiant with ardor divine.
+ Beacons of hope, ye appear!
+ Languor is not in your heart,
+ Weakness is not in your word,
+ Weariness not on your brow.
+ Ye alight in our van! at your voice,
+ Panic, despair, flee away.
+ Ye move through the ranks, recall
+ The stragglers, refresh the outworn,
+ Praise, reinspire the brave.
+ Order, courage, return;
+ Eyes rekindling, and prayers,
+ Follow your steps as ye go.
+ Ye fill up the gaps in our files,
+ Strengthen the wavering line,
+ Stablish, continue our march,
+ On, to the bound of the waste,
+ On, to the City of God.
+
+ MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+[Illustration: JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.]
+
+
+
+
+WENDELL PHILLIPS.
+
+
+ He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide
+ The din of battle and of slaughter rose;
+ He saw God stand upon the weaker side,
+ That sank in seeming loss before its foes;
+ Many there were who made great haste and sold
+ Unto the cunning enemy their swords,
+ He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold,
+ And, underneath their soft and flowery words,
+ Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went
+ And humbly joined him to the weaker part,
+ Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content
+ So he could be the nearer to God's heart,
+ And feel its solemn pulses sending blood
+ Through all the widespread veins of endless good.
+
+ JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+THE PATRIOT.
+
+AN OLD STORY.
+
+
+ It was roses, roses, all the way,
+ With myrtle mixed in my path like mad;
+ The house roofs seemed to heave and sway,
+ The church spires flamed, such flags they had
+ A year ago on this very day.
+
+ The air broke into a mist with bells,
+ The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.
+ Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels--
+ But give me your sun from yonder skies!"
+ They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"
+
+ Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
+ To give it my loving friends to keep!
+ Naught man could do, have I left undone:
+ And you see my harvest, what I reap
+ This very day, now a year is run.
+
+ There's nobody on the house tops now--
+ Just a palsied few at the windows set;
+ For the best of the sight is, all allow,
+ At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet,
+ By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.
+
+ I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
+ A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
+ And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
+ For they fling, whoever has a mind,
+ Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.
+
+ Thus I entered, and thus I go!
+ In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.
+ "Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
+ Me?"--God might question; now instead,
+ 'Tis God shall repay: I am safer so.
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+"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.
+
+
+
+
+THE DEATHBED.
+
+
+ We watched her breathing thro' 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.
+
+
+
+
+THE SLEEP.
+
+ "He giveth his beloved sleep."--PSALM cxxvii. 2.
+
+
+ Of all the thoughts of God that are
+ Borne inward unto souls afar,
+ Along 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 noises!
+ O men, with wailing in your voices!
+ O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!
+ O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
+ God strikes a silence through you all,
+ And 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.
+
+ Ay, men may wonder while they scan
+ A living, thinking, feeling man
+ Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
+ But angels say, and through the word
+ I think their happy smile is _heard_--
+ "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.
+
+ And, friends, dear friends,--when it shall be
+ That this low breath is gone from me,
+ And round my bier ye come to weep,
+ Let one, most loving of you all,
+ Say, "Not a tear must o'er her fall;
+ 'He giveth His beloved, sleep.'"
+
+ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration: ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.]
+
+
+
+
+SLEEP.
+
+
+ How many thousand of my poorest subjects
+ Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep,
+ Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
+ That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
+ And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
+ Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
+ Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee
+ And hushed with buzzing night flies to thy slumber,
+ Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
+ Under the canopies of costly state,
+ And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?
+ O thou dull god, why liest thou with the vile
+ In loathsome beds, and leavest the kingly couch
+ A watch case or a common 'larum bell?
+ Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
+ Seal up the ship boy's eyes, and rock his brains
+ In cradle of the rude imperious surge
+ And in the visitation of the winds,
+ Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
+ Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them
+ With deafening clamor in the slippery clouds,
+ That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
+ Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose
+ To the wet sea boy in an hour so rude,
+ And in the calmest and most stillest night,
+ With all appliances and means to boot,
+ Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!
+ Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _From "King Henry IV."_
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE.
+
+
+ Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
+ Wherein to dwell;
+ A little house, whose humble roof
+ Is weather proof;
+ Under the spars of which I lie
+ Both soft, and dry;
+ Where Thou my chamber for to ward
+ Hast set a guard
+ Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
+ Me, while I sleep.
+ Low is my porch, as is my fate,
+ Both void of state;
+ And yet the threshold of my door
+ Is worn by the poor,
+ Who thither come, and freely get
+ Good words, or meat:
+ Like as my parlor, so my hall
+ And kitchen's small:
+ A little buttery, and therein
+ A little bin,
+ Which keeps my little loaf of bread
+ Unchipt, unflead:
+ Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier
+ Make me a fire,
+ Close by whose living coal I sit,
+ And glow like it.
+ Lord, I confess too, when I dine
+ The pulse is Thine,
+ And all those other bits, that be
+ There placed by Thee;
+ The worts, the purslain, and the mess
+ Of water cress,
+ Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
+ And my content
+ Makes those, and my beloved beet,
+ To be more sweet.
+ 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
+ With guiltless mirth;
+ And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
+ Spiced to the brink.
+ Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
+ That soils my land;
+ And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
+ Twice ten for one:
+ Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
+ Her egg each day:
+ Besides my healthful ewes to bear
+ Me twins each year:
+ The while the conduits of my kine
+ Run cream (for wine.)
+ All these, and better, Thou dost send
+ Me, to this end,
+ That I should render, for my part,
+ A thankful heart;
+ Which, fired with incense, I resign,
+ As wholly Thine;
+ But the acceptance,--that must be,
+ My Christ, by Thee.
+
+ ROBERT HERRICK.
+
+
+
+
+HYMN OF TRUST.
+
+
+ O Love Divine, that stooped to share
+ Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear,
+ On Thee we cast each earthborn care,
+ We smile at pain while Thou art near!
+
+ Though long the weary way we tread,
+ And sorrow crown each lingering year,
+ No path we shun, no darkness dread,
+ Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near!
+
+ When drooping pleasure turns to grief,
+ And trembling faith is changed to fear,
+ The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf,
+ Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!
+
+ On Thee we fling our burdening woe,
+ O Love Divine, forever dear,
+ Content to suffer while we know,
+ Living and dying, Thou art near!
+
+ OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+DORA.
+
+
+ With farmer Allan at the farm abode
+ William and Dora. William was his son,
+ And she his niece. He often looked at them,
+ And often thought, "I'll make them man and wife."
+ Now Dora felt her uncle's will in all,
+ And yearned towards William; but the youth, because
+ He had been always with her in the house,
+ Thought not of Dora.
+ Then there came a day
+ When Allan called his son, and said, "My son,
+ I married late, but I would wish to see
+ My grandchild on my knees before I die;
+ And I have set my heart upon a match.
+ Now therefore look to Dora: she is well
+ To look to; thrifty too beyond her age.
+ She is my brother's daughter; he and I
+ Had once hard words, and parted, and he died
+ In foreign lands; but for his sake I bred
+ His daughter Dora: take her for your wife;
+ For I have wished this marriage, night and day,
+ For many years." But William answered short:
+ "I cannot marry Dora; by my life,
+ I will not marry Dora." Then the old man
+ Was wroth, and doubled up his hands, and said:
+ "You will not, boy! you dare to answer thus!
+ But in my time a father's word was law,
+ And so it shall be now for me. Look to it;
+ Consider, William: take a month to think,
+ And let me have an answer to my wish;
+ Or, by the Lord that made me, you shall pack,
+ And never more darken my doors again."
+ But William answered madly; bit his lips,
+ And broke away. The more he looked at her
+ The less he liked her; and his ways were harsh;
+ But Dora bore them meekly. Then before
+ The month was out he left his father's house
+ And hired himself to work within the fields;
+ And half in love, half spite, he wooed and wed
+ A laborer's daughter, Mary Morrison.
+ Then, when the bells were ringing, Allan called
+ His niece and said, "My girl, I love you well;
+ But if you speak with him that was my son,
+ Or change a word with her he calls his wife,
+ My home is none of yours. My will is law."
+ And Dora promised, being meek. She thought,
+ "It cannot be; my uncle's mind will change!"
+ And days went on, and there was born a boy
+ To William; then distresses came on him;
+ And day by day he passed his father's gate,
+ Heart-broken, and his father helped him not.
+ But Dora stored what little she could save,
+ And sent it them by stealth, nor did they know
+ Who sent it; till at last a fever seized
+ On William, and in harvest time he died.
+ Then Dora went to Mary. Mary sat
+ And looked with tears upon her boy, and thought
+ Hard things of Dora. Dora came and said:
+ "I have obeyed my uncle until now,
+ And I have sinned, for it was all thro' me
+ This evil came on William at the first.
+ But, Mary, for the sake of him that's gone,
+ And for your sake, the woman that he chose,
+ And for this orphan, I am come to you;
+ You know there has not been for these five years
+ So full a harvest; let me take the boy,
+ And I will set him in my uncle's eye
+ Among the wheat; that when his heart is glad
+ Of the full harvest, he may see the boy,
+ And bless him for the sake of him that's gone."
+ And Dora took the child, and went her way
+ Across the wheat, and sat upon a mound
+ That was unsown, where many poppies grew.
+ Far off the farmer came into the field
+ And spied her not; for none of all his men
+ Dare tell him Dora waited with the child;
+ And Dora would have risen and gone to him,
+ But her heart failed her; and the reapers reaped,
+ And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
+ But when the morrow came, she rose and took
+ The child once more, and sat upon the mound;
+ And made a little wreath of all the flowers
+ That grew about, and tied it round his hat
+ To make him pleasing in her uncle's eye.
+ Then, when the farmer passed into the field,
+ He spied her, and he left his men at work,
+ And came and said: "Where were you yesterday?
+ Whose child is that? What are you doing here?"
+ So Dora cast her eyes upon the ground,
+ And answered softly, "This is William's child!"
+ "And did I not," said Allan, "did I not
+ Forbid you, Dora?" Dora said again:
+ "Do with me as you will, but take the child
+ And bless him for the sake of him that's gone!"
+ And Allan said, "I see it is a trick
+ Got up betwixt you and the woman there.
+ I must be taught my duty, and by you!
+ You knew my word was law, and yet you dared
+ To slight it. Well--for I will take the boy;
+ But go you hence, and never see me more."
+ So saying, he took the boy, that cried aloud
+ And struggled hard. The wreath of flowers fell
+ At Dora's feet. She bowed upon her hands,
+ And the boy's cry came to her from the field,
+ More and more distant. She bowed down her head,
+ Remembering the day when first she came,
+ And all the things that had been. She bowed down
+ And wept in secret; and the reapers reaped,
+ And the sun fell, and all the land was dark.
+ Then Dora went to Mary's house, and stood
+ Upon the threshold. Mary saw the boy
+ Was not with Dora. She broke out in praise
+ To God, that helped her in her widowhood.
+ And Dora said, "My uncle took the boy;
+ But, Mary, let me live and work with you:
+ He says that he will never see me more."
