diff options
Diffstat (limited to '43223-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 43223-0.txt | 15664 |
1 files changed, 15664 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/43223-0.txt b/43223-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fb02de1 --- /dev/null +++ b/43223-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,15664 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43223 *** + + _THE WORLD'S_ + _BEST POETRY_ + + + + [Illustration] + + + + _I Home: Friendship_ _VI Fancy: Sentiment_ + + _II Love_ _VII Descriptive: Narrative_ + + _III Sorrow and Consolation_ _VIII National Spirit_ + + _IV The Higher Life_ _IX Tragedy: Humor_ + + _V Nature_ _X Poetical Quotations_ + + + + _THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY_ + _IN TEN VOLUMES, ILLUSTRATED_ + + _Editor-in-Chief BLISS CARMAN_ + + + _Associate Editors_ + _John Vance Cheney Charles G. D. Roberts_ + _Charles F. Richardson Francis H. Stoddard_ + + + _Managing Editor: John R. Howard_ + + + [Illustration] + + + _JOHN D. MORRIS AND COMPANY PHILADELPHIA_ + + COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY JOHN D. MORRIS & COMPANY + + + [Illustration: JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. + _Photogravure after portrait by Stieler._] + + _The World's Best Poetry_ + _Vol. IX_ + + + _Of TRAGEDY:_ + _of HUMOR_ + + + _THE OLD CASE OF_ + _POETRY_ + _IN A NEW COURT_ + + _By_ + _FRANCIS A. GUMMERE_ + + + [Illustration] + + + _JOHN D. MORRIS AND COMPANY_ + _PHILADELPHIA_ + + + COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY + John D. Morris & Company + + + + + NOTICE OF COPYRIGHTS. + + + I. + +American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright +are used by the courteous permission of the owners,--either the +publishers named in the following list or the authors or their +representatives in the subsequent one,--who reserve all their rights. So +far as practicable, permission has been secured, also for poems out of +copyright. + + PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY. + 1904. + + The BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY, Indianapolis.--F. L. STANTON: + "Plantation Ditty." + + The CENTURY CO., New York.--_I. Russell_: "De Fust Banjo," + "Nebuchadnezzar." + + Messrs. HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.--_W. A. Butler_: + "Nothing to Wear;" _Will Carleton_: "The New Church Organ." + + Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston.--_W. H. Brownell_: + "Lawyer's Invocation to Spring;" _J. T. Fields_: "The + Nantucket Skipper;" _Bret Harte_: "Dow's Flat," "Jim," + "Plain Language from Truthful James," "To the Pliocene + Skull," "Ramon," "The Society upon the Stanislaus;" _J. + Hay_: "Banty Tim," "Jim Bludso," "Little Breeches;" _O. W. + Holmes_: "Ode for a Social Meeting," "One-Horse Shay," + "Rudolph the Headsman;" _H. W. Longfellow_: "The Wreck of + the Hesperus;" _J. R. Lowell_: "America," "The Grave-Yard," + "What Mr. Robinson Thinks;" _J. J. Roche_: "The V-A-S-E;" C. + Scollard: "Khamsin." + + The J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Philadelphia.--_G. H. Boker_: + "Countess Laura." + + Mr. DAVID MACKAY, Philadelphia.--_C. G. Leland_: "Hans + Breitmann's Party," "Ritter Hugo." + + Messrs. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, New York.--_R. Bridges + (Droch)_: "For a Novel of Hall Caine's." + + Messrs. SMALL, MAYNARD & CO., Boston.--_Charlotte Perkins + Gilman_: "A Conservative." + + + II. + +American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given below +are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their representatives +named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without their permission, +which for the present work has been courteously granted. + + PUBLISHERS OF THE WORLD'S BEST POETRY. + 1904. + + _C. F. Adams_; _C. T. Brooks_ (Mrs. Harriet Lyman Brooks); + _F. G. Burgess_; _R. W. Chambers_; + _N. H. Dole_; _S. W. Foss_; + _I. Wallace_; _J. W. Riley_. + + +[Transcriber Note: + The oe ligature has been replaced with the simple "oe" in + this version. ] + + + + + THE OLD CASE OF POETRY IN A NEW COURT. + + BY FRANCIS BARTON GUMMERE. + +Although hailed as queen of the arts and hedged about by a kind of +divinity, Poetry seems to sit on an always tottering throne. In nearly +every age known to human records, some one has chronicled his +forebodings that the days of Poetry were numbered; and again the critic, +or the Poet himself, has plucked up his courage and uttered a fairly +hopeful defence. Yet even this hope has been absent from periods which +now seem poetic in the highest degree. Michael Drayton could find scant +consolation for his art, dedicating certain poems to gentlemen who "in +these declining times.... love and cherish neglected poesy." The enemies +of poetry are always alert, and often come disguised as friends. When, +at the end of the Middle Ages, moralists ceased to attack the poets, +there appeared the man of science, a far more formidable person; and, +under cover of the dust and smoke in strong battle waged between these +open foes, poetry has been spoiled of one cherished possession after +another at the hands of a professedly ardent ally. Horace Walpole's +alternative neatly implied the whole question under debate: "Poetry," +he complained, "is gone to bed, or into our prose,"--an odd speech for +one who helped to ring the romantic rising-bell. Bulwer, writing +ponderously "On Certain Principles of Art in Works of the Imagination," +was sure that Prose had come to be the only medium of artistic +narrative. Malicious people point even now to a language which never had +any prose, and yet has lost its splendid heritage of verse: barring +Grillparzer, silent long before his death, Germany has not seen a poet +for the last fifty years. But, answers the optimist, who knows what +_ambulando_ argument for poetry is not now preparing somewhere in the +fatherland? And as for Bulwer, his ink was hardly dry when Tennyson +began those charming and miscalled Idylls of the King. If epic poetry +seems dead just now, it seemed quite as dead four hundred years ago in +France. So this harmless war is waged. What comes of it all? What has +been done? What progress? Other causes come up, find a hearing on the +evidence, get a verdict more or less in agreement with facts, and go +upon record; this case lies hopeless in chancery. Why must it wait +there, along with all the old metaphysical questions, for a decision +that never can be handed down? If one may do nothing else, one may at +least take the case to a different court, demand fresh evidence, and +appeal to another code of laws. + +Before all things, it behooves both parties to this argument to come at +the facts in the case. + +Barring a threat or so of historical treatment, as in Macaulay's famous +essay on Milton, writers who handle this matter of the decline of poetry +invariably pass either into critical discussion of more or less value in +itself, or else into amiable hysterics. To speak brutal truth, hysterics +are preferred, and little else is recognized. It is all very well to say +that the study of poetry has been put on a scientific basis; the mass of +readers who are interested in poetry, the mass of reviewers,--and one +finds this true in quite unexpected quarters,--care for no scientific +basis at all. In other words, they exclude from their study of poetry a +good half of the facts of poetry. + +In any living science one begins by finding and grouping all the facts, +high and low alike; and one then proceeds to establish the relations of +these facts on lines of record and comparison. The facts of poetry +should be conterminous with the whole range of poetic material; and when +one faces this material, one has to do with an element in human life, +although the ordinary writer seems to think that he degrades his subject +by taking such an attitude. He searches for the cause and fact of poetry +in a sphere outside of human life, removed from ordinary human +conditions, and touching only an infinitesimal part of the sum of poetic +material. True, there is nothing nobler than the effort to reckon with +great poetry, and competent critics who succeed in this must always hold +a conspicuous place in letters; but great poetry and the great critic +are not all. Poetry, high or low, as product of a human impulse and as +a constant element in the life of man, belongs to that history which has +been defined of late as "concrete sociology"--the study of human society +itself; and it is on this ground, and not in criticism, that the +question of the decline of poetry must be asked and answered. + +The task of poetics, as yet almost untried, is to make clear the +relations between higher and lower forms. Like war, marriage, worship, +magic, personal adornment, and a dozen other institutions of this sort, +poetry is an element in human life which seems to go back to the +beginnings of society. Trustworthy writers even say it was one of the +more conspicuous factors in the making of society; and when one is asked +whether poetry, that is, emotional rhythmic utterances, must be regarded +as a decreasing factor in contemporary social progress, one faces a +question of sociological as well as of literary interest, and one must +answer it on broader ground than biographical criticism, in clearer +terms than can be furnished by those old hysterics about genius. To +treat the question as it is almost invariably treated, to make it an +ingenious speculation whether any more great poets can arise under our +modern conditions, whether Goethe, if he were born now, would not be +simply a great naturalist, and whether Robert Browning or Huxley better +solved the riddle of the painful earth,--all this is to keep up an +unwholesome separation of poetics from vital and moving sciences, and to +make the discussion itself mere chatter. + +The advantage in this sociological study of poetry is that it can keep +abreast of other sciences. The oars dip into actual water, the boat +moves, whether with the current of opinion or against it, and the +landscape changes for one's pains; anything is better than the old +rowing-machines, or rather than the theatrical imitation of a boat, with +the sliding scenery and the spectators that pay to be fooled. Moreover, +it is wide scientific work, not laboratory methods, so called, like +countings of words, curves of expression, and all such pleasant devices +that rarely mount above the mechanical in method and the wholly external +in results; in sociological poetics one is dealing with the life of the +race and with the heart of man. F. Schlegel's famous word about art in +general holds firm here; the science of poetry is the history of poetry, +history in its widest and deepest sense. The futile character of poetic +studies springs from that fatal ease with which a powerful thinker sets +down thoughts about poetry, and from the reluctance to under-take such +hard work as confronts even our powerful thinker when he is minded to +know the facts. To get the wide outlook, one must climb; to get the deep +insight, one must analyze and order and compare. Now the pity of it is +that this outlook and this insight, this appreciation of a masterpiece +and this knowledge of the vast material of which it is part, are not +only rarely achieved in themselves, but are seldom if ever united. The +great poems are studied apart; and as a group, more or less stable, they +form what is known as poetry. Detached from the mass of verse, and so +from the social medium where all poetry begins and grows, they are +referred to those conditions of genius which can tell at best but half +the tale; while that very mass of verse which one concedes to the social +group, that unregarded rhythmic utterance of field and festival in which +communal emotion--the agitating joys and sorrows of the common +people--found and still finds vent, is left as a fad of ethnologists and +folk-lore societies. But the material thus divided belongs together; +each half should explain the other half; and such an unscientific +rejection of material must take poetics hopelessly out of the running. + +This plea for a more comprehensive range of material holds good not only +in the discussion of poetry in general, its origins, history, future, +but in the study of the great poem itself. Take something that every one +reads, and even Macaulay's schoolboy studies--the Lycidas of Milton. +Reader, critic, biographer, have long since come to terms with the poem; +it stirs heart and mind, it belongs to the masterpieces, it voices the +genius of Milton, it echoes Puritan England. Here one usually stops; but +here one should not stop. Lycidas, as a poem, is the outcome of human +emotion in long reaches of social progress; it is primarily a poem of +grief for the dead, a link in that chain of evolution in rhythmic +utterance which leads from wild gestures and inarticulate cries up to +the stately march of Milton's verse and the higher mood of his thought. +So far from degrading one's conception of great poetry, the comparison +of rough communal verse should throw into strongest relief the dignity +and the majesty of a poet's art. One has taken this poet from his +parochial limits, and set him strongly lighted, at the front of a great +stage, with its dim background full of half-seen, strangely moving +figures; his song is now detached from a vast chorus of human +lamentation, and now sinks back into it as into its source. In certain +great elegies, as also in the hymeneal, this chorus actually lingers as +a refrain. True, the individuals of the chorus are seldom interesting in +themselves. The black fellow of Australia shall not soothe our grief +with his howlings for his dead, nor even the Corsican widow with her +_vocero_. But the chorus as chorus is impressive enough; it is a part of +the piece; heard or unheard, it belongs with the triumphs of individual +art. Somewhere in every great poem lurks this legacy of communal song. +It may better be called the silent partner, without whose capital, at +the least, no poet can now trade in Parnassian ware; and as for lyric +verse, there the partner is not even silent. All amorous lyric, whether +of German Walther or of Roman Catullus, holds an echo of festal throngs +singing and dancing at the May. The troubadours come down to us with +proud names, yet they are only spokesmen of an aristocratic guild; and +this again was but a sifting and a refinement of the throngs which +danced about their _regine Avrillouse_ a thousand years ago. It was once +lad and lass in the crowd; it comes to be lover and high-born dame at +daybreak, with a warning from the watcher on the castle walls; then that +vogue passes, with all its songs that seem to sing themselves; the +situation has grown deplorably unconventional, and the note is false. +Amorous lyric waxes mere grave, taking on a new privacy of utterance, +and a new individuality of tone. It is now the subtle turn of thought, +and not the cadence of festal passion, which sets off Lovelace's one +perfect song from all its kind; yet, without that throb of passion, that +rhythm as of harmonious steps, one of them a piece of human nature, and +the other a legacy from the throng, Lovelace had never made his verses +and there would be no lyric in the world. + +Poetry is thus a genesis in the throng, then an exodus with the solitary +poet, then--though this is too often forgotten--a return to the throng. +At least it is so with the great poets. Not the poet, but the +verse-smith, the poetaster, is anxious to deny his parentage in communal +song, and to set for his excellent differences. He will daze the editor +and force his way into the magazine by tricks of expression, a new +adjective, a shock of strange collocations. In a steamboat on the Baltic +I once met a confidential soul who told me of his baffled designs upon +the vogue of modern fiction. He had written, it seemed, a novel without +a woman in it; and he had printed this novel in red ink. "And I am not +famous yet," he sighed. So with one kind of minor poet. He works through +eccentricities and red ink. He is like Jean Paul's army chaplain +Schmelzle, who, when a boy in church, was so often tempted to rise and +cry aloud, "Here am I, too, Mr. Parson!" It is not so with the great +poets, not so even with those poets whom one may not call great, but +who know how to touch the popular heart. All the masters, Homer, +Shakespeare, Goethe, even Dante, win their greatest triumphs by coming +back to simplicity in form and diction as to the source of all poetic +expression. Or, to put it more scientifically, in any masterpiece one +will find the union of individual genius with that harmony of voices and +sympathy of hearts achieved by long ages of poetic evolution working in +the social mass. + +If such a range of poetic material is needed even in criticism, how +strictly must it be demanded in any question about the art as a whole! +One may turn from history to prophecy; but poetry must still be studied +even more rigidly in its full range and with regard to all human +elements in the case. Because the communal elements, once so plain and +insistent, now elude all but the most searching gaze, that is no reason +for leaving them out of the account. Hennequin saw that simply for +critical purposes one must reckon not only with the maker of poetry, but +with the consumer as well; and the student of poetry at large must go +still farther. It is after all only a remnant who choose and enjoy great +poetry, just as it is only a remnant who follow righteousness in private +life and probity in civic standards. + +But what of the cakes and ale? What of the uncritical folk? What stands +now, since people have come indoors, for the old ring of dancers, the +old songs of May and Harvest Home? Does the lapse of these mean a lapse +in poetry at large? Or what has taken their place? How shall one +dispose of the room over a village store, the hot stove, the folk in +Sunday dress, and the young woman who draws tears down the very grocer's +cheek as she "renders" Curfew Shall Not Ring To-Night? What of the +never-ending crop of songs in street and concert-hall, and on the +football field, verses that still time the movements of labor and the +steps of a marching crowd? What of homely, comfortable poetry, too, +commonplace perhaps, but dear to declaiming youth? Only a staff cut from +Sophoclean timber will support your lonely dreamer as he makes his way +over the marl; but the common citizen, who does most of the world's +work, and who has more to do with the future of poetry than a critic +will concede, finds his account in certain smooth, didactic, and mainly +cheerful verses which appear in the syndicate newspapers, and will never +attain a magazine or an anthology. If singing throngs keep rhythm alive, +it is this sort of poets that must both make and mend the paths of +genius. Commonplace is a poor word. Horace gives one nothing else; but a +legion of critics shall not keep us from Horace, and even Matthew +Arnold, critic as he was, fell back for his favorite poem on that +seventh ode of the fourth book,--as arrant commonplace as Gray's Elegy +itself. Members of a Browning society have been known to descend +earthward by reading Longfellow. If minor poets and obvious, popular +poems ever disappear, and if crowds ever go dumb, then better and best +poetry itself will be dead as King Pandion. No "Absent-Minded Beggar," +no "Recessional." + +Whoever, then, will tell the truth about poetry's part in the world of +to-day and to-morrow must not only know the course of all poetry through +all the yesterdays, but must keep all its present manifestations, all +its elements, sources, and allies at his command. Not only the lords of +verse are to advise him; he shall take counsel with scullions and +potboys. It is that poet in every man, about whom Sainte-Beuve +discoursed, who can best tell of the future of poetry. The enormous heed +paid to the great and solitary poets, as if there could be a poet +without audience or reader, has distorted our vision until we think of +poetry as a quite solitary performance, a refuge from the world. Is not +poetry really a flight from self and solitude to at least a +conventional, imaginative society? Poetry by its very form is a +convention, an echo of social consent; with its aid one may forget +personal debit and credit in the great account of humanity. Now, as in +the beginning, poetry is essentially social; its future is largely a +social problem. How far, then, has man ceased to sing in crowds, and +taken to thinking by himself? What is the shrinkage, quality as well as +quantity, in the proportion of verse to prose since the invention of +printing? Is the loss of so much communal song in daily toil, in daily +merriment, like the cutting away of those forests which hold the rains +and supply the great rivers? + +Waiting for complete and trustworthy studies of humanity which shall +answer some of those queries, one may venture an opinion on the general +case. Just as one feels that forests may vanish, and yet in some way +the mighty watercourses must be fed, so with poetry. Nothing has yet +been found to take the place of rhythm as sign of social consent, the +union of steps and voices in common action; and whatever intellectual or +spiritual consolation may reach the lonely thinker, emotion still drives +him back upon the sympathy of man with man. + +Human sympathy is thus at the heart of every poetic utterance, whether +humble or great; rhythm is its outward and visible, once audible sign; +and poetry, from this point of view, would therefore seem to be an +enduring element in our life. + + F. B. Gummere. + + + + + TABLE OF CONTENTS. + + + INTRODUCTORY ESSAY: + "THE OLD CASE OF POETRY IN A NEW COURT." PAGE + By _Francis Barton Gummere_ ix + + POEMS OF TRAGEDY: + + GREECE AND ROME 3 + THE ORIENT 26 + GERMANY 44 + ITALY: SPAIN 55 + SWITZERLAND: RUSSIA 88 + SCOTLAND: IRELAND: ENGLAND 120 + AMERICA 172 + THE SEA 181 + + HUMOROUS POEMS: + + WOMAN 197 + MISCELLANEOUS 239 + PARODIES: IMITATIONS 396 + INGENUITIES: ODDITIES 426 + + INDEX: AUTHORS AND TITLES 461 + + + + + LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. + + + JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. _Frontispiece_ + _Photogravure after a photograph from a portrait + by Stieler._ + PAGE + + FRANCESCA DA RIMINI 1 + _Dante's tale of the unhappy lovers whom he saw + in the realm of shades will live in poetry and + art. This color-plate, from the painting by + A. Cabanel, shows their tragic death at the + hand of the enraged brother._ + + NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 8 + _From an engraving after the portrait by C. L. Elliott._ + + THE DIVER 44 + "Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloud from the shore, + And behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main." + + _From photogravure after a drawing by A. Michaelis._ + + ROBERT BROWNING 102 + _After a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London._ + + THE FATAL COAST-TIDE 145 + "The old sea-wall (he cried) is down! + The rising tide comes on apace." + + _From photogravure by Braun, Clement & Co., + after a painting by G. Haquette._ + + THE BATTLE OF THE NILE 184 + "There came a burst of thunder-sound; + The boy--Oh! where was he? + Ask of the winds that far around + With fragments strewed the sea." + + _From engraving after the painting by George Arnald, A. R. A._ + + RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 192 + _After a life-photograph by Sarony, New York._ + + THE PRESS-GANG 271 + "But as they fetched a walk one day, + They met a press-gang crew; + And Sally she did faint away, + Whilst Ben he was brought to." + + _From engraving after a painting by Alexander Johnston._ + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 345 + _After a photogravure from life-photograph by Notman, Boston._ + + BRET HARTE 374 + _From a photogravure after the original portrait by J. Pettie._ + + [Illustration: FRANCESCA DA RIMINI.] + +The tale of the fated lovers, Francesca and Paolo, whose fleeting +spirits Dante saw in his visit to the realms of the dead, will always +live in poetry and in art. His brief story of their approach in mutual +sympathy, over the reading of a book, is given in our second volume: the +scene of their tragic death at the hand of her enraged husband is the +subject of this painting by ALEXANDRE CABANEL, the French artist. + + [Illustration] + + + + + POEMS OF TRAGEDY. + + + + + POEMS OF TRAGEDY. + + + + + IPHIGENEIA AND AGAMEMNON. + + Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom + At Aulis, and when all beside the king + Had gone away, took his right hand, and said: + "O father! I am young and very happy. + I do not think the pious Calchas heard + Distinctly what the goddess spake; old age + Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew + My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood, + While I was resting on her knee both arms, + And hitting it to make her mind my words, + And looking in her face, and she in mine, + Might not he, also, hear one word amiss, + Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?" + The father placed his cheek upon her head, + And tears dropt down it; but the king of men + Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more: + "O father! sayest thou nothing? Hearest thou not + Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, + Listened to fondly, and awakened me + To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, + When it was inarticulate as theirs, + And the down deadened it within the nest?" + He moved her gently from him, silent still; + And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, + Although she saw fate nearer. Then with sighs: + "I thought to have laid down my hair before + Benignant Artemis, and not dimmed + Her polished altar with my virgin blood; + I thought to have selected the white flowers + To please the nymphs, and to have asked of each + By name, and with no sorrowful regret, + Whether, since both my parents willed the change, + I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow; + And (after these who mind us girls the most) + Adore our own Athene, that she would + Regard me mildly with her azure eyes,-- + But, father, to see you no more, and see + Your love, O father! go ere I am gone!" + Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, + Bending his lofty head far over hers; + And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. + He turned away,--not far, but silent still. + She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, + So long a silence seemed the approach of death, + And like it. Once again she raised her voice: + "O father! if the ships are now detained, + And all your vows move not the gods above, + When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer + The less to them; and purer can there be + Any, or more fervent, than the daughter's prayer + For her dear father's safety and success?" + A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. + An aged man now entered, and without + One word stepped slowly on, and took the wrist + Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw + The fillet of the priest and calm, cold eyes. + Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried: + "O father! grieve no more; the ships can sail." + + WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. + + + + + THE SACRIFICE OF POLYXENA. + + FROM "HECUBA." + + [It had been determined by the victorious Greeks to + sacrifice Polyxena, the daughter of Priam, King of Ilium, + and his wife Hecuba, on the tomb of the slain Achilleus. + Odysseus, sent by the Greeks to fetch the maiden, turned a + deaf ear to the entreaties of the mother, and Polyxena + herself addresses the Greek:] + + "I see thee, how beneath thy robe, O King, + Thy hand is hidden, thy face turned from mine, + Lest I should touch thee by the beard and pray: + Fear not: thou hast escaped the god of prayers + For my part. I will rise and follow thee, + Driven by strong need; yea, and not loth to die. + Lo! if I should not seek death, I were found + A cowardly, life-loving, selfish soul! + For why should I live? Was my sire not King + Of all broad Phrygia? Thus my life began; + Then I was nurtured on fair bloom of hope + To be the bride of kings; no small the suit, + I ween, of lovers seeking me: thus I + Was once--ah, woe is me! of Idan dames + Mistress and queen, 'mid maidens like a star + Conspicuous, peer of gods, except for death; + And now I am a slave: this name alone + Makes me in love with death--so strange it is." + + [Later in the drama follows the account of the heroic death + of Polyxena, described to the unhappy Hecuba by the herald + Talthybius.] + + "The whole vast concourse of the Achaian host + Stood round the tomb to see your daughter die. + Achilleus' son, taking her by the hand, + Placed her upon the mound, and I stayed near; + And youths, the flower of Greece, a chosen few, + With hands to check thy heifer, should she bound, + Attended. From a cup of carven gold, + Raised full of wine, Archilleus' son poured forth + Libation to his sire, and bade me sound + Silence throughout the whole Achaian host. + I, standing there, cried in the midst these words:-- + 'Silence, Achaians! let the host be still! + Hush, hold your voices!' Breathless stayed the crowd; + But he:--'O son of Peleus, father mine, + Take these libations pleasant to thy soul, + Draughts that allure the dead: come, drink the black + Pure maiden's blood wherewith the host and I + Sue thee: be kindly to us; loose our prows, + And let our barks go free; give safe return + Homeward from Troy to all, and happy voyage,' + Such words he spake, and the crowd prayed assent. + Then from the scabbard, by its golden hilt, + He drew the sword, and to the chosen youths + Signalled that they should bring the maid; but she, + Knowing her hour was come, spake thus, and said: + 'O men of Argos, who have sacked my town, + Lo, of free will I die! Let no man touch + My body: boldly will I stretch my throat. + Nay, but I pray you set me free, then slay; + That free I thus may perish: 'mong the dead, + Being a queen, I blush to be called slave.' + The people shouted, and King Agamemnon + Bade the youths loose the maid, and set her free; + She, when she heard the order of the chiefs, + Seizing her mantle, from the shoulder down + To the soft centre of her snowy waist + Tore it, and showed her breasts and bosom fair + As in a statue. Bending then with knee + On earth, she spake a speech most piteous:-- + 'See you this breast, O youth? If breast you will, + Strike it; take heart: or if beneath my neck, + Lo! here my throat is ready for your sword!' + He, willing not, yet willing,--pity-stirred + In sorrow for the maiden,--with his blade + Severed the channels of her breath: blood flowed; + And she, though dying, still had thought to fall + In seemly wise, hiding what eyes should see not. + But when she breathed her life out from the blow, + Then was the Argive host in divers way + Of service parted; for some, bringing leaves, + Strewed them upon the corpse; some piled a pyre, + Dragging pine trunks and boughs; and he who bore none, + Heard from the bearers many a bitter word:-- + 'Standest thou, villain? hast thou then no robe, + No funeral honors for the maid to bring? + Wilt thou not go and get for her who died + Most nobly, bravest-souled, some gift?' Thus they + Spake of thy child in death:--O thou most blessed + Of women in thy daughter, most undone!" + + From the Greek of EURIPIDES. + Translation of JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. + + + + + PARRHASIUS. + + There stood an unsold captive in the mart, + A gray-haired and majestical old man, + Chained to a pillar. It was almost night, + And the last seller from the place had gone, + And not a sound was heard but of a dog + Crunching beneath the stall a refuse bone, + Or the dull echo from the pavement rung, + As the faint captive changed his weary feet. + He had stood there since morning, and had borne + From every eye in Athens the cold gaze + Of curious scorn. The Jew had taunted him + For an Olynthian slave. The buyer came + And roughly struck his palm upon his breast, + And touched his unhealed wounds, and with a sneer + Passed on; and when, with weariness o'erspent, + He bowed his head in a forgetful sleep, + The inhuman soldier smote him, and, with threats + Of torture to his children, summoned back + The ebbing blood into his pallid face. + + 'T was evening, and the half-descended sun + Tipped with a golden fire the many domes + Of Athens, and a yellow atmosphere + Lay rich and dusky in the shaded street + Through which the captive gazed. He had borne up + With a stout heart that long and weary day, + Haughtily patient of his many wrongs, + But now he was alone, and from his nerves + + [Illustration: NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. + _From an engraving of the portrait by C. L. Elliott._] + + The needless strength departed, and he leaned + Prone on his massy chain, and let his thoughts + Throng on him as they would. Unmarked of him + Parrhasius at the nearest pillar stood, + Gazing upon his grief. The Athenian's cheek + Flushed as he measured with a painter's eye + The moving picture. The abandoned limbs, + Stained with the oozing blood, were laced with veins + Swollen to purple fulness; the gray hair, + Thin and disordered, hung about his eyes; + And as a thought of wilder bitterness + Rose in his memory, his lips grew white, + And the fast workings of his bloodless face + Told what a tooth of fire was at his heart. + + The golden light into the painter's room + Streamed richly, and the hidden colors stole + From the dark pictures radiantly forth, + And in the soft and dewy atmosphere + Like forms and landscapes magical they lay. + The walls were hung with armor, and about + In the dim corners stood the sculptured forms + Of Cytheris, and Dian, and stern Jove, + And from the casement soberly away + Fell the grotesque long shadows, full and true, + And like a veil of filmy mellowness, + The lint-specks floated in the twilight air. + Parrhasius stood, gazing forgetfully + Upon his canvas. There Prometheus lay, + Chained to the cold rocks of Mount Caucasus-- + The vulture at his vitals, and the links + Of the lame Lemnian festering in his flesh; + And, as the painter's mind felt through the dim, + Rapt mystery, and plucked the shadows forth + With its far reaching fancy, and with form + And color clad them, his fine, earnest eye + Flashed with a passionate fire, and the quick curl + Of his thin nostril, and his quivering lip + Were like the winged god's breathing from his flight. + + "Bring me the captive now! + My hand feels skilful, and the shadows lift + From my waked spirit airily and swift, + And I could paint the bow + Upon the bended heavens--around me play + Colors of such divinity to-day. + + "Ha! bind him on his back! + Look--as Prometheus in my picture here! + Quick--or he faints!