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diff --git a/41016.txt b/41016.txt deleted file mode 100644 index ca56189..0000000 --- a/41016.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9247 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Land of Song, Book III, by Katherine H. Shute - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The Land of Song, Book III - For upper grammar grades - -Author: Katherine H. Shute - -Editor: Larkin Dunton - -Release Date: October 10, 2012 [EBook #41016] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAND OF SONG, BOOK III *** - - - - -Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Dianne Nolan and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - - 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 CAESAR 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 - HERVE 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 - Herve 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 mailed 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 drowned 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-beloved bride to see; - But, be she alive, or be she dead, - I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. - - "Not so the usage I received - When happy in my father's hall; - No faithless husband then me grieved, - No chilling fears did me 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 aerial 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 throned 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 enthroned 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 accursed 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 Graemes 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 seer 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 wished 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 Republique" 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 trenched 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 Andre'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. - - - - -HERVE 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, Herve Riel the Croisickese. - - And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve 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 Greve 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: HERVE 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 Greve, - 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 - Herve 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 Herve 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 Greve. - 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, - "Herve 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 Herve Riel. - So, for better and for worse, - Herve Riel, accept my verse! - In my verse, Herve 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 delved 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 charmed 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 Arve 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 CAESAR.] - - - - -ANTONY'S EULOGY ON CAESAR. - - - Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; - I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. - The evil that men do lives after them; - The good is oft interred with their bones; - So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus - Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: - If it were so, it were a grievous fault, - And grievously hath Caesar 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 Caesar'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 Caesar seem ambitious? - When that the poor have cried, Caesar 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 Caesar, - And I must pause till it come back to me. - - * * * * * - - But yesterday the word of Caesar 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 Caesar; - 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 Caesar'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 Caesar loved you. - You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; - And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, - 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 Caesar; I do fear it. - - * * * * * - - You will compel me, then, to read the will? - Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar, - 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 Caesar 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-beloved Brutus stabbed; - And as he plucked his cursed steel away, - Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, - As rushing out of doors, to be resolved - If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; - For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: - Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! - This was the most unkindest cut of all: - For when the noble Caesar 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 Caesar 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 Caesar'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 Caesar'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 Caesar 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 Caesar 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 Caesar'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 Caesar! when comes such another? - - WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. - _From "Julius Caesar."_ - -[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 admired 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 aerial 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-winged 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. 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