+ Then answered Mary, "This shall never be,
+ That thou shouldst take my trouble on thyself;
+ And, now I think, he shall not have the boy,
+ For he will teach him hardness, and to slight
+ His mother; therefore thou and I will go,
+ And I will have my boy, and bring him home;
+ And I will beg of him to take thee back.
+ But if he will not take thee back again,
+ Then thou and I will live within one house,
+ And work for William's child, until he grows
+ Of age to help us."
+ So the women kissed
+ Each other, and set out, and reached the farm.
+ The door was off the latch; they peeped, and saw
+ The boy set up betwixt his grandsire's knees,
+ Who thrust him in the hollows of his arm,
+ And clapt him on the hands and on the cheeks,
+ Like one that loved him; and the lad stretched out
+ And babbled for the golden seal, that hung
+ From Allan's watch, and sparkled by the fire.
+ Then they came in; but when the boy beheld
+ His mother, he cried out to come to her;
+ And Allan set him down, and Mary said:
+ "O Father!--if you let me call you so--
+ I never came a begging for myself,
+ Or William, or this child; but now I come
+ For Dora; take her back; she loves you well.
+ O Sir, when William died, he died at peace
+ With all men; for I asked him, and he said,
+ He could not ever rue his marrying me--
+ I had been a patient wife; but, Sir, he said
+ That he was wrong to cross his father thus;
+ 'God bless him!' he said, 'and may he never know
+ The troubles I have gone thro'!' Then he turned
+ His face and passed--unhappy that I am!
+ But now, Sir, let me have my boy, for you
+ Will make him hard, and he will learn to slight
+ His father's memory; and take Dora back,
+ And let all this be as it was before."
+ So Mary said, and Dora hid her face
+ By Mary. There was silence in the room;
+ And all at once the old man burst in sobs:--
+ "I have been to blame--to blame. I have killed my son.
+ I have killed him--but I loved him--my dear son.
+ May God forgive me!--I have been to blame.
+ Kiss me, my children."
+ Then they clung about
+ The old man's neck, and kissed him many times.
+ And all the man was broken with remorse;
+ And all his love came back a hundredfold;
+ And for three hours he sobbed o'er William's child,
+ Thinking of William.
+ So those four abode
+ Within one house together; and as years
+ Went forward, Mary took another mate;
+ But Dora lived unmarried till her death.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+[Illustration: CHARLES LAMB.]
+
+
+
+
+HESTER.
+
+
+ When maidens such as Hester die,
+ Their place ye may not well supply,
+ Though ye among a thousand try,
+ With vain endeavor.
+
+ A month or more hath she been dead,
+ Yet cannot I by force be led
+ To think upon the wormy bed
+ And her together.
+
+ A springy motion in her gait,
+ A rising step, did indicate
+ Of pride and joy no common rate,
+ That flushed her spirit.
+
+ I know not by what name beside
+ I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,
+ It was a joy to that allied,
+ She did inherit.
+
+ Her parents held the Quaker rule,
+ Which doth the human feeling cool,
+ But she was trained in Nature's school,
+ Nature had blest her.
+
+ A waking eye, a prying mind,
+ A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,
+ A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,
+ Ye could not Hester.
+
+ My sprightly neighbor! gone before
+ To that unknown and silent shore,
+ Shall we not meet, as heretofore,
+ Some summer morning,
+
+ When from thy cheerful eyes a ray
+ Hath struck a bliss upon the day,
+ A bliss that would not go away,
+ A sweet forewarning?
+
+ CHARLES LAMB.
+
+
+
+
+BONNIE LESLEY.
+
+
+ O saw ye bonnie Lesley
+ As she ga'ed 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 for ever;
+ For Nature made her what she is,
+ And ne'er made sic anither!
+
+ Thou art a queen, fair Lesley,
+ Thy subjects we, before thee;
+ Thou art divine, fair Lesley,
+ 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 thee;
+ Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely,
+ That ill they'll ne'er let near thee.
+
+ Return again, fair Lesley,
+ Return to Caledonie;
+ That we may brag, we hae a lass
+ There's nane again sae bonnie.
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+ANNIE LAURIE.
+
+
+ Maxwelton braes are bonnie
+ Where early fa's the dew,
+ And it's there that Annie Laurie
+ Gie'd me her promise true,--
+ Gie'd me her promise true,
+ Which ne'er forgot will be;
+ And for bonnie Annie Laurie
+ I'd lay me doune and dee.
+
+ Her brow is like the snawdrift,
+ Her throat is like the swan,
+ Her face it is the fairest
+ That e'er the sun shone on,--
+ That e'er the sun shone on;
+ And dark blue is her e'e;
+ And for bonnie Annie Laurie
+ I'd lay me doune and dee.
+
+ Like dew on the gowan lying
+ Is the fa' o' her fairy feet;
+ Like the winds in summer sighing,
+ Her voice is low and sweet,--
+ Her voice is low and sweet;
+ And she's a' the world to me;
+ And for bonnie Annie Laurie
+ I'd lay me doune and dee.
+
+ WILLIAM DOUGLAS.
+
+[Illustration: BAYARD TAYLOR.]
+
+
+
+
+A SONG OF THE CAMP.
+
+
+ "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried,
+ The outer trenches guarding,
+ When the heated guns of the camp allied
+ Grew weary of bombarding.
+
+ The dark Redan, in silent scoff,
+ Lay grim and threatening under;
+ And the tawny mound of the Malakoff
+ No longer belched its thunder.
+
+ There was a pause. A guardsman said:
+ "We storm the forts to-morrow;
+ Sing while we may, another day
+ Will bring enough of sorrow."
+
+ They lay along the battery's side,
+ Below the smoking cannon,--
+ Brave hearts from Severn and from Clyde,
+ And from the banks of Shannon.
+
+ They sang of love, and not of fame;
+ Forgot was Britain's glory;
+ Each heart recalled a different name,
+ But all sang "Annie Laurie."
+
+ Voice after voice caught up the song,
+ Until its tender passion
+ Rose like an anthem rich and strong,
+ Their battle eve confession.
+
+ Dear girl! her name he dared not speak;
+ But as the song grew louder,
+ Something upon the soldier's cheek
+ Washed off the stains of powder.
+
+ Beyond the darkening ocean burned
+ The bloody sunset's embers,
+ While the Crimean valleys learned
+ How English love remembers.
+
+ And once again a fire of hell
+ Rained on the Russian quarters,
+ With scream of shot and burst of shell,
+ And bellowing of the mortars!
+
+ And Irish Nora's eyes are dim
+ For a singer dumb and gory;
+ And English Mary mourns for him
+ Who sang of "Annie Laurie."
+
+ Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest
+ Your truth and valor wearing;
+ The bravest are the tenderest,--
+ The loving are the daring.
+
+ BAYARD TAYLOR.
+
+[Illustration: RALPH WALDO EMERSON.]
+
+
+
+
+EACH AND ALL.
+
+
+ Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown
+ Of thee from the hilltop looking down;
+ The heifer that lows in the upland farm,
+ Far heard, lows not thine ear to charm;
+ The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,
+ Deems not that great Napoleon
+ Stops his horse, and lists with delight,
+ Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;
+ Nor knowest thou what argument
+ Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
+ All are needed by each one;
+ Nothing is fair or good alone.
+ I thought the sparrow's note from heaven,
+ Singing at dawn on the alder bough;
+ I brought him home, in his nest, at even;
+ He sings the song, but it cheers not now,
+ For I did not bring home the river and sky;
+ He sang to my ear,--they sang to my eye.
+ The delicate shells lay on the shore;
+ The bubbles of the latest wave
+ Fresh pearls to their enamel gave,
+ And the bellowing of the savage sea
+ Greeted their safe escape to me.
+ I wiped away the weeds and foam,
+ I fetched my sea-born treasures home;
+ But the poor, unsightly, noisome things
+ Had left their beauty on the shore
+ With the sun and the sand and the wild uproar.
+ The lover watched his graceful maid,
+ As 'mid the virgin train she strayed,
+ Nor knew her beauty's best attire
+ Was woven still by the snow-white choir.
+ At last she came to his hermitage,
+ Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;--
+ The gay enchantment was undone,
+ A gentle wife, but fairy none.
+ Then I said, "I covet truth;
+ Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat;
+ I leave it behind with the games of youth:"--
+ As I spoke, beneath my feet
+ The ground pine curled its pretty wreath,
+ Running over the club moss burs;
+ I inhaled the violet's breath;
+ Around me stood the oaks and firs;
+ Pine cones and acorns lay on the ground;
+ Over me soared the eternal sky,
+ Full of light and of deity;
+ Again I saw, again I heard,
+ The rolling river, the morning bird;
+ Beauty through my senses stole;
+ I yielded myself to the perfect whole.
+
+ RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+THE RHODORA.
+
+ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
+
+
+ In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
+ I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
+ Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
+ To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
+ The purple petals, fallen in the pool,
+ Made the black water with their beauty gay;
+ Here might the redbird come his plumes to cool,
+ And court the flower that cheapens his array.
+ Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
+ This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
+ Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
+ Then Beauty is its own excuse for being.
+ Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
+ I never thought to ask, I never knew:
+ But, in my simple ignorance, suppose
+ The selfsame Power that brought me there brought you.
+
+ RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+THE LAND OF SONG: Book III.
+
+_PART III._
+
+[Illustration: R. WESTALL.
+CARDINAL WOLSEY RECEIVED AT THE ABBEY.]
+
+PART THREE.
+
+
+
+
+THE DOWNFALL OF WOLSEY.
+
+
+ Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
+ This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
+ The tender leaves of hopes; 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.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _From "Henry VIII."_
+
+[Illustration: JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.]
+
+
+
+
+ICHABOD!
+
+
+ So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
+ Which once he wore!
+ The glory from his gray hairs gone
+ Forevermore!
+
+ Revile him not,--the Tempter hath
+ A snare for all;
+ And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
+ Befit his fall!
+
+ O, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
+ When he who might
+ Have lighted up and led his age,
+ Falls back in night.
+
+ Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
+ A bright soul driven,
+ Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
+ From hope and heaven!
+
+ Let not the land once proud of him
+ Insult him now,
+ Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
+ Dishonored brow.
+
+ But let its humbled sons, instead,
+ From sea to lake,
+ A long lament, as for the dead,
+ In sadness make.
+
+ Of all we loved and honored, naught
+ Save power remains,--
+ A fallen angel's pride of thought,
+ Still strong in chains.
+
+ All else is gone: from those great eyes
+ The soul has fled:
+ When faith is lost, when honor dies,
+ The man is dead!
+
+ Then, pay the reverence of old days
+ To his dead fame;
+ Walk backward, with averted gaze,
+ And hide the shame!
+
+ JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
+
+
+
+
+THE LOST LEADER.
+
+
+ Just for a handful of silver he left us,
+ Just for a riband to stick in his coat--
+ Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us,
+ Lost all the others she lets us devote;
+ They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver,
+ So much was theirs who so little allowed:
+ How all our copper had gone for his service!
+ Rags--were they purple, his heart had been proud!