--stand with the cordial near! + Now--bend him to the rack! + Press down the poisoned links into his flesh! + And tear agape that healing wound afresh! + + "So--let him writhe! How long + Will he live thus? Quick, my good pencil, now! + What a fine agony works upon his brow! + Ha! gray-haired, and so strong! + How fearfully he stifles that short moan! + Gods! if I could but paint a dying groan! + + "'Pity' thee! So I do! + I pity the dumb victim at the altar-- + But does the robed priest for his pity falter? + I'd rack thee though I knew + A thousand lives were perishing in thine-- + What were ten thousand to a fame like mine? + + "'Hereafter!' Ay--hereafter! + A whip to keep a coward to his track! + What gave Death ever from his kingdom back + To check the sceptic's laughter? + Come from the grave to-morrow with that story, + And I may take some softer path to glory. + + "No, no, old man! we die + Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away + Our life upon the chance wind, even as they! + Strain well thy fainting eye-- + For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, + The light of heaven will never reach thee more. + + "Yet there's a deathless name! + A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, + And like a steadfast planet mount and burn; + And though its crown of flame + Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, + By all the fiery stars! I'd bind it on!-- + + "Ay--though it bid me rifle + My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst-- + Though every life-strung nerve be maddened first-- + Though it should bid me stifle + The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, + And taunt its mother till my brain went wild-- + + "All--I would do it all-- + Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot, + Thrust foully into earth to be forgot! + Oh heaven!--but I appall + Your heart, old man! forgive--ha! on your lives + Let him not faint!--rack him till he revives! + + "Vain--vain--give o'er! His eye + Glazes apace. He does not feel you now-- + Stand back! I'll paint the death-dew on his brow! + Gods! if he do not die + But for one moment--one--till I eclipse + Conception with the scorn of those calm lips! + + "Shivering! Hark! he mutters + Brokenly now--that was a difficult breath-- + Another? Wilt thou never come, oh Death! + Look! how his temple flutters! + Is his heart still? Aha! lift up his head! + He shudders--gasps--Jove help him!--so--he's dead." + + How like a mounting devil in the heart + Rules the unreigned ambition! Let it once + But play the monarch, and its haughty brow + Glows with a beauty that bewilders thought + And unthrones peace forever. Putting on + The very pomp of Lucifer, it turns + The heart to ashes, and with not a spring + Left in the bosom for the spirit's lip, + We look upon our splendor and forget + The thirst of which we perish! Yet hath life + Many a falser idol. There are hopes + Promising well; and love-touched dreams for some; + And passions, many a wild one; and fair schemes + For gold and pleasure--yet will only this + Balk not the soul--Ambition, only, gives, + Even of bitterness, a beaker full! + Friendship is but a slow-awaking dream, + Troubled at best; Love is a lamp unseen, + Burning to waste, or, if its light is found, + Nursed for an idle hour, then idly broken; + Gain is a grovelling care, and Folly tires, + And Quiet is a hunger never fed; + And from Love's very bosom, and from Gain, + Or Folly, or a Friend, or from Repose-- + From all but keen Ambition--will the soul + Snatch the first moment of forgetfulness + To wander like a restless child away. + Oh, if there were not better hopes than these-- + Were there no palm beyond a feverish fame-- + If the proud wealth flung back upon the heart + Must canker in its coffers--if the links + Falsehood hath broken will unite no more-- + If the deep yearning love, that hath not found + Its like in the cold world, must waste in tears-- + If truth and fervor and devotedness, + Finding no worthy altar, must return + And die of their own fulness--if beyond + The grave there is no heaven in whose wide air + The spirit may find room, and in the love + Of whose bright habitants the lavish heart + May spend itself--what thrice-mocked fools are we! + + NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS. + + + + + LUCIUS JUNIUS BRUTUS OVER THE BODY OF LUCRETIA. + + FROM "BRUTUS." + + Would you know why I summoned you together? + Ask ye what brings me here? Behold this dagger, + Clotted with gore! Behold that frozen corse! + See where the lost Lucretia sleeps in death! + She was the mark and model of the time, + The mould in which each female face was formed, + The very shrine and sacristy of virtue! + Fairer than ever was a form created + By youthful fancy when the blood strays wild, + And never-resting thought is all on fire! + The worthiest of the worthy! Not the nymph + Who met old Numa in his hallowed walks, + And whispered in his ear her strains divine, + Can I conceive beyond her;--the young choir + Of vestal virgins bent to her. 'T is wonderful + Amid the darnel, hemlock, and base weeds, + Which now spring rife from the luxurious compost + Spread o'er the realm, how this sweet lily rose,-- + How from the shade of those ill-neighboring plants + Her father sheltered her, that not a leaf + Was blighted, but, arrayed in purest grace, + She bloomed unsullied beauty. Such perfections + Might have called back the torpid breast of age + To long-forgotten rapture; such a mind + Might have abashed the boldest libertine + And turned desire to reverential love + And holiest affection! O my countrymen! + You all can witness when that she went forth + It was a holiday in Rome; old age + Forgot its crutch, labor its task,--all ran, + And mothers, turning to their daughters, cried, + "There, there's Lucretia!" Now look ye where she lies! + That beauteous flower, that innocent sweet rose, + Torn up by ruthless violence,--gone! gone! gone! + Say, would you seek instruction? would ye ask + What ye should do? Ask ye yon conscious walls, + Which saw his poisoned brother,-- + Ask yon deserted street, where Tullia drove + O'er her dead father's corse, 't will cry, Revenge! + Ask yonder senate-house, whose stones are purple + With human blood, and it will cry, Revenge! + Go to the tomb where lies his murdered wife, + And the poor queen, who loved him as her son, + Their unappeased ghosts will shriek, Revenge! + The temples of the gods, the all-viewing heavens, + The gods themselves, shall justify the cry, + And swell the general sound, Revenge! Revenge! + And we will be revenged, my countrymen! + Brutus shall lead you on; Brutus, a name + Which will, when you're revenged, be dearer to him + Than all the noblest titles earth can boast. + Brutus your king!--No, fellow-citizens! + If mad ambition in this guilty frame + Had strung one kingly fibre, yea, but one,-- + By all the gods, this dagger which I hold + Should rip it out, though it intwined my heart. + Now take the body up. Bear it before us + To Tarquin's palace; there we'll light our torches, + And in the blazing conflagration rear + A pile, for these chaste relics, that shall send + Her soul amongst the stars. On! Brutus leads you! + + JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. + + + + + THE ROMAN FATHER. + + FROM "VIRGINIA" + + Straightway Virginius led the maid + A little space aside, + To where the reeking shambles stood, + Piled up with horn and hide; + Close to yon low dark archway, + Where, in a crimson flood, + Leaps down to the great sewer + The gurgling stream of blood. + + Hard by, a flesher on a block + Had laid his whittle down: + Virginius caught the whittle up, + And hid it in his gown. + And then his eyes grew very dim, + And his throat began to swell, + And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, + "Farewell, sweet child! Farewell! + + "O, how I loved my darling! + Though stern I sometimes be, + To thee, thou know'st, I was not so,-- + Who could be so to thee? + And how my darling loved me! + How glad she was to hear + My footstep on the threshold + When I came back last year! + + "And how she danced with pleasure + To see my civic crown, + And took my sword, and hung it up, + And brought me forth my gown! + Now, all those things are over,-- + Yes, all thy pretty ways, + Thy needlework, thy prattle, + Thy snatches of old lays; + + "And none will grieve when I go forth, + Or smile when I return, + Or watch beside the old man's bed, + Or weep upon his urn. + The house that was the happiest + Within the Roman walls, + The house that envied not the wealth + Of Capua's marble halls, + + "Now, for the brightness of thy smile, + Must have eternal gloom, + And for the music of thy voice, + The silence of the tomb. + The time is come! See how he points + His eager hand this way! + See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, + Like a kite's upon the prey! + + "With all his wit, he little deems + That, spurned, betrayed, bereft, + Thy father hath, in his despair, + One fearful refuge left. + He little deems that in this hand + I clutch what still can save + Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, + The portion of the slave; + + "Yea, and from nameless evil, + That passes taunt and blow,-- + Foul outrage which thou knowest not, + Which thou shalt never know. + Then clasp me round the neck once more, + And give me one more kiss; + And now, mine own dear little girl, + There is no way but this." + + With that he lifted high the steel, + And smote her in the side, + And in her blood she sank to earth, + And with one sob she died. + Then, for a little moment, + All people held their breath; + And through the crowded forum + Was stillness as of death; + + And in another moment + Brake forth, from one and all, + A cry as if the Volscians + Were coming o'er the wall. + Some with averted faces + Shrieking fled home amain; + Some ran to call a leech; and some + Ran to lift up the slain. + + Some felt her lips and little wrist, + If life might there be found; + And some tore up their garments fast, + And strove to stanch the wound. + In vain they ran, and felt, and stanched; + For never truer blow + That good right arm had dealt in fight + Against a Volscian foe. + + When Appius Claudius saw that deed, + He shuddered and sank down, + And hid his face some little space + With the corner of his gown; + Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, + Virginius tottered nigh, + And stood before the judgment-seat, + And held the knife on high. + + "O dwellers in the nether gloom, + Avengers of the slain, + By this dear blood I cry to you + Do right between us twain; + And even as Appius Claudius + Hath dealt by me and mine, + Deal you by Appius Claudius, + And all the Claudian line!" + + So spake the slayer of his child, + And turned and went his way; + But first he cast one haggard glance + To where the body lay, + And writhed, and groaned a fearful groan, + And then, with-steadfast feet, + Strode right across the market-place + Unto the Sacred Street. + + Then up sprang Appius Claudius: + "Stop him; alive or dead! + Ten thousand pounds of copper + To the man who brings his head." + He looked upon his clients; + But none would work his will. + He looked upon his lictors; + But they trembled, and stood still. + + And as Virginius through the press + His way in silence cleft, + Ever the mighty multitude + Fell back to right and left. + And he hath passed in safety + Onto his woful home, + And there ta'en horse to tell the camp + What deeds are done in Rome. + + THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY. + + + + + MARK ANTONY, OVER THE BODY OF CÆSAR. + + FROM "JULIUS CÆSAR," ACT III. SC. 2. + + ANTONY.--O mighty Cæsar! dost thou lie so low? + Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, + Shrunk to this little measure?--Fare thee well.-- + + (_To the people._) + + Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears; + I come to bury Cæsar, not to praise him. + The evil that men do lives after them; + The good is oft interrèd with their bones; + So let it be with Cæsar. The noble Brutus + Hath told you Cæsar was ambitious: + If it were so, it was a grievous fault; + And grievously hath Cæsar answered it. + Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, + (For Brutus is an honorable man; + So are they all, all honorable men,) + Come I to speak in Cæsar's funeral. + He was my friend, faithful and just to me: + But Brutus says he was ambitious; + And Brutus is an honorable man. + He hath brought many captives home to Rome, + Whose ransom did the general coffers fill: + Did this in Cæsar seem ambitious? + When that the poor have cried, Cæsar hath wept: + Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: + Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; + And Brutus is an honorable man. + You all did see that on the Lupercal + I thrice presented him a kingly crown, + Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? + Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; + And, sure, he is an honorable man. + I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, + But here I am to speak what I do know. + You all did love him once,--not without cause! + What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? + O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, + And men have lost their reason!--Bear with me; + My heart is in the coffin there with Cæsar, + And I must pause till it come back to me. + + * * * * * + + But yesterday, the word of Cæsar might + Have stood against the world! now lies he there + And none so poor to do him reverence. + O masters! if I were disposed to stir + Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, + I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, + Who, you all know, are honorable men: + I will not do them wrong; I rather choose + To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, + Than I will wrong such honorable men. + But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Cæsar,-- + I found it in his closet,--'tis his will. + Let but the commons hear this testament, + (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,) + And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar's wounds, + And dip their napkins in his sacred blood: + Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, + And, dying, mention it within their wills, + Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, + Unto their issue. + + 4 CITIZEN.--We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony. + + CITIZENS.--The will, the will! we will hear Cæsar's will. + + ANTONY.--Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; + It is not meet you know how Cæsar loved you. + You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; + And, being men, hearing the will of Cæsar, + It will inflame you, it will make you mad: + 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs, + For if you should, O, what would come of it! + + 4 CITIZEN.--Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony; + You shall read us the will,--Cæsar's will. + + ANTONY.--Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? + I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. + I fear I wrong the honorable men + Whose daggers have stabbed Cæsar; I do fear it. + + 4 CITIZEN.--They were traitors: honorable men! + + CITIZENS.--The will! the testament! + + 2 CITIZEN.--They were villains, murderers: the will! + read the will! + + ANTONY.--You will compel me, then, to read the will! + Then make a ring about the corse of Cæsar, + And let me show you him that made the will. + Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? + + CITIZENS.--Come down. + + ANTONY.--Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. + + CITIZENS.--Stand back; room; bear back. + + ANTONY.--If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. + You all do know this mantle: I remember + The first time ever Cæsar put it on; + 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; + That day he overcame the Nervii:-- + Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: + See what a rent the envious Casca made: + Through this the well-belovèd Brutus stabbed; + And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, + Mark how the blood of Cæsar followed it, + As rushing out of doors, to be resolved + If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; + For Brutus, as you know, was Cæsar's angel: + Judge, O you gods, how dearly Cæsar loved him! + This was the most unkindest cut of all; + For when the noble Cæsar saw him stab, + Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, + Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; + And, in his mantle muffling up his face, + Even at the base of Pompey's statua, + Which all the while ran blood, great Cæsar fell. + O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! + Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, + Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. + O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel + The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. + Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold + Our Cæsar's vesture wounded? Look you here, + Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. + + * * * * * + + 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 all, a plain blunt man, + That love my friend; and that they know full well + That gave me public leave to speak of him: + For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, + Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, + To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; + I tell you that which you yourselves do know; + Show you sweet Cæsar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, + And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, + And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony + Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue + In every wound of Cæsar, that should move + The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. + + ALL.--We'll mutiny. + + 1 CITIZEN.--We'll burn the house of Brutus. + + 3 CITIZEN.--Away, then! come, seek the conspirators. + + ANTONY.--Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. + + ALL.--Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony. + + ANTONY.--Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. + Wherein hath Cæsar thus deserved your loves? + Alas, you know not!--I must tell you, then. + You have forgot the will I told you of. + + ALL.--Most true;--the will!--let's stay and hear the will. + + ANTONY.--Here is the will, and under Cæsar's seal:-- + To every Roman citizen he gives, + To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. + + 2 CITIZEN.--Most noble Cæsar!--we'll revenge his death. + + 3 CITIZEN.--O royal Cæsar! + + ANTONY.--Hear me with patience. + + CITIZENS.--Peace, ho! + + ANTONY.--Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, + His private arbors, and new-planted orchards + On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, + And to your heirs forever,--common pleasures, + To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. + Here was a Cæsar! when comes such another? + + 1 CITIZEN.--Never, never!--Come away, away! + We 'll burn his body in the holy place, + And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. + Take up the body.... + [_Exeunt Citizens, with the body._] + + ANTONY.--Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, + Take thou what course thou wilt. + + SHAKESPEARE. + + + + + THE SACK OF THE CITY. + + Thy will, O King, is done! Lighting but to consume, + The roar of the fierce flames drowned even the shouts and shrieks; + Reddening each roof, like some day-dawn of bloody doom, + Seemed they in joyous flight to dance above their wrecks. + + Slaughter his thousand giant arms hath tossed on high, + Fell fathers, husbands, wives, beneath his streaming steel; + Prostrate the palaces huge tombs of fire lie, + While gathering overhead the vultures scream and wheel. + + Died the pale mothers;--and the virgins, from their arms, + O Caliph, fiercely torn, bewailed their young years' blight; + With stabs and kisses fouled, all their yet quivering charms + At our fleet coursers' heels were dragged in mocking flight. + + Lo, where the city lies mantled in pall of death! + Lo, where thy mighty arm hath passed, all things must bend! + As the priests prayed, the sword stopped their accursèd breath,-- + Vainly their sacred book for shield did they extend. + + Some infants yet survived, and the unsated steel + Still drinks the life-blood of each whelp of Christian hound. + To kiss thy sandal's foot, O King, thy people kneel, + With golden circlet to thy glorious ankle bound. + + From the French of VICTOR-MARIE HUGO. + + + + + THE SLAYING OF SOHRAB. + + FROM "SOHRAB AND RUSTUM." + + He spake; and Rustum answered not, but hurled + His spear. Down from the shoulder, down it came-- + As on some partridge in the corn, a hawk, + That long has towered in the airy clouds, + Drops like a plummet. Sohrab saw it come, + And sprang aside, quick as a flash. The spear + Hissed, and went quivering down into the sand, + Which it sent flying wide. Then Sohrab threw + In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield. Sharp rang + The iron plates, rang sharp, but turned the spear. + And Rustum seized his club, which none but he + Could wield--an unlapped trunk it was, and huge, + Still rough; like those which men, in treeless plains, + To build them boats, fish from the flooded rivers, + Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up + By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time + Has made in Himalayan forests wrack, + And strewn the channels with torn boughs--so huge + The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck + One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, + Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came + Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. + And Rustum followed his own blow, and fell + To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand. + And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, + And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay + Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; + But he looked on, and smiled, nor bared his sword; + But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:-- + "Thou strik'st too hard; that club of thine will float + Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. + But rise, and be not wroth; not wroth am I. + No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. + Thou sayest thou art not Rustum; be it so. + Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? + Boy as I am, I have seen battles too; + Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, + And heard their hollow roar of dying men; + But never was my heart thus touched before. + Are they from heaven, these softenings of the heart? + O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! + Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, + And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, + And pledge each other in red wine, like friends; + And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. + There are enough foes in the Persian host + Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; + Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou + May'st fight: fight them, when they confront thy spear. + But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me!" + He ceased. But while he spake Rustum had risen, + And stood erect, trembling with rage. His club + He left to lie, but had regained his spear, + Whose fiery point now in his mailed right hand + Blazed bright and baleful--like that autumn star, + The baleful sign of fevers. Dust had soiled + His stately crest, and dimmed his glittering arms. + His breast heaved; his lips foamed; and twice his voice + Was choked with rage. At last these words broke way:-- + "Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! + Curled minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! + Fight! Let me hear thy hateful voice no more! + Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now + With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; + But on the Oxus sands, and in the dance + Of battle, and with me, who make no play + Of war. I fight it out, and hand to hand. + Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! + Remember all thy valor; try thy feints + And cunning; all the pity I had is gone; + Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts, + With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles." + He spoke; and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, + And he too drew his sword. At once they rushed + Together; as two eagles on one prey + Come rushing down together from the clouds, + One from the east, one from the west. Their shields + Dashed with a clang together; and a din + Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters + Make often in the forest's heart at morn, + Of hewing axes, crashing trees; such blows + Rustum and Sohrab on each other hailed. + And you would say that sun and stars took part + In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud + Grew suddenly in heaven, and darkened the sun + Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose + Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, + And in a sandy whirlwind wrapped the pair. + In gloom they twain were wrapped, and they alone; + For both the on-looking hosts on either hand + Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, + And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. + But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes + And laboring breath. First Rustum struck the shield + Which Sohrab held stiff out. The steel-spiked spear + Rent the tough plates, but failed to reach the skin: + And Rustum plucked it back with angry groan. + Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm + Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest + He shore away; and that proud horse-hair plume, + Never till now defiled, sunk to the dust; + And Rustum bowed his head. But then the gloom + Grew blacker; thunder rumbled in the air, + And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, + Who stood at hand, uttered a dreadful cry. + No horse's cry was that, most like the roar + Of some pained desert lion, who all day + Has trailed the hunter's javelin in his side, + And comes at night to die upon the sand. + The two hosts heard the cry, and quaked for fear; + And Oxus curdled as it crossed his stream. + But Sohrab heard, and quailed not--but rushed on, + And struck again; and again Rustum bowed + His head. But this time all the blade, like glass, + Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, + And in his hand the hilt remained alone. + Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes + Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, + And shouted "Rustum!" Sohrab heard that shout, + And shrank amazed; back he recoiled one step, + And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; + And then he stood bewildered; and he dropped + His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. + He reeled, and staggering back, sunk to the ground. + And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, + And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all + The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair-- + Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, + And Sohrab wounded, on the bloody sand. + Then with a bitter smile, Rustum began:-- + "Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill + A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, + And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent; + Or else that the great Rustum would come down + Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move + His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. + And then all the Tartar host would praise + Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, + To glad thy father in his weak old age. + Fool! thou art slain, and by an unknown man! + Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be, + Than to thy friends, and to thy father old." + And with a fearless mien Sohrab replied:-- + "Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. + Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! + No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. + For were I matched with ten such men as thou, + And I were he who till to-day I was, + They should be lying here, I standing there. + But that belovèd name unnerved my arm-- + That name, and something, I confess, in thee, + Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield + Fall; and thy spear transfixed an unarmed foe. + And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. + But hear thou this, fierce man--tremble to hear! + The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! + My father, whom I seek through all the world, + He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!" + + * * * * * + + So Rustum knew not his own loss; but stood + Over his dying son, and knew him not. + But with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:-- + "What prate is this of fathers and revenge? + The mighty Rustum never had a son." + And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:-- + "Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I. + Surely the news will one day reach his ear-- + Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, + Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; + And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap + To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee-- + Fierce man, bethink thee--for an only son! + What will that grief, what will that vengeance be! + Oh, could I live till I that grief had seen! + Yet him I pity not so much, but her, + My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells + With that old king, her father, who grows gray + With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. + Her most I pity, who no more will see + Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, + With spoils and honor, when the war is done, + But a dark rumor will be bruited up, + From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; + And then will that defenceless woman learn + That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more; + But that in battle with a nameless foe, + By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain." + + * * * * * + + And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said: + "O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son + Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved! + Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men + Have told thee false--thou art not Rustum's son. + For Rustum had no son. One child he had-- + But one--a girl; who with her mother now + Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us; + Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war." + But Sohrab answered him in wrath; for now + The anguish of the deep-fixed spear grew fierce, + And he desired to draw forth the steel, + And let the blood flow free, and so to die. + But first he would convince his stubborn foe; + And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: + "Man, who art thou, who dost deny my words? + Truth sits upon the lips of dying men; + And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. + I tell thee, pricked upon this arm I bear + That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, + That she might prick it on the babe she bore." + He spoke: and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks; + And his knees tottered; and he smote his hand + Against his breast, his heavy mailèd hand, + That the hard iron corselet clanked aloud; + And to his heart he pressed the other hand, + And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: + "Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie. + If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son." + Then, with weak, hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed + His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, + And showed a sign in faint vermilion points + Pricked. As a cunning workman, in Pekin, + Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, + An emperor's gift; at early morn he paints, + And all day long; and, when night comes, the lamp + Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands: + So delicately pricked the sign appeared + On Sohrab's arm--the sign of Rustum's seal. + It was that griffin, which of old reared Zal, + Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, + A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks, + Him that kind creature found and reared and loved. + Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. + And Sohrab bared that figure on his arm, + And himself scanned it long with mournful eyes, + And then he touched it with his hand and said: + "How sayest thou? Is that sign the proper sign + Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's?" + He spoke: but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood + Speechless; and then he uttered one sharp cry-- + "O, boy--thy father!"