+ We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him,
+ Lived in his mild and magnificent eye,
+ Learned his great language, caught his clear accents,
+ Made him our pattern to live and to die!
+ Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us,
+ Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves!
+ He alone breaks from the van and the freemen,
+ He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves!
+
+ We shall march prospering,--not thro' his presence;
+ Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre;
+ Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence,
+ Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire.
+ Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more,
+ One task more declined, one more footpath untrod,
+ One more devil's triumph, and sorrow for angels,
+ One wrong more to man, one more insult to God!
+ Life's night begins: let him never come back to us!
+ There would be doubt, hesitation and pain,
+ Forced praise on our part--the glimmer of twilight,
+ Never glad, confident morning again!
+ Best fight on well, for we taught him--strike gallantly,
+ Menace our heart ere we master his own;
+ Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us,
+ Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne!
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+THE FALL OF POLAND.
+
+
+ O sacred Truth! thy triumph ceased a while,
+ And Hope, thy sister, ceased with thee to smile,
+ When leagued Oppression poured to Northern wars
+ Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce hussars,
+ Waved her dread standard to the breeze of morn,
+ Pealed her loud drum, and twanged her trumpet horn;
+ Tumultuous horror brooded o'er her van,
+ Presaging wrath to Poland--and to man.
+ Warsaw's last champion from her height surveyed,
+ Wide o'er the fields, a waste of ruin laid,--
+ O Heaven! he cried, my bleeding country save!--
+ Is there no hand on high to shield the brave?
+ Yet, though destruction sweep those lovely plains,
+ Rise, fellow-men! our country yet remains!
+ By that dread name, we wave the sword on high,
+ And swear for her to live--with her to die!
+ He said, and on the rampart heights arrayed
+ His trusty warriors, few, but undismayed;
+ Firm-paced and slow, a horrid front they form,
+ Still as the breeze, but dreadful as the storm;
+ Low murmuring sounds along their banners fly,
+ Revenge, or death,--the watchword and reply;
+ Then pealed the notes, omnipotent to charm,
+ And the loud tocsin tolled their last alarm.
+ In vain, alas! in vain, ye gallant few!
+ From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew:--
+ Oh, bloodiest picture in the book of Time,
+ Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime;
+ Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe,
+ Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe.
+ Dropped from her nerveless grasp the shattered spear,
+ Closed her bright eye, and curbed her high career;--
+ Hope, for a season, bade the world farewell,
+ And Freedom shrieked--as Kosciusko fell.
+ The sun went down, nor ceased the carnage there,
+ Tumultuous murder shook the midnight air--
+ On Prague's proud arch the fires of ruin glow,
+ His blood-dyed waters murmuring far below;
+ The storm prevails, the rampart yields a way,
+ Bursts the wild cry of horror and dismay.
+ Hark, as the smoldering piles with thunder fall,
+ A thousand shrieks for hopeless mercy call!
+ Earth shook--red meteors flashed along the sky,
+ And conscious Nature shuddered at the cry!
+ O righteous Heaven! ere Freedom found a grave,
+ Why slept the sword, omnipotent to save?
+ Where was thine arm, O Vengeance! where thy rod,
+ That smote the foes of Zion and of God;
+ That crushed proud Ammon, when his iron car
+ Was yoked in wrath, and thundered from afar?
+ Where was the storm that slumbered till the host
+ Of blood-stained Pharaoh left their trembling coast;
+ Then bade the deep in wild commotion flow,
+ And heaved an ocean on their march below?
+ Departed spirits of the mighty dead!
+ Ye that at Marathon and Leuctra bled!
+ Friends of the world! restore your swords to man,
+ Fight in his sacred cause, and lead the van!
+ Yet for Sarmatia's tears of blood atone,
+ And make her arm puissant as your own!
+ Oh! once again to Freedom's cause return
+ The patriot Tell--the Bruce of Bannockburn!
+ Yes, thy proud lords, unpitied land, shall see
+ That man hath yet a soul--and dare be free.
+ A little while, along thy saddening plains,
+ The starless night of desolation reigns;
+ Truth shall restore the light by Nature given,
+ And, like Prometheus, bring the fire of Heaven.
+ Prone to the dust Oppression shall be hurled,
+ Her name, her nature, withered from the world.
+
+ THOMAS CAMPBELL.
+_From "The Pleasures of Hope."_
+
+
+
+
+THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS.
+
+
+ The harp that once through Tara's halls
+ The soul of music shed,
+ Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
+ As if that soul were fled.
+ So sleeps the pride of former days,
+ So glory's thrill is o'er,
+ And hearts that once beat high for praise
+ Now feel that pulse no more.
+
+ No more to chiefs and ladies bright,
+ The harp of Tara swells:
+ The chord alone, that breaks at night,
+ Its tale of ruin tells.
+ Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
+ The only throb she gives,
+ Is when some heart indignant breaks,
+ To show that still she lives.
+
+ THOMAS MOORE.
+
+[Illustration: STOKE POGIS CHURCH.
+(_The Scene of Gray's Elegy._)]
+
+
+
+
+ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.
+
+
+ The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
+ The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
+ The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
+ And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
+
+ 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.
+
+ 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,
+ Await alike the inevitable hour:
+ The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
+
+ Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault
+ If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
+ Where thro' 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 tyrant of his fields withstood;
+ Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest;
+ Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.
+
+ The applause of listening senates to command,
+ The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
+ To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
+ And read their 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 keep the noiseless tenor of their way.
+
+ Yet e'en 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, woeful 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 thro' 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 ('twas 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.
+
+[Illustration: OLIVER GOLDSMITH.]
+
+
+
+
+THE VILLAGE PREACHER.
+
+
+ Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,
+ And still where many a garden flower grows wild,
+ There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,
+ The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
+ A man he was to all the country dear,
+ And passing rich with forty pounds a year.
+ Remote from towns he ran his godly race,
+ Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;
+ Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power
+ By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;
+ Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
+ More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.
+ His house was known to all the vagrant train,
+ He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;
+ The long-remembered beggar was his guest,
+ Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
+ The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,
+ Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;
+ The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
+ Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,
+ Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,
+ Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won.
+ Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,
+ And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
+ Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
+ His pity gave ere charity began.
+ Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,
+ And even his failings leaned to virtue's side;
+ But in his duty prompt at every call,
+ He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all:
+ And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
+ To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,
+ He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,
+ Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
+ Beside the bed where parting life was laid,
+ And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,
+ The reverend champion stood: at his control
+ Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
+ Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,
+ And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
+ At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
+ His looks adorned the venerable place;
+ Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,
+ And fools who came to scoff remained to pray.
+ The service past, around the pious man,
+ With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
+ Even children followed, with endearing wile,
+ And plucked his gown, to share the good man's smile:
+ His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
+ Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest.
+ To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
+ But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven:
+ As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,
+ Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
+ Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
+ Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
+
+ OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
+_From "The Deserted Village."_
+
+[Illustration: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.]
+
+
+
+
+LUCY.
+
+
+ Three years she grew in sun and shower;
+ Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
+ On earth was never sown:
+ This child I to myself will take;
+ She shall be mine, and I will make
+ A lady of my own.
+
+ "Myself will to my darling be
+ Both law and impulse: and with me
+ The girl, in rock and plain,
+ In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
+ Shall feel an overseeing power
+ To kindle or restrain.
+
+ "She shall be sportive as the fawn
+ That, wild with glee, across the lawn
+ Or up the mountain springs;
+ And hers shall be the breathing balm,
+ And hers the silence and the calm
+ Of mute, insensate things.
+
+ "The floating clouds their state shall lend
+ To her; for her the willow bend;
+ Nor shall she fail to see
+ E'en in the motions of the storm
+ Grace that shall mold the maiden's form
+ By silent sympathy.
+
+ "The stars of midnight shall be dear
+ To her; and she shall lean her ear
+ In many a secret place
+ Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
+ And beauty born of murmuring sound
+ Shall pass into her face.
+
+ "And vital feelings of delight
+ Shall rear her form to stately height,
+ Her virgin bosom swell;
+ Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
+ While she and I together live
+ Here in this happy dell."
+
+ Thus Nature spake--the work was done--
+ How soon my Lucy's race was run!
+ She died, and left to me
+ This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
+ The memory of what has been,
+ And nevermore will be.
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+OH, FAIREST OF THE RURAL MAIDS.
+
+
+ Oh, fairest of the rural maids!
+ Thy birth was in the forest shades;
+ Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
+ Were all that met thine infant eye.
+
+ Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
+ Were ever in the sylvan wild;
+ And all the beauty of the place
+ Is in thy heart and on thy face.
+
+ The twilight of the trees and rocks
+ Is in the light shade of thy locks;
+ Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
+ Its playful way among the leaves.
+
+ Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
+ And silent waters heaven is seen;
+ Their lashes are the herbs that look
+ On their young figures in the brook.
+
+ The forest depths, by foot impressed,
+ Are not more sinless than thy breast;
+ The holy peace, that fills the air
+ Of those calm solitudes, is there.
+
+ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+STANZAS FOR MUSIC.
+
+
+ There be none of Beauty's daughters
+ With a magic like thee;
+ And like music on the waters
+ Is thy sweet voice to me:
+ When, as if its sound were causing
+ The charmèd ocean's pausing,
+ The waves lie still and gleaming,
+ And the lulled winds seem dreaming:
+
+ And the midnight moon is weaving
+ Her bright chain o'er the deep;
+ Whose breast is gently heaving,
+ As an infant's asleep:
+ So the spirit bows before thee,
+ To listen and adore thee;
+ With a full but soft emotion,
+ Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
+
+ LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.
+
+
+
+
+FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON.
+
+
+ Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,
+ Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
+ My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream--
+ Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
+
+ Thou stockdove, whose echo resounds thro' the glen;
+ Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den;
+ Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear--
+ I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
+
+ How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills,
+ Far marked with the courses of clear, winding rills;
+ There daily I wander as noon rises high,
+ My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
+
+ How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
+ Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow.
+ There, oft as mild evening weeps over the lea,
+ The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
+
+ Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
+ And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
+ How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
+ As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
+
+ Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes
+ Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays.
+ My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream--
+ Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream!
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+TRIUMPH OF CHARIS.
+
+
+ See the chariot at hand here of Love,
+ Wherein my lady rideth!
+ Each that draws is a swan, or a dove,
+ And well the car, Love guideth.
+ As she goes, all hearts do duty
+ Unto her beauty,
+ And, enamored, do wish, so they might
+ But enjoy such a sight,
+ That they still were to run by her side
+ Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride.
+
+ Do but look on her eyes! they do light
+ All that Love's world compriseth;
+ Do but look on her hair! it is bright
+ As Love's star when it riseth!
+ Do but mark--her forehead's smoother
+ Than words that soothe her!
+ And from her arched brows such a grace
+ Sheds itself through the face,
+ As alone there, triumphs to the life,
+ All the gain, all the good, of the elements' strife.
+
+ Have you seen but a bright lily grow,
+ Before rude hands have touched it?
+ Have you marked but the fall of the snow,
+ Before the soil hath smutched it?
+ Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
+ Or swan's down ever?
+ Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier?
+ Or nard i' the fire?
+ Or have tasted the bag of the bee?
+ Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she!
+
+ BEN JONSON.
+
+
+
+
+ANNIE OF THARAW.
+
+FROM THE LOW GERMAN OF SIMON DACH.
+
+
+ Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,
+ She is my life, and my goods, and my gold.
+
+ Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again
+ To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.
+
+ Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,
+ Thou, O my soul, my flesh, and my blood!
+
+ Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,
+ We will stand by each other, however it blow.
+
+ Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain
+ Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.
+
+ As the palm tree standeth so straight and so tall,
+ The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,--
+
+ So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong,
+ Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.
+
+ Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone
+ In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,--
+
+ Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows,
+ Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.
+
+ Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
+ The threads of our two lives are woven in one.
+
+ Whate'er I have bidden thee thou hast obeyed,
+ Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.
+
+ How in the turmoil of life can love stand,
+ Where there is not one heart, and one mouth, and one hand?
+
+ Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife;
+ Like a dog and a cat live such man and wife.
+
+ Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
+ Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.
+
+ Whate'er my desire is, in thine may be seen;
+ I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.
+
+ It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest,
+ That makes of us twain but one soul in one breast.
+
+ This turns to a heaven the hut where we dwell;
+ While wrangling soon changes a home to a hell.
+
+ HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
+
+
+
+
+SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT.
+
+
+ She was a phantom of delight
+ When first she gleamed upon my sight;
+ A lovely apparition, sent
+ To be a moment's ornament;
+ Her eyes as stars of twilight fair;
+ Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
+ But all things else about her drawn
+ From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
+ A dancing shape, an image gay,
+ To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
+
+ I saw her upon nearer view,
+ A spirit, yet a woman too!
+ Her household motions light and free,
+ And steps of virgin liberty;
+ A countenance in which did meet
+ Sweet records, promises as sweet;
+ A creature not too bright or good
+ For human nature's daily food;
+ For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
+ Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
+
+ And now I see with eye serene
+ The very pulse of the machine;
+ A being breathing thoughtful breath,
+ A traveler between life and death;
+ The reason firm, the temperate will,
+ Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
+ A perfect woman, nobly planned,
+ To warn, to comfort, and command;
+ And yet a spirit still, and bright
+ With something of angelic light.
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+NIGHT AND DEATH.
+
+
+ Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
+ Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
+ Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
+ This glorious canopy of light and blue?
+ Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew,
+ Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
+ Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came;
+ And lo! creation widened in man's view.
+ Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
+ Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find,
+ While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
+ That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind?
+ Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?--
+ If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
+
+ JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE.
+
+
+
+
+IMMORTALITY.
+
+
+ Forever with the Lord!
+ Amen! so let it be!
+ Life from the dead is in that word,
+ And immortality!
+
+ Here in the body pent,
+ Absent from Him I roam,
+ Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
+ A day's march nearer home.
+
+ My Father's house on high,
+ Home of my soul! how near,
+ At times, to Faith's foreseeing eye,
+ Thy golden gates appear.
+
+ Ah! then my spirit faints
+ To reach the land I love,
+ The bright inheritance of saints,
+ Jerusalem above!
+
+ Yet clouds will intervene,
+ And all my prospect flies;
+ Like Noah's dove, I flit between
+ Rough seas and stormy skies.
+
+ Anon the clouds depart,
+ The winds and waters cease;
+ While sweetly o'er my gladdened heart
+ Expands the bow of peace!
+
+ Beneath its glowing arch,
+ Along the hallowed ground,
+ I see cherubic armies march,
+ A camp of fire around.
+
+ I hear at morn and even,
+ At noon and midnight hour,
+ The choral harmonies of Heaven
+ Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower.
+
+ Then, then I feel, that He,
+ Remembered or forgot,
+ The Lord, is never far from me,
+ Though I perceive Him not.
+
+ JAMES MONTGOMERY.
+
+[Illustration: ALFRED TENNYSON.]
+
+
+
+
+THE RAISING OF LAZARUS.
+
+
+ When Lazarus left his charnel cave,
+ And home to Mary's house returned,
+ Was this demanded--if he yearned
+ To hear her weeping by his grave?
+
+ "Where wert thou, brother, those four days?"
+ There lives no record of reply,
+ Which telling what it is to die
+ Had surely added praise to praise.
+
+ From every house the neighbors met,
+ The streets were filled with joyful sound,
+ A solemn gladness even crowned
+ The purple brows of Olivet.
+
+ Behold a man raised up by Christ!
+ The rest remaineth unrevealed;
+ He told it not; or something sealed
+ The lips of that Evangelist.
+
+ Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
+ Nor other thought her mind admits
+ But, he was dead, and there he sits,
+ And he that brought him back is there.
+
+ Then one deep love doth supersede
+ All other, when her ardent gaze
+ Roves from the living brother's face,
+ And rests upon the Life indeed.
+
+ All subtle thought, all curious fears
+ Borne down by gladness so complete,
+ She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet
+ With costly spikenard and with tears.
+
+ Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
+ Whose loves in higher love endure;
+ What souls possess themselves so pure,
+ Or is there blessedness like theirs?
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+ _From "In Memoriam."_
+
+
+
+
+FAITH.
+
+
+ I have seen
+ A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract
+ Of inland ground, applying to his ear
+ The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell;
+ To which, in silence hushed, his very soul
+ Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
+ Brightened with joy; for from within were heard
+ Murmurings, whereby the monitor expressed
+ Mysterious union with its native sea.
+ Even such a shell the universe itself
+ Is to the ear of Faith; and there are times,
+ I doubt not, when to you it doth impart
+ Authentic tidings of invisible things;
+ Of ebb and flow, and everduring power;
+ And central peace, subsisting at the heart
+ Of endless agitation. Here you stand,
+ Adore, and worship, when you know it not;
+ Pious beyond the intention of your thought;
+ Devout above the meaning of your will.
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+ _From "The Excursion."_
+
+
+
+
+MY DOVES.
+
+
+ My little doves have left a nest
+ Upon an Indian tree,
+ Whose leaves fantastic take their rest
+ Or motion from the sea;
+ For, ever there, the sea winds go
+ With sunlit paces to and fro.
+
+ The tropic flowers looked up to it,
+ The tropic stars looked down,
+ And there my little doves did sit
+ With feathers softly brown,
+ And glittering eyes that showed their right
+ To gentle Nature's deep delight.
+
+ And God them taught, at every close
+ Of murmuring waves beyond,
+ And green leaves round to interpose
+ Their choral voices fond,
+ Interpreting that love must be
+ The meaning of the earth and sea.
+
+ Fit ministers! Of living loves,
+ Theirs hath the calmest fashion,
+ Their living voice the likest moves
+ To lifeless intonation,
+ The lovely monotone of spring
+ And winds, and such insensate things.
+
+ My little doves were ta'en away
+ From that glad nest of theirs,
+ Across an ocean rolling gray,
+ And tempest-clouded airs.
+ My little doves,--who lately knew
+ The sky and wave by warmth and blue!
+
+ And now, within the city prison,
+ In mist and chillness pent,
+ With' sudden upward look they listen
+ For sounds of past content--
+ For lapse of water, swell of breeze,
+ Or nut fruit falling from the trees.
+
+ The stir without the glow of passion,
+ The triumph of the mart,
+ The gold and silver as they clash on
+ Man's cold metallic heart--
+ The roar of wheels, the cry for bread,--
+ These only sounds are heard instead.
+
+ Yet still, as on my human hand
+ Their fearless heads they lean,
+ And almost seem to understand
+ What human musings mean,
+ (Their eyes, with such a plaintive shine,
+ Are fastened upwardly to mine!)
+
+ Soft falls their chant as on the nest
+ Beneath the sunny zone;
+ For love that stirred it in their breast
+ Has not aweary grown,
+ And 'neath the city's shade can keep
+ The well of music clear and deep.
+
+ And love that keeps the music, fills
+ With pastoral memories:
+ All echoing from out the hills,
+ All droppings from the skies,
+ All flowings from the wave and wind,
+ Remembered in their chant, I find.
+
+ So teach ye me the wisest part,
+ My little doves! to move
+ Along the city ways with heart
+ Assured by holy love,
+ And vocal with such songs as own
+ A fountain to the world unknown.
+
+ 'Twas hard to sing by Babel's stream--
+ More hard, in Babel's street!
+ But if the soulless creatures deem
+ Their music not unmeet
+ For sunless walls--let _us_ begin,
+ Who wear immortal wings within!
+
+ To me, fair memories belong
+ Of scenes that used to bless,
+ For no regret, but present song,
+ And lasting thankfulness,
+ And very soon to break away,
+ Like types, in purer things than they.
+
+ I will have hopes that cannot fade,
+ For flowers the valley yields!
+ I will have humble thoughts instead
+ Of silent, dewy fields!
+ My spirit and my God shall be
+ My seaward hill, my boundless sea.
+
+ ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+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, upsprung 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.
+
+
+
+
+HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR.
+
+
+ The sad and solemn night
+ Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;
+ The glorious host of light
+ Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;
+ All through her silent watches, gliding slow,
+ Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
+
+ Day, too, hath many a star
+ To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they:
+ Through the blue fields afar,
+ Unseen, they follow in his flaming way:
+ Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,
+ Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.
+
+ And thou dost see them rise,
+ Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.
+ Alone, in thy cold skies,
+ Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,
+ Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,
+ Nor dipp'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main.
+
+ There, at morn's rosy birth,
+ Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air,
+ And eve, that round the earth
+ Chases the day, beholds thee watching there;
+ There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls
+ The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.
+
+ Alike, beneath thine eye,
+ The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
+ High towards the starlit sky
+ Towns blaze, the smoke of battle blots the sun,
+ The night storm on a thousand hills is loud
+ And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.
+
+ On thy unaltering blaze
+ The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost,
+ Fixes his steady gaze,
+ And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;
+ And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,
+ Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.
+
+ And, therefore, bards of old,
+ Sages and hermits of the solemn wood,
+ Did in thy beams behold
+ A beauteous type of that unchanging good,
+ That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray
+ The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
+
+ WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
+
+
+
+
+EVENING.
+
+
+ Now came still evening on, and twilight gray
+ Had in her sober livery all things clad:
+ Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
+ They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
+ Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;
+ She all night long her amorous descant sung;
+ Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament
+ With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led
+ The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,
+ Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
+ Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light,
+ And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.
+
+ JOHN MILTON.
+ _From "Paradise Lost."_
+
+
+
+
+QUIET WORK.
+
+
+ One lesson, Nature, let me learn of thee,
+ One lesson which in every wind is blown,
+ One lesson of two duties kept at one
+ Though the loud world proclaim their enmity--
+ Of toil unsevered from tranquillity;
+ Of labor, that in lasting fruit outgrows
+ Far noisier schemes, accomplished in repose,
+ Too great for haste, too high for rivalry.
+ Yes, while on earth a thousand discords ring,
+ Man's senseless uproar mingling with his toil,
+ Still do thy quiet ministers move on,
+ Their glorious tasks in silence perfecting;
+ Still working, blaming still our vain turmoil,
+ Laborers that shall not fail, when man is gone.
+
+ MATTHEW ARNOLD.