--and his voice choked there, + And then a dark cloud passed before his eyes, + And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. + But Sohrab crawled to where he lay, and cast + His arms about his neck, and kissed his lips. + And with fond, faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, + Trying to call him back to life. And life + Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, + And they stood wide with horror; and he seized + In both his hands the dust which lay around, + And threw it on his head, and smirched his hair-- + His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; + And strong, convulsive groanings shook his breast, + And his sobs choked him; and he clutched his sword + To draw it, and for ever let life out. + But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands; + And with a soothing voice he spoke, and said: + "Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day + The doom that at my birth was written down + In heaven, and thou art heaven's unconscious hand. + Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, + When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, + I know it. But fate trod those promptings down + Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged + The strife, and hurled me on my father's spear. + But let us speak no more of this--I find + My father; let me feel that I have found. + Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take + My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, + And wash them with thy tears, and say, 'My son!' + Quick! quick! for numbered are my sands of life, + And swift; for like the lightning to this field + I came, and like the wind I go away-- + Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. + But it was writ in heaven that this should be." + So said he: and his voice released the heart + Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast + His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, + And kissed him. And awe fell on both the hosts + When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, + With his head bowing to the ground, and mane + Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe, + First to the one, then to the other moved + His head, as if inquiring what their grief + Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, + The big, warm tears rolled down, and caked the sand. + But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: + "Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet + Should then have rotted on thy nimble joints, + When first they bore thy master to this field." + But Sohrab looked upon the horse, and said: + "Is this then Ruksh? How often, in past days, + My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed-- + My terrible father's terrible horse! and said + That I should one day find thy lord and thee. + Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane. + O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; + For thou hast gone where I shall never go, + And snuffed the breezes of my father's home, + And thou hast trod the sands of Seïstan, + And seen the river of Helmund, and the lake + Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself + Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food-- + Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine-- + And said--'O Ruksh! bear Rustum well!' But I + Have never known my grandsire's furrowed face, + Nor seen his lofty house in Seïstan, + Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; + But lodged among my father's foes, and seen + Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, + Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, + And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk + The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, + Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, + The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream-- + The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die." + And, with a heavy groan, Rustum replied: + "Oh that its waves were flowing over me! + Oh that I saw its grains of yellow silt + Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!" + And, with a grave, mild voice, Sohrab replied: + "Desire not that, my father! Thou must live; + For some are born to do great deeds, and live; + As some are born to be obscured, and die. + Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, + And reap a second glory in thine age; + Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. + But come! thou seest this great host of men + Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! + Let me entreat for them--what have they done? + They followed me, my hope, my fame, my star. + Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. + But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, + But carry me with thee to Seïstan, + And place me on a bed, and mourn for me-- + Thou, and the snow-haired Zal, and all thy friends. + And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, + And heap a stately mound above my bones, + And plant a far-seen pillar over all; + That so the passing horseman on the waste + May see my tomb a great way off, and say: + _Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, + Whom his great father did in ignorance kill_-- + And I be not forgotten in my grave." + And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied: + "Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, + So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, + And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, + And carry thee away to Seïstan, + And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, + With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. + And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, + And heap a stately mound above thy bones, + And plant a far-seen pillar over all; + And men shall not forget thee in thy grave; + And I will spare thy host--yea, let them go-- + Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. + What should I do with slaying any more? + For would that all whom I have ever slain + Might be once more alive--my bitterest foes, + And they who were called champions in their time, + And through whose death I won that fame I have-- + And I were nothing but a common man, + A poor, mean soldier, and without renown; + So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! + Or rather, would that I, even I myself, + Might now be lying on this bloody sand, + Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine. + Not thou of mine; and I might die, not thou; + And I, not thou, be borne to Seïstan; + And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; + And say--_O son, I weep thee not too sore, + For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!_-- + But now in blood and battles was my youth, + And full of blood and battles is my age; + And I shall never end this life of blood." + Then at the point of death, Sohrab replied:-- + "A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! + But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, + Not yet. But thou shalt have it on that day + When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, + Thou and the other peers of Kai-Khosroo, + Returning home over the salt, blue sea, + From laying thy dear master in his grave." + And Rustum gazed on Sohrab's face, and said:-- + "Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! + Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure." + He spoke: and Sohrab smiled on him, and took + The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased + His wound's imperious anguish. But the blood + Came welling from the open gash, and life + Flowed with the stream; all down his cold white side + The crimson torrent ran, dim now, and soiled-- + Like the soiled tissue of white violets + Left, freshly gathered, on their native bank + By romping children, whom their nurses call + From the hot fields at noon. His head drooped low; + His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay-- + White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, + Deep, heavy gasps, quivering through all his frame, + Convulsed him back to life, he opened them, + And fixed them feebly on his father's face. + Till now all strength was ebbed, and from his limbs + Unwillingly the spirit fled away, + Regretting the warm mansion which it left, + And youth and bloom, and this delightful world. + So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead. + And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak + Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. + As those black granite pillars, once high-reared + By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear + His house, now, mid their broken flights of steps, + Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain-side-- + So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. + And night came down over the solemn waste, + And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, + And darkened all; and a cold fog, with night, + Crept from the Oxus. + + MATTHEW ARNOLD. + + + + + KHAMSIN. + + Oh, the wind from the desert blew in!-- + Khamsin, + The wind from the desert blew in! + It blew from the heart of the fiery south, + From the fervid sand and the hills of drouth, + And it kissed the land with its scorching mouth; + The wind from the desert blew in! + + It blasted the buds on the almond bough, + And shrivelled the fruit on the orange-tree; + The wizened dervish breathed no vow, + So weary and parched was he. + The lean muezzin could not cry; + The dogs ran mad, and bayed the sky; + The hot sun shone like a copper disk, + And prone in the shade of an obelisk + The water-carrier sank with a sigh, + For limp and dry was his water-skin; + And the wind from the desert blew in. + + The camel crouched by the crumbling wall, + And oh the pitiful moan it made! + The minarets, taper and slim and tall, + Reeled and swam in the brazen light; + And prayers went up by day and night, + But thin and drawn were the lips that prayed. + The river writhed in its slimy bed, + Shrunk to a tortuous, turbid thread; + The burnt earth cracked like a cloven rind; + And still the wind, the ruthless wind, + Khamsin, + The wind from the desert blew in. + + Into the cool of the mosque it crept, + Where the poor sought rest at the Prophet's shrine; + Its breath was fire to the jasmine vine; + It fevered the brow of the maid who slept, + And men grew haggard with revel of wine. + The tiny fledglings died in the nest; + The sick babe gasped at the mother's breast. + Then a rumor rose and swelled and spread + From a tremulous whisper, faint and vague, + Till it burst in a terrible cry of dread, + _The plague! the plague! the plague!_-- + Oh the wind, Khamsin, + The scourge from the desert, blew in! + + CLINTON SCOLLARD. + + + + + THE DIVER. + + "Oh, where is the knight or the squire so bold, + As to dive to the howling charybdis below?-- + I cast into the whirlpool a goblet of gold, + And o'er it already the dark waters flow: + Whoever to me may the goblet bring, + Shall have for his guerdon that gift of his king." + + He spoke, and the cup from the terrible steep, + That rugged and hoary, hung over the verge + Of the endless and measureless world of the deep, + Swirled into the maelstrom that maddened the surge. + "And where is the diver so stout to go-- + I ask ye again--to the deep below?" + + And the knights and the squires that gathered around, + Stood silent--and fixed on the ocean their eyes; + They looked on the dismal and savage profound, + And the peril chilled back every thought of the prize. + And thrice spoke the monarch--"The cup to win, + Is there never a wight who will venture in?" + + And all as before heard in silence the king-- + Till a youth, with an aspect unfearing but gentle, + 'Mid the tremulous squires, stept out from the ring, + Unbuckling his girdle, and doffing his mantle; + + [Illustration: THE DIVER. + + "Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, + And behold: he is whirled in the grasp of the main." + --SCHILLER. + _From a photogravure after drawing by A. Michaelis._] + + And the murmuring crowd, as they parted asunder, + On the stately boy cast their looks of wonder. + + As he strode to the marge of the summit, and gave + One glance on the gulf of that merciless main; + Lo! the wave that for ever devours the wave, + Casts roaringly up the charybdis again; + And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, + Rushes foamingly forth from the heart of the gloom. + + And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, + As when fire is with water commixed and contending; + And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, + And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending. + And it never will rest, nor from travail be free, + Like a sea that is laboring the birth of a sea. + + And at last there lay open the desolate realm! + Through the breakers that whitened the waste of the swell, + Dark--dark yawned a cleft in the midst of the whelm, + The path to the heart of that fathomless hell. + Round and round whirled the waves--deep and deeper still driven, + Like a gorge thro' the mountainous main thunder-riven. + + The youth gave his trust to his Maker! Before + That path through the riven abyss closed again-- + Hark! a shriek from the crowd rang aloft from the shore, + And, behold! he is whirled in the grasp of the main! + And o'er him the breakers mysteriously rolled, + And the giant-mouth closed on the swimmer so bold. + + O'er the surface grim silence lay dark and profound, + But the deep from below murmured hollow and fell; + And the crowd, as it shuddered, lamented aloud-- + "Gallant youth--noble heart--fare-thee-well, fare-thee-well!" + And still ever deepening that wail as of woe, + More hollow the gulf sent its howl from below. + + If thou should'st in those waters thy diadem fling, + And cry, "Who may find it shall win it, and wear;" + God's wot, though the prize were the crown of a king-- + A crown at such hazard were valued too dear. + For never did lips of the living reveal, + What the deeps that howl yonder in terror conceal. + + Oh many a ship, to that breast grappled fast, + Has gone down to the fearful and fathomless grave; + Again crashed together, the keel and the mast, + To be seen, tossed aloft in the glee of the wave.-- + Like the growth of a storm ever louder and clearer, + Grows the roar of the gulf rising nearer and nearer. + + And it bubbles and seethes, and it hisses and roars, + As when fire is with water commixed and contending; + And the spray of its wrath to the welkin up-soars, + And flood upon flood hurries on, never ending, + And, as with the swell of the far thunder-boom, + Rushes roaringly forth from the heart of the gloom. + + And lo! from the heart of that far-floating gloom, + What gleams on the darkness so swanlike and white? + Lo! an arm and a neck, glancing up from the tomb!-- + They battle--the Man with the Element's might. + It is he--it is he!--In his left hand behold, + As a sign--as a joy! shines the goblet of gold! + + And he breathèd deep, and he breathèd long, + And he greeted the heavenly delight of the day. + They gaze on each other--they shout as they throng-- + "He lives--lo, the ocean has rendered its prey! + And out of the grave where the Hell began, + His valor has rescued the living man!" + + And he comes with the crowd in their clamor and glee, + And the goblet his daring has won from the water, + He lifts to the king as he sinks on his knee; + And the king from her maidens has beckoned his daughter, + And he bade her the wine to his cup-bearer bring, + And thus spake the Diver--"Long life to the king! + + "Happy they whom the rose-hues of daylight rejoice, + The air and the sky that to mortals are given! + May the horror below never more find a voice-- + Nor Man stretch too far the wide mercy of Heaven! + Never more--never more may he lift from the mirror, + The Veil which is woven with Night and with Terror! + + "Quick-brightening like lightning--it tore me along, + Down, down, till the gush of a torrent at play + In the rocks of its wilderness caught me--and strong + As the wings of an eagle, it whirled me away. + Vain, vain were my struggles--the circle had won me, + Round and round in its dance the wild element spun me. + + "And I called on my God, and my God heard my prayer, + In the strength of my need, in the gasp of my breath-- + And showed me a crag that rose up from the lair, + And I clung to it, trembling--and baffled the death. + And, safe in the perils around me, behold + On the spikes of the coral the goblet of gold! + + "Below, at the foot of that precipice drear, + Spread the gloomy, and purple, and pathless obscure! + A silence of horror that slept on the ear, + That the eye more appalled might the horror endure! + Salamander--snake--dragon--vast reptiles that dwell + In the deep--coiled about the grim jaws of their hell! + + "Dark-crawled--glided dark the unspeakable swarms, + Like masses unshapen, made life hideously; + Here clung and here bristled the fashionless forms, + Here the Hammer-fish darkened the dark of the sea, + And with teeth grinning white, and a menacing motion, + Went the terrible Shark--the hyena of Ocean. + + "There I hung, and the awe gathered icily o'er me, + So far from the earth where man's help there was none! + The one Human Thing, with the Goblins before me-- + Alone--in a loneness so ghastly--ALONE! + Fathom-deep from man's eye in the speechless profound, + With the death of the main and the monsters around. + + "Methought, as I gazed through the darkness, that now + A hundred-limbed creature caught sight of its prey, + And darted.--O God! from the far-flaming bough + Of the coral, I swept on the horrible way; + And it seized me, the wave with its wrath and its roar, + It seized me to save--King, the danger is o'er!" + + On the youth gazed the monarch, and marvelled--quoth he, + "Bold Diver, the goblet I promised is thine, + And this ring will I give, a fresh guerdon to thee, + Never jewels more precious shone up from the mine; + If thou'll bring me fresh tidings, and venture again, + To say what lies hid in the _innermost_ main!" + + Then outspake the daughter in tender emotion, + "Ah! father, my father, what more can there rest? + Enough of this sport with the pitiless ocean-- + He has served thee as none would, thyself hast confest. + If nothing can slake thy wild thirst of desire, + Be your knights not, at least, put to shame by the squire!" + + The king seized the goblet--he swung it on high, + And whirling, it fell in the roar of the tide; + "But bring back that goblet again to my eye, + And I'll hold thee the dearest that rides by my side, + And thine arms shall embrace as thy bride, I decree, + The maiden whose pity now pleadeth for thee." + + In his heart, as he listened, there leapt the wild joy-- + And the hope and the love through his eyes spoke in fire, + On that bloom, on that blush, gazed, delighted, the boy; + The maiden she faints at the feet of her sire! + Here the guerdon divine; there the danger beneath; + He resolves!--To the strife with the life and the death! + + They hear the loud surges sweep back in their swell; + Their coming the thunder-sound heralds along! + Fond eyes yet are tracking the spot where he fell-- + They come, the wild waters, in tumult and throng, + Rearing up to the cliff--roaring back as before; + But no wave ever brought the lost youth to the shore. + + From the German of JOHANN C. F. SCHILLER. + + + + + GOD'S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED BISHOP. + + [Hatto, Archbishop of Mentz, in the year 914, barbarously + murdered a number of poor people to prevent their consuming + a portion of the food during that year of famine. He was + afterwards devoured by rats in his tower on an island in the + Rhine.--OLD LEGEND.] + + The summer and autumn had been so wet, + That in winter the corn was growing yet: + 'Twas a piteous sight to see all around + The grain lie rotting on the ground. + + Every day the starving poor + Crowded around Bishop Hatto's door; + For he had a plentiful last-year's store, + And all the neighborhood could tell + His granaries were furnished well. + + At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day + To quiet the poor without delay; + He bade them to his great barn repair, + And they should have food for the winter there. + + Rejoiced the tidings good to hear, + The poor folks flocked from far and near; + The great barn was full as it could hold + Of women and children, and young and old. + + Then, when he saw it could hold no more, + Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; + And whilst for mercy on Christ they call, + He set fire to the barn, and burnt them all. + + "I' faith, 'tis an excellent bonfire!" quoth he; + "And the country is greatly obliged to me + For ridding it, in these times forlorn, + Of rats that only consume the corn." + + So then to his palace returned he, + And he sate down to supper merrily, + And he slept that night like an innocent man; + But Bishop Hatto never slept again. + + In the morning, as he entered the hall, + Where his picture hung against the wall, + A sweat like death all over him came, + For the rats had eaten it out of the frame. + + As he looked, there came a man from his farm-- + He had a countenance white with alarm: + "My lord, I opened your granaries this morn, + And the rats had eaten all your corn." + + Another came running presently, + And he was pale as pale could be. + "Fly! my lord bishop, fly!" quoth he, + "Ten thousand rats are coming this way,-- + The Lord forgive you for yesterday!" + + "I'll go to my tower in the Rhine," replied he; + "'T is the safest place in Germany,-- + The walls are high, and the shores are steep, + And the tide is strong, and the water deep." + + Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away; + And he crossed the Rhine without delay, + And reached his tower, and barred with care + All the windows, doors, and loop-holes there. + + He laid him down and closed his eyes, + But soon a scream made him arise; + He started, and saw two eyes of flame + On his pillow, from whence the screaming came. + + He listened and looked,--it was only the cat; + But the bishop he grew more fearful for that, + For she sate screaming, mad with fear, + At the army of rats that were drawing near. + + For they have swum over the river so deep, + And they have climbed the shores so steep, + And now by thousands up they crawl + To the holes and the windows in the wall. + + Down on his knees the bishop fell, + And faster and faster his beads did he tell, + As louder and louder, drawing near, + The saw of their teeth without he could hear. + + And in at the windows, and in at the door, + And through the walls, by thousands they pour; + And down from the ceiling and up through the floor, + From the right and the left, from behind and before, + From within and without, from above and below,-- + And all at once to the bishop they go. + + They have whetted their teeth against the stones, + And now they pick the bishop's bones; + They gnawed the flesh from every limb, + For they were sent to do judgment on him! + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + + + COUNTESS LAURA. + + It was a dreary day in Padua. + The Countess Laura, for a single year + Fernando's wife, upon her bridal bed, + Like an uprooted lily on the snow, + The withered outcast of a festival, + Lay dead. She died of some uncertain ill, + That struck her almost on her wedding day, + And clung to her, and dragged her slowly down, + Thinning her cheeks and pinching her full lips, + Till in her chance, it seemed that with a year + Full half a century was overpast. + In vain had Paracelsus taxed his art, + And feigned a knowledge of her malady; + In vain had all the doctors, far and near, + Gathered around the mystery of her bed, + Draining her veins, her husband's treasury, + And physic's jargon, in a fruitless quest + For causes equal to the dread result. + The Countess only smiled when they were gone, + Hugged her fair body with her little hands, + And turned upon her pillows wearily, + As though she fain would sleep no common sleep, + But the long, breathless slumber of the grave. + She hinted nothing. Feeble as she was, + The rack could not have wrung her secret out. + The Bishop, when he shrived her, coming forth, + Cried, in a voice of heavenly ecstasy, + "O blessed soul! with nothing to confess + Save virtues and good deeds, which she mistakes-- + So humble is she--for our human sins!" + Praying for death, she tossed upon her bed + Day after day; as might a shipwrecked bark + That rocks upon one billow, and can make + No onward motion towards her port of hope. + At length, one morn, when those around her said, + "Surely the Countess mends, so fresh a light + Beams from her eyes and beautifies her face,"-- + One morn in spring, when every flower of earth + Was opening to the sun, and breathing up + its votive incense, her impatient soul + Opened itself, and so exhaled to heaven. + When the Count heard it, he reeled back a pace; + Then turned with anger on the messenger; + Then craved his pardon, and wept out his heart + Before the menial; tears, ah me! such tears + As love sheds only, and love only once. + Then he bethought him, "Shall this wonder die, + And leave behind no shadow? not a trace + Of all the glory that environed her, + That mellow nimbus circling round my star?" + So, with his sorrow glooming in his face, + He paced along his gallery of art, + And strode among the painters, where they stood, + With Carlo, the Venetian, at their head, + Studying the Masters by the dawning light + Of his transcendent genius. Through the groups + Of gayly vestured artists moved the Count, + As some lone cloud of thick and leaden hue, + Packed with the secret of a coming storm, + Moves through the gold and crimson evening mists, + Deadening their splendor. In a moment still + Was Carlo's voice, and still the prattling crowd; + And a great shadow overwhelmed them all, + As their white faces and their anxious eyes + Pursued Fernando in his moody walk. + He paused, as one who balances a doubt, + Weighing two courses, then burst out with this: + "Ye all have seen the tidings in my face; + Or has the dial ceased to register + The workings of my heart? Then hear the bell, + That almost cracks its frame in utterance; + The Countess,--she is dead!" "Dead!" Carlo groaned. + And if a bolt from middle heaven had struck + His splendid features full upon the brow, + He could not have appeared more scathed and blanched. + "Dead!--dead!" He staggered to his easel-frame, + And clung around it, buffeting the air + With one wild arm, as though a drowning man + Hung to a spar and fought against the waves. + The Count resumed: "I came not here to grieve, + Nor see my sorrow in another's eyes. + Who'll paint the Countess, as she lies to-night + In state within the chapel? Shall it be + That earth must lose her wholly? that no hint + Of her gold tresses, beaming eyes, and lips + That talked in silence, and the eager soul + That ever seemed outbreaking through her clay, + And scattering glory round it,--shall all these + Be dull corruption's heritage, and we, + Poor beggars, have no legacy to show + That love she bore us? That were shame to love, + And shame to you, my masters." Carlo stalked + Forth from his easel stiffly as a thing + Moved by mechanic impulse. His thin lips, + And sharpened nostrils, and wan, sunken cheeks, + And the cold glimmer in his dusky eyes, + Made him a ghastly sight. The throng drew back + As though they let a spectre through. Then he, + Fronting the Count, and speaking in a voice + Sounding remote and hollow, made reply: + "Count, I shall paint the Countess. 'T is my fate,-- + Not pleasure,--no, nor duty." But the Count, + Astray in woe, but understood assent, + Not the strange words that bore it; and he flung + His arm round Carlo, drew him to his breast, + And kissed his forehead. At which Carlo shrank; + Perhaps 't was at the honor. Then the Count, + A little reddening at his public state,-- + Unseemly to his near and recent loss,-- + Withdrew in haste between the downcast eyes + That did him reverence as he rustled by. + Night fell on Padua. In the chapel lay + The Countess Laura at the altar's foot. + Her coronet glittered on her pallid brows; + A crimson pall, weighed down with golden work, + Sown thick with pearls, and heaped with early flowers, + Draped her still body almost to the chin; + And over all a thousand candles flamed + Against the winking jewels, or streamed down + The marble aisle, and flashed along the guard + Of men-at-arms that slowly wove their turns, + Backward and forward, through the distant gloom. + When Carlo entered, his unsteady feet + Scarce bore him to the altar, and his head + Drooped down so low that all his shining curls + Poured on his breast, and veiled his countenance. + Upon his easel a half-finished work, + The secret labor of his studio, + Said from the canvas, so that none might err, + "I am the Countess Laura." Carlo kneeled, + And gazed upon the picture; as if thus, + Through those clear eyes, he saw the way to heaven. + Then he arose; and as a swimmer comes + Forth from the waves, he shook his locks aside, + Emerging from his dream, and standing firm + Upon a purpose with his sovereign will. + He took his palette, murmuring, "Not yet!" + Confidingly and softly to the corpse, + And as the veriest drudge, who plies his art + Against his fancy, he addressed himself + With stolid resolution to his task, + Turning his vision on his memory, + And shutting out the present, till the dead, + The gilded pall, the lights, the pacing guard, + And all the meaning of that solemn scene + Became as nothing, and creative Art + Resolved the whole to chaos, and reformed + The elements according to her law: + So Carlo wrought, as though his eye and hand + Were Heaven's unconscious instruments, and worked + The settled purpose of Omnipotence. + And it was wondrous how the red, the white, + The ochre, and the umber, and the blue, + From mottled blotches, hazy and opaque, + Grew into rounded forms and sensuous lines; + How just beneath the lucid skin the blood + Glimmered with warmth; the scarlet lips apart + Bloomed with the moisture of the dews of life; + How the light glittered through and underneath + The golden tresses, and the deep, soft eyes + Became intelligent with conscious thought, + And somewhat troubled underneath the arch + Of eyebrows but a little too intense + For perfect beauty; how the pose and poise + Of the lithe figure on its tiny foot + Suggested life just ceased from motion; so + That any one might cry, in marvelling joy, + "That creature lives,--has senses, mind, a soul + To win God's love or dare hell's subtleties!" + The artist paused. The ratifying "Good!" + Trembled upon his lips. He saw no touch + To give or soften. "It is done," he cried,-- + "My task, my duty! Nothing now on earth + Can taunt me with a work left unfulfilled!" + The lofty flame, which bore him up so long, + Died in the ashes of humanity; + And the mere man rocked to and fro again + Upon the centre of his wavering heart. + He put aside his palette, as if thus + He stepped from sacred vestments, and assumed + A mortal function in the common world. + "Now for my rights!" he muttered, and approached + The noble body. "O lily of the world! + So withered, yet so lovely! what wast thou + To those who came thus near thee--for I stood + Without the pale of thy half-royal rank-- + When thou wast budding, and the streams of life + Made eager struggles to maintain thy bloom, + And gladdened heaven dropped down in gracious dews + On its transplanted darling? Hear me now! + I say this but in justice, not in pride, + Not to insult thy high nobility, + But that the poise of things in God's own sight + May be adjusted; and hereafter I + May urge a claim that all the powers of heaven + Shall sanction, and with clarions blow abroad.-- + Laura you loved me! Look not so severe, + With your cold brows, and deadly, close-drawn lips! + You proved it, Countess, when you died for it,-- + Let it consume you in the wearing strife + It fought with duty in your ravaged heart. + I knew it ever since that summer day + I painted Lilla, the pale beggar's child, + At rest beside the fountain; when I felt-- + O Heaven!--the warmth and moisture of your breath + Blow through my hair, as with your eager soul-- + Forgetting soul and body go as one-- + You leaned across my easel till our cheeks-- + Ah me! 't was not your purpose--touched, and clung! + Well, grant 't was genius; and is genius naught? + I ween it wears as proud a diadem-- + Here, in this very world--as that you wear. + A king has held my palette, a grand-duke + Has picked my brush up, and a pope has begged + The favor of my presence in his Rome. + I did not go; I put my fortune by. + I need not ask you why: you knew too well. + It was but natural, it was no way strange, + That I should love you. Everything that saw, + Or had its other senses, loved you, sweet, + And I among them. Martyr, holy saint,-- + I see the halo curving round your head,-- + I loved you once; but now I worship you, + For the great deed that held my love aloof, + And killed you in the action! I absolve + Your soul from any taint. For from the day + Of that encounter by the fountain-side + Until this moment, never turned on me + Those tender eyes, unless they did a wrong + To nature by the cold, defiant glare + With which they chilled me. Never heard I word + Of softness spoken by those gentle lips; + Never received a bounty from that hand + Which gave to all the world. I know the cause. + You did your duty,--not for honor's sake, + Nor to save sin, or suffering, or remorse, + Or all the ghosts that haunt a woman's shame, + But for the sake of that pure, loyal love + Your husband bore you. Queen, by grace of God, + I bow before the lustre of your throne! + I kiss the edges of your garment-hem, + And hold myself ennobled! Answer me,-- + If I had wronged you, you would answer me + Out of the dusty porches of the tomb:-- + Is this a dream, a falsehood? or have I + Spoken the very truth?" "The very truth!" + A voice replied; and at his side he saw + A form, half shadow and half substance, stand, + Or, rather, rest; for on the solid earth + It had no footing, more than some dense mist + That waves o'er the surface of the ground + It scarcely touches. With a reverent look + The shadow's waste and wretched face was bent + Above the picture; as though greater awe + Subdued its awful being, and appalled, + With memories of terrible delight + And fearful wonder, its devouring gaze. + "You make what God makes,--beauty," said the shape. + "And might not this, this second Eve, console + The emptiest heart? Will not this thing outlast + The fairest creature fashioned in the flesh? + Before that figure, Time, and Death himself, + Stand baffled and disarmed. What would you ask + More than God's power, from nothing to create?" + The artist gazed upon the boding form, + And answered: "Goblin, if you had a heart, + That were an idle question. What to me + Is my creative power, bereft of love? + Or what to God would be that self-same power, + If so bereaved?" "And yet the love, thus mourned, + You calmly forfeited. For had you said + To living Laura--in her burning ears-- + One half that you professed to Laura dead, + She would have been your own. These contraries + Sort not with my intelligence. But speak, + Were Laura living, would the same stale play + Of raging passion tearing out its heart + Upon the rock of duty be performed?" + "The same, O phantom, while the heart I bear + Trembled, but turned not its magnetic faith + From God's fixed centre." "If I wake for you + This Laura,--give her all the bloom and glow + Of that midsummer day you hold so dear,-- + The smile, the motion, the impulsive soul, + The love of genius,--yea, the very love, + The mortal, hungry, passionate, hot love, + She bore you, flesh to flesh,--would you receive + That gift, in all its glory, at my hands?" + A smile of malice curled the tempter's lips, + And glittered in the caverns of his eyes, + Mocking the answer. Carlo paled and shook; + A woful spasm went shuddering through his frame, + Curdling his blood, and twisting his fair face + With nameless torture. But he cried aloud, + Out of the clouds of anguish, from the smoke + Of very martyrdom, "O God, she is thine! + Do with her at thy pleasure!" Something grand, + And radiant as a sunbeam, touched the head. + He bent in awful sorrow. "Mortal, see--" + "Dare not! As Christ was sinless, I abjure + These vile abominations! Shall she bear + Life's burden twice, and life's temptations twice, + While God is justice?" "Who has made you judge + Of what you call God's good, and what you think + God's evil? One to him, the source of both, + The God of good and of permitted ill. + Have you no dream of days that might have been, + Had you and Laura filled another fate?-- + Some cottage on the sloping Apennines, + Roses and lilies, and the rest all love? + I tell you that this tranquil dream may be + Filled to repletion. Speak, and in the shade + Of my dark pinions I shall bear you hence, + And land you where the mountain-goat himself + Struggles for footing." He outspread his wings, + And all the chapel darkened, as though hell + Had swallowed up the tapers; and the air + Grew thick, and, like a current sensible, + Flowed round the person, with a wash and dash, + As of the waters of a nether sea. + Slowly and calmly through the dense obscure, + Dove-like and gentle, rose the artist's voice: + "I dare not bring her spirit to that shame! + Know my full meaning,--I who neither fear + Your mystic person nor your dreadful power. + Nor shall I now invoke God's potent name + For my deliverance from your toils. I stand + Upon the founded structure of his law, + Established from the first, and thence defy + Your arts, reposing all my trust in that!" + The darkness eddied off; and Carlo saw + The figure gathering, as from outer space, + Brightness on brightness; and his former shape + Fell from him, like the ashes that fall off, + And show a core of mellow fire within. + Adown his wings there poured a lambent flood, + That seemed as molten gold, which plashing fell + Upon the floor, enringing him with flame; + And o'er the tresses of his beaming head + Arose a stream of many-colored light, + Like that which crowns the morning. Carlo stood + Steadfast, for all the splendor, reaching up + The outstretched palms of his untainted soul + Towards heaven for strength. A moment thus; then asked, + With reverential wonder quivering through + His sinking voice, "Who, spirit, and what, art thou?" + "I am that blessing which men fly from,--Death." + "Then take my hand, if so God orders it; + For Laura waits me." "But, bethink thee, man, + What the world loses in the loss of thee! + What wondrous art will suffer with eclipse! + What unwon glories are in store for thee! + What fame, outreaching time and temporal shocks, + Would shine upon the letters of thy name + Graven in marble, or the brazen height + Of columns wise with memories of thee!" + "Take me! If I outlived the Patriarchs, + I could but paint those features o'er and o'er: + Lo! that is done." A smile of pity lit + The seraph's features, as he looked to heaven, + With deep inquiry in his tender eyes. + The mandate came. He touched with downy wing + The sufferer lightly on his aching heart; + And gently, as the skylark settles down + Upon the clustered treasures of her nest, + So Carlo softly slid along the prop + Of his tall easel, nestling at the foot + As though he slumbered; and the morning broke + In silver whiteness over Padua. + + GEORGE HENRY BOKER. + + + + + OTHELLO'S REMORSE. + + FROM "OTHELLO," ACT V. SC. 2. + + Behold, I have a weapon; + A better never did itself sustain + Upon a soldier's thigh: I have seen the day, + That, with this little arm and this good sword, + I have made my way through more impediments + Than twenty times your stop:--but, O vain boast! + Who can control his fate? 't is not so now.-- + Be not afraid, though you do see me weaponed; + Here is my journey's end, here is my butt, + And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. + Do you go back dismayed? 't is a lost fear; + Man but a rush against Othello's breast, + And he retires:--where should Othello go?-- + Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starred wench! + Pale as thy smock! when we shall meet at compt, + This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, + And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? + Even like thy chastity--O, cursèd slave!-- + Whip me, ye devils, + From the possession of this heavenly sight! + Blow me about in winds! roast me in sulphur! + Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire!-- + O Desdemona! Desdemona! dead? O! O! + + SHAKESPEARE. + + + + + THE TRIAL OF BEATRICE. + + FROM "THE CENCI," ACT V. + + SCENE II.--_A Hall of Justice._ CAMILLO, JUDGES, etc., + _are discovered seated_; MARZIO _is led in_. + + FIRST JUDGE.--Accused, do you persist in your denial? + I ask you, are you innocent, or guilty? + I demand who were the participators + In your offence? Speak truth and the whole truth. + + MARZIO.--My God! I did not kill him; I know nothing; + Olimpio sold the robe to me from which + You would infer my guilt. + + SECOND JUDGE.--Away with him! + + FIRST JUDGE.--Dare you, with lips yet white from the rack's kiss + Speak false? Is it so soft a questioner, + That you would bandy lovers' talk with it + Till it wind out your life and soul? Away! + + MARZIO.--Spare me! O, spare! I will confess. + + FIRST JUDGE.--Then speak. + + MARZIO.--I strangled him in his sleep. + + FIRST JUDGE.--Who urged you to it? + + MARZIO.--His own son, Giacomo, and the young prelate + Orsino sent me to Petrella; there + The ladies Beatrice and Lucretia + Tempted me with a thousand crowns, and I + And my companion forthwith murdered him. + Now let me die. + + FIRST JUDGE.--This sounds as bad as truth. Guards, there, + Lead forth the prisoner! + + _Enter_ LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, _and_ GIACOMO, _guarded_. + + Look upon this man; + When did you see him last? + + BEATRICE.--We never saw him. + + MARZIO.--You know me too well, Lady Beatrice. + + BEATRICE.--I know thee! How? where? when? + + MARZIO.--You know 't was I + Whom you did urge with menaces and bribes + To kill your father. When the thing was done + You clothed me in a robe of woven gold + And bade me thrive: how I have thriven, you see. + You, my Lord Giacomo, Lady Lucretia, + You know that what I speak is true. + (BEATRICE _advances towards him; he covers his face, + and shrinks back_.) + O, dart + The terrible resentment of those eyes + On the dead earth! Turn them away from me! + They wound: 't was torture forced the truth. My Lords, + Having said this let me be led to death. + + BEATRICE.--Poor wretch, I pity thee: yet stay + awhile. + + CAMILLO.--Guards, lead him not away. + + BEATRICE.--Cardinal Camillo, + You have a good repute for gentleness + And wisdom: can it be that you sit here + To countenance a wicked farce like this? + When some obscure and trembling slave is dragged + From sufferings which might shake the sternest heart + And bade to answer, not as he believes, + But as those may suspect or do desire + Whose questions thence suggest their own reply: + And that in peril of such hideous torments + As merciful God spares even the damned. Speak now + The thing you surely know, which is that you, + If your fine frame were stretched upon that wheel, + And you were told: "Confess that you did poison + Your little nephew; that fair blue-eyed child + Who was the lodestar of your life:"--and tho' + All see, since his most swift and piteous death, + That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time + And all the things hoped for or done therein + Are changed to you, thro' your exceeding grief, + Yet you would say, "I confess anything:" + And beg from your tormentors, like that slave, + The refuge of dishonorable death. + I pray thee, Cardinal, that thou assert + My innocence. + + CAMILLO (_much moved_).--What shall we think, my Lords? + Shame on these tears! I thought the heart was frozen + Which is their fountain. I would pledge my soul + That she is guiltless. + + JUDGE.--Yet she must be tortured. + + CAMILLO.--I would as soon have tortured mine own nephew + (If he now lived he would be just her age; + His hair, too, was her color, and his eyes + Like hers in shape, but blue and not so deep) + As that most perfect image of God's love + That ever came sorrowing upon the earth. + She is as pure as speechless infancy! + + JUDGE.--Well, be her purity on your head, my Lord, + If you forbid the rack. His Holiness + Enjoined us to pursue this monstrous crime + By the severest forms of law; nay even + To stretch a point against the criminals. + The prisoners stand accused of parricide + Upon such evidence as justifies + Torture. + + BEATRICE.--What evidence? This man's? + + JUDGE.--Even so. + + BEATRICE (_to_ MARZIO).--Come near. And who + art thou thus chosen forth + Out of the multitude of living men + To kill the innocent? + + MARZIO.--I am Marzio, + Thy father's vassal. + + BEATRICE.--Fix thine eyes on mine; + Answer to what I ask. + (_Turning to the_ JUDGES.) + + I prithee mark + His countenance: unlike bold calumny + Which sometimes dares not speak the thing it looks, + He dares not look the thing he speaks, but bends + His gaze on the blind earth. + (_To_ MARZIO.) What! wilt thou say + That I did murder my own father? + + MARZIO.--Oh! + Spare me! My brain swims round ... I cannot speak ... + It was that horrid torture forced the truth. + Take me away! Let her not look on me! + I am a guilty miserable wretch; + I have said all I know; now, let me die! + + BEATRICE.--My Lords, if by my nature I had been + So stern, as to have planned the crime alleged, + Which your suspicions dictate to this slave, + And the rack makes him utter, do you think + I should have left this two-edged instrument + Of my misdeed; this man, this bloody knife + With my own name engraven on the heft, + Lying unsheathed amid a world of foes, + For my own death? That with such horrible need + For deepest silence, I should have neglected + So trivial a precaution, as the making + His tomb the keeper of a secret written + On a thief's memory? What is his poor life? + What are a thousand lives? A parricide + Had trampled them like dust; and, see, he lives! + (_Turning to_ MARZIO.) And thou ... + + MARZIO.--Oh, spare me! Speak to me no more! + That stern yet piteous look, those solemn tones, + Wound worse than torture. + + (_To the_ JUDGES.) I have told it all; + For pity's sake lead me away to death. + + CAMILLO.--Guards, lead him nearer the Lady Beatrice; + He shrinks from her regard like autumn's leaf + From the keen breath of the serenest north. + + BEATRICE.--O thou who tremblest on the giddy verge + Of life and death, pause ere thou answerest me; + So mayst thou answer God with less dismay: + What evil have we done thee? I, alas! + Have lived but on this earth a few sad years + And so my lot was ordered, that a father + First turned the moments of awakening life + To drops, each poisoning youth's sweet hope; and then + Stabbed with one blow my everlasting soul; + And my untainted fame; and even that peace + Which sleeps within the core of the heart's heart; + But the wound was not mortal; so my hate + Became the only worship I could lift + To our great Father, who in pity and love, + Armed thee, as thou dost say, to cut him off; + And thus his wrong becomes my accusation; + And art thou the accuser? If thou hopest + Mercy in heaven, show justice upon earth: + Worse than a bloody hand is a hard heart. + If thou hast done murders, made thy life's path + Over the trampled laws of God and man, + Rush not before thy Judge, and say: "My maker, + I have done this and more; for there was one + Who was most pure and innocent on earth; + And because she endured what never any + Guilty or innocent endured before: + Because her wrongs could not be told, not thought; + Because thy hand at length did rescue her; + I with my words killed her and all her kin." + Think, I adjure you, what it is to slay + The reverence living in the minds of men + Towards our ancient house, and stainless fame! + Think what it is to strangle infant pity, + Cradled in the belief of guileless looks, + Till it become a crime to suffer. Think + What 't is to blot with infamy and blood + All that which shows like innocence, and is, + Hear me, great God! I swear, most innocent, + So that the world lose all discrimination + Between the sly, fierce, wild regard of guilt, + And that which now compels thee to reply + To what I ask: Am I, or am I not + A parricide? + + MARZIO.--Thou art not! + + JUDGE.--What is this? + + MARZIO.--I here declare those whom I did accuse + Are innocent. 'T is I alone am guilty. + + JUDGE.--Drag him away to torments; let them be + Subtle and long drawn out, to tear the folds + Of the heart's inmost cell. Unbind him not + Till he confess. + + MARZIO.--Torture me as ye will: + A keener pain has wrung a higher truth + From my last breath. She is most innocent! + Bloodhounds, not men, glut yourselves well with me; + I will not give you that fine piece of nature + To rend and ruin. + (_Exit_ MARZIO, _guarded_.) + + CAMILLO.--What say ye now, my Lords? + + JUDGE.--Let tortures strain the truth till it be white + As snow thrice sifted by the frozen wind. + + CAMILLO.--Yet stained with blood. + + JUDGE (_to_ BEATRICE).--Know you this paper, Lady? + + BEATRICE.--Entrap me not with questions. Who stands here + As my accuser? Ha! wilt thou be he, + Who art my judge? Accuser, witness, judge, + What, all in one? Here is Orsino's name; + Where is Orsino? Let his eye meet mine. + What means this scrawl? Alas! ye know not what, + And therefore on the chance that it may be + Some evil, will ye kill us? + + (_Enter an Officer._) + + OFFICER.--Marzio's dead. + + JUDGE.--What did he say? + + OFFICER.--Nothing. As soon as we + Had bound him on the wheel, he smiled on us, + As one who baffles a deep adversary; + And holding his breath, died. + + JUDGE.--There remains nothing + But to apply the question to those prisoners, + Who yet remain stubborn. + + CAMILLO.--I overrule + Further proceedings, and in the behalf + Of these most innocent and noble persons + Will use my interest with the Holy Father. + + JUDGE.--Let the Pope's pleasure then be done. + Meanwhile + Conduct these culprits each to separate cells; + And be the engines ready: for this night + If the Pope's resolution be as grave, + Pious, and just as once, I'll wring the truth + Out of those nerves and sinews, groan by groan. + (_Exeunt._) + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + + + FRA GIACOMO. + + Alas, Fra Giacomo, + Too late!--but follow me; + Hush! draw the curtain,--so!-- + She is dead, quite dead, you see. + Poor little lady! she lies + With the light gone out of her eyes, + But her features still wear that soft + Gray meditative expression, + Which you must have noticed oft, + And admired too, at confession. + How saintly she looks, and how meek! + Though this be the chamber of death, + I fancy I feel her breath + As I kiss her on the cheek. + With that pensive religious face, + She has gone to a holier place! + And I hardly appreciated her,-- + Her praying, fasting, confessing, + Poorly, I own, I mated her; + I thought her too cold, and rated her + For her endless image-caressing. + Too saintly for me by far, + As pure and as cold as a star, + Not fashioned for kissing and pressing,-- + But made for a heavenly crown. + Ay, father, let us go down,-- + But first, if you please, your blessing. + + Wine? No? Come, come, you must! + You'll bless it with your prayers, + And quaff a cup, I trust, + To the health of the saint up stairs? + My heart is aching so! + And I feel so weary and sad, + Through the blow that I have had,-- + You'll sit, Fra Giacomo? + My friend! (and a friend I rank you + For the sake of that saint,)--nay, nay! + Here's the wine,--as you love me, stay!-- + 'T is Montepulciano!--Thank you. + + Heigh-ho! 'T is now six summers + Since I won that angel and married her: + I was rich, not old, and carried her + Off in the face of all comers. + So fresh, yet so brimming with soul! + A tenderer morsel, I swear, + Never made the dull black coal + Of a monk's eye glitter and glare. + Your pardon!--nay, keep your chair! + I wander a little, but mean + No offence to the gray gaberdine; + Of the church, Fra Giacomo, + I'm a faithful upholder, you know, + But (humor me!) she was as sweet + As the saints in your convent windows, + So gentle, so meek, so discreet, + She knew not what lust does or sin does. + I'll confess, though, before we were one, + I deemed her less saintly, and thought + The blood in her veins had caught + Some natural warmth from the sun. + I was wrong,--I was blind as a bat,-- + Brute that I was, how I blundered! + Though such a mistake as that + Might have occurred as pat + To ninety-nine men in a hundred. + Yourself, for example? you've seen her? + Spite her modest and pious demeanor, + And the manners so nice and precise, + Seemed there not color and light, + Bright motion and appetite, + That were scarcely consistent with _ice_? + Externals implying, you see, + Internals less saintly than human?-- + Pray speak, for between you and me + You're not a bad judge of a woman! + A jest,--but a jest!--Very true: + 'T is hardly becoming to jest, + And that saint up stairs at rest,-- + Her soul may be listening, too! + I was always a brute of a fellow! + Well may your visage turn yellow,-- + To think how I doubted and doubted, + Suspected, grumbled at, flouted + That golden-haired angel,--and solely + Because she was zealous and holy! + Noon and night and morn + She devoted herself to piety; + Not that she seemed to scorn + Or dislike her husband's society; + But the claims of her _soul_ superseded + All that I asked for or needed, + And her thoughts were far away + From the level of sinful clay, + And she trembled if earthly matters + Interfered with her _aves_ and _paters_, + Poor dove, she so fluttered in flying + Above the dim vapors of hell-- + Bent on self-sanctifying-- + That she never thought of trying + To save her husband as well. + And while she was duly elected + For place in the heavenly roll, + I (brute that I was!) suspected + Her manner of saving her soul. + So, half for the fun of the thing, + What did I (blasphemer!) but fling + On my shoulders the gown of a monk-- + Whom I managed for that very day + To get safely out of the way-- + And seat me, half sober, half drunk, + With the cowl thrown over my face, + In the father confessor's place. + _Eheu! benedicite!_ + In her orthodox sweet simplicity, + With that pensive gray expression, + She sighfully knelt at confession, + While I bit my lips till they bled, + And dug my nails in my hand, + And heard with averted head + What I'd guessed and could understand. + Each word was a serpent's sting, + But, wrapt in my gloomy gown, + I sat, like a marble thing, + As she told me all!--SIT DOWN! + + More wine, Fra Giacomo! + One cup,--if you love me! No? + What, have these dry lips drank + So deep of the sweets of pleasure-- + _Sub rosa_, but quite without measure-- + That Montepulciano tastes rank? + Come, drink! 't will bring the streaks + Of crimson back to your cheeks; + Come, drink again to the saint + Whose virtues you loved to paint, + Who, stretched on her wifely bed, + With the tender, grave expression + You used to admire at confession, + Lies poisoned, overhead! + + Sit still,--or by heaven, you die! + Face to face, soul to soul, you and I + Have settled accounts, in a fine + Pleasant fashion, over our wine. + Stir not, and seek not to fly,-- + Nay, whether or not, you are mine! + Thank Montepulciano for giving + You death in such delicate sips; + 'T is not every monk ceases living + With so pleasant a taste on his lips; + But, lest Montepulciano unsurely should kiss, + Take this! and this! and this! + + Cover him over, Pietro, + And bury him in the court below,-- + You can be secret, lad, I know! + And, hark you, then to the convent go,-- + Bid every bell of the convent toll, + And the monks say mass for your mistress' soul. + + ROBERT BUCHANAN. + + + + + GINEVRA. + + If thou shouldst ever come by choice or chance + To Modena, where still religiously + Among her ancient trophies is preserved + Bologna's bucket (in its chain it hangs + Within that reverend tower, the Guirlandina), + Stop at a palace near the Reggio gate, + Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini. + Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace, + And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses, + Will long detain thee; through their archèd walks, + Dim at noonday, discovering many a glimpse + Of knights and dames, such as in old romance, + And lovers, such as in heroic song, + Perhaps the two, for groves were their delight, + That in the springtime, as alone they sat, + Venturing together on a tale of love, + Read only part that day.--A summer sun + Sets ere one half is seen; but ere thou go, + Enter the house--prythee, forget it not-- + And look awhile upon a picture there. + + 'T is of a Lady in her earliest youth, + The last of that illustrious race; + Done by Zampieri--but I care not whom. + He who observes it, ere he passes on, + Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again, + That he may call it up when far away. + + She sits inclining forward as to speak, + Her lips half open, and her finger up, + As though she said "Beware!" her vest of gold + Broidered with flowers, and clasped from head to foot, + An emerald stone in every golden clasp; + And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, + A coronet of pearls. But then her face, + So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, + The overflowings of an innocent heart,-- + It haunts me still, though many a year has fled, + Like some wild melody! + Alone it hangs + Over a moldering heirloom, its companion, + An oaken chest, half eaten by the worm, + But richly carved by Antony of Trent + With Scripture stories from the life of Christ; + A chest that came from Venice, and had held + The ducal robes of some old Ancestor, + That, by the way--it may be true or false-- + But don't forget the picture; and thou wilt not + When thou hast heard the tale they told me there. + + She was an only child; from infancy + The joy, the pride, of an indulgent Sire; + Her Mother dying of the gift she gave, + That precious gift, what else remained to him? + The young Ginevra was his all in life, + Still as she grew, for ever in his sight; + And in her fifteenth year became a bride, + Marrying an only son, Francesco Doria, + Her playmate from her birth, and her first love. + + Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, + She was all gentleness, all gayety, + Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. + But now the day was come, the day, the hour; + Now, frowning, smiling, for the hundredth time, + The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum; + And, in the lustre of her youth, she gave + Her hand, with her heart in it, to Francesco. + + Great was the joy; but at the Bridal-feast, + When all sate down, the bride was wanting there, + Nor was she to be found! Her Father cried, + "'T is but to make a trial of our love!" + And filled his glass to all; but his hand shook, + And soon from guest to guest the panic spread. + 'T was but that instant she had left Francesco, + Laughing and looking back, and flying still, + Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger. + But now, alas, she was not to be found; + Nor from that hour could anything be guessed, + But that she was not! + Weary of his life, + Francesco flew to Venice, and, forthwith, + Flung it away in battle with the Turk. + Orsini lived,--and long mightst thou have seen + An old man wandering as in quest of something, + Something he could not find, he knew not what. + When he was gone, the house remained awhile + Silent and tenantless,--then went to strangers. + + Full fifty years were past, and all forgot, + When, on an idle day, a day of search + Mid the old lumber in the Gallery, + That moldering chest was noticed; and 't was said + By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra, + "Why not remove it from its lurking-place?" + 'T was done as soon as said; but on the way + It burst, it fell; and lo, a skeleton, + With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone, + A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold! + All else had perished,--save a nuptial-ring, + And a small seal, her mother's legacy, + Engraven with a name, the name of both, + "GINEVRA." + There then had she found a grave! + Within that chest had she concealed herself, + Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy; + When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there, + Fastened her down for ever! + + SAMUEL ROGERS. + + + + + BERNARDO DEL CARPIO. + + The warrior bowed his crested head, and tamed his heart of fire, + And sued the haughty king to free his long-imprisoned sire; + "I bring thee here my fortress keys, I bring my captive train, + I pledge thee faith, my liege, my lord!--oh, break my father's chain!" + + "Rise, rise! even now thy father comes, a ransomed man this day; + Mount thy good horse, and thou and I will meet him on his way." + Then lightly rose that loyal son, and bounded on his steed, + And urged, as if with lance in rest, the charger's foamy speed. + + And lo! from far, as on they pressed, there came a glittering band, + With one that 'midst them stately rode, as a leader in the land; + "Now haste, Bernardo, haste! for there, in very truth, is he, + The father whom thy faithful heart hath yearned so long to see." + + His dark eye flashed, his proud breast heaved, his + cheek's blood came and went; + He reached that gray-haired chieftain's side, and there, + dismounting, bent; + A lowly knee to earth he bent, his father's hand he took,-- + What was there in its touch that all his fiery spirit shook? + + That hand was cold,--a frozen thing,--it dropped from his like lead,-- + He looked up to the face above,--the face was of the dead! + A plume waved o'er the noble brow,--the brow was fixed and white;-- + He met at last his father's eyes,--but in them was no sight! + + Up from the ground he sprung, and gazed, but who could paint that gaze? + They hushed their very hearts, that saw its horror and amaze; + They might have chained him, as before that stony form he stood, + For the power was stricken from his arm, and from his lip the blood. + + "Father!" at length he murmured low, and wept like childhood then: + Talk not of grief till thou hast seen the tears of warlike men! + He thought on all his glorious hopes, and all his young renown; + He flung the falchion from his side, and in the dust sate down. + + Then covering with his steel-gloved hands his darkly mournful brow,-- + "No more, there is no more," he said, "to lift the sword for now; + My king is false, my hope betrayed; my father--oh! the worth, + The glory, and the loveliness, are passed away from earth! + + "I thought to stand where banners waved, my sire! beside thee yet, + I would that there our kindred blood on Spain's free soil had met! + Thou wouldst have known my spirit then; for thee my fields were won; + And thou hast perished in thy chains, as though thou hadst no son!" + + Then, starting from the ground once more, he seized the monarch's rein, + Amidst the pale and wildered looks of all the courtier train; + And with a fierce o'ermastering grasp, the raging war-horse led, + And sternly set them face to face,--the king before the dead! + + "Came I not forth upon thy pledge, my father's hand to kiss? + Be still, and gaze thou on, false king, and tell me what is this? + The voice, the glance, the heart I sought--give answer, where are they? + If thou wouldst clear thy perjured soul, send life + through this cold clay! + + "Into these glassy eyes put light;--be still! keep down thine ire! + Bid these white lips a blessing speak,--this earth is not my sire! + Give me back him for whom I strove, for whom my blood was shed, + Thou canst not?--and a king!--his dust be mountains on thy head!" + + He loosed the steed; his slack hand fell; upon the silent face + He cast one long, deep, troubled look,--then turned + from that sad place. + His hope was crushed, his after-fate untold in martial strain: + His banner led the spears no more amidst the hills of Spain. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + + + THE PRISONER OF 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 dayless 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 't was 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. + My hair is gray, but not with years, + Nor grew it white + In a single night, + As men's have grown from sudden fears: + My limbs are bowed, though not with toil, + But rusted with a vile repose, + For they have been a dungeon spoil, + And mine has been the fate of those + To whom the goodly earth and air + Are banned, and barred,--forbidden fare; + But this was for my father's faith + I suffered chains and courted death; + That father perished at the stake + For tenets he would not forsake; + And for the same his lineal race + In darkness found a dwelling-place; + We were seven,--who now are one, + Six in youth, and one in age, + Finished as they had begun, + Proud of Persecution's rage; + One in fire, and two in field, + Their belief with blood have sealed! + Dying as their father died, + For the God their foes denied; + Three were in a dungeon cast, + Of whom this wreck is left the last. + + There are seven pillars of Gothic mould + In Chillon's dungeons deep and old, + There are seven columns, massy and gray, + Dim with a dull imprisoned ray,-- + A sunbeam which hath lost its way, + And through the crevice and the cleft + Of the thick wall is fallen and left, + Creeping o'er the floor so damp, + Like a marsh's meteor lamp,-- + And in each pillar there is a ring, + And in each ring there is a chain; + That iron is a cankering thing; + For in these limbs its teeth remain + With marks that will not wear away, + Till I have done with this new day, + Which now is painful to these eyes, + Which have not seen the sun to rise + For years,--I cannot count them o'er, + I lost their long and heavy score + When my last brother drooped and died, + And I lay living by his side. + + They chained us each to a column stone, + And we were three, yet each alone; + We could not move a single pace, + We could not see each other's face, + But with that pale and livid light + That made us strangers in our sight; + And thus together, yet apart, + Fettered in hand, but pined in heart; + 'T was still some solace, in the dearth + Of the pure elements of earth, + To hearken to each other's speech, + And each turn comforter to each + With some new hope, or legend old, + Or song heroically bold; + But even these at length grew cold. + Our voices took a dreary tone, + An echo of the dungeon-stone, + A grating sound,-not full and free + As they of yore were wont to be; + It might be fancy,--but to me + They never sounded like our own. + + I was the eldest of the three, + And to uphold and cheer the rest + I ought to do--and did--my best, + And each did well in his degree. + The youngest, whom my father loved, + Because our mother's brow was given + To him, with eyes as blue as heaven,-- + For him my soul was sorely moved; + And truly might it be distrest + To see such bird in such a nest; + For he was beautiful as day + (When day was beautiful to me + As to young eagles, being free),-- + A polar day, which will not see + A sunset till its summer's gone, + Its sleepless summer of long light, + The snow-clad offspring of the sun; + And thus he was as pure and bright, + And in his natural spirit gay, + With tears for naught but others' ills, + And then they flowed like mountain rills, + Unless he could assuage the woe + Which he abhorred to view below. + + The other was as pure of mind, + But formed to combat with his kind; + Strong in his frame, and of a mood + Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, + And perished in the foremost rank + With joy;--but not in chains to pine; + His spirit withered with their clank, + I saw it silently decline,-- + And so perchance in sooth did mine; + But yet I forced it on to cheer + Those relics of a home so dear. + He was a hunter of the hills, + Had followed there the deer and wolf; + To him this dungeon was a gulf + And fettered feet the worst of ills. + + Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls: + A thousand feet in depth below + Its massy waters meet and flow; + Thus much the fathom-line was sent + From Chillon's snow-white battlement, + Which round about the wave inthralls; + And double dungeon wall and wave + Have made,--and like a living grave. + Below the surface of the lake + The dark vault lies wherein we lay, + We heard it ripple night and day; + Sounding o'er our heads it knocked; + And I have felt the winter's spray + Wash through the bars when winds were high + And wanton in the happy sky; + And then the very rock hath rocked, + And I have felt it shake, unshocked, + Because I could have smiled to see + The death that would have set me free. + + I said my nearer brother pined, + I said his mighty heart declined, + He loathed and put away his food; + It was not that 't was coarse and rude, + For we were used to hunter's fare, + And for the like had little care; + The milk drawn from the mountain goat + Was changed for water from the moat. + Our bread was such as captives' tears + Have moistened many a thousand years, + Since man first pent his fellow-men + Like brutes within an iron den; + But what were these to us or him? + These wasted not his heart or limb; + My brother's soul was of that mould + Which in a palace had grown cold, + Had his free breathing been denied + The range of the steep mountain's side; + But why delay the truth?