+
+[Illustration: SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.]
+
+
+
+
+HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI.
+
+
+ Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
+ In his steep course? so long he seems to pause
+ On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
+ The Arvé and Arveiron at thy base
+ Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form,
+ Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
+ How silently! Around thee and above,
+ Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
+ An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
+ As with a wedge! But when I look again,
+ It is thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
+ Thy habitation from eternity!
+ O dread and silent mount! I gazed upon thee,
+ Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
+ Didst vanish from my thoughts: entranced in prayer
+ I worshiped the Invisible alone.
+
+ Yet, like some sweet, beguiling melody,
+ So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
+ Thou the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,
+ Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:
+ Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,
+ Into the mighty vision passing,--there,
+ As in her natural form, swelled vast to heaven!
+
+ Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
+ Thou owest,--not alone these swelling tears,
+ Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,
+ Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
+ Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn!
+
+ Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the vale!
+ O, struggling with the darkness all the night,
+ And visited all night by troops of stars,
+ Or when they climb the sky or when they sink;
+ Companion of the morning star at dawn,
+ Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
+ Coherald! O, wake, and utter praise!
+ Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
+ Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
+ Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?
+
+ And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad,
+ Who called you forth from night and utter death,
+ From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
+ Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
+ Forever shattered and the same forever?
+ Who gave you your invulnerable life,
+ Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
+ Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
+ And who commanded--and the silence came--
+ "Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?"
+
+ Ye ice falls! ye that from the mountain's brow,
+ Adown enormous ravines slope amain,
+ Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
+ And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
+ Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
+ Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven
+ Beneath the keen, full moon? Who bade the sun
+ Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
+ Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
+ "God!" let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
+ Answer; and let the ice plains echo, "God!"
+ "God!" sing, ye meadow streams with gladsome voice!
+ Ye pine groves, with your soft and soullike sounds!
+ And they, too, have a voice, yon piles of snow,
+ And in their perilous fall shall thunder, "God!"
+
+ Ye living flowers, that skirt the eternal frost!
+ Ye wild goats, sporting round the eagle's nest!
+ Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain storm!
+ Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
+ Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
+ Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!
+
+ Thou, too, hoar mount, with thy sky-pointing peaks!
+ Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
+ Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
+ Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast,
+ Thou, too, again, stupendous mountain! thou
+ That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
+ In adoration, upward from thy base
+ Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
+ Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
+ To rise before me,--rise, O, ever rise,
+ Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
+ Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills,
+ Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,
+ Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
+ And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
+ Earth, with her thousand voices praises God.
+
+ SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
+
+[Illustration: MONT BLANC. (Vale of Chamouni.)]
+
+
+
+
+ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER.
+
+
+ Much have I traveled in the realms of gold,
+ And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
+ Round many western islands have I been
+ Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
+ Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
+ That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne:
+ Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
+ Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold.
+ Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
+ When a new planet swims into his ken;
+ Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
+ He stared at the Pacific--and all his men
+ Looked at each other with a wild surmise--
+ Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
+
+ JOHN KEATS.
+
+
+
+
+ULYSSES.
+
+
+ It little profits that an idle king,
+ By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
+ Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
+ Unequal laws unto a savage race,
+ That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
+ I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
+ Life to the lees: all times have I enjoyed
+ Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
+ That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
+ Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
+ Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
+ For always roaming with a hungry heart
+ Much have I seen and known; cities of men
+ And manners, climates, councils, governments,
+ Myself not least, but honored of them all;
+ And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
+ Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
+ I am a part of all that I have met;
+ Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
+ Gleams that untraveled world, whose margin fades
+ For ever and for ever when I move.
+ How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
+ To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
+ As tho' to breathe were life. Life piled on life
+ Were all too little, and of one to me
+ Little remains: but every hour is saved
+ From that eternal silence, something more,
+ A bringer of new things; and vile it were
+ For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
+ And this gray spirit yearning in desire
+ To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
+ Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
+ This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
+ To whom I leave the scepter and the isle--
+ Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
+ This labor, by slow prudence to make mild
+ A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
+ Subdue them to the useful and the good.
+ Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
+ Of common duties, decent not to fail
+ In offices of tenderness, and pay
+ Meet adoration to my household gods,
+ When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
+ There lies the port: the vessel puffs her sail:
+ There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
+ Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me--
+ That ever with a frolic welcome took
+ The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
+ Free hearts, free foreheads--you and I are old;
+ Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
+ Death closes all: but something ere the end,
+ Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
+ Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
+ The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
+ The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
+ Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
+ 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
+ Push off, and sitting well in order smite
+ The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
+ To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
+ Of all the western stars, until I die.
+ It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
+ It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
+ And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
+ Tho' much is taken, much abides: and tho'
+ We are not now that strength which in old days
+ Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
+ One equal temper of heroic hearts,
+ Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
+ To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+[Illustration: DEATH OF CÆSAR.]
+
+
+
+
+ANTONY'S EULOGY ON CÆSAR.
+
+
+ Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
+ I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.
+ The evil that men do lives after them;
+ The good is oft interrèd with their bones;
+ So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus
+ Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious:
+ If it were so, it were a grievous fault,
+ And grievously hath Cæsar answered it.
+ Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest--
+ For Brutus is an honorable man;
+ So are they all, all honorable men--
+ Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral.
+ He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
+ But Brutus says he was ambitious;
+ And Brutus is an honorable man.
+ He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
+ Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
+ Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious?
+ When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept:
+ Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
+ Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
+ And Brutus is an honorable man.
+ You all did see that on the Lupercal
+ I thrice presented him a kingly crown,
+ Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
+ Yet Brutus says he was ambitious;
+ And, sure, he is an honorable man.
+ I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke,
+ But here I am to speak what I do know.
+ You all did love him once, not without cause:
+ What cause withholds you then, to mourn for him?
+ O judgment! thou art fled to brutish beasts,
+ And men have lost their reason. Bear with me:
+ My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar,
+ And I must pause till it come back to me.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ But yesterday the word of Cæsar might
+ Have stood against the world; now lies he there,
+ And none so poor to do him reverence.
+ O masters, if I were disposed to stir
+ Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage,
+ I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
+ Who, you all know, are honorable men:
+ I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
+ To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
+ Than I will wrong such honorable men.
+ But here's a parchment with the seal of Cæsar;
+ I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:
+ Let but the commons hear this testament--
+ Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read--
+ And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds
+ And dip their napkins in his sacred blood,
+ Yea, beg a hair of him for memory,
+ And, dying, mention it within their wills,
+ Bequeathing it as a rich legacy
+ Unto their issue.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it;
+ It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you.
+ You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;
+ And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar,
+ It will inflame you, it will make you mad:
+ Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;
+ For, if you should, O, what would come of it!
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Will you be patient? will you stay awhile?
+ I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it:
+ I fear I wrong the honorable men
+ Whose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ You will compel me, then, to read the will?
+ Then make a ring about the corpse of Cæsar,
+ And let me show you him that made the will.
+ Shall I descend? and will you give me leave?
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.
+ You all do know this mantle: I remember
+ The first time ever Cæsar put it on;
+ 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
+ That day he overcame the Nervii:
+ Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through:
+ See what a rent the envious Casca made:
+ Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed;
+ And as he plucked his cursèd steel away,
+ Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it,
+ As rushing out of doors, to be resolved
+ If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no;
+ For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel:
+ Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him!
+ This was the most unkindest cut of all:
+ For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab,
+ Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms,
+ Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart;
+ And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
+ Even at the base of Pompey's statua,
+ Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell.
+ O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
+ Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,
+ Whilst bloody treason flourished over us.
+ O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
+ The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
+ Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold
+ Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here,
+ Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Stay, countrymen.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
+ To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
+ They that have done this deed are honorable:
+ What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,
+ That made them do it: they are wise and honorable,
+ And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
+ I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts:
+ I am no orator, as Brutus is;
+ But, as you know me, a plain blunt man,
+ That love my friend; and that they know full well
+ That gave me public leave to speak of him:
+ For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
+ Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
+ To stir men's blood: I only speak right on:
+ I tell you that which you yourselves do know:
+ Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths,
+ And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
+ And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
+ Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue
+ In every wound of Cæsar that should move
+ The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Why, friends, you go to do you know not what:
+ Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves?
+ Alas, you know not: I must tell you, then:
+ You have forgot the will I told you of.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal.
+ To every Roman citizen he gives,
+ To every several man, seventy five drachmas.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Hear me with patience.
+
+ * * * * *
+
+ Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,
+ His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
+ On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,
+ And to your heirs forever, common pleasures,
+ To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves.
+ Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another?
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _From "Julius Cæsar."_
+
+[Illustration: DUKE OF WELLINGTON.]
+
+
+
+
+ODE ON THE DEATH OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON.
+
+A SELECTION.
+
+
+ Lo, the leader in these glorious wars
+ Now to glorious burial slowly borne,
+ Followed by the brave of other lands,
+ He, on whom from both her open hands
+ Lavish Honor showered all her stars,
+ And affluent Fortune emptied all her horn.
+ Yea, let all good things await
+ Him who cares not to be great,
+ But as he saves or serves the state.
+ Not once or twice in our rough island-story,
+ The path of duty was the way to glory:
+ He that walks it, only thirsting
+ For the right, and learns to deaden
+ Love of self, before his journey closes,
+ He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting
+ Into glossy purples, which outredden
+ All voluptuous garden roses.
+ Not once or twice in our fair island-story,
+ The path of duty was the way to glory:
+ He, that ever following her commands,
+ On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
+ Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won
+ His path upward, and prevailed,
+ Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled
+ Are close upon the shining table lands
+ To which our God himself is moon and sun,
+ Such was he: his work is done,
+ But while the races of mankind endure,
+ Let his great example stand
+ Colossal, seen of every land,
+ And keep the soldier firm, the statesman pure;
+ Till in all lands and thro' all human story
+ The path of duty be the way to glory:
+ And let the land whose hearths he saved from shame
+ For many and many an age proclaim
+ At civic revel and pomp and game,
+ And when the long-illumined cities flame,
+ Their ever loyal iron leader's fame,
+ With honor, honor, honor, honor to him,
+ Eternal honor to his name.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+[Illustration: JOHN MILTON.]
+
+
+
+
+LONDON, 1802.
+
+
+ Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour:
+ England hath need of thee: she is a fen
+ Of stagnant waters! altar, sword, and pen,
+ Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
+ Have forfeited their ancient English dower
+ Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
+ Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
+ And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
+ Thy soul was like a star, and dwelt apart:
+ Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
+ Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
+ So didst thou travel on life's common way,
+ In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
+ The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
+
+ WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
+
+
+
+
+THE CAVALIER.
+
+
+ While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,
+ My truelove has mounted his steed, and away
+ Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down,--
+ Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
+
+ He has doffed the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,
+ He has placed the steel cap o'er his long-flowing hair,
+ From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down,--
+ Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
+
+ For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;
+ Her King is his leader, her church is his cause;
+ His watchward is honor, his pay is renown,--
+ God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!
+
+ They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
+ The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;
+ But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,
+ That the spears of the North have encircled the crown.
+
+ There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;
+ There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!
+ Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown
+ With the Barons of England, that fight for the crown?
+
+ Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier!
+ Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear,
+ Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
+ In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown.
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE.
+
+
+ By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
+ I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
+ And as he was singing the tears down came,
+ There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
+
+ The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
+ Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
+ We darena weel say't, though we ken wha's to blame,
+ There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
+
+ My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
+ And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd.