--he died. + I saw, and could not hold his head, + Nor reach his dying hand--nor dead-- + Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, + To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. + He died,--and they unlocked his chain, + And scooped for him a shallow grave + Even from the cold earth of our cave. + I begged them, as a boon, to lay + His corse in dust whereon the day + Might shine,--it was a foolish thought, + But then within my brain it wrought, + That even in death his free-born breast + In such a dungeon could not rest. + I might have spared my idle prayer,-- + They coldly laughed, and laid him there. + The flat and turfless earth above + The being we so much did love; + His empty chain above it leant, + Such murder's fitting monument! + + But he, the favorite and the flower, + Most cherished since his natal hour, + His mother's image in fair face, + The infant love of all his race, + His martyred father's dearest thought, + My latest care, for whom I sought + To hoard my life, that his might be + Less wretched now, and one day free; + He, too, who yet had held untired + A spirit natural or inspired,-- + He, too, was struck, and day by day + Was withered on the stalk away. + O God! it is a fearful thing + To see the human soul take wing + In any shape, in any mood:-- + I've seen it rushing forth in blood, + I've seen it on the breaking ocean + Strive with a swoln convulsive motion, + I've seen the sick and ghastly bed + Of Sin delirious with its dread: + But these were horrors,--this was woe + Unmixed with such,--but sure and slow: + He faded, and so calm and meek, + So softly worn, so sweetly weak, + So tearless, yet so tender--kind, + And grieved for those he left behind; + With all the while a cheek whose bloom + Was as a mockery of the tomb, + Whose tints as gently sunk away + As a departing rainbow's ray,-- + An eye of most transparent light, + That almost made the dungeon bright, + And not a word of murmur,--not + A groan o'er his untimely lot,-- + A little talk of better days, + A little hope my own to raise, + For I was sunk in silence,--lost + In this last loss, of all the most; + And then the sighs he would suppress + Of fainting nature's feebleness, + More slowly drawn, grew less and less: + I listened, but I could not hear,-- + I called, for I was wild with fear; + I knew 't was hopeless, but my dread + Would not be thus admonishèd; + I called, and thought I heard a sound,-- + I burst my chain with one strong bound, + And rushed to him:--I found him not, + _I_ only stirred in this black spot, + _I_ only lived,--_I_ only drew + The accursed breath of dungeon-dew; + The last--the sole--the dearest link + Between me and the eternal brink, + Which bound me to my failing race, + Was broken in this fatal place. + One on the earth, and one beneath-- + My brothers--both had ceased to breathe. + I took that hand which lay so still, + Alas! my own was full as chill; + I had not strength to stir or strive, + But felt that I was still alive,-- + A frantic feeling when we know + That what we love shall ne'er be so. + I know not why + I could not die, + I had no earthly hope--but faith, + And that forbade a selfish death. + + What next befell me then and there + I know not well--I never knew. + First came the loss of light and air, + And then of darkness too; + I had no thought, no feeling--none: + Among the stones I stood a stone, + And was, scarce conscious what I wist, + As shrubless crags within the mist; + For all was blank and bleak and gray; + It was not night,--it was not day; + It was not even the dungeon-light, + So hateful to my heavy sight; + But vacancy absorbing space, + And fixedness, without a place: + There were no stars--no earth--no time-- + No check--no change--no good--no crime: + But silence, and a stirless breath + Which neither was of life nor death:-- + A sea of stagnant idleness, + Blind, boundless, mute, and motionless! + + A light broke in upon my brain,-- + It was the carol of a bird; + It ceased, and then it came again,-- + The sweetest song ear ever heard, + And mine was thankful till my eyes + Ran over with the glad surprise, + And they that moment could not see + I was the mate of misery; + But then by dull degrees came back + My senses to their wonted track, + I saw the dungeon walls and floor + Close slowly round me as before, + I saw the glimmer of the sun + Creeping as it before had done, + But through the crevice where it came + That bird was perched, as fond and tame, + And tamer than upon the tree; + A lovely bird, with azure wings, + And song that said a thousand things, + And seemed to say them all for me! + I never saw its like before, + I ne'er shall see its likeness more. + It seemed, like me, to want a mate, + But was not half so desolate, + And it was come to love me when + None lived to love me so again, + And cheering from my dungeon's brink, + Had brought me back to feel and think. + I know not if it late were free, + Or broke its cage to perch on mine, + But knowing well captivity, + Sweet bird! I could not wish for thine! + Or if it were, in wingèd guise, + A visitant from Paradise: + For--Heaven forgive that thought! the while + Which made me both to weep and smile-- + I sometimes deemed that it might be + My brother's soul come down to me; + But then at last away it flew, + And then 't was mortal,--well I knew, + For he would never thus have flown, + And left me twice so doubly lone,-- + Lone--as the corse within its shroud, + Lone--as a solitary cloud, + A single cloud on a sunny day, + While all the rest of heaven is clear, + A frown upon the atmosphere + That hath no business to appear + When skies are blue and earth is gay. + + A kind of change came in my fate, + My keepers grew compassionate; + I know not what had made them so, + They were inured to sights of woe, + But so it was:--my broken chain + With links unfastened did remain, + And it was liberty to stride + Along my cell from side to side, + And up and down, and then athwart, + And tread it over every part; + And round the pillars one by one, + Returning where my walk begun, + Avoiding only, as I trod, + My brothers' graves without a sod; + For if I thought with heedless tread + My step profaned their lowly bed, + My breath came gaspingly and thick, + And my crushed heart fell blind and sick. + + I made a footing in the wall, + It was not therefrom to escape, + For I had buried one and all + Who loved me in a human shape: + And the whole earth would henceforth be + A wider prison unto me: + No child,--no sire,--no kin had I, + No partner in my misery; + I thought of this and I was glad, + For thought of them had made me mad; + But I was curious to ascend + To my barred windows, and to bend + Once more, upon the mountains high, + The quiet of a loving eye. + + I saw them,--and they were the same, + They were not changed like me in frame; + I saw their thousand years of snow + On high,--their wide long lake below, + And the blue Rhone in fullest flow; + I heard the torrents leap and gush + O'er channelled rock and broken bush; + I saw the white-walled distant town, + And whiter sails go skimming down; + And then there was a little isle, + Which in my very face did smile, + The only one in view; + A small green isle, it seemed no more, + Scarce broader than my dungeon floor, + But in it there were three tall trees, + And o'er it blew the mountain breeze, + And by it there were waters flowing, + And on it there were young flowers growing, + Of gentle breath and hue. + The fish swam by the castle wall, + And they seemed joyous each and all; + The eagle rode the rising blast,-- + Methought he never flew so fast + As then to me he seemed to fly, + And then new tears came in my eye, + And I felt troubled,--and would fain + I had not left my recent chain; + And when I did descend again, + The darkness of my dim abode + Fell on me as a heavy load; + It was as in a new-dug grave + Closing o'er one we sought to save, + And yet my glance, too much oppressed, + Had almost need of such a rest. + + It might be months, or years, or days, + I kept no count,--I took no note, + I had no hope my eyes to raise, + And clear them of their dreary mote; + At last men came to set me free, + I asked not why and recked not where, + It was at length the same to me, + Fettered or fetterless to be, + I learned to love despair. + And thus when they appeared at last, + And all my bonds aside were cast, + These heavy walls to me had grown + A hermitage, and all my own! + And half I felt as they were come + To tear me from a second home; + With spiders I had friendship made, + And watched them in their sullen trade, + Had seen the mice by moonlight play, + And why should I feel less than they? + We were all inmates of one place, + And I, the monarch of each race, + Had power to kill,--yet, strange to tell; + In quiet we had learned to dwell,-- + My very chains and I grew friends, + So much a long communion tends + To make us what we are:--even I + Regained my freedom with a sigh. + + LORD BYRON. + + + + + BEFORE SEDAN. + + "The dead hand clasped a letter." + --SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT. + + Here in this leafy place, + Quiet he lies, + Cold, with his sightless face + Turned to the skies; + 'T is 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 eye is 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 out the folds and see. + + Hardly the worst of us + Here could have smiled!-- + Only the tremulous + Words of a child:-- + Prattle, that had 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. + + + + + IVÀN IVÀNOVITCH. + + Early one winter morn, in such a village as this, + Snow-whitened everywhere except the middle road + Ice-roughed by track of sledge, there worked by his abode + Ivàn Ivànovitch, the carpenter, employed + On a huge shipmast trunk; his axe now trimmed and toyed + With branch and twig, and now some chop athwart the bole + + [Illustration: ROBERT BROWNING. + _After a life-photograph by Elliott & Fry, London._] + + Changed bole to billets, bared at once the sap and soul. + About him, watched the work his neighbors sheep-skin-clad; + Each bearded mouth puffed steam, each gray eye twinkled glad + To see the sturdy arm which, never stopping play, + Proved strong man's blood still boils, freeze winter as he may. + Sudden, a burst of bells. Out of the road, on edge + Of the hamlet--horse's hoofs galloping. "How, a sledge? + What 's here?" cried all as--in, up to the open space, + Workyard and market-ground, folk's common meeting-place,-- + Stumbled on, till he fell, in one last bound for life, + A horse; and, at his heels, a sledge held--"Dmìtri's wife! + Back without Dmìtri too! and children--where are they? + Only a frozen corpse!" + + They drew it forth: then--"Nay, + Not dead, though like to die! Gone hence a month ago: + Home again, this rough jaunt--alone through night and snow-- + What can the cause be? Hark--Droug, old horse, how he groans: + His day 's done! Chafe away, keep chafing, for she moans: + She's coming to! Give here: see, motherkin, your friends! + Cheer up, all safe at home! Warm inside makes amends + For outside cold,--sup quick! Don't look as we were bears! + What is it startles you? What strange adventure stares + Up at us in your face? You know friends--which is which? + I'm Vàssili, he's Sergeì, Ivàn Ivànovitch"-- + + At the word, the woman's eyes, slow-wandering till they neared + The blue eyes o'er the bush of honey-colored beard, + Took in full light and sense and--torn to rags, some dream + Which hid the naked truth--O loud and long the scream + She gave, as if all power of voice within her throat + Poured itself wild away to waste in one dread note! + Then followed gasps and sobs, and then the steady flow + Of kindly tears: the brain was saved, a man might know. + Down fell her face upon the good friend's propping knee; + His broad hands smoothed her head, as fain to brush it free + From fancies, swarms that stung like bees unhived. He soothed-- + "Loukèria, Loùscha!"--still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. + At last her lips formed speech. + + "Ivàn, dear--you indeed? + You, just the same dear you! While I ... Oh, intercede, + Sweet Mother, with thy Son Almighty--let his might + Bring yesterday once more, undo all done last night! + But this time yesterday, Ivàn, I sat like you, + A child on either knee, and, dearer than the two, + A babe inside my arms, close to my heart--that 's lost + In morsels o'er the snow! Father, Son, Holy Ghost, + Cannot you bring again my blessèd yesterday?" + + When no more tears would flow, she told her tale: this way. + + "Maybe, a month ago,--was it not?--news came here, + They wanted, deeper down, good workmen fit to rear + A church and roof it in. 'We'll go,' my husband said: + 'None understands like me to melt and mould their lead.' + So, friends here helped us off--Ivàn, dear, you the first! + How gay we jingled forth, all five--(my heart will burst)-- + While Dmìtri shook the reins, urged Droug upon his track! + + "Well, soon the month ran out, we just were coming back, + When yesterday--behold, the village was on fire! + Fire ran from house to house. What help, as, nigh and nigher, + The flames came furious? 'Haste,' cried Dmìtri, 'men must do + The little good man may: to sledge and in with you, + You and our three! We check the fire by laying flat + Each building in its path,--I needs must stay for that,-- + But you ... no time for talk! Wrap round you every rug, + Cover the couple close,--you'll have the babe to hug. + No care to guide old Droug, he knows his way, by guess, + Once start him on the road: but chirrup, none the less! + The snow lies glib as glass and hard as steel, and soon + You'll have rise, fine and full, a marvel of a moon. + Hold straight up, all the same, this lighted twist of pitch! + Once home and with our friend Ivàn Ivànovitch, + All 's safe: I have my pay in pouch, all 's right with me, + So I but find as safe you and our precious three! + Off, Droug!'--because the flames had reached us, and the men + Shouted, 'But lend a hand, Dmìtri--as good as ten!' + "So, in we bundled--I and those God gave me once; + Old Droug, that 's stiff at first, seemed youthful for the nonce: + He understood the case, galloping straight ahead. + Out came the moon: my twist soon dwindled, feebly red + In that unnatural day--yes, daylight bred between + Moonlight and snow-light, lamped those grotto-depths which screen + Such devils from God's eye. Ah, pines, how straight you grow, + Nor bend one pitying branch, true breed of brutal snow! + Some undergrowth had served to keep the devils blind + While we escaped outside their border! + + "Was that--wind? + Anyhow, Droug starts, stops, back go his ears, he snuffs, + Snorts,--never such a snort! then plunges, knows the sough 's + Only the wind: yet, no--our breath goes up too straight! + Still the low sound,--less low, loud, louder, at a rate + There 's no mistaking more! Shall I lean out--look--learn + The truth whatever it be? Pad, pad! At last, I turn-- + + "'T is the regular pad of the wolves in pursuit of + the life in the sledge! + An army they are: close-packed they press like the thrust of a wedge: + They increase as they hunt: for I see, through the + pine-trunks ranged each side, + Slip forth new fiend and fiend, make wider and still more wide + The four-footed steady advance. The foremost--none may pass: + They are the elders and lead the line, eye and eye + --green-glowing brass! + But a long way distant still. Droug, save us! He does his best: + Yet they gain on us, gain, till they reach,--one + reaches ... How utter the rest? + O that Satan-faced first of the band! How he lolls + out the length of his tongue, + How he laughs and lets gleam his white teeth! + He is on me, his paws pry among + The wraps and the rugs! O my pair, my twin-pigeons, + lie still and seem dead! + Stepàn, he shall never have you for a meal,-- + here's your mother instead! + No, he will not be counselled--must cry, poor Stiòpka, + so foolish! though first + Of my boy-brood, he was not the best: nay, neighbors + called him the worst: + He was puny, an undersized slip,--a darling to me, all the same! + But little there was to be praised in the boy, and a plenty to blame. + I loved him with heart and soul, yes--but, deal him a blow for a fault, + He would sulk for whole days. 'Foolish boy! + lie still or the villain will vault, + Will snatch you from over my head!' No use! he cries, + he screams,--who can hold + Fast a boy in frenzy of fear! It follows--as I foretold! + The Satan-face snatched and snapped: I tugged, I tore, and then + His brother too needs must shriek! If one must go, 't is men + The Tsar needs, so we hear, not ailing boys! Perhaps + My hands relaxed their grasp, got tangled in the wraps: + God, he was gone! I looked: there tumbled the cursed crew, + Each fighting for a share: too busy to pursue! + That's so far gain at least: Droug, gallop another verst + Or two, or three--God sends we beat them, arrive the first! + A mother who boasts two boys was ever accounted rich: + Some have not a boy: some have, but lose him,--God knows which + Is worse: how pitiful to see your weakling pine + And pale and pass away! Strong brats, this pair of mine! + + "O misery! for while I settle to what near seems + Content, I am 'ware again of the tramp, and again there gleams-- + Point and point--the line, eyes, levelled green brassy fire! + So soon is resumed your chase? Will nothing appease, naught tire + The furies? And yet I think--I am certain the race is slack, + And the numbers are nothing like. Not a quarter of the pack! + Feasters and those full-fed are staying behind ... Ah, why? + We 'll sorrow for that too soon! Now,--gallop, + reach home and die, + Nor ever again leave house, to trust our life in the trap + For life--we call a sledge! Teriòscha, in my lap! + Yes, I 'll lie down upon you, tight-tie you with the strings + Here--of my heart! No fear, this time, your mother flings ... + Flings? I flung? Never! But think!--a woman, after all, + Contending with a wolf! Save you I must and shall, + Terentiì! + + "How now? What, you still head the race, + Your eyes and tongue and teeth crave fresh food, + Satan-face? + Flash again? + There and there! Plain I struck green fire out! + All a poor fist can do to damage eyes proves vain! + My fist--why not crunch that? He is wanton for ... O God, + Why give this wolf his taste? Common wolves scrape and prod + The earth till out they scratch some corpse--mere putrid flesh! + Why must this glutton leave the faded, choose the fresh? + Terentiì--God, feel!--his neck keeps fast thy bag + Of holy things, saints' bones, this Satan-face will drag + Forth, and devour along with him, our Pope declared + The relics were to save from danger! + + "Spurned, not spared! + 'T was through my arms, crossed arms, he--nuzzling now with snout, + Now ripping, tooth and claw--plucked, pulled Terentiì out, + A prize indeed! I saw--how could I else but see?-- + My precious one--I bit to hold back--pulled from me! + Up came the others, fell to dancing--did the imps!-- + Skipped as they scampered round. There 's one is gray, and limps: + Who knows but old bad Màrpha--she always owed me spite + And envied me my births--skulks out of doors at night + And turns into a wolf, and joins the sisterhood, + And laps the youthful life, then slinks from out the wood, + Squats down at the door by dawn, spins there demure as erst + --No strength, old crone--not she!--to crawl forth half a verst! + + "Well, I escaped with one: 'twixt one and none there lies + The space 'twixt heaven and hell. And see, a rose-light dyes + The endmost snow: 't is dawn, 't is day, 't is safe at home! + We have outwitted you! Ay, monsters, snarl and foam, + Fight each the other fiend, disputing for a share,-- + Forgetful in your greed, our finest off we bear, + Tough Droug and I,--my babe, my boy that shall be man, + My man that shall be more, do all a hunter can + To trace and follow and find and catch and crucify + Wolves, wolfkins, all your crew! A thousand deaths shall die + The whimperingest cub that ever squeezed the teat! + 'Take that!' we 'll stab you with,--'the tenderness we met + When, wretches, you danced round,--not this, thank God--not this! + Hellhounds, we balk you!' + + "But--Ah, God above!--Bliss, bliss,-- + Not the band, no! And yet--yes, for Droug knows him! One-- + This only of them all has said 'She saves a son!' + His fellows disbelieve such luck: but he believes, + He lets them pick the bones, laugh at him in their sleeves: + He's off and after us,--one speck, one spot, one ball + Grows bigger, bound on bound,--one wolf as good as all! + Oh, but I know the trick! Have at the snaky tongue! + That 's the right way with wolves! Go, tell your mates I wrung + The panting morsel out, left you to howl your worst! + Now for it--now! Ah me, I know him--thrice-accurst + Satan-face,--him to the end my foe! + + "All fight's in vain: + This time the green brass points pierce to my very brain. + I fall--fall as I ought--quite on the babe I guard: + I overspread with flesh the whole of him. Too hard + To die this way, torn piecemeal? Move hence? Not I--one inch! + Gnaw through me, through and through: flat thus I lie nor flinch! + O God, the feel of the fang furrowing my shoulder!--see! + It grinds--it grates the bone. O Kìrill under me, + Could I do more? Besides he knew the wolf's way to win: + I clung, closed round like wax: yet in he wedged and in, + Past my neck, past my breasts, my heart, until ... how feels + The onion-bulb your knife parts, pushing through its peels, + Till out you scoop its clove wherein lie stalk and leaf + And bloom and seed unborn? + + "That slew me: yes, in brief, + I died then, dead I lay doubtlessly till Droug stopped + Here, I suppose. I come to life, I find me propped + Thus,--how or when or why--I know not. Tell me, friends, + All was a dream: laugh quick and say the nightmare ends! + Soon I shall find my house: 't is over there: in proof, + Save for that chimney heaped with snow, you'd see the roof + Which holds my three--my two--my one--not one? + + "Life 's mixed + With misery, yet we live--must live. The Satan fixed + His face on mine so fast, I took its print as pitch + Takes what it cools beneath. Ivàn Ivànovitch, + 'T is you unharden me, you thaw, disperse the thing! + Only keep looking kind, the horror will not cling, + Your face smooths fast away each print of Satan. Tears + --What good they do! Life's sweet, and all its after-years, + Ivàn Ivànovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! + May God reward you, dear!" + + Down she sank. Solemnly + Ivàn rose, raised his axe,--for fitly as she knelt, + Her head lay: well apart, each side, her arms hung,--dealt + Lightning-swift thunder-strong one blow--no need of more! + Headless she knelt on still: that pine was sound of core + (Neighbors used to say)--cast-iron-kernelled--which + Taxed for a second stroke Ivàn Ivànovitch. + + The man was scant of words as strokes. "It had to be: + I could no other: God it was, bade 'Act for me!'" + Then stooping, peering round--what is it now he lacks? + A proper strip of bark wherewith to wipe his axe, + Which done, he turns, goes in, closes the door behind. + The others mute remain, watching the blood-snake wind + Into a hiding-place among the splinter-heaps. + + At length, still mute, all move: one lifts--from where it steeps + Redder each ruddy rag of pine--the head: two more + Take up the dripping body: then, mute still as before, + Move in a sort of march, march on till marching ends + Opposite to the church; where halting,--who suspends, + By its long hair, the thing, deposits in its place + The piteous head: once more the body shows no trace + Of harm done: there lies whole the Loùscha, maid and wife + And mother, loved until this latest of her life. + Then all sit on the bank of snow which bounds a space + Kept free before the porch of judgment: just the place! + + Presently all the souls, man, woman, child which make + The village up, are found assembling for the sake + Of what is to be done. The very Jews are there: + A Gypsy-troop, though bound with horses for the Fair, + Squats with the rest. Each heart with its conception seethes + And simmers, but no tongue speaks: one may say,--none breathes. + + Anon from out the church totters the Pope--the priest-- + Hardly alive, so old, a hundred years at least. + With him, the Commune's head, a hoary senior too, + Stàrosta, that's his style,--like Equity Judge with you,-- + Natural Jurisconsult: then, fenced about with furs, + Pomeschik--Lord of the Land, who wields--and none demurs-- + A power of life and death. They stoop, survey the corpse. + + Then, straightened on his staff, the Stàrosta--the thorpe's + Sagaciousest old man--hears what you just have heard, + From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivàn's last word-- + "God bade me act for him: I dared not disobey!" + + Silence--the Pomeschik broke with "A wild wrong way + Of righting wrong--if wrong there were, such wrath to rouse! + Why was not law observed? + + * * * * * + + Ivàn Ivànovitch has done a deed that's named + Murder by law and me: who doubts, may speak unblamed!" + + All turned to the old Pope. "Ay, children, I am old-- + How old, myself have got to know no longer. Rolled + Quite round, my orb of life, from infancy to age, + Seems passing back again to youth. A certain stage + At least I reach, or dream I reach, where I discern + Truer truths, laws behold more lawlike than we learn + When first we set our foot to tread the course I trod + With man to guide my steps: who leads me now is God. + 'Your young men shall see visions:' and in my youth I saw + And paid obedience to man's visionary law: + 'Your old men shall dream dreams.' And, in my age, a hand + Conducts me through the cloud round law to where I stand + Firm on its base,--know cause, who, before, knew effect. + + * * * * * + + I hold he saw + The unexampled sin, ordained the novel law, + Whereof first instrument was first intelligence + Found loyal here. I hold that, failing human sense, + The very earth had oped, sky fallen, to efface + Humanity's new wrong, motherhood's first disgrace. + Earth oped not, neither fell the sky, for prompt was found + A man and man enough, head-sober and heart-sound + Ready to hear God's voice, resolute to obey. + Ivàn Ivànovitch, I hold, has done, this day, + No otherwise than did, in ages long ago, + Moses when he made known the purport of that flow + Of fire athwart the law's twain-tables! I proclaim + Ivàn Ivànovitch God's servant!" + + * * * * * + + When the Amen grew dull + And died away and left acquittal plain adjudged, + "Amen!" last sighed the lord. "There's none shall say I grudged + Escape from punishment in such a novel case. + Deferring to old age and holy life,--be grace + Granted! say I. No less, scruples might shake a sense + Firmer than I boast mine. Law's law, and evidence + Of breach therein lies plain,--blood-red-bright--all may see! + Yet all absolve the deed: absolved the deed must be!" + + * * * * * + + So, while the youngers raised the corpse, the elders trooped + Silently to the house: where halting, some one stooped, + Listened beside the door; all there was silent too. + Then they held counsel; then pushed door and, passing through, + Stood in the murderer's presence. + + Ivàn Ivànovitch + Knelt, building on the floor that Kremlin rare and rich + He deftly cut and carved on lazy winter nights. + Some five young faces watched, breathlessly, as, to rights, + Piece upon piece, he reared the fabric nigh complete. + Stèscha, Ivàn's old mother, sat spinning by the heat + Of the oven where his wife Kàtia stood baking bread. + Ivàn's self, as he turned his honey-colored head, + Was just in the act to drop, 'twixt fir-cones,--each a dome, + The scooped-out yellow gourd presumably the home + Of Kolokol the Big: the bell, therein to hitch, + --An acorn-cup--was ready: Ivàn Ivànovitch + Turned with it in his mouth. + + They told him he was free + As air to walk abroad. "How otherwise?" asked he. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + + + + A DAGGER OF THE MIND. + + FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 1. + + [MACBETH, before the murder of Duncan, meditating alone, + sees the image of a dagger in the air, and thus soliloquizes:] + + Is this a dagger which I see before me, + The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:-- + I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. + Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible + To feeling as to sight? or art thou but + A dagger of the mind, a false creation, + Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain? + I see thee yet, in form as palpable + As this which now I draw. + Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going; + And such an instrument I was to use. + Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, + Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; + And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, + Which was not so before.--There's no such thing: + It is the bloody business, which informs + Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half world + Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse + The curtained sleep; witchcraft celebrates + Pale Hecate's offerings; and withered murder, + Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf, + Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, + With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design + Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth, + Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear + The very stones prate of my whereabout, + And take the present horror from the time, + Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives: + Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. + (_A bell rings._) + + I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. + Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell + That summons thee to heaven or to hell. + + SHAKESPEARE. + + + THE MURDER. + + FROM "MACBETH," ACT II. SC. 2. + + SCENE _in the Castle. Enter_ LADY MACBETH. + + LADY MACBETH.--That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold, + What hath quenched them hath given me fire. Hark!--Peace! + It was the owl that shrieked, the fatal bellman, + Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: + The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms + Do mark their charge with snores: I have drugged their possets, + That death and nature do contend about them, + Whether they live or die. + + MACBETH (_within_).--Who's there? What, ho! + + LADY MACBETH.--Alack, I am afraid they have awaked + And 't is not done:--the attempt and not the deed + Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready; + He could not miss them.--Had he not resembled + My father, as he slept, I had done 't.--My husband! + + (_Enter_ MACBETH.) + + MACBETH.--I have done the deed. Didst thou + not hear a noise? + + LADY MACBETH.--I heard the owl scream, + and the crickets cry. + Did not you speak? + + MACBETH.--When? + + LADY MACBETH.--Now. + + MACBETH.--As I descended? + + LADY MACBETH.--Ay. + + MACBETH.--Hark!-- + Who lies i' the second chamber? + + LADY MACBETH.--Donalbain. + + MACBETH (_looking on his hands_).--This is a sorry sight. + + LADY MACBETH.--A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. + + MACBETH.--There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried, + "Murder!" + That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them: + But they did say their prayers, and addressed them + Again to sleep. + + LADY MACBETH.--There are two lodged together. + + MACBETH.--One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other; + As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. + Listening their fear, I could not say, "Amen," + When they did say, "God bless us." + + LADY MACBETH.--Consider it not so deeply. + + MACBETH.--But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? + I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" + Stuck in my throat. + + LADY MACBETH.--These deeds must not be thought + After these ways; so, it will make us mad. + + MACBETH.--Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! + Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep, + Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care, + The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, + Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, + Chief nourisher in life's feast,-- + + LADY MACBETH.--What do you mean? + + MACBETH.--Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house: + "Glamis hath murdered sleep; and therefore Cawdor + Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!" + + LADY MACBETH.--Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane, + You do unbend your noble strength, to think + So brainsickly of things.--Go, get some water, + And wash this filthy witness from your hand. + Why did you bring these daggers from the place? + They must lie there: go carry them; and smear + The sleepy grooms with blood. + + MACBETH.--I'll go no more! + I am afraid to think what I have done; + Look on 't again, I dare not. + + LADY MACBETH.--Infirm of purpose! + Give me the daggers: the sleeping, and the dead, + Are but as pictures: 't is the eye of childhood + That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, + I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal; + For it must seem their guilt. + [_Exit. Knocking within._ + + MACBETH.--Whence is that knocking? + How is 't with me, when every noise appalls me? + What hands are here! Ha! they pluck out mine eyes! + Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood + Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather + The multitudinous seas incarnadine, + Making the green--one red. + + (_Re-enter_ LADY MACBETH.) + + LADY MACBETH.--My hands are of your color; but I shame + To wear a heart so white. (_Knocking._) I hear a knocking + At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber: + A little water clears us of this deed: + How easy is it then! Your constancy + Hath left you unattended. (_Knocking._) Hark, more knocking. + Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us, + And show us to be watchers:--be not lost + So poorly in your thoughts. + + MACBETH.--To know my deed, 't were best not know myself. + (_Knocking._) + Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst. + + SHAKESPEARE. + + + + + THE TWA CORBIES. + + As I was walking all alane, + I heard two corbies making a mane; + The tane unto the t'other say, + "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?" + + "In behint yon auld fail dyke, + I wot there lies a new-slain knight; + And nae body kens that he lies there, + But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. + + "His hound is to the hunting gane, + His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, + His lady's ta'en another mate, + So we may make our dinner sweet. + + "Ye 'll sit on his white hause bane, + And I'll pike out his bonny blue een: + Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, + We 'll theek our nest when it grows bare. + + "Mony a one for him makes mane, + But nane sall ken whare he is gane; + O'er his white banes, when they are bare, + The wind sall blaw for evermair." + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + THE SACK OF BALTIMORE. + + [Baltimore is a small seaport in the barony of Carbery, in + South Munster. It grew up around a castle of O'Driscoll's, + and was, after his ruin, colonized by the English. On the + 20th of June, 1631, the crews of two Algerine galleys landed + in the dead of the night, sacked the town, and bore off into + slavery all who were not too old, or too young, or too + fierce, for their purpose. The pirates were steered up the + intricate channel by one Hackett, a Dungarvan fisherman, + whom they had taken at sea for the purpose. Two years later, + he was convicted of the crime and executed. Baltimore never + recovered from this.] + + The summer sun is falling soft on Carbery's hundred isles, + The summer sun is gleaming still through Gabriel's rough defiles,-- + Old Inisherkin's crumbled fane looks like a moulting bird; + And in a calm and sleepy swell the ocean tide is heard: + The hookers lie upon the beach; the children cease their play; + The gossips leave the little inn; the households kneel to pray; + And full of love and peace and rest,--its daily labor o'er,-- + Upon that cosy creek there lay the town of Baltimore. + + A deeper rest, a starry trance, has come with midnight there; + No sound, except that throbbing wave, in earth or sea or air. + The massive capes and ruined towers seem conscious of the calm; + The fibrous sod and stunted trees are breathing heavy balm. + So still the night, these two long barks round Dunashad that glide + Must trust their oars--methinks not few--against the ebbing tide. + O, some sweet mission of true love must urge them to the shore,-- + They bring some lover to his bride, who sighs in Baltimore! + + All, all asleep within each roof along that rocky street, + And these must be the lover's friends, with gently gliding feet. + A stifled gasp! a dreamy noise! The roof is in a flame! + From out their beds, and to their doors, rush maid and sire and dame, + And meet upon the threshold stone, the gleaming sabre's fall, + And o'er each black and bearded face the white or crimson shawl. + The yell of "Allah!" breaks above the prayer and shriek and roar-- + O blessèd God! the Algerine is lord of Baltimore! + Then flung the youth his naked hand against the shearing sword; + Then sprung the mother on the brand with which her son was gored; + Then sunk the grandsire on the floor, his grand-babes clutching wild; + Then fled the maiden moaning faint, and nestled with the child. + But see, yon pirate strangling lies, and crushed with splashing heel, + While o'er him in an Irish hand there sweeps his Syrian steel; + Though virtue sink, and courage fail, and misers yield their store, + There 's one hearth well avenged in the sack of Baltimore! + + Midsummer morn, in woodland nigh, the birds begin to sing; + They see not now the milking-maids, deserted is the spring! + Midsummer day, this gallant rides from the distant Bandon's town, + These hookers crossed from stormy Skull, that skiff from Affadown. + They only found the smoking walls with neighbors' blood besprent, + And on the strewed and trampled beach awhile they wildly went, + Then dashed to sea, and passed Cape Clear, and saw, five leagues before, + The pirate-galleys vanishing that ravaged Baltimore. + + O, some must tug the galley's oar, and some must tend the steed,-- + This boy will bear a Scheik's chibouk, and that a Bey's jerreed. + O, some are for the arsenals by beauteous Dardanelles, + And some are in the caravan to Mecca's sandy dells. + The maid that Bandon gallant sought is chosen for the Dey, + She 's safe,--she 's dead,--she stabbed him in the midst of his Serai; + And when to die a death of fire that noble maid they bore, + She only smiled,--O'Driscoll's child,--she thought of Baltimore. + + 'T is two long years since sunk the town beneath that bloody band, + And all around its trampled hearth a larger concourse stand, + Where high upon a gallows-tree a yelling wretch is seen,-- + 'T is Hackett of Dungarvan,--he who steered the Algerine! + He fell amid a sullen shout, with scarce a passing prayer, + For he had slain the kith and kin of many a hundred there: + Some muttered of MacMorrogh, who had brought the Norman o'er, + Some cursed him with Iscariot, that day in Baltimore. + + THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS. + + + + + THE ROSE AND THE GAUNTLET. + + Low spake the knight to the peasant-girl: + "I tell thee sooth, I am belted earl; + Fly with me from this garden small + And thou shalt sit in my castle's hall; + + "Thou shalt have pomp, and wealth, and pleasure, + Joys beyond thy fancy's measure; + Here with my sword and horse I stand, + To bear thee away to my distant land. + + "Take, thou fairest! this full-blown rose, + A token of love that as ripely blows." + With his glove of steel he plucked the token, + But it fell from his gauntlet crushed and broken. + + The maiden exclaimed, "Thou seest, sir knight, + Thy fingers of iron can only smite; + And, like the rose thou hast torn and scattered, + I in thy grasp should be wrecked and shattered." + + She trembled and blushed, and her glances fell; + But she turned from the knight, and said, "Farewell!" + "Not so," he cried, "will I lose my prize; + I heed not thy words, but I read thine eyes." + + He lifted her up in his grasp of steel, + And he mounted and spurred with furious heel; + But her cry drew forth her hoary sire, + Who snatched his bow from above the fire. + + Swift from the valley the warrior fled, + Swifter the bolt of the crossbow sped; + And the weight that pressed on the fleet-foot horse + Was the living man, and the woman's corse. + + That morning the rose was bright of hue; + That morning the maiden was fair to view; + But the evening sun its beauty shed + On the withered leaves, and the maiden dead. + + JOHN STERLING. + + + + + THE YOUNG GRAY HEAD. + + Grief hath been known to turn the young head gray,-- + To silver over in a single day + The bright locks of the beautiful, their prime + Scarcely o'erpast; as in the fearful time + Of Gallia's madness, that discrownèd head + Serene, that on the accursèd altar bled + Miscalled of Liberty. O martyred Queen! + What must the sufferings of that night have been-- + _That one_--that sprinkled thy fair tresses o'er + With time's untimely snow! But now no more, + Lovely, august, unhappy one! of thee-- + I have to tell a humbler history; + A village tale, whose only charm, in sooth + (If any), will be sad and simple truth. + + "Mother," quoth Ambrose to his thrifty dame,-- + So oft our peasant's use his wife to name, + "Father" and "Master" to himself applied, + As life's grave duties matronize the bride,-- + "Mother," quoth Ambrose, as he faced the north + With hard-set teeth, before he issued forth + To his day labor, from the cottage door,-- + "I'm thinking that, to-night, if not before, + There 'll be wild work. Dost hear old Chewton[1] roar? + It's brewing up, down westward; and look there, + One of those sea-gulls! ay, there goes a pair; + And such a sudden thaw! If rain comes on, + As threats, the waters will be out anon. + That path by the ford 's a nasty bit of way,-- + Best let the young ones bide from school to-day." + + "Do, mother, do!" the quick-eared urchins cried; + Two little lasses to the father's side + Close clinging, as they looked from him, to spy + The answering language of the mother's eye. + _There_ was denial, and she shook her head: + "Nay, nay,--no harm will come to them," she said, + "The mistress lets them off these short dark days + An hour the earlier; and our Liz, she says, + May quite be trusted--and I know 't is true-- + To take care of herself and Jenny too. + And so she ought,--she's seven come first of May,-- + Two years the oldest; and they give away + The Christmas bounty at the school to-day." + + The mother's will was law (alas, for her + That hapless day, poor soul!)--_she_ could not err, + Thought Ambrose; and his little fair-haired Jane + (Her namesake) to his heart he hugged again. + When each had had her turn; she clinging so + As if that day she could not let him go. + But Labor's sons must snatch a hasty bliss + In nature's tenderest mood. One last fond kiss, + "God bless my little maids!" the father said, + And cheerily went his way to win their bread. + Then might be seen, the playmate parent gone, + What looks demure the sister pair put on,-- + Not of the mother as afraid, or shy, + Or questioning the love that could deny; + But simply, as their simple training taught, + In quiet, plain straightforwardness of thought + (Submissively resigned the hope of play) + Towards the serious business of the day. + + To me there 's something touching, I confess, + In the grave look of early thoughtfulness, + Seen often in some little childish face + Among the poor. Not that wherein we trace + (Shame to our land, our rulers, and our race!) + The unnatural sufferings of the factory child. + But a staid quietness, reflective, mild, + Betokening, in the depths of those young eyes, + Sense of life's cares, without its miseries. + So to the mother's charge, with thoughtful brow, + The docile Lizzy stood attentive now. + Proud of her years and of the imputed sense, + And prudence justifying confidence,-- + And little Jenny, more demurely still, + Beside her waited the maternal will. + So standing hand in hand, a lovelier twain + Gainsborough ne'er painted: no--nor he of Spain, + Glorious Murillo!--and by contrast shown + More beautiful. The younger little one, + With large blue eyes and silken ringlets fair, + By nut-brown Lizzy, with smooth parted hair, + Sable and glossy as the raven's wing, + And lustrous eyes as dark. + "Now, mind and bring + Jenny safe home," the mother said,--"don't stay + To pull a bough or berry by the way: + And when you come to cross the ford, hold fast + Your little sister's hand, till you 're quite past,-- + That plank's so crazy, and so slippery + (If not o'erflowed) the stepping-stones will be. + But you're good children--steady as old folk-- + I'd trust ye anywhere." Then Lizzy's cloak, + A good gray duffle, lovingly she tied, + And ample little Jenny's lack supplied + With her own warmest shawl. "Be sure," said she, + "To wrap it round and knot it carefully + (Like this), when you come home, just leaving free + One hand to hold by. Now, make haste away-- + Good will to school, and then good right to play." + + Was there no sinking at the mother's heart + When, all equipt, they turned them to depart? + When down the lane she watched them as they went + Till out of sight, was no forefeeling sent + Of coming ill? In truth I cannot tell: + Such warnings _have been_ sent, we know full well + And must believe--believing that they are-- + In mercy then--to rouse, restrain, prepare. + + And now I mind me, something of the kind + Did surely haunt that day the mother's mind, + Making it irksome to bide all alone + By her own quiet hearth. Though never known + For idle gossipry was Jenny Gray, + Yet so it was, that morn she could not stay + At home with her own thoughts, but took her way + To her next neighbor's, half a loaf to borrow,-- + Yet might her store have lasted out the morrow,-- + And with the loan obtained, she lingered still. + Said she, "My master, if he 'd had his will, + Would have kept back our little ones from school + This dreadful morning; and I'm such a fool, + Since they 've been gone, I 've wished them back. + But then + It won't do in such things to humor men,-- + Our Ambrose specially. If let alone + He 'd spoil those wenches. But it 's coming on, + That storm he said was brewing, sure enough,-- + Well! what of that? To think what idle stuff + Will come into one's head! And here with you + I stop, as if I 'd nothing else to do-- + And they 'll come home, drowned rats. I must be gone + To get dry things, and set the kettle on." + + His day's work done, three mortal miles and more, + Lay between Ambrose and his cottage-door. + A weary way, God wot, for weary wight! + But yet far off the curling smoke in sight + From his own chimney, and his heart felt light. + How pleasantly the humble homestead stood, + Down the green lane, by sheltering Shirley wood! + How sweet the wafting of the evening breeze, + In spring-time, from his two old cherry-trees, + Sheeted with blossom! And in hot July, + From the brown moor-track, shadowless and dry, + How grateful the cool covert to regain + Of his own avenue,--that shady lane, + With the white cottage, in the slanting glow + Of sunset glory, gleaming bright below, + And Jasmine porch, his rustic portico! + + With what a thankful gladness in his face, + (Silent heart-homage,--plant of special grace!) + At the lane's entrance, slackening oft his pace, + Would Ambrose send a loving look before, + Conceiting the caged blackbird at the door; + The very blackbird strained its little throat, + In welcome, with a more rejoicing note; + And honest Tinker, dog of doubtful breed, + All bristle, back, and tail, but "good at need," + Pleasant his greeting to the accustomed ear; + But of all welcomes pleasantest, most dear, + The ringing voices, like sweet silver bells, + Of his two little ones. How fondly swells + The father's heart, as, dancing up the lane, + Each clasps a hand in her small hand again, + And each must tell her tale and "say her say," + Impeding as she leads with sweet delay + (Childhood's blest thoughtlessness!) his onward way. + And when the winter day closed in so fast; + Scarce for his task would dreary daylight last; + And in all weathers--driving sleet and snow-- + Home by that bare, bleak moor-track must he go, + Darkling and lonely. O, the blessèd sight + (His polestar) of that little twinkling light + From one small window, through the leafless trees,-- + Glimmering so fitfully; no eye but his + Had spied it so far off. And sure was he, + Entering the lane, a steadier beam to see, + Ruddy and broad as peat-fed hearth could pour, + Streaming to meet him from the open door. + Then, though the blackbird's welcome was unheard,-- + Silenced by winter,--note of summer bird + Still hailed him from no mortal fowl alive, + But from the cuckoo clock just striking five. + And Tinker's ear and Tinker's nose were keen,-- + Off started he, and then a form was seen + Darkening the doorway: and a smaller sprite, + And then another, peered into the night, + Ready to follow free on Tinker's track, + But for the mother's hand that held her back: + And yet a moment--a few steps--and there, + Pulled o'er the threshold by that eager pair, + He sits by his own hearth, in his own chair; + Tinker takes post beside with eyes that say, + "Master, we've done our business for the day." + The kettle sings, the cat in chorus purrs, + The busy housewife with her tea-things stirs; + The door's made fast, the old stuff curtain drawn; + How the hail clatters! Let it clatter on! + How the wind raves and rattles! What cares he? + Safe housed and warm beneath his own roof-tree, + With a wee lassie prattling on each knee. + + Such was the hour--hour sacred and apart-- + Warmed in expectancy the poor man's heart. + Summer and winter, as his toil he plied, + To him and his the literal doom applied, + Pronounced on Adam. But the bread was sweet + So earned, for such dear mouths. The weary feet, + Hope-shod, stept lightly on the homeward way; + So specially it fared with Ambrose Gray + That time I tell of. He had worked all day + At a great clearing; vigorous stroke on stroke + Striking, till, when he stopt, his back seemed broke, + And the strong arms dropt nerveless. What of that? + There was a treasure hidden in his hat,-- + A plaything for the young ones. He had found + A dormouse nest; the living ball coiled round + For its long winter sleep; and all his thought, + As he trudged stoutly homeward, was of naught + But the glad wonderment in Jenny's eyes, + And graver Lizzy's quieter surprise, + When he should yield, by guess and kiss and prayer + Hard won, the frozen captive to their care. + + 'T was a wild evening,--wild and rough. "I knew," + Thought Ambrose, "those unlucky gulls spoke true,-- + And Gaffer Chewton never growls for naught,-- + I should be mortal 'mazed now if I thought + My little maids were not safe housed before + That blinding hail-storm,--ay, this hour and more,-- + Unless by that old crazy bit of board, + They 've not passed dry-foot over Shallow ford, + That I 'll be bound for,--swollen as it must be-- + Well! if my mistress had been ruled by me--" + But, checking the half-thought as heresy, + He looked out for the Home Star. There it shone, + And with a gladdened heart he hastened on. + + He 's in the lane again,--and there below, + Streams from the open doorway that red glow, + Which warms him but to look at. For his prize + Cautious he feels,--all safe and snug it lies,-- + "Down, Tinker! down, old boy!--not quite so free,-- + The thing thou sniffest is no game for thee.-- + But what 's the meaning? no lookout to-night! + No living soul astir! Pray God, all 's right! + Who 's flittering round the peat-stack in such weather? + Mother!" you might have felled him with a feather, + When the short answer to his loud "Hillo!" + And hurried question, "Are they come?" was "No." + + To throw his tools down, hastily unhook + The old cracked lantern from its dusty nook, + And, while he lit it, speak a cheering word, + That almost choked him, and was scarcely heard, + Was but a moment's act, and he was gone + To where a fearful foresight led him on. + Passing a neighbor's cottage in his way,-- + Mark Fenton's,--him he took with short delay + To bear him company,--for who could say + What need might be? They struck into the track + The children should have taken coming back + From school that day; and many a call and shout + Into the pitchy darkness they sent out, + And, by the lantern light, peered all about, + In every roadside thicket, hole, nook, + Till suddenly--as nearing now the brook-- + Something brushed past them. That was Tinker's bark,-- + Unheeded, he had followed in the dark, + Close at his master's heels; but, swift as light, + Darted before them now. "Be sure he 's right,-- + He 's on the track," cried Ambrose. "Hold the light + Low down,--he 's making for the water. Hark! + I know that whine,--the old dog 's found them, Mark." + So speaking, breathlessly he hurried on + Toward the old crazy foot-bridge. It was gone! + And all his dull contracted light could show + Was the black void and dark swollen stream below. + "Yet there 's life somewhere,--more than Tinker's whine,-- + That 's sure," said Mark. "So, let the lantern shine + Down yonder. There's the dog,--and, hark!" "O dear!" + And a low sob came faintly on the ear, + Mocked by the sobbing gust. Down, quick as thought, + Into the stream leapt Ambrose, where he caught + Fast hold of something,--a dark huddled heap,-- + Half in the water, where 't was scarce knee-deep + For a tall man, and half above it, propped + By some old ragged side-piles, that had stopt + Endways the broken plank, when it gave way + With the two little ones that luckless day! + "My babes!--my lambkins!" was the father's cry. + _One little voice_ made answer, "Here am I!" + 'T was Lizzy's. There she crouched with face as white, + More ghastly by the flickering lantern-light + Than sheeted corpse. The pale blue lips drawn tight, + Wide parted, showing all the pearly teeth, + And eyes on some dark object underneath, + Washed by the turbid water, fixed as stone,-- + One arm and hand stretched out, and rigid grown, + Grasping, as in the death-gripe, Jenny's frock. + There she lay drowned. Could he sustain that shock, + The doting father? Where 's the unriven rock + Can bide such blasting in its flintiest part + As that soft sentient thing,--the human heart? + + They lifted her from out her watery bed,-- + Its covering gone, the lovely little head + Hung like a broken snowdrop all aside; + And one small hand,--the mother's shawl was tied, + Leaving _that_ free, about the child's small form, + As was her last injunction--"_fast_ and warm"-- + Too well obeyed,--too fast! A fatal hold + Affording to the scrag by a thick fold + That caught and pinned her in the river's bed, + While through the reckless water overhead + Her life-breath bubbled up. + "She might have lived, + Struggling like Lizzy," was the thought that rived + The wretched mother's heart, when she knew all, + "But for my foolishness about that shawl! + And Master would have kept them back the day; + But I was wilful,--driving them away + In such wild weather!" + Thus the tortured heart + Unnaturally against itself takes part, + Driving the sharp edge deeper of a woe + Too deep already. They had raised her now, + And parting the wet ringlets from her brow, + To that, and the cold cheek, and lips as cold, + The father glued his warm ones, ere they rolled + Once more the fatal shawl--her winding-sheet-- + About the precious clay. One heart still beat, + Warmed by his heart's blood. To his only child + He turned him, but her piteous moaning mild + Pierced him afresh,--and now she knew him not. + "Mother!" she murmured, "who says I forgot? + Mother! indeed, indeed, I kept fast hold, + And tied the shawl quite close--she can't be cold-- + But she won't move--we slipt--I don't know how-- + But I held on--and I'm so weary now-- + And it's so dark and cold! O dear! O dear!-- + And she won't move;--if daddy was but here!" + + * * * * * + + Poor lamb! she wandered in her mind, 't was clear; + But soon the piteous murmur died away, + And quiet in her father's arms she lay,-- + They their dead burden had resigned, to take + The living, so near lost. For her dear sake, + And one at home, he armed himself to bear + His misery like a man,--with tender care + Doffing his coat her shivering form to fold + (His neighbor bearing that which felt no cold), + He clasped her close, and so, with little said, + Homeward they bore the living and the dead. + + From Ambrose Gray's poor cottage all that night + Shone fitfully a little shifting light, + Above, below,--for all were watchers there, + Save one sound sleeper. Her, parental care, + Parental watchfulness, availed not now. + But in the young survivor's throbbing brow, + And wandering eyes, delirious fever burned; + And all night long from side to side she turned, + Piteously plaining like a wounded dove, + With now and then the murmur, "She won't move." + And lo! when morning, as in mockery, bright + Shone on that pillow, passing strange the sight,-- + That young head's raven hair was streaked with white! + No idle fiction this. Such things have been, + We know. And now _I tell what I have seen_. + + Life struggled long with death in that small frame, + But it was strong, and conquered. All became + As it had been with the poor family,-- + All, saving that which nevermore might be: + There was an empty place,--they were but three. + + CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. + + [1] A fresh-water spring rushing into the sea, called Chewton Bunny. + + + + + [Illustration: THE FATAL COAST-TIDE. + "The old sea-wall (he cryed) is downe! + The rising tide comes on apace." + --JEAN INGELOW. + _From a photogravure by Braun, Clement & Co., after painting + by G. Haquette._] + + + + + HIGH-TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. [TIME, 1571.] + + THE old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers rang by two, by three; + "Pull! if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. + "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! + Ply 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 howe long, + Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; + And all the aire, it seemeth mee, + Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), + That ring the tune of _Enderby_. + Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, + Save where, full fyve good 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 swannerds, 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 cryed) 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 sayth; + "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + + "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away + With her two bairns I marked her long; + And ere yon tells beganne to play, + Afar I heard her milking-song." + He looked across the grassy sea, + 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 again. + 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 about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea,-- + fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and mee; + But each will mourne his own (she sayth) + 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, + Where 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. + + + + + RIZPAH. + + 17--. + + + I. + + Wailing, wailing, wailing, the wind over land and sea-- + And Willy's voice in the wind, "O mother, come out to me." + Why should he call me to-night, when he knows that I cannot go? + For the downs are as bright as day, and the full moon stares + at the snow. + + + II. + + We should be seen, my dear; they would spy us out of the town. + The loud black nights for us, and the storm rushing over the down, + When I cannot see my own hand, but am led by the creak of the chain, + And grovel and grope for my son till I find myself drenched + with the rain. + + + III. + + Anything fallen again? nay--what was there left to fall? + I have taken them home, I have numbered the bones, I have + hidden them all. + What am I saying? and what are _you_? do you come as a spy? + Falls? what falls? who knows? As the tree falls so must it lie. + + + IV. + + Who let her in? how long has she been? you--what have you heard? + Why did you sit so quiet? you never have spoken a word. + O--to pray with me--yes--a lady--none of their spies-- + But the night has crept into my heart, and begun to darken my eyes. + + + V. + + Ah--you, that have lived so soft, what should _you_ know + of the night, + The blast and the burning shame and the bitter frost and the fright? + I have done it, while you were asleep--you were only made for + the day. + I have gathered my baby together--and now you may go your way. + + + VI. + + Nay--for it's kind of you, Madam, to sit by an old dying wife. + But say nothing hard of my boy, I have only an hour of life. + I kissed my boy in the prison, before he went out to die. + "They dared me to do it," he said, and he never has told me a lie. + I whipt him for robbing an orchard once when he was but a child-- + "The farmer dared me to do it," he said; he was always so wild-- + And idle--and couldn't be idle--my Willy--he never could rest. + The King should have made him a soldier, he would have been + one of his best. + + + VII. + + But he lived with a lot of wild mates, and they never would + let him be good; + They swore that he dare not rob the mail, and he swore that he would: + And he took no life, but he took one purse, and when all was done + He flung it among his fellows--I'll none of it, said my son. + + + VIII. + + I came into court to the Judge and the lawyers. I told them my tale, + God's own truth--but they killed him, they killed him for + robbing the mail. + They hanged him in chains for a show--we had always borne + a good name-- + To be hanged for a thief--and then put away--isn't that enough shame? + Dust to dust--low down--let us hide! but they set him so high + That all the ships of the world could stare at him, passing by. + God 'ill pardon the hell-black raven and horrible fowls of the air, + But not the black heart of the lawyer who killed him + and hanged him there. + + + IX. + + And the jailer forced me away. I had bid him my last good-bye; + They had fastened the door of his cell. "O mother!" I heard him cry. + I couldn't get back tho' I tried, he had something further to say, + And now I never shall know it. The jailer forced me away. + + + X. + + Then since I couldn't but hear that cry of my boy that was dead, + They seized me and shut me up: they fastened me down on my bed. + "Mother, O mother!"--he called in the dark to me year after year-- + They beat me for that, they beat me--you know that I + couldn't but hear; + And then at the last they found I had grown so stupid and still + They let me abroad again--but the creatures had worked their will. + + + XI. + + Flesh of my flesh was gone, but bone of my bone was left-- + I stole them all from the lawyers--and you, will you + call it a theft?-- + My baby, the bones that had sucked me, the bones that had laughed + and had cried-- + Theirs? O no! they are mine--not theirs--they had moved in my side. + + + XII. + + Do you think I was scared by the bones? I kissed 'em, + I buried 'em all-- + I can't dig deep, I am old--in the night by the churchyard wall. + My Willy 'ill rise up whole when the trumpet of judgment 'ill sound, + But I charge you never to say that I laid him in holy ground. + + + XIII. + + They would scratch him up--they would hang him again + on the cursèd tree. + Sin? O yes--we are sinners, I know--let all that be, + And read me a Bible verse of the Lord's good will toward men-- + "Full of compassion and mercy, the Lord"--let me hear it again; + "Full of compassion and mercy--long-suffering." Yes, O yes! + For the lawyer is born but to murder--the Saviour lives but to bless. + _He_'ll never put on the black cap except for the + worst of the worst, + And the first may be last--I have heard it in church-- + and the last may be first. + Suffering--O long-suffering--yes, as the Lord must know, + Year after year in the mist and the wind and the shower and the snow. + + + XIV. + + Heard, have you? what? they have told you he never repented his sin. + How do they know it? are _they_ his mother? are you of his kin? + Heard! have you ever heard, when the storm on the downs began, + The wind that 'ill wail like a child and the sea that 'ill moan + like a man? + + + XV. + + Election, Election and Reprobation--it's all very well. + But I go to-night to my boy, and I shall not find him in Hell. + For I cared so much for my boy that the Lord has looked into my care, + And He means me I'm sure to be happy with Willy, I know not where. + + + XVI. + + And if _he_ be lost--but to save _my_ soul, that is all + your desire: + Do you think that I care for _my_ soul if my boy be gone + to the fire? + I have been with God in the dark--go, go, you may leave me alone-- + You never have borne a child--you are just as hard as a stone. + + + XVII. + + Madam, I beg your pardon! I think that you mean to be kind, + But I cannot hear what you say for my Willy's voice in the wind-- + The snow and the sky so bright--he used but to call in the dark, + And he calls to me now from the church and not from + the gibbet--for hark! + Nay--you can hear it yourself--it is coming--shaking the walls-- + Willy--the moon's in a cloud--Good night. I am going. He calls. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + + + + THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. + + 'T was in the prime of summer time, + An evening calm and cool, + And four-and-twenty happy boys + Came bounding out of school; + There were some that ran, and some that leapt + Like troutlets in a pool. + + Away they sped with gamesome minds + And souls untouched by sin; + To a level mead they came, and there + They drave the wickets in: + Pleasantly shone the setting sun + Over the town of Lynn. + + Like sportive deer they coursed about, + And shouted as they ran. + Turning to mirth all things of earth + As only boyhood can; + But the usher sat remote from all, + A melancholy man! + + His hat was off, his vest apart, + To catch heaven's blessèd breeze; + For a burning thought was in his brow, + And his bosom ill at ease; + So he leaned his head on his hands, and read + The book between his knees. + + Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er, + Nor ever glanced aside,-- + For the peace of his soul he read that book + In the golden eventide; + Much study had made him very lean, + And pale, and leaden-eyed. + + At last he shut the ponderous tome; + With a fast and fervent grasp + He strained the dusky covers close, + And fixed the brazen hasp: + "O God! could I so close my mind, + And clasp it with a clasp!" + + Then leaping on his feet upright, + Some moody turns he took,-- + Now up the mead, then down the mead, + And past a shady nook,-- + And, lo! he saw a little boy + That pored upon a book. + + "My gentle lad, what is 't you read,-- + Romance or fairy fable? + Or is it some historic page, + Of kings and crowns unstable?" + The young boy gave an upward glance,-- + "It is 'The Death of Abel.'" + + The usher took six hasty strides, + As smit with sudden pain,-- + Six hasty strides beyond the place, + Then slowly back again; + And down he sat beside the lad, + And talked with him of Cain; + + And, long since then, of bloody men, + Whose deeds tradition saves; + And lonely folk cut off unseen, + And hid in sudden graves; + And horrid stabs, in groves forlorn; + And murders done in caves; + + And how the sprites of injured men + Shriek upward from the sod; + Ay, how the ghostly hand will point + To show the burial clod; + And unknown facts of guilty acts + Are seen in dreams from God. + + He told how murderers walk the earth + Beneath the curse of Cain,-- + With crimson clouds before their eyes, + And flames about their brain; + For blood has left upon their souls + Its everlasting stain! + + "And well," quoth he, "I know for truth + Their pangs must be extreme-- + Woe, woe, unutterable woe!