+ It brak the sweet heart of my faithfu' auld dame--
+ There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
+
+ Now life is a burthen that bows me down,
+ Since I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
+ But till my last moments my words are the same--
+ There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame!
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+BOOT AND SADDLE.
+
+
+ Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
+ Rescue my castle before the hot day
+ Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,
+ (_Chorus_) _Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_
+
+ Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
+ Many's the friend there will listen and pray
+ "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay--
+ (_Chorus_) '_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_'"
+
+ Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
+ Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array:
+ Who laughs, "Good fellows ere this, by my fay,
+ (_Chorus_) '_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_'"
+
+ Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
+ Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!
+ I've better counselors; what counsel they?
+ (_Chorus_) '_Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!_'"
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+A JACOBITE IN EXILE.
+
+
+ The weary day rins down and dies,
+ The weary night wears through:
+ And never an hour is fair wi' flower
+ And never a flower wi' dew.
+
+ I would the day were night for me,
+ I would the night were day:
+ For then would I stand in my ain fair land,
+ As now in dreams I may.
+
+ O lordly flow the Loire and Seine,
+ And loud the dark Durance:
+ But bonnier shine the braes of Tyne
+ Than a' the fields of France;
+ And the waves of Till that speak sae still
+ Gleam goodlier where they glance.
+
+ O weel were they that fell fighting
+ On dark Drumossie's day:
+ They keep their hame ayont the faem
+ And we die far away.
+
+ O sound they sleep, and saft, and deep,
+ But night and day wake we;
+ And ever between the sea banks green
+ Sounds loud the sundering sea.
+
+ And ill we sleep, sae sair we weep,
+ But sweet and fast sleep they;
+ And the mool that haps them roun' and laps them
+ Is e'en their country's clay;
+ But the land we tread that are not dead
+ Is strange as night by day.
+
+ Strange as night in a strange man's sight,
+ Though fair as dawn it be:
+ For what is here that a stranger's cheer
+ Should yet wax blithe to see?
+
+ The hills stand steep, the dells lie deep,
+ The fields are green and gold;
+ The hill streams sing, and the hillsides ring,
+ As ours at home of old.
+
+ But hills and flowers are nane of ours,
+ And ours are over sea:
+ And the kind strange land whereon we stand,
+ It wotsna what were we
+ Or ever we came, wi' scathe and shame,
+ To try what end might be.
+
+ Scathe and shame, and a waefu' name,
+ And a weary time and strange,
+ Have they that seeing a weird for dreeing
+ Can die, and cannot change.
+
+ Shame and scorn may we thole that mourn,
+ Though sair be they to dree:
+ But ill may we bide the thoughts we hide,
+ Mair keen than wind and sea.
+
+ Ill may we thole the night's watches,
+ And ill the weary day:
+ And the dreams that keep the gates of sleep,
+ A waefu' gift gie they;
+ For the songs they sing us, the sights they bring us,
+ The morn blaws all away.
+
+ On Aikenshaw the sun blinks braw,
+ The burn rins blithe and fain;
+ There's naught wi' me I wadna gie
+ To look thereon again.
+
+ On Keilder-side the wind blaws wide:
+ There sounds nae hunting horn
+ That rings sae sweet as the winds that beat
+ Round banks where Tyne is born.
+
+ The Wansbeck sings with all her springs,
+ The bents and braes give ear;
+ But the wood that rings wi' the sang she sings
+ I may not see nor hear;
+ For far and far thae blithe burns are,
+ And strange is a' thing near.
+
+ The light there lightens, the day there brightens,
+ The loud wind there lives free:
+ Nae light comes nigh me or wind blaws by me
+ That I wad hear or see.
+
+ But O gin I were there again,
+ Afar ayont the faem,
+ Cauld and dead in the sweet saft bed
+ That haps my sires at hame!
+
+ We'll see nae mair the sea banks fair,
+ And the sweet gray gleaming sky,
+ And the lordly strand of Northumberland,
+ And the goodly towers thereby;
+ And none shall know but the winds that blow
+ The graves wherein we lie.
+
+ ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
+
+[Illustration: ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.]
+
+
+
+
+A JACOBITE'S EPITAPH.
+
+
+ To my true king I offered free from stain
+ Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.
+ For him, I threw lands, honors, wealth, away,
+ And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.
+ For him I languished in a foreign clime,
+ Gray-haired with sorrow in my manhood's prime;
+ Heard on Lavernia Scargill's whispering trees,
+ And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;
+ Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,
+ Each morning started from the dream to weep;
+ Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave
+ The resting place I asked--an early grave.
+ Oh thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,
+ From that proud country which was once mine own,
+ By those white cliffs I never more must see,
+ By that dear language which I speak like thee,
+ Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear
+ O'er English dust. A broken heart lies here.
+
+ THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.
+
+
+
+
+THE THREE FISHERS.
+
+
+ Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
+ Out into the west as the sun went down;
+ Each thought on the woman who loved him the best,
+ And the children stood watching them out of the town;
+ For men must work, and women must weep,
+ And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
+ Though the harbor bar be moaning.
+
+ Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
+ And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
+ They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
+ And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown.
+ But men must work and women must weep,
+ Though storms be sudden and waters deep,
+ And the harbor bar be moaning.
+
+ Three corpses lay out on the shining sands
+ In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
+ And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
+ For those who will never come home to the town;
+ For men must work, and women must weep,
+ And the sooner 'tis over, the sooner to sleep
+ And good-by to the bar and its moaning.
+
+ CHARLES KINGSLEY.
+
+[Illustration: CHARLES KINGSLEY.]
+
+
+
+
+THE DESERTED HOUSE.
+
+
+ Life and Thought have gone away
+ Side by side,
+ Leaving door and windows wide:
+ Careless tenants they!
+
+ All within is dark as night;
+ In the windows is no light;
+ And no murmur at the door,
+ So frequent on its hinge before.
+
+ Close the door, the shutters close,
+ Or thro' the windows we shall see
+ The nakedness and vacancy
+ Of the dark, deserted house.
+
+ Come away: no more of mirth
+ Is here or merry-making sound.
+ The house was builded of the earth,
+ And shall fall again to ground.
+
+ Come away: for life and thought
+ Here no longer dwell;
+ But in a city glorious--
+ A great and distant city--have bought
+ A mansion incorruptible.
+ Would they could have stayed with us!
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+[Illustration]
+
+
+
+
+THE LAST LEAF.
+
+
+ I saw him once before,
+ As he passed by the door,
+ And again
+ The pavement stones resound,
+ As he totters o'er the ground
+ With his cane.
+
+ They say that in his prime,
+ Ere the pruning knife of Time
+ Cut him down,
+ Not a better man was found
+ By the crier on his round
+ Through the town.
+
+ But now he walks the streets,
+ And he looks at all he meets
+ Sad and wan,
+ And he shakes his feeble head,
+ That it seems as if he said,
+ "They are gone."
+
+ The mossy marbles rest
+ On the lips that he has prest
+ In their bloom,
+ And the names he loved to hear
+ Have been carved for many a year
+ On the tomb.
+
+ My grandmamma has said--
+ Poor old lady, she is dead
+ Long ago--
+ That he had a Roman nose,
+ And his cheek was like a rose
+ In the snow.
+
+ But now his nose is thin,
+ And it rests upon his chin
+ Like a staff,
+ And a crook is in his back,
+ And a melancholy crack
+ In his laugh.
+
+ I know it is a sin
+ For me to sit and grin
+ At him here;
+ But the old three cornered hat,
+ And the breeches, and all that,
+ Are so queer!
+
+ And if I should live to be
+ The last leaf upon the tree
+ In the spring,
+ Let them smile, as I do now,
+ At the old forsaken bough
+ Where I cling.
+
+ OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
+
+
+
+
+ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
+
+
+ O that those lips had language! Life has passed
+ With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
+ Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see,
+ The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
+ Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
+ "Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
+ The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
+ (Blest be the art that can immortalize,
+ The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim
+ To quench it) here shines on me still the same.
+ Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
+ O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
+ Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song,
+ Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
+ I will obey, not willingly alone,
+ But gladly, as the precept were her own;
+ And, while that face renews my filial grief,
+ Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
+ Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
+ A momentary dream, that thou art she.
+ My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
+ Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
+ Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
+ Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
+ Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
+ Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss--
+ Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.
+ I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
+ I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
+ And, turning from my nursery window, drew
+ A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
+ But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone,
+ Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
+ May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
+ The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
+ Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
+ Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
+ What ardently I wished, I long believed,
+ And, disappointed still, was still deceived.
+ By expectation every day beguiled,
+ Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child.
+ Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
+ Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
+ I learned at last submission to my lot,
+ But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
+ Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
+ Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
+ And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
+ Drew me to school along the public way,
+ Delighted with my bauble coach and wrapped
+ In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap,
+ 'Tis now become a history little known,
+ That once we called the pastoral house our own.
+ Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
+ That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
+ Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
+ A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
+ Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
+ That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
+ Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
+ The biscuit; or confectionery plum;
+ The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed
+ By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
+ All this, and more endearing still than all,
+ Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall.
+ Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks,
+ That humor interposed too often makes;
+ All this still legible in memory's page,
+ And still to be so to my latest age,
+ Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
+ Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
+ Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
+ Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.
+ Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
+ When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers,
+ The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
+ I pricked them into paper with a pin
+ (And thou wast happier than myself the while,
+ Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile),
+ Could those few pleasant days again appear,
+ Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?
+ I would not trust my heart--the dear delight
+ Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might,--
+ But no--what here we call our life is such,
+ So little to be loved, and thou so much,
+ That I should ill requite thee to constrain
+ Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
+ Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
+ (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed),
+ Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
+ Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile,
+ There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
+ Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
+ While airs impregnated with incense play
+ Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
+ So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore,
+ "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"
+ And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
+ Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
+ But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
+ Always from port withheld, always distressed--
+ Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
+ Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost,
+ And day by day some current's thwarting force
+ Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
+ Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!
+ That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
+ My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
+ From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
+ But higher far my proud pretensions rise--
+ The son of parents passed into the skies.
+ And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run
+ His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.
+ By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
+ I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again;
+ To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
+ Without the sin of violating thine;
+ And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
+ And I can view this mimic show of thee,
+ Time has but half succeeded in his theft--
+ Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
+
+ WILLIAM COWPER.
+
+
+
+
+IN HEAVENLY LOVE ABIDING.
+
+
+ In heavenly love abiding,
+ No change my heart shall fear,
+ And safe is such confiding,
+ For nothing changes here.
+ The storm may roar without me,
+ My heart may low be laid;
+ But God is round about me,
+ And can I be dismayed?
+
+ Wherever He may guide me,
+ No want shall turn me back;
+ My Shepherd is beside me,
+ And nothing can I lack.
+ His wisdom ever waketh,
+ His sight is never dim,
+ He knows the way He taketh,
+ And I will walk with Him.
+
+ Green pastures are before me,
+ Which yet I have not seen;
+ Bright skies will soon be o'er me,
+ Where darkest clouds have been.
+ My hope I cannot measure,
+ My path to life is free;
+ My Father has my treasure,
+ And He will walk with me.