-- + Who spill life's sacred stream. + For why? Methought, last night I wrought + A murder, in a dream! + + "One that had never done me wrong,-- + A feeble man and old; + I led him to a lonely field,-- + The moon shone clear and cold: + Now here, said I, this man shall die, + And I will have his gold! + + "Two sudden blows with a raggèd stick, + And one with a heavy stone, + One hurried gash with a hasty knife,-- + And then the deed was done: + There was nothing lying at my feet + But lifeless flesh and bone! + + "Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, + That could not do me ill; + And yet I feared him all the more + For lying there so still: + There was a manhood in his look + That murder could not kill! + + "And, lo! the universal air + Seemed lit with ghastly flame,-- + Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes + Were looking down in blame; + I took the dead man by his hand, + And called upon his name. + + "O God! it made me quake to see + Such sense within the slain; + But, when I touched the lifeless clay, + The blood gushed out amain! + For every clot a burning spot + Was scorching in my brain! + + "My head was like an ardent coal, + My heart as solid ice; + My wretched, wretched soul, I knew, + Was at the Devil's price. + A dozen times I groaned,--the dead + Had never groaned but twice. + + "And now, from forth the frowning sky, + From heaven's topmost height, + I heard a voice,--the awful voice + Of the blood-avenging sprite: + 'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead, + And hide it from my sight!' + + "And I took the dreary body up, + And cast it in a stream,-- + The sluggish water black as ink, + The depth was so extreme:-- + My gentle boy, remember, this + Is nothing but a dream! + + "Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, + And vanished in the pool; + Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, + And washed my forehead cool, + And sat among the urchins young, + That evening, in the school. + + "O Heaven! to think of their white souls, + And mine so black and grim! + I could not share in childish prayer, + Nor join in evening hymn; + Like a devil of the pit I seemed, + Mid holy cherubim! + + "And peace went with them, one and all, + And each calm pillow spread; + But Guilt was my grim chamberlain, + That lighted me to bed, + And drew my midnight curtains round + With fingers bloody red! + + "All night I lay in agony, + In anguish dark and deep; + My fevered eyes I dared not close, + But stared aghast at Sleep; + For Sin had rendered unto her + The keys of hell to keep! + + "All night I lay in agony, + From weary chime to chime; + With one besetting horrid hint + That racked me all the time,-- + A mighty yearning, like the first + Fierce impulse unto crime,-- + + "One stern tyrannic thought, that made + All other thoughts its slave! + Stronger and stronger every pulse + Did that temptation crave,-- + Still urging me to go and see + The dead man in his grave! + + "Heavily I rose up, as soon + As light was in the sky, + And sought the black accursèd pool + With a wild, misgiving eye; + And I saw the dead in the river-bed, + For the faithless stream was dry. + + "Merrily rose the lark, and shook + The dew-drop from its wing; + But I never marked its morning flight, + I never heard it sing, + For I was stooping once again + Under the horrid thing. + + "With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, + I took him up and ran; + There was no time to dig a grave + Before the day began,-- + In a lonesome wood with heaps of leaves, + I hid the murdered man! + + "And all that day I read in school, + But my thought was otherwhere; + As soon as the midday task was done, + In secret I was there,-- + And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, + And still the corse was bare! + + "Then down I cast me on my face, + And first began to weep, + For I knew my secret then was one + That earth refused to keep,-- + Or land or sea, though he should be + Ten thousand fathoms deep. + + "So wills the fierce avenging sprite, + Till blood for blood atones! + Ay, though he's buried in a cave, + And trodden down with stones, + And years have rotted off his flesh,-- + The world shall see his bones! + + "O God! that horrid, horrid dream + Besets me now awake! + Again--again, with dizzy brain, + The human life I take; + And my red right hand grows raging hot, + Like Cranmer's at the stake. + + "And still no peace for the restless clay + Will wave or mold allow; + The horrid thing pursues my soul,-- + It stands before me now!" + The fearful boy looked up, and saw + Huge drops upon his brow. + + That very night, while gentle sleep + The urchin's eyelids kissed, + Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn + Through the cold and heavy mist; + And Eugene Aram walked between, + With gyves upon his wrist. + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + + + IN THE ENGINE-SHED. + + Through air made heavy with vapors murk, + O'er slack and cinders in heaps and holes, + The engine-driver came to his work, + Burly and bluff as a bag of coals; + With a thick gold chain where he bulged the most, + And a beard like a brush, and a face like a toast, + And a hat half-eaten by fire and frost; + And a diamond pin in the folded dirt + Of the shawl that served him for collar and shirt. + Whenever he harnessed his steed of mettle:-- + The shovel-fed monster that could not tire, + With limbs of steel and entrails of fire; + Above us it sang like a tea-time kettle. + + He came to his salamander toils + In what seemed a devil's cast-off suit, + All charred, and discolored with rain and oils, + And smeared and sooted from muffler to boot. + Some wiping--it struck him--his paws might suffer + With a wisp of thread he found on the buffer + (The improvement effected was not very great); + Then he spat, and passed his pipe to his mate. + + And his whole face laughed with an honest mirth, + As any extant on this grimy earth, + Welcoming me to his murky region; + And had you known him, I tell you this-- + Though your bright hair shiver and sink at its roots, + O piano-fingering fellow-collegian-- + You would have returned no cold salutes + To the cheery greeting of old Chris, + But locked your hand in the vise of his. + + For at night when the sleet-storm shatters and scatters, + And clangs on the pane like a pile of fetters, + He flies through it all with the world's love-letters: + The master of mighty leviathan motions, + That make for him storm when the nights are fair, + And cook him with fire and carve him with air, + While we sleep soft on the carriage cushions, + And he looks sharp for the signals, blear-eyed. + Often had Chris over England rolled me; + You shall hear a story he told me-- + A dream of his rugged watch unwearied. + + THE STORY. + + We were driving the down express; + Will at the steam, and I at the coal; + Over the valleys and villages, + Over the marshes and coppices, + Over the river, deep and broad; + Through the mountain, under the road, + Flying along, + Tearing along. + Thunderbolt engine, swift and strong, + Fifty tons she was, whole and sole! + + I had been promoted to the express: + I warrant I was proud and gay. + It was the evening that ended May, + And the sky was a glory of tenderness. + We were thundering down to a midland town,-- + It doesn't matter about the name, + For we didn't stop there, or anywhere + For a dozen miles on either side. + Well, as I say, just there you slide, + With your steam shut off and your brakes in hand, + Down the steepest and longest grade in the land, + At a pace that, I promise you, is grand. + We were just there with the express, + When I caught sight of a girl's white dress + On the bank ahead; and as we passed-- + You have no notion how fast-- + She sank back scared from our baleful blast. + + We were going--a mile and a quarter a minute-- + With vans and carriages--down the incline! + But I saw her face, and the sunshine in it; + I looked in her eyes, and she looked in mine + As the train went by, like a shot from a mortar: + A roaring hell-breath of dust and smoke. + And it was a minute before I woke, + When she lay behind us--a mile and a quarter. + + And the years went on, and the express + Leaped in her black resistlessness, + Evening by evening, England through.-- + Will--God rest him!--was found--a mash + Of bleeding rags, in a fearful smash + He made of Christmas train at Crewe. + It chanced I was ill the night of the mess, + Or I shouldn't now be here alive; + But thereafter, the five o'clock out express, + Evening by evening, I used to drive. + + And often I saw her: that lady, I mean, + That I spoke of before. She often stood + Atop of the bank;--it was pretty high, + Say, twenty feet, and backed by a wood.-- + She would pick daisies out of the green + To fling down at us as we went by. + We had grown to be friends, too, she and I. + Though I was a stalwart, grimy chap, + And she a lady! I'd wave my cap + Evening by evening, when I'd spy + That she was there, in the summer air, + Watching the sun sink out of the sky. + + Oh, I didn't see her every night: + Bless you! no; just now and then, + And not at all for a twelvemonth quite. + Then, one evening, I saw her again, + Alone, as ever--but wild and pale-- + Climbing down on the line, on the very rail, + While a light as of hell from our wild wheels broke, + Tearing down the slope with their devilish clamors + And deafening din, as of giant hammers + That smote in a whirlwind of dust and smoke + All the instant or so that we sped to meet her. + Never, O never, had she seemed sweeter!-- + I let yell the whistle, reversing the stroke, + Down that awful incline; and signalled the guard + To put on his brakes at once, and HARD!-- + Though we couldn't have stopped. We tattered the rail + Into splinters and sparks, but without avail. + We couldn't stop; and she wouldn't stir, + Saving to turn us her eyes, and stretch + Her arms to us:--and the desperate wretch + I pitied, comprehending her. + So the brakes let off, and the steam full again, + Sprang down on the lady the terrible train.-- + She never flinched. We beat her down, + And ran on through the lighted length of the town + Before we could stop to see what was done. + + Yes, I've run over more than one! + Full a dozen, I should say; but none + That I pitied as I pitied her. + If I could have stopped--with all the spur + Of the train's weight on, and cannily-- + But it never would do with a lad like me + And she a lady,--or had been.--Sir?-- + We won't say any more of her; + The world is hard. But I'm her friend, + Right through--down to the world's end. + It is a curl of her sunny hair + Set in this locket that I wear; + I picked it off the big wheel there.-- + Time's up, Jack--Stand clear, sir. Yes, + We're going out with the express. + + WILLIAM WILKINS. + + + + + REVELRY OF THE DYING. + + [Supposed to be written in India, while the + plague was raging, and playing havoc among the + British residents and troops stationed there.] + + We meet 'neath the sounding rafter, + And the walls around are bare; + As they shout to our peals of laughter, + It seems that the dead are there. + But stand to your glasses, steady! + We drink to our comrades' eyes; + Quaff a cup to the dead already-- + And hurrah for the next that dies! + + Not here are the goblets glowing, + Not here is the vintage sweet; + 'T is cold, as our hearts are growing, + And dark as the doom we meet. + But stand to your glasses, steady! + And soon shall our pulses rise; + A cup to the dead already-- + Hurrah for the next that dies! + + Not a sigh for the lot that darkles, + Not a tear for the friends that sink; + We'll fall, midst the wine-cup's sparkles, + As mute as the wine we drink. + So stand to your glasses, steady! + 'T is this that the respite buys; + One cup to the dead already-- + Hurrah for the next that dies! + + Time was when we frowned at others; + We thought we were wiser then; + Ha! ha! let those think of their mothers, + Who hope to see them again. + No! stand to your glasses, steady! + The thoughtless are here the wise; + A cup to the dead already-- + Hurrah for the next that dies! + + There's many a hand that's shaking, + There's many a cheek that's sunk; + But soon, though our hearts are breaking, + They'll burn with the wine we've drunk. + So stand to your glasses, steady! + 'T is here the revival lies; + A cup to the dead already-- + Hurrah for the next that dies! + + There's a mist on the glass congealing, + 'T is the hurricane's fiery breath; + And thus does the warmth of feeling + Turn ice in the grasp of Death. + Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! + For a moment the vapor flies; + A cup to the dead already-- + Hurrah for the next that dies! + + Who dreads to the dust returning? + Who shrinks from the sable shore, + Where the high and haughty yearning + Of the soul shall sting no more! + Ho! stand to your glasses, steady! + The world is a world of lies; + A cup to the dead already-- + Hurrah for the next that dies! + + Cut off from the land that bore us, + Betrayed by the land we find, + Where the brightest have gone before us, + And the dullest remain behind-- + Stand, stand to your glasses, steady! + 'T is all we have left to prize; + A cup to the dead already-- + And hurrah for the next that dies! + + BARTHOLOMEW DOWLING. + + + + + THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL. + + ALL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept; + All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. + + O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night! + O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light! + + One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke; + But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. + + Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day, + And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay. + + Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, + For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. + + But the foeman held possession of that hard-won battle-plain, + In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. + + Once again the night dropped round them,--night so holy and so calm + That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer + or psalm. + + On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, + Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast. + + Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep; + Even his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep. + + For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, + And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace + + To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless repose, + Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. + + And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told: + How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. + + Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars, + While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. + + Hark! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low, + Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow? + + Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round + As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, + + Came two little maidens,--sisters, with a light and hasty tread, + And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. + + And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, + they stood + Where the drummer-boy was lying in that partial solitude. + + They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's + scanty store, + And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. + + Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, + For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. + + And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame + Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lambent flame. + + For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need, + And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. + + But they smiled and kissed each other when their new + strange task was o'er, + And the form that lay before them its unwonted garments wore. + + Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, + And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. + + But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, + And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun. + + Gently then those little maidens--they were children of our foes-- + Laid the body of our drummer-boy to undisturbed repose. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + RAMON. + + REFUGIO MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO. + + Drunk and senseless in his place, + Prone and sprawling on his face, + More like brute than any man + Alive or dead,-- + By his great pump out of gear, + Lay the peon engineer, + Waking only just to hear, + Overhead, + Angry tones that called his name, + Oaths and cries of bitter blame,-- + Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled! + + "To the man who'll bring to me," + Cried Intendant Harry Lee,-- + Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,-- + "Bring the sot alive or dead, + I will give to him," he said, + "Fifteen hundred pesos down, + Just to set the rascal's crown + Underneath this heel of mine: + Since but death + Deserves the man whose deed, + Be it vice or want of heed, + Stops the pumps that give us breath,-- + Stops the pumps that suck the death + From the poisoned lower level of the mine!" + + No one answered, for a cry + From the shaft rose up on high; + And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, + Came the miners each, the bolder + Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, + Grappling, clinging to their hold or + Letting go, + As the weaker gasped and fell + From the ladder to the well,-- + To the poisoned pit of hell + Down below! + + "To the man who sets them free," + Cried the foreman, Harry Lee,-- + Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine,-- + "Brings them out and sets them free, + I will give that man," said he, + "Twice that sum, who with a rope + Face to face with death shall cope: + Let him come who dares to hope!" + "Hold your peace!" some one replied, + Standing by the foreman's side; + "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be!" + + Then they held their breath with awe, + Pulling on the rope, and saw + Fainting figures reappear, + On the black ropes swinging clear, + Fastened by some skilful hand from below; + Till a score the level gained, + And but one alone remained,-- + He the hero and the last, + He whose skilful hand made fast + The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer! + + Haggard, gasping, down dropped he + At the feet of Harry Lee,-- + Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine; + "I have come," he gasped, "to claim + Both rewards, Señior,--my name + Is Ramon! + I'm the drunken engineer,-- + I'm the coward, Señior--" Here + He fell over, by that sign + Dead as stone! + + BRET HARTE. + + + + + AT THE CEDARS. + + You had two girls--Baptiste-- + One is Virginie-- + Hold hard--Baptiste! + Listen to me. + + The whole drive was jammed, + In that bend at the Cedars; + The rapids were dammed + With the logs tight rammed + And crammed; you might know + The devil had clinched them below. + + We worked three days--not a budge! + "She's as tight as a wedge + On the ledge," + Says our foreman: + + "Mon Dieu! boys, look here, + We must get this thing clear." + He cursed at the men, + And we went for it then; + With our cant-dogs arow, + We just gave he-yo-ho, + When she gave a big shove + From above. + + The gang yelled, and tore + For the shore; + The logs gave a grind, + Like a wolf's jaws behind, + And as quick as a flash, + With a shove and a crash, + They were down in a mash. + But I and ten more, + All but Isaàc Dufour, + Were ashore. + + He leaped on a log in the front of the rush, + And shot out from the bind + While the jam roared behind; + As he floated along + He balanced his pole + And tossed us a song. + But, just as we cheered, + Up darted a log from the bottom, + Leaped thirty feet fair and square, + And came down on his own. + + He went up like a block + With the shock; + And when he was there, + In the air, + Kissed his hand + To the land. + When he dropped + My heart stopped, + For the first log had caught him + And crushed him; + When he rose in his place + There was blood on his face. + + There were some girls, Baptiste, + Picking berries on the hillside, + Where the river curls, Baptiste, + You know,--on the still side. + One was down by the water, + She saw Isaàc + Fall back. + + She did not scream, Baptiste, + She launched her canoe; + It did seem, Baptiste, + That she wanted to die too, + For before you could think + The birch cracked like a shell + In the rush of hell, + And I saw them both sink-- + + Baptiste! + He had two girls, + One is Virginie; + What God calls the other + Is not known to me. + + DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT. + + + + + THE SANDS O' DEE. + + "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + Across the sands o' Dee!" + The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, + And all alone went she. + + The creeping tide came 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 blinding mist came down and hid the land: + And never home came she. + + "O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- + A tress o' golden hair, + O' drownèd maiden's hair,-- + Above the nets at sea? + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, + Among the stakes on Dee." + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam,-- + The cruel, crawling foam, + The cruel, hungry foam,-- + To her grave beside the sea; + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home + Across the sands o' Dee. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + + + + ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE. + + WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED; 1782. + + Toll for the brave,-- + The brave that are no more! + All sunk beneath the wave, + Fast by their native shore. + + Eight hundred of the brave, + Whose courage well was tried, + Had made the vessel heel, + And laid her on her side. + + A land-breeze shook the shrouds, + And she was overset; + Down went the Royal George, + With all her crew complete. + + Toll for the brave! + Brave Kempenfelt is gone; + His last sea-fight is fought, + His work of glory done. + + It was not in the battle; + No tempest gave the shock; + She sprang no fatal leak; + She ran upon no rock. + + His sword was in its sheath, + His fingers held the pen, + When Kempenfelt went down + With twice four hundred men. + + Weigh the vessel up, + Once dreaded by our foes! + And mingle with our cup + The tear that England owes. + + Her timbers yet are sound, + And she may float again, + Full charged with England's thunder, + And plough the distant main. + + But Kempenfelt is gone; + His victories are o'er; + And he and his eight hundred + Shall plough the wave no more. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + + THE THREE FISHERS. + + Three fishers went sailing out into the west,-- + Out into the west as the sun went down; + Each thought of 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 light-house tower, + And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; + And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, + And the rack it 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 watching and wringing their hands. + For those who will never come back to the town; + For men must work, and women must weep,-- + And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,-- + And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + + + + CASABIANCA. + + [Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son of the + Admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the Battle + of the Nile) after the ship had taken fire and all the guns + had been abandoned, and perished in the explosion of the + vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.] + + The boy stood on the burning deck, + Whence all but him had fled; + The flame that lit the battle's wreck + Shone round him o'er the dead. + + Yet beautiful and bright he stood, + As born to rule the storm; + A creature of heroic blood, + A proud though childlike form. + + The flames rolled on; he would not go + Without his father's word; + That father, faint in death below, + His voice no longer heard. + + [Illustration: THE BATTLE OF THE NILE + "There came a burst of thunder-sound; + The boy--Oh! where was he? + Ask of the winds that far around + With fragments strewed the sea." + FELICIA HEMANS. + _From an engraving after the painting by George Arnald, A. R. A._] + + He called aloud, "Say, father, say, + If yet my task be done!" + He knew not that the chieftain lay + Unconscious of his son. + + "Speak, father!" once again he cried, + "If I may yet be gone!" + And but the booming shots replied, + And fast the flames rolled on. + + Upon his brow he felt their breath, + And in his waving hair, + And looked from that lone post of death + In still yet brave despair; + + And shouted but once more aloud, + "My father! must I stay?" + While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, + The wreathing fires made way. + + They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, + They caught the flag on high, + And streamed above the gallant child, + Like banners in the sky. + + There came a burst of thunder sound; + The boy,--Oh! where was _he_? + Ask of the winds, that far around + With fragments strewed the sea,-- + + With shroud and mast and pennon fair, + That well had borne their part,-- + But the noblest thing that perished there + Was that young, faithful heart. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + + + + THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. + + It was the schooner Hesperus + That sailed the wintry sea; + And the skipper had taken his little daughter, + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm; + His pipe was in his mouth; + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke, now west, now south. + + Then up and spake an old sailor, + Had sailed the Spanish main: + "I pray thee, put into yonder port, + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and louder blew the wind, + A gale from the northeast; + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length. + + "Come hither! come hither my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring; + Oh say, what may it be?" + "'T is a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns; + Oh say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father! I see a gleaming light! + Oh say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word-- + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That savèd she might be! + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever, the fitful gusts between, + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows; + She drifted a dreary wreck; + And a whooping billow swept the crew, + Like icicles, from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool; + But the cruel rocks they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the mast went by the board; + Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank-- + Ho! ho! the breakers roared! + + At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, + A fisherman stood aghast, + To see the form of a maiden fair, + Lashed close to a drifting mast. + + The salt sea was frozen on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, + In the midnight and the snow; + Christ save us all from a death like this, + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + + + + THE SECOND MATE. + + "Ho, there! Fisherman, hold your hand! + Tell me, what is that far away,-- + There, where over the isle of sand + Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray? + See! it rocks with a ghastly life, + Rising and rolling through clouds of spray, + Right in the midst of the breakers' strife,-- + Tell me what is it, Fisherman, pray?" + + "That, good sir, was a steamer stout + As ever paddled around Cape Race; + And many's the wild and stormy bout + She had with the winds, in that self-same place; + But her time was come; and at ten o'clock + Last night she struck on that lonesome shore; + And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock, + And at dawn this morning she was no more." + + "Come, as you seem to know, good man, + The terrible fate of this gallant ship, + Tell me about her all that you can; + And here's my flask to moisten your lip. + Tell me how many she had aboard,-- + Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,-- + How did it fare with her human hoard? + Lost she many, or lost she few?" + + "Master, I may not drink of your flask, + Already too moist I feel my lip; + But I'm ready to do what else you ask, + And spin you my yarn about the ship. + 'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night, + When she struck the breakers and went ashore; + And scarce had broken the morning's light + When she sank in twelve feet of water or more. + + "But long ere this they knew her doom, + And the captain called all hands to prayer; + And solemnly over the ocean's boom + Their orisons wailed on the troublous air. + And round about the vessel there rose + Tall plumes of spray as white as snow, + Like angels in their ascension clothes, + Waiting for those who prayed below. + + "So these three hundred people clung + As well as they could, to spar and rope; + With a word of prayer upon every tongue, + Nor on any face a glimmer of hope. + But there was no blubbering weak and wild,-- + Of tearful faces I saw but one, + A rough old salt, who cried like a child, + And not for himself, but the captain's son. + + "The captain stood on the quarter-deck, + Firm but pale with trumpet in hand; + Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck, + Sometimes he sadly looked to land; + And often he smiled to cheer the crew-- + But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim-- + Till over the quarter a huge sea flew; + And that was the last they saw of him. + + "I saw one young fellow with his bride, + Standing amidships upon the wreck; + His face was white as the boiling tide, + And she was clinging about his neck. + And I saw them try to say good-bye, + But neither could hear the other speak; + So they floated away through the sea to die-- + Shoulder to shoulder and cheek to cheek. + + "And there was a child, but eight at best, + Who went his way in a sea she shipped, + All the while holding upon his breast + A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped. + And, as the boy and the bird went by, + Swinging away on a tall wave's crest, + They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry, + And together the three went down to rest. + + "And so the crew went one by one, + Some with gladness, and few with fear,-- + Cold and hardship such work had done + That few seemed frightened when death was near. + Thus every soul on board went down,-- + Sailor and passenger, little and great; + The last that sank was a man of my town, + A capital swimmer,--the second mate." + + "Now, lonely fisherman, who are you + That say you saw this terrible wreck? + How do I know what you say is true, + When every mortal was swept from the deck? + Where were you in that hour of death? + How did you learn what you relate?" + His answer came in an under-breath + "Master, I was the second mate!" + + FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN. + + + + + A SEA STORY. + + Silence. A while ago + Shrieks went up piercingly; + But now is the ship gone down; + Good ship, well manned, was she. + There's a raft that's a chance of life for one, + This day upon the sea. + + A chance for one of two + Young, strong, are he and he, + Just in the manhood prime, + The comelier, verily, + For the wrestle with wind and weather and wave, + In the life upon the sea. + + [Illustration: RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. + _After a life-photograph by Sarony, New York._] + + One of them has a wife + And little children three; + Two that can toddle and lisp, + And a suckling on the knee: + Naked they'll go, and hunger sore, + If he be lost at sea. + + One has a dream of home, + A dream that well may be: + He never has breathed it yet; + She never has known it, she. + But some one will be sick at heart + If he be lost at sea. + + "Wife and kids at home!-- + Wife, kids, nor home has he!-- + Give us a chance, Bill!" Then, + "All right, Jem!" Quietly + A man gives up his life for a man, + This day upon the sea. + + EMILY HENRIETTA HICKEY. + + + + + HUMOUROUS POEMS. + + + + + HUMOROUS POEMS. + + + I. + + WOMAN. + + When Eve brought _woe_ to all mankind + Old Adam called her _wo-man_; + But when she _wooed_ with love so kind, + He then pronounced her _woo-man_. + But now, with folly and with pride, + Their husbands' pockets trimming, + The women are so full of _whims_ + That men pronounce them _wimmen_! + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + THE WOMEN FO'K.[2] + + O, sairly may I rue the day + I fancied first the womenkind; + For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae + Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind! + They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my e'e, + An' teased an' flattered me at will, + But aye for a' their witcherye, + The pawky things I lo'e them still. + + _O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! + But they hae been the wreck o' me; + O weary fa' the women fo'k, + For they winna let a body be!_ + + I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell, + I've studied them wi' a' my skill, + I've lo'd them better than mysell, + I've tried again to like them ill. + Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue, + To comprehend what nae man can; + When he has done what man can do, + He'll end at last where he began. + _O the women fo'k, etc._ + + That they hae gentle forms an' meet, + A man wi' half a look may see; + An gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet, + An' waving curls aboon the bree; + An' smiles as soft as the young rosebud, + And een sae pawky, bright, an' rare, + Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd,-- + But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair! + _O the women fo'k, etc._ + + Even but this night nae farther gane, + The date is neither lost nor lang, + I tak ye witness ilka ane, + How fell they fought, and fairly dang. + Their point they've carried right or wrang, + Without a reason, rhyme, or law, + An' forced a man to sing a sang, + That ne'er could sing a verse ava. + + _O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k! + But they hae been the wreck o' me; + O weary fa' the women fo'k, + For they winna let a body be!_ + + JAMES HOGG. + +[2] The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by +Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, +whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own +favorite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, +which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, +it will never be sung by any so well again.--THE AUTHOR. + + + + + OF A CERTAINE MAN. + + There was (not certaine when) a certaine preacher, + That never learned, and yet became a teacher, + Who having read in Latine thus a text + Of _erat quidam homo_, much perplext, + He seemed the same with studie great to scan, + In English thus, _There was a certaine man_. + But now (quoth he), good people, note you this, + He saith there was, he doth not say there is; + For in these daies of ours it is most plaine + Of promise, oath, word, deed, no man's certaine; + Yet by my text you see it comes to passe + That surely once a certaine man there was: + But yet, I think, in all your Bible no man + Can finde this text, _There was a certaine woman_. + + SIR JOHN HARRINGTON. + + + + + WOMEN'S CHORUS. + + They're always abusing the women, + As a terrible plague to men: + They say we're the root of all evil, + And repeat it again and again; + Of war, and quarrels, and bloodshed, + All mischief, be what it may! + And pray, then, why do you marry us, + If we're all the plagues you say? + And why do you take such care of us, + And keep us so safe at home, + And are never easy a moment + If ever we chance to roam? + When you ought to be thanking heaven + That your Plague is out of the way, + You all keep fussing and fretting-- + "Where is _my_ Plague to-day?" + If a Plague peeps out of the window, + Up go the eyes of men; + If she hides, then they all keep staring + Until she looks out again. + + From the Greek of ARISTOPHANES. + Translation of WILLIAM COLLINS. + + + + + THE WIVES OF WEINSBERG. + + Which way to Weinsberg? neighbor, say! + 'Tis sure a famous city: + It must have cradled, in its day, + Full many a maid of noble clay, + And matrons wise and witty; + And if ever marriage should happen to me, + A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be. + + King Conrad once, historians say, + Fell out with this good city; + So down he came, one luckless day,-- + Horse, foot, dragoons,--in stern array,-- + And cannon,--more's the pity! + Around the walls the artillery roared, + And bursting bombs their fury poured. + + But naught the little town could scare; + Then, red with indignation, + He bade the herald straight repair + Up to the gates, and thunder there + The following proclamation:-- + "Rascals! when I your town do take, + No living thing shall save its neck!" + + Now, when the herald's trumpet sent + These tidings through the city, + To every house a death knell went; + Such murder-cries the hot air rent + Might move the stones to pity. + Then bread grew dear, but good advice + Could not be had for any price. + + Then, "Woe is me!" "O misery!" + What shrieks of lamentation! + And "Kyrie Eleison!" cried + The pastors, and the flock replied, + "Lord! save us from starvation!" + "Oh, woe is me, poor Corydon-- + My neck,--my neck! I'm gone,--I'm gone!" + + Yet oft, when counsel, deed, and prayer + Had all proved unavailing, + When hope hung trembling on a hair, + How oft has woman's wit been there!