+
+ ANNA H. WARING.
+
+
+
+
+ST. AGNES' EVE.
+
+
+ Deep on the convent roof the snows
+ Are sparkling to the moon:
+ My breath to heaven like vapor goes:
+ May my soul follow soon!
+ The shadows of the convent towers
+ Slant down the snowy sward,
+ Still creeping with the creeping hours
+ That lead me to my Lord:
+ Make Thou my spirit pure and clear
+ As are the frosty skies,
+ Or this first snowdrop of the year
+ That in my bosom lies.
+
+ As these white robes are soiled and dark,
+ To yonder shining ground,
+ As this pale taper's earthly spark,
+ To yonder argent round;
+ So shows my soul before the Lamb,
+ My spirit before Thee,
+ So in mine earthly house I am,
+ To that I hope to be.
+ Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far,
+ Thro' all yon starlight keen,
+ Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star,
+ In raiment white and clean.
+
+ He lifts me to the golden doors;
+ The flashes come and go;
+ All heaven bursts her starry floors,
+ And strews her lights below,
+ And deepens on and up! the gates
+ Roll back, and far within
+ For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits,
+ To make me pure of sin.
+ The sabbaths of eternity,
+ One sabbath deep and wide--
+ A light upon the shining sea--
+ The Bridegroom with his bride!
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+[Illustration: ELAINE.]
+
+
+
+
+ELAINE.
+
+
+ But ten slow mornings past, and on the eleventh
+ Her father laid the letter in her hand,
+ And closed the hand upon it, and she died.
+ So that day there was dole in Astolat.
+ But when the next sun brake from underground,
+ Then, those two brethren slowly with bent brows
+ Accompanying, the sad chariot-bier
+ Past like a shadow thro' the field, that shone
+ Full summer, to that stream whereon the barge,
+ Palled all its length in blackest samite, lay.
+ There sat the lifelong creature of the house,
+ Loyal, the dumb old servitor, on deck,
+ Winking his eyes, and twisted all his face.
+
+ So those two brethren from the chariot took
+ And on the black decks laid her in her bed,
+ Set in her hand a lily, o'er her hung
+ The silken case with braided blazonings,
+ And kissed her quiet brows, and saying to her
+ "Sister, farewell for ever," and again
+ "Farewell, sweet sister," parted all in tears.
+ Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead,
+ Steered by the dumb, went upward with the flood--
+ In her right hand the lily, in her left
+ The letter--all her bright hair streaming down--
+ And all the coverlid was cloth of gold
+ Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white
+ All but her face, and that clear-featured face
+ Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead,
+ But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+ _From "Launcelot and Elaine," The Idyls of the King._
+
+
+
+
+SIR GALAHAD.
+
+
+ My good blade carves the casques of men,
+ My tough lance thrusteth sure,
+ My strength is as the strength of ten,
+ Because my heart is pure.
+ The shattering trumpet shrilleth high,
+ The hard brands shiver on the steel,
+ The splintered spear shafts crack and fly,
+ The horse and rider reel;
+ They reel, they roll in clanging lists,
+ And when the tide of combat stands
+ Perfume and flowers fall in showers,
+ That lightly rain from ladies' hands.
+
+ How sweet are looks that ladies bend
+ On whom their favors fall!
+ For them I battle to the end,
+ To save from shame and thrall;
+ But all my heart is drawn above,
+ My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine;
+ I never felt the kiss of love,
+ Nor maiden's hand in mine.
+ More bounteous aspects on me beam,
+ Me mightier transports move and thrill;
+ So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer
+ A virgin heart in work and will.
+
+ When down the stormy crescent goes,
+ A light before me swims,
+ Between dark stems the forest glows,
+ I hear a noise of hymns:
+ Then by some secret shrine I ride;
+ I hear a voice, but none are there;
+ The stalls are void, the doors are wide,
+ The tapers burning fair.
+ Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth,
+ The silver vessels sparkle clean,
+ The shrill bell rings, the censer swings,
+ And solemn chants resound between.
+
+ Sometimes on lonely mountain meres
+ I find a magic bark,
+ I leap on board: no helmsman steers;
+ I float till all is dark.
+ A gentle sound, an awful light!
+ Three angels bear the holy Grail:
+ With folded feet, in stoles of white,
+ On sleeping wings they sail.
+ Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
+ My spirit beats her mortal bars,
+ As down dark tides the glory slides,
+ And starlike mingles with the stars.
+
+ When on my goodly charger borne
+ Thro' dreaming towns I go,
+ The cock crows ere the Christmas morn,
+ The streets are dumb with snow.
+ The tempest crackles on the leads,
+ And, ringing, springs from brand and mail;
+ But o'er the dark a glory spreads,
+ And gilds the driving hail.
+ I leave the plain, I climb the height;
+ No branchy thicket shelter yields;
+ But blessed forms in whistling storms
+ Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields.
+
+ A maiden knight--to me is given
+ Such hope, I know not fear;
+ I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven
+ That often meet me here.
+ I muse on joy that will not cease,
+ Pure spaces clothed in living beams,
+ Pure lilies of eternal peace,
+ Whose odors haunt my dreams;
+ And, stricken by an angel's hand,
+ This mortal armor that I wear,
+ This weight and size, this heart and eyes,
+ Are touched, are turned to finest air.
+
+ The clouds are broken in the sky,
+ And thro' the mountain walls
+ A rolling organ harmony
+ Swells up, and shakes and falls.
+ Then move the trees, the copses nod,
+ Wings flutter, voices hover clear:
+ "O just and faithful Knight of God!
+ Ride on! the prize is near."
+ So pass I hostel, hall, and grange;
+ By bridge and ford, by park and pale,
+ All armed I ride, whate'er betide,
+ Until I find the holy Grail.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+
+
+
+TRUE KNIGHTHOOD.
+
+
+ But I was first of all the kings who drew
+ The knighthood-errant of this realm and all
+ The realms together under me, their Head,
+ In that fair order of my Table Round,
+ A glorious company, the flower of men,
+ To serve as models for the mighty world,
+ And be the fair beginning of a time.
+ I made them lay their hands in mine and swear
+ To reverence the King, as if he were
+ Their conscience, and their conscience as their King,
+ To break the heathen and uphold the Christ,
+ To ride abroad redressing human wrongs,
+ To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it,
+ To lead sweet lives in purest chastity,
+ To love one maiden only, cleave to her,
+ And worship her by years of noble deeds,
+ Until they won her; for indeed I knew
+ Of no more subtle master under heaven
+ Than is the maiden passion for a maid,
+ Not only to keep down the base in man,
+ But teach high thoughts, and amiable words
+ And courtliness, and the desire of fame,
+ And love of truth, and all that makes a man.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+ _From "Guinevere," The Idylls of the King._
+
+
+
+
+GROWING OLD.
+
+
+ Grow old along with me!
+ The best is yet to be,
+ The last of life, for which the first was made;
+ Our times are in His hand
+ Who saith "A whole I planned,
+ Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+ _From "Rabbi Ben Ezra."_
+
+
+
+
+APPARITIONS.
+
+
+ Such a starved bank of moss
+ Till, that May morn,
+ Blue ran the flash across:
+ Violets were born!
+
+ Sky--what a scowl of cloud
+ Till, near and far,
+ Ray on ray split the shroud:
+ Splendid, a star!
+
+ World--how it walled about
+ Life with disgrace
+ Till God's own smile came out:
+ That was thy face!
+
+ ROBERT BROWNING.
+
+
+
+
+MY LOVE.
+
+
+ Not as all other women are
+ Is she that to my soul is dear;
+ Her glorious fancies come from far,
+ Beneath the silver evening star,
+ And yet her heart is ever near.
+
+ Great feelings hath she of her own,
+ Which lesser souls may never know;
+ God giveth them to her alone,
+ And sweet they are as any tone
+ Wherewith the wind may choose to blow.
+
+ She is most fair, and thereunto
+ Her life doth rightly harmonize;
+ Feeling or thought that was not true
+ Ne'er made less beautiful the blue
+ Unclouded heaven of her eyes.
+
+ She is a woman: one in whom
+ The springtime of her childish years
+ Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
+ Though knowing well that life hath room
+ For many blights and many tears.
+
+ I love her with a love as still
+ As a broad river's peaceful might,
+ Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
+ Seems wandering its own wayward will,
+ And yet doth ever flow aright.
+
+ And, on its full, deep breast serene,
+ Like quiet isles my duties lie;
+ It flows around them and between,
+ And makes them fresh and fair and green,
+ Sweet homes wherein to live and die.
+
+ JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.
+
+
+
+
+NORA'S VOW.
+
+
+ Hear what Highland Nora said,--
+ "The Earlie's son I will not wed,
+ Should all the race of nature die,
+ And none be left but he and I.
+ For all the gold, for all the gear,
+ And all the lands both far and near,
+ That ever valor lost or won,
+ I would not wed the Earlie's son."
+
+ "A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,
+ "Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
+ The heather on the mountain's height
+ Begins to bloom in purple light;
+ The frost wind soon shall sweep away
+ That luster deep from glen and brae;
+ Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
+ May blithely wed the Earlie's son."--
+
+ "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast
+ May barter for the eagle's nest;
+ The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
+ Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
+ Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
+ Before their foes may turn and fly;
+ But I, were all these marvels done,
+ Would never wed the Earlie's son."
+
+ Still in the water lily's shade
+ Her wonted nest the wild swan made;
+ Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
+ Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
+ To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
+ No Highland brogue has turned the heel:
+ But Nora's heart is lost and won,
+ --She's wedded to the Earlie's son!
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+
+
+
+
+SONG.
+
+
+ Who is Silvia? what is she,
+ That all our swains commend her?
+ Holy, fair and wise is she;
+ The heaven such grace did lend her
+ That she might admirèd be.
+
+ Is she kind, as she is fair?
+ For beauty lives with kindness.
+ Love doth to her eyes repair,
+ To help him of his blindness;
+ And, being helped, inhabits there.
+
+ Then to Silvia let us sing,
+ That Silvia is excelling;
+ She excels each mortal thing
+ Upon the dull earth dwelling;
+ To her let us garlands bring.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+ _From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."_
+
+[Illustration: SILVIA.]
+
+
+
+
+THE OUTLAW.
+
+
+ O Brignall banks are wild and fair,
+ And Greta woods are green,
+ And you may gather garlands there
+ Would grace a summer queen.
+ And as I rode by Dalton Hall
+ Beneath the turrets high,
+ A maiden on the castle wall
+ Was singing merrily,--
+ "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+ And Greta woods are green;
+ I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
+ Than reign our English queen."
+
+ --"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
+ To leave both tower and town,
+ Thou first must guess what life lead we,
+ That dwell by dale and down.
+ And if thou canst that riddle read,
+ As read full well you may,
+ Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed
+ As blithe as Queen of May."
+ Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
+ And Greta woods are green;
+ I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
+ Than reign our English queen.
+
+ "I read you by your bugle horn
+ And by your palfrey good,
+ I read for you a ranger sworn,
+ To keep the king's greenwood."
+ --"A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
+ And 'tis at peep of light;
+ His blast is heard at merry morn,
+ And mine at dead of night."
+ Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair,
+ And Greta woods are gay;
+ I would I were with Edmund there,
+ To reign his Queen of May!
+
+ "With burnished brand and musketoon,
+ So gallantly you come,
+ I read you for a bold dragoon
+ That lists the tuck of drum."
+ --"I list no more the tuck of drum,
+ No more the trumpet hear;
+ But when the beetle sounds his hum,
+ My comrades take the spear.
+ And O! though Brignall banks be fair
+ And Greta woods be gay,
+ Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
+ Would reign my Queen of May!
+
+ "Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
+ A nameless death I'll die!
+ The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead
+ Were better mate than I!
+ And when I'm with my comrades met
+ Beneath the greenwood bough,
+ What once we were we all forget,
+ Nor think what we are now.
+ Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
+ And Greta woods are green,
+ And you may gather garlands there
+ Would grace a summer queen."
+
+ SIR WALTER SCOTT.
+ _From "Rokeby."_
+
+
+
+
+OH, WERT THOU IN THE CAULD BLAST.
+
+
+ Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast,
+ On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
+ My plaidie to the angry airt,
+ I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee:
+ Or did misfortune's bitter storms
+ Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
+ Thy bield should be my bosom,
+ To share it a', to share it a'.
+
+ Or were I in the wildest waste,
+ Sae black and bare, sae black and bare,
+ The desert were a paradise,
+ If thou wert there, if thou wert there:
+ Or were I monarch o' the globe,
+ Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign,
+ The brightest jewel in my crown
+ Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
+
+ ROBERT BURNS.
+
+
+
+
+FORBEARANCE.
+
+
+ Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?
+ Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk?
+ At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse?
+ Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust?
+ And loved so well a high behavior,
+ In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained,
+ Nobility more nobly to repay?
+ O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
+
+ RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
+
+
+
+
+A CONSOLATION.
+
+
+ When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes
+ I all alone beweep my outcast state,
+ And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
+ And look upon myself, and curse my fate;
+ Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
+ Featured like him, like him with friends possest,
+ Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
+ With what I most enjoy contented least;
+ Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
+ Haply I think on thee--and then my state,
+ Like to the lark at break of day arising
+ From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
+ For thy sweet love remembered, such wealth brings
+ That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
+
+ WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
+
+[Illustration: PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.]
+
+
+
+
+TO A SKYLARK.
+
+
+ Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
+ Bird thou never wert,
+ That from heaven, or near it
+ Pourest thy full heart
+ In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
+
+ Higher still and higher
+ From the earth thou springest;
+ Like a cloud of fire
+ The blue deep thou wingest,
+ And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
+
+ In the golden lightning
+ Of the sunken sun
+ O'er which clouds are brightening,
+ Thou dost float and run,
+ Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
+
+ The pale purple even
+ Melts around thy flight;
+ Like a star of heaven
+ In the broad daylight
+ Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:
+
+ Keen as are the arrows
+ Of that silver sphere,
+ Whose intense lamp narrows
+ In the white dawn clear
+ Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
+
+ All the earth and air
+ With thy voice is loud,
+ As, when night is bare,
+ From one lonely cloud
+ The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
+
+ What thou art we know not;
+ What is most like thee?
+ From rainbow clouds there flow not
+ Drops so bright to see
+ As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
+
+ Like a poet hidden
+ In the light of thought,
+ Singing hymns unbidden,
+ Till the world is wrought
+ To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
+
+ Like a high-born maiden
+ In a palace tower,
+ Soothing her love-laden
+ Soul in secret hour
+ With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
+
+ Like a glowworm golden
+ In a dell of dew,
+ Scattering unbeholden
+ Its aërial hue
+ Among he flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
+
+ Like a rose embowered
+ In its own green leaves,
+ By warm winds deflowered,
+ Till the scent it gives
+ Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves.
+
+ Sound of vernal showers
+ On the twinkling grass,
+ Rain-awakened flowers,
+ All that ever was
+ Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
+
+ Teach us, sprite or bird,
+ What sweet thoughts are thine:
+ I have never heard
+ Praise of love or wine
+ That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
+
+ Chorus hymeneal
+ Or triumphal chaunt
+ Matched with thine, would be all
+ But an empty vaunt--
+ A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
+
+ What objects are the fountains
+ Of thy happy strain?
+ What fields, or waves, or mountains?
+ What shapes of sky or plain?
+ What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
+
+ With thy clear keen joyance
+ Languor cannot be:
+ Shadow of annoyance
+ Never came near thee:
+ Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
+
+ Waking or asleep
+ Thou of death must deem
+ Things more true and deep
+ Than we mortals dream,
+ Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
+
+ We look before and after
+ And pine for what is not:
+ Our sincerest laughter
+ With some pain is fraught;
+ Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
+
+ Yet if we could scorn
+ Hate, and pride, and fear;
+ If we were things born
+ Not to shed a tear,
+ I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
+
+ Better than all measures
+ Of delightful sound,
+ Better than all treasures
+ That in books are found,
+ Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
+
+ Teach me half the gladness
+ That thy brain must know,
+ Such harmonious madness
+ From my lips would flow
+ The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
+
+ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
+
+
+
+
+WATERLOO.
+
+
+ There was a sound of revelry by night,
+ And Belgium's capital had gathered then
+ Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
+ The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
+ A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
+ Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
+ Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
+ And all went merry as a marriage bell;
+ But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
+
+ Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,
+ Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;
+ On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
+ No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
+ To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
+ But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,
+ As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
+ And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
+ Arm, arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!
+
+ Within a windowed niche of that high hall
+ Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear
+ That sound, the first amidst the festival,
+ And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;
+ And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
+ His heart more truly knew that peal too well
+ Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
+ And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
+ He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.
+
+[Illustration: C. STEUBEN.
+NAPOLEON AT WATERLOO.]
+
+ Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
+ And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
+ And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
+ Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
+ And there were sudden partings, such as press
+ The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
+ Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess
+ If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
+ Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
+
+ And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
+ The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
+ Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
+ And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
+ And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
+ And near, the beat of the alarming drum
+ Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
+ While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
+ Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! They come! they come!"
+
+ And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose,
+ The war note of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
+ Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
+ How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills
+ Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
+ Their mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
+ With the fierce native daring which instills
+ The stirring memory of a thousand years,
+ And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!
+
+ And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
+ Dewy with Nature's tear drops, as they pass,
+ Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
+ Over the unreturning brave,--alas!
+ Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
+ Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
+ In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
+ Of living valor, rolling on the foe,
+ And burning with high hope, shall molder cold and low.
+
+ Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
+ Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay,
+ The midnight brought the signal sound of strife,
+ The morn the marshaling in arms,--the day
+ Battle's magnificently stern array!
+ The thunder clouds close o'er it, which when rent
+ The earth is covered thick with other clay,
+ Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
+ Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent!
+
+ LORD GEORGE NOEL GORDON BYRON.
+ _From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_
+
+
+
+
+CROSSING THE BAR.
+
+
+ Sunset and evening star,
+ And one clear call for me!
+ And may there be no moaning of the bar,
+ When I put out to sea,
+
+ But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
+ Too full for sound and foam,
+ When that which drew from out the boundless deep
+ Turns again home.
+
+ Twilight and evening bell,
+ And after that the dark!
+ And may there be no sadness of farewell,
+ When I embark;
+
+ For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
+ The flood may bear me far,
+ I hope to see my Pilot face to face
+ When I have crossed the bar.
+
+ ALFRED TENNYSON.
+
+
+
+
+RECESSIONAL.
+
+A VICTORIAN ODE.
+
+
+ God of our fathers, known of old--
+ Lord of our far-flung battle line--
+ Beneath whose awful hand we hold
+ Dominion over palm and pine--
+ Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
+ Lest we forget--lest we forget!
+
+ The tumult and the shouting dies--
+ The Captains and the Kings depart--
+ Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
+ An humble and a contrite heart.
+ Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
+ Lest we forget--lest we forget!
+
+ Far-called, our navies melt away--
+ On dune and headland sinks the fire--
+ Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
+ Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
+ Judge of the Nations, spare us yet
+ Lest we forget--lest we forget!
+
+ If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
+ Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe--
+ Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
+ Or lesser breeds without the Law--
+ Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
+ Lest we forget--lest we forget!
+
+ For heathen heart that puts her trust
+ In reeking tube and iron shard--
+ All valiant dust that builds on dust,
+ And guarding calls not Thee to guard--
+ For frantic boast and foolish word,
+ Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! _Amen._
+
+ RUDYARD KIPLING.
+
+
+
+
+_RECOMMENDED POEMS._
+
+
+As it has been impossible to include in this collection as many poems by
+American authors as we desired, we recommend the following, all of which
+are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with the exception of Bryant's
+poems, which are published by D. Appleton & Co:--
+
+ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY.
+ An Arab Welcome.
+ A Turkish Legend.
+ Baby Bell.
+ Friar Jerome's Beautiful Book.
+ In the Old Church Tower.
+ On Lynn Terrace.
+
+BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN.
+ A Forest Hymn.
+ Thanatopsis.
+ The Conqueror's Grave.
+
+EMERSON, RALPH WALDO.
+ Boston.
+ Days.
+ Good-bye.
+ Sea-shore.
+ The Apology.
+ The Titmouse.
+
+HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL.
+ Bill and Joe.
+ Boston Common.
+ Contentment.
+ Dorothy Q.
+ Latter-Day Warnings.
+ Sun and Shadow.
+ The Boston Tea Party.
+ The Boys.
+ The Last Survivor.
+ The Living Temple.
+ The Old Cruiser.
+ To a Caged Lion.
+ Whittier's Seventieth Birthday.
+
+LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH.
+ Killed at the Ford.
+ King Robert of Sicily.
+ Ser Federigo's Falcon.
+ The Arsenal at Springfield.
+ The Birds of Killingworth.
+ The Leap of Roushan Beg.
+ The North Cape.
+ The Skeleton in Armor.
+ The Three Kings.
+ To the River Charles.
+ To the River Rhone.
+ Warden of the Cinque Ports.
+
+LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL.
+ Ambrose.
+ Commemoration Ode (Selections from).
+ Irene.
+ Mahmood, the Image-breaker.
+ The Beggar.
+ The Birch Tree.
+ The Courtin'.
+ The Dandelion.
+ The Singing Leaves.
+ The Vision of Sir Launfal.
+ Under the Old Elm.
+ Under the Willows.
+ Yussouf.
+
+SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND.
+ A Morning Thought.
+ Opportunity.
+
+WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF.
+ Among the Hills.
+ Amy Wentworth.
+ Barclay of Ury.
+ Benedicite.
+ King Volmer and Elsie.
+ Mary Garvin.
+ Maud Muller.
+ Skipper Ireson's Ride.
+ Snow-Bound.
+ The Eternal Goodness.
+ The Gift of Tritemius.
+ The Two Rabbis.
+
+
+ * * * * *
+
+Transcriber's Notes:
+Inconsistent punctuation corrected without comment.
+Archaic spellings retained.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Land of Song, Book III, by Katherine H. Shute
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 41016 ***
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