-- + A refuge never failing; + For woman's wit and Papal fraud, + Of olden time, were famed abroad. + + A youthful dame, praised be her name!-- + Last night had seen her plighted,-- + Whether in waking hour or dream, + Conceived a rare and novel scheme, + Which all the town delighted; + Which you, if you think otherwise, + Have leave to laugh at and despise. + + At midnight hour, when culverin + And gun and bomb were sleeping, + Before the camp with mournful mien, + The loveliest embassy were seen, + All kneeling low and weeping. + So sweetly, plaintively they prayed, + But no reply save this was made:-- + + "The women have free leave to go, + Each with her choicest treasure; + But let the knaves their husbands know + That unto them the King will show + The weight of his displeasure." + With these sad terms the lovely train + Stole weeping from the camp again. + + But when the morning gilt the sky, + What happened? Give attention:-- + The city gates wide open fly, + And all the wives come trudging by, + Each bearing--need I mention?-- + Her own dear husband on her back, + All snugly seated in a sack! + + Full many a sprig of court, the joke + Not relishing, protested, + And urged the King; but Conrad spoke:-- + "A monarch's word must not be broke!" + And here the matter rested. + "Bravo!" he cried, "Ha, ha! Bravo! + Our lady guessed it would be so." + + He pardoned all, and gave a ball + That night at royal quarters. + The fiddles squeaked, the trumpets blew, + And up and down the dancers flew, + Court sprigs with city daughters. + The mayor's wife--O rarest sight!-- + Danced with the shoemaker that night! + + Ah, where is Weinsberg, sir, I pray? + 'Tis sure a famous city: + It must have cradled in its day + Full many a maid of noble clay, + And matrons wise and witty; + And if ever marriage should happen to me, + A Weinsberg dame my wife shall be. + + From the German of GOTTFRIED AUGÜST BÜRGER. + Translation of CHARLES TIMOTHY BROOKS. + + + + + SORROWS OF WERTHER. + + Werther had a love for Charlotte + Such as words could never utter; + Would you know how first he met her? + She was cutting bread and butter. + + Charlotte was a married lady, + And a moral man was Werther, + And for all the wealth of Indies + Would do nothing for to hurt her. + + So he sighed and pined and ogled, + And his passion boiled and bubbled, + Till he blew his silly brains out, + And no more was by it troubled. + + Charlotte, having seen his body + Borne before her on a shutter, + Like a well-conducted person, + Went on cutting bread and butter. + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + + + + THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE. + + "In the parish of St. Neots, Cornwall, is a well arched + over with the robes of four kinds of trees,--withy, + oak, elm, and ash,--and dedicated to St. Keyne. The + reported virtue of the water is this, that, whether + husband or wife first drink thereof, they get the + mastery thereby."--FULLER. + + A well there is in the West country, + And a clearer one never was seen; + There is not a wife in the West country + But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne. + + An oak and an elm tree stand beside, + And behind does an ash-tree grow, + And a willow from the bank above + Droops to the water below. + + A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; + Pleasant it was to his eye, + For from cock-crow he had been travelling, + And there was not a cloud in the sky. + + He drank of the water so cool and clear, + For thirsty and hot was he, + And he sat down upon the bank, + Under the willow-tree. + + There came a man from the neighboring town + At the well to fill his pail, + On the well-side he rested it, + And bade the stranger hail. + + "Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?" quoth he, + "For an if thou hast a wife, + The happiest draught thou hast drank this day + That ever thou didst in thy life. + + "Or has your good woman, if one you have, + In Cornwall ever been? + For an if she have, I'll venture my life + She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne." + + "I have left a good woman who never was here," + The stranger he made reply; + "But that my draught should be better for that, + I pray you answer me why." + + "St. Keyne," quoth the countryman, "many a time + Drank of this crystal well, + And before the angel summoned her + She laid on the water a spell. + + "If the husband of this gifted well + Shall drink before his wife, + A happy man thenceforth is he, + For he shall be master for life. + + "But if the wife should drink of it first, + Heaven help the husband then!" + The stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne, + And drank of the waters again. + + "You drank of the well, I warrant, betimes?" + He to the countryman said. + But the countryman smiled as the stranger spake, + And sheepishly shook his head. + + "I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, + And left my wife in the porch. + But i' faith, she had been wiser than me, + For she took a bottle to church." + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + + + + BELLE OF THE BALL. + + Years, years ago, ere yet my dreams + Had been of being wise or witty, + Ere I had done with writing themes, + Or yawned o'er this infernal Chitty,-- + Years, years ago, while all my joys + Were in my fowling-piece and filly; + In short, while I was yet a boy, + I fell in love with Laura Lilly. + + I saw her at the county ball; + There, when the sounds of flute and fiddle + Gave signal sweet in that old hall + Of hands across and down the middle, + Hers was the subtlest spell by far + Of all that sets young hearts romancing: + She was our queen, our rose, our star; + And then she danced,--O Heaven! her dancing. + + Dark was her hair; her hand was white; + Her voice was exquisitely tender; + Her eyes were full of liquid light; + I never saw a waist so slender; + Her every look, her every smile, + Shot right and left a score of arrows: + I thought 'twas Venus from her isle, + And wondered where she'd left her sparrows. + + She talked of politics or prayers, + Of Southey's prose or Wordsworth's sonnets, + Of danglers or of dancing bears, + Of battles or the last new bonnets; + By candle-light, at twelve o'clock,-- + To me it mattered not a tittle,-- + If those bright lips had quoted Locke, + I might have thought they murmured Little. + + Through sunny May, through sultry June, + I loved her with a love eternal; + I spoke her praises to the moon, + I wrote them to the Sunday Journal. + My mother laughed; I soon found out + That ancient ladies have no feeling: + My father frowned; but how should gout + See any happiness in kneeling? + + She was the daughter of a dean,-- + Rich, fat, and rather apoplectic; + She had one brother just thirteen, + Whose color was extremely hectic; + Her grandmother for many a year + Had fed the parish with her bounty; + Her second cousin was a peer, + And lord-lieutenant of the county. + + But titles and the three-per-cents, + And mortgages, and great relations, + And India bonds, and tithes and rents, + O, what are they to love's sensations? + Black eyes, fair forehead, clustering locks,-- + Such wealth, such honors Cupid chooses; + He cares as little for the stocks + As Baron Rothschild for the muses. + + She sketched; the vale, the wood, the beach, + Grew lovelier from her pencil's shading: + She botanized; I envied each + Young blossom in her boudoir fading: + She warbled Handel; it was grand,-- + She made the Catilina jealous: + She touched the organ; I could stand + For hours and hours to blow the bellows. + + She kept an album too, at home, + Well filled with all an album's glories,-- + Paintings of butterflies and Rome, + Patterns for trimmings, Persian stories, + Soft songs to Julia's cockatoo, + Fierce odes to famine and to slaughter, + And autographs of Prince Leeboo, + And recipes for elder-water. + + And she was flattered, worshipped, bored; + Her steps were watched, her dress was noted; + Her poodle-dog was quite adored; + Her sayings were extremely quoted. + She laughed,--and every heart was glad, + As if the taxes were abolished; + She frowned,--and every look was sad, + As if the opera were demolished. + + She smiled on many just for fun,-- + I knew that there was nothing in it; + I was the first, the only one, + Her heart had thought of for a minute. + I knew it, for she told me so, + In phrase which was divinely moulded; + She wrote a charming hand,--and O, + How sweetly all her notes were folded! + + Our love was most like other loves,-- + A little glow, a little shiver, + A rosebud and a pair of gloves, + And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; + Some jealousy of some one's heir, + Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; + A miniature, a lock of hair, + The usual vows,--and then we parted. + + We parted: months and years rolled by; + We met again four summers after. + Our parting was all sob and sigh, + Our meeting was all mirth and laughter! + For in my heart's most secret cell + There had been many other lodgers; + And she was not the ball-room's belle, + But only Mrs.--Something--Rogers! + + WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. + + + + + ECHO AND THE LOVER. + + _Lover._ Echo! mysterious nymph, declare + Of what you're made, and what you are. + + _Echo._ Air! + + _Lover._ Mid airy cliffs and places high, + Sweet Echo! listening love, you lie. + + _Echo._ You lie! + + _Lover._ Thou dost resuscitate dead sounds,-- + Hark! how my voice revives, resounds! + + _Echo._ Zounds! + + _Lover._ I'll question thee before I go,-- + Come, answer me more apropos! + + _Echo._ Poh! poh! + + _Lover._ Tell me, fair nymph, if e'er you saw + So sweet a girl as Phoebe Shaw. + + _Echo._ Pshaw! + + _Lover._ Say, what will turn that frisking coney + Into the toils of matrimony? + + _Echo._ Money! + + _Lover._ Has Phoebe not a heavenly brow? + Is not her bosom white as snow? + + _Echo._ Ass! No! + + _Lover._ Her eyes! was ever such a pair? + Are the stars brighter than they are? + + _Echo._ They are! + + _Lover._ Echo, thou liest, but can't deceive me. + + _Echo._ Leave me! + + _Lover._ But come, thou saucy, pert romancer, + Who is as fair as Phoebe? Answer! + + _Echo._ Ann, sir. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + ECHO. + + I asked of Echo, t' other day, + (Whose words are few and often funny,) + What to a novice she could say + Of courtship, love, and matrimony. + Quoth Echo, plainly,--"Matter-o'-money!" + + Whom should I marry?--should it be + A dashing damsel, gay and pert, + A pattern of inconstancy; + Or selfish, mercenary flirt? + Quoth Echo, sharply,--"Nary flirt!" + + What if, aweary of the strife + That long has lured the dear deceiver, + She promise to amend her life, + And sin no more; can I believe her? + Quoth Echo, very promptly,--"Leave her!" + + But if some maiden with a heart + On me should venture to bestow it, + Pray, should I act the wiser part + To take the treasure or forego it? + Quoth Echo, with decision,--"Go it!" + + But what if, seemingly afraid + To bind her fate in Hymen's fetter, + She vow she means to die a maid, + In answer to my loving letter? + Quoth Echo, rather coolly,--"Let her!" + + What if, in spite of her disdain, + I find my heart intwined about + With Cupid's dear delicious chain + So closely that I can't get out? + Quoth Echo, laughingly,--"Get out!" + + But if some maid with beauty blest, + As pure and fair as Heaven can make her, + Will share my labor and my rest + Till envious Death shall overtake her? + Quoth Echo (_sotto voce_),--"Take her!" + + JOHN GODFREY SAXE. + + + + + "NOTHING TO WEAR." + + Miss Flora Mcflimsey, of Madison Square, + Has made three separate journeys to Paris, + And her father assures me, each time she was there, + That she and her friend Mrs. Harris + (Not the lady whose name is so famous in history, + But plain Mrs. H., without romance or mystery) + Spent six consecutive weeks without stopping + In one continuous round of shopping,-- + Shopping alone, and shopping together, + At all hours of the day, and in all sorts of weather, + For all manner of things that a woman can put + On the crown of her head or the sole of her foot, + Or wrap round her shoulders, or fit round her waist, + Or that can be sewed on, or pinned on, or laced, + Or tied on with a string, or stitched on with a bow, + In front or behind, above or below; + For bonnets, mantillas, capes, collars, and shawls; + Dresses for breakfasts and dinners and balls; + Dresses to sit in and stand in and walk in; + Dresses to dance in and flirt in and talk in; + Dresses in which to do nothing at all; + Dresses for Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall; + All of them different in color and shape, + Silk, muslin, and lace, velvet, satin, and crape, + Brocade, and broadcloth, and other material, + Quite as expensive and much more ethereal; + In short, for all things that could ever be thought of, + Or milliner, _modiste_, or tradesman be bought of, + From ten-thousand-francs robe to twenty-sous frills; + In all quarters of Paris, and to every store, + While McFlimsey in vain stormed, scolded, and swore, + They footed the streets, and he footed the bills! + + The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Arago, + Formed, McFlimsey declares, the bulk of her cargo, + Not to mention a quantity kept from the rest, + Sufficient to fill the largest-sized chest, + Which did not appear on the ship's manifest, + But for which the ladies themselves manifested + Such particular interest, that they invested + Their own proper persons in layers and rows + Of muslins, embroideries, worked under-clothes, + Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, and such trifles as those; + Then, wrapped in great shawls, like Circassian beauties, + Gave _good-bye_ to the ship, and _go-by_ to the duties. + Her relations at home all marvelled, no doubt, + Miss Flora had grown so enormously stout + For an actual belle and a possible bride; + But the miracle ceased when she turned inside out, + And the truth came to light, and the dry-goods beside, + Which, in spite of Collector and Custom-House sentry, + Had entered the port without any entry, + + And yet, though scarce three months have passed since the day + This merchandise went, on twelve carts, up Broadway, + This same Miss McFlimsey, of Madison Square, + The last time we met was in utter despair, + Because she had nothing whatever to wear! + + NOTHING TO WEAR! Now, as this is a true ditty, + I do not assert--this, you know, is between us-- + That she's in a state of absolute nudity, + Like Powers' Greek Slave, or the Medici Venus; + But I do mean to say, I have heard her declare, + When, at the same moment, she had on a dress + Which cost five hundred dollars, and not a cent less, + And jewelry worth ten times more, I should guess, + That she had not a thing in the wide world to wear! + + I should mention just here, that out of Miss Flora's + Two hundred and fifty or sixty adorers, + I had just been selected as he who should throw all + The rest in the shade, by the gracious bestowal + On myself after twenty or thirty rejections, + Of those fossil remains which she called her "affections," + And that rather decayed, but well-known work of art, + Which Miss Flora persisted in styling her "heart." + So we were engaged. Our troth had been plighted, + Not by moonbeam or starbeam, by fountain or grove, + But in a front parlor, most brilliantly lighted, + Beneath the gas-fixtures we whispered our love, + Without any romance or raptures or sighs, + Without any tears in Miss Flora's blue eyes, + Or blushes, or transports, or such silly actions, + It was one of the quietest business transactions, + With a very small sprinkling of sentiment, if any, + And a very large diamond imported by Tiffany. + On her virginal lips while I printed a kiss, + She exclaimed, as a sort of parenthesis, + And by way of putting me quite at my ease, + "You know, I'm to polka as much as I please, + And flirt when I like,--now, stop, don't you speak,-- + And you must not come here more than twice in the week, + Or talk to me either at party or ball, + But always be ready to come when I call; + So don't prose to me about duty and stuff, + If we don't break this off, there will be time enough + For that sort of thing; but the bargain must be + That, as long as I choose, I am perfectly free, + For this is a kind of engagement, you see, + Which is binding on you but not binding on me." + + Well, having thus wooed Miss McFlimsey and gained her, + With the silks, crinolines, and hoops that contained her, + I had, as I thought, a contingent remainder + At least in the property, and the best right + To appear as its escort by day and by night; + And it being the week of the STUCKUPS' grand ball,-- + Their cards had been out a fortnight or so, + And set all the Avenue on the tiptoe,-- + I considered it only my duty to call, + And see if Miss Flora intended to go. + I found her,--as ladies are apt to be found, + When the time intervening between the first sound + Of the bell and the visitor's entry is shorter + Than usual,--I found; I won't say--I caught her, + Intent on the pier-glass, undoubtedly meaning + To see if perhaps it didn't need cleaning. + She turned as I entered,--"Why, Harry, you sinner, + I thought that you went to the Flashers' to dinner!" + "So I did," I replied; "but the dinner is swallowed + And digested, I trust, for 'tis now nine and more, + So being relieved from that duty, I followed + Inclination, which led me, you see, to your door; + And now will your ladyship so condescend + As just to inform me if you intend + Your beauty and graces and presence to lend + (All of which, when I own, I hope no one will borrow) + To the STUCKUPS, whose party, you know, is to-morrow?" + The fair Flora looked up with a pitiful air, + And answered quite promptly, "Why, Harry, _mon cher_, + I should like above all things to go with you there, + But really and truly--I've nothing to wear." + "Nothing to wear! go just as you are; + Wear the dress you have on, and you'll be by far, + I engage, the most bright and particular star + On the Stuckup horizon--" I stopped--for her eye, + Notwithstanding this delicate onset of flattery, + Opened on me at once a most terrible battery + Of scorn and amazement. She made no reply, + But gave a slight turn to the end of her nose-- + That pure Grecian feature--as much as to say, + "How absurd that any sane man should suppose + That a lady would go to a ball in the clothes, + No matter how fine, that she wears every day!" + + So I ventured again: "Wear your crimson brocade" + (Second turn-up of nose)--"That's too dark by a shade." + "Your blue silk"--"That's too heavy." "Your pink"-- + "That's too light." + "Wear tulle over satin"--"I can't endure white." + "Your rose-colored, then, the best of the batch"-- + "I haven't a thread of point-lace to match." + "Your brown _moire antique_"--"Yes, and look like a Quaker." + "The pearl-colored"--"I would, but that plaguey dressmaker + Has had it a week." "Then that exquisite lilac + In which you would melt the heart of a Shylock" + (Here the nose took again the same elevation)-- + "I wouldn't wear that for the whole of creation." + "Why not? It's my fancy, there's nothing could strike it + As more _comme il faut_"--"Yes, but, dear me! that lean + Sophronia Stuckup has got one just like it, + And I won't appear dressed like a chit of sixteen." + "Then that splendid purple, that sweet Mazarine, + That superb _point d'aiguille_, that imperial green, + That zephyr-like tarlatan, that rich _grenadine_"-- + "Not one of all which is fit to be seen," + Said the lady, becoming excited and flushed. + "Then wear," I exclaimed, in a tone which quite crushed + Opposition, "that gorgeous _toilette_ which you sported + In Paris last spring, at the grand presentation, + When you quite turned the head of the head of the nation; + And by all the grand court were so very much courted." + The end of the nose was portentously tipped up, + And both the bright eyes shot forth indignation, + As she burst upon me with the fierce exclamation, + "I have worn it three times at the least calculation, + And that and most of my dresses are ripped up!" + Here I _ripped out_ something, perhaps rather rash, + Quite innocent, though; but, to use an expression + More striking than classic, it "settled my hash," + And proved very soon the last act of our session. + "Fiddlesticks, is it, sir? I wonder the ceiling + Doesn't fall down and crush you--you men have no feeling; + You selfish, unnatural, illiberal creatures, + Who set yourselves up as patterns and preachers, + Your silly pretence--why, what a mere guess it is! + Pray, what do you know of a woman's necessities? + I have told you and showed you I've nothing to wear, + And it's perfectly plain you not only don't care, + But you do not believe me"--(here the nose went still higher)-- + I suppose, if you dared, you would call me a liar. + Our engagement is ended, sir--yes, on the spot; + You're a brute, and a monster, and--I don't know what." + I mildly suggested the words--Hottentot, + Pickpocket, and cannibal, Tartar, and thief, + As gentle expletives which might give relief; + But this only proved as a spark to the powder, + And the storm I had raised came faster and louder; + It blew and it rained, thundered, lightened, and hailed + Interjections, verbs, pronouns, till language quite failed + To express the abusive, and then its arrears + Were brought up all at once by a torrent of tears, + And my last faint, despairing attempt at an obs- + Ervation was lost in a tempest of sobs. + + Well, I felt for the lady, and felt for my hat, too, + Improvised on the crown of the latter a tattoo, + In lieu of expressing the feelings which lay + Quite too deep for words, as Wordsworth would say; + Then, without going through the form of a bow, + Found myself in the entry--I hardly knew how,-- + On doorstep and sidewalk, past lamp-post and square, + At home and up-stairs, in my own easy-chair; + Poked my feet into slippers, my fire into blaze, + And said to myself, as I lit my cigar, + "Supposing a man had the wealth of the Czar + Of the Russias to boot, for the rest of his days, + On the whole, do you think he would have much to spare, + If he married a woman with nothing to wear?" + + Since that night, taking pains that it should not be bruited + Abroad in society, I've instituted + A course of inquiry, extensive and thorough, + On this vital subject, and find, to my horror, + That the fair Flora's case is by no means surprising, + But that there exists the greatest distress + In our female community, solely arising + From this unsupplied destitution of dress, + Whose unfortunate victims are filling the air + With the pitiful wail of "Nothing to wear." + Researches in some of the "Upper Ten" districts + Reveal the most painful and startling statistics, + Of which let me mention only a few: + In one single house, on the Fifth Avenue, + Three young ladies were found, all below twenty-two, + Who have been three whole weeks without anything new + In the way of flounced silks, and thus left in the lurch + Are unable to go to ball, concert, or church. + In another large mansion, near the same place, + Was found a deplorable, heart-rending case + Of entire destitution of Brussels point-lace. + In a neighboring block there was found, in three calls, + Total want, long continued, of camel's-hair shawls; + And a suffering family, whose case exhibits + The most pressing need of real ermine tippets; + One deserving young lady almost unable + To survive for the want of a new Russian sable; + Still another, whose tortures have been most terrific + Ever since the sad loss of the steamer Pacific, + In which were engulfed, not friend or relation + (For whose fate she perhaps might have found consolation, + Or borne it, at least, with serene resignation), + But the choicest assortment of French sleeves and collars + Ever sent out from Paris, worth thousands of dollars, + And all as to style most _recherché_ and rare, + The want of which leaves her with nothing to wear, + And renders her life so drear and dyspeptic + That she's quite a recluse, and almost a sceptic; + For she touchingly says that this sort of grief + Cannot find in Religion the slightest relief, + And Philosophy has not a maxim to spare + For the victim of such overwhelming despair. + But the saddest by far of all these sad features + Is the cruelty practised upon the poor creatures + By husbands and fathers, real Bluebeards and Timons, + Who resist the most touching appeals made for diamonds + By their wives and their daughters, and leave them for days + Unsupplied with new jewelry, fans, or bouquets, + Even laugh at their miseries whenever they have a chance, + And deride their demands as useless extravagance. + One case of a bride was brought to my view, + Too sad for belief, but, alas! 't was too true, + Whose husband refused, as savage as Charon, + To permit her to take more than ten trunks to Sharon. + The consequence was, that when she got there, + At the end of three weeks she had nothing to wear, + And when she proposed to finish the season + At Newport, the monster refused out and out, + For his infamous conduct alleging no reason, + Except that the waters were good for his gout; + Such treatment as this was too shocking, of course, + And proceedings are now going on for divorce. + + But why harrow the feelings by lifting the curtain + From these scenes of woe? Enough, it is certain + Has here been disclosed to stir up the pity + Of every benevolent heart in the city, + And spur up Humanity into a canter + To rush and relieve these sad cases instanter. + Won't somebody, moved by this touching description, + Come forward to-morrow and head a subscription? + Won't some kind philanthropist, seeing that aid is + So needed at once by these indigent ladies, + Take charge of the matter? Or won't Peter Cooper + The corner-stone lay of some new splendid super- + Structure, like that which to-day links his name + In the Union unending of Honor and Fame; + And found a new charity just for the care + Of these unhappy women with nothing to wear, + Which, in view of the cash which would daily be claimed, + The _Laying-out_ Hospital well might be named? + Won't Stewart, or some of our dry-goods importers, + Take a contract for clothing our wives and our daughters? + Or, to furnish the cash to supply these distresses, + And life's pathway strew with shawls, collars, and dresses, + For poor womankind, won't some venturesome lover + A new California somewhere discover? + + O ladies, dear ladies, the next sunny day + Please trundle your hoops just out of Broadway, + From its whirl and its bustle, its fashion and pride, + And temples of Trade which tower on each side, + To the alleys and lanes, where Misfortune and Guilt + Their children have gathered, their city have built; + Where Hunger and Vice, like twin beasts of prey, + Have hunted their victims to gloom and despair; + Raise the rich, dainty dress, and the fine broidered skirt, + Pick your delicate way through the dampness and dirt, + Grope through the dark dens, climb the rickety stair + To the garret, where wretches, the young and the old, + Half starved and half naked, lie crouched from the cold. + See those skeleton limbs, those frost-bitten feet, + All bleeding and bruised by the stones of the street; + Hear the sharp cry of childhood, the deep groans that swell + From the poor dying creature who writhes on the floor; + Hear the curses that sound like the echoes of Hell, + As you sicken and shudder and fly from the door; + Then home to your wardrobes, and say, if you dare-- + Spoiled children of Fashion--you've nothing to wear! + + And O, if perchance there should be a sphere + Where all is made right which so puzzles us here, + Where the glare and the glitter and tinsel of Time + Fade and die in the light of that region sublime, + Where the soul, disenchanted of flesh and of sense, + Unscreened by its trappings and shows and pretence, + Must be clothed for the life and the service above, + With purity, truth, faith, meekness, and love; + O daughters of Earth! foolish virgins, beware! + Lest in that upper realm you have nothing to wear! + + WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER. + + + + + THE SEA. + + She was rich and of high degree; + A poor and unknown artist he. + "Paint me," she said, "a view of the sea." + + So he painted the sea as it looked the day + That Aphroditè arose from its spray; + And it broke, as she gazed on its face the while, + Into its countless-dimpled smile. + "What a poky, stupid picture!" said she: + "I don't believe he _can_ paint the sea!" + + Then he painted a raging, tossing sea, + Storming, with fierce and sudden shock, + A towering, mighty fastness-rock;-- + In its sides, above those leaping crests, + The thronging sea-birds built their nests. + "What a disagreeable daub!" said she: + "Why, it isn't anything like the sea!" + + Then he painted a stretch of hot brown sand, + With a big hotel on either hand, + And a handsome pavilion for the band;-- + Not a sign of water to be seen, + Except one faint little streak of green. + "What a perfectly exquisite picture!" said she: + "It's the very _image_ of the sea!" + + EVA L. OGDEN. + + + + + THE PROUD MISS MACBRIDE. + + A LEGEND OF GOTHAM. + + O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, + The very personification of pride, + As she minced along in fashion's tide, + Adown Broadway--on the proper side-- + When the golden sun was setting; + There was pride in the head she carried so high, + Pride in her lip, and pride in her eye, + And a world of pride in the very sigh + That her stately bosom was fretting! + + O, terribly proud was Miss MacBride, + Proud of her beauty, and proud of her pride, + And proud of fifty matters beside-- + That wouldn't have borne dissection; + Proud of her wit, and proud of her walk, + Proud of her teeth, and proud of her talk, + Proud of "knowing cheese from chalk," + On a very slight inspection! + + Proud abroad, and proud at home, + Proud wherever she chanced to come-- + When she was glad, and when she was glum; + Proud as the head of a Saracen + Over the door of a tippling-shop!-- + Proud as a duchess, proud as a fop, + "Proud as a boy with a brand-new top," + Proud beyond comparison! + + It seems a singular thing to say, + But her very senses led her astray + Respecting all humility; + In sooth, her dull auricular drum + Could find in _humble_ only a "hum," + And heard no sound of "gentle" come, + In talking about gentility. + + What _lowly_ meant she didn't know, + For she always avoided "everything low," + With care the most punctilious; + And, queerer still, the audible sound + Of "super-silly" she never had found + In the adjective supercilious! + + The meaning of _meek_ she never knew, + But imagined the phrase had something to do + With "Moses," a peddling German Jew, + Who, like all hawkers, the country through, + Was "a person of no position;" + And it seemed to her exceedingly plain, + If the word was really known to pertain + To a vulgar German, it wasn't germane + To a lady of high condition! + + Even her graces--not her grace-- + For that was in the "vocative case"-- + Chilled with the touch of her icy face, + Sat very stiffly upon her! + She never confessed a favor aloud, + Like one of the simple, common crowd-- + But coldly smiled, and faintly bowed, + As who should say, "You do me proud, + And do yourself an honor!" + + And yet the pride of Miss MacBride, + Although it had fifty hobbies to ride, + Had really no foundation; + But, like the fabrics that gossips devise-- + Those single stories that often arise + And grow till they reach a four-story size-- + Was merely a fancy creation! + + Her birth, indeed, was uncommonly high-- + For Miss MacBride first opened her eye + Through a skylight dim, on the light of the sky; + But pride is a curious passion-- + And in talking about her wealth and worth, + She always forgot to mention her birth + To people of rank and fashion! + + Of all the notable things on earth, + The queerest one is pride of birth + Among our "fierce democracie"! + A bridge across a hundred years, + Without a prop to save it from sneers,-- + Not even a couple of rotten _peers_,-- + A thing for laughter, fleers, and jeers, + Is American aristocracy! + + English and Irish, French and Spanish, + German, Italian, Dutch and Danish, + Crossing their veins until they vanish + In one conglomeration! + So subtle a tangle of blood, indeed, + No Heraldry Harvey will ever succeed + In finding the circulation. + + Depend upon it, my snobbish friend, + Your family thread you can't ascend, + Without good reason to apprehend + You may find it waxed, at the farther end, + By some plebeian vocation! + Or, worse than that, your boasted line + May end in a loop of _stronger_ twine, + That plagued some worthy relation! + + But Miss MacBride had something beside + Her lofty birth to nourish her pride-- + For rich was the old paternal MacBride, + According to public rumor; + And he lived "up town," in a splendid square, + And kept his daughter on dainty fare, + And gave her gems that were rich and rare, + And the finest rings and things to wear, + And feathers enough to plume her. + + A thriving tailor begged her hand, + But she gave "the fellow" to understand, + By a violent manual action, + She perfectly scorned the best of his clan, + And reckoned the ninth of any man + An exceedingly vulgar fraction! + + Another, whose sign was a golden boot, + Was mortified with a bootless suit, + In a way that was quite appalling; + For, though a regular _sutor_ by trade, + He wasn't a suitor to suit the maid, + Who cut him off with a saw--and bade + "The cobbler keep to his calling!" + + A rich tobacconist comes and sues, + And, thinking the lady would scarce refuse + A man of his wealth, and liberal views, + Began, at once, with "If you _choose_-- + And could you really love him--" + But the lady spoiled his speech in a huff, + With an answer rough and ready enough, + To let him know she was up to snuff, + And altogether above him! + + A young attorney, of winning grace, + Was scarce allowed to "open his face," + Ere Miss MacBride had closed his case + With true judicial celerity; + For the lawyer was poor, and "seedy" to boot, + And to say the lady discarded his suit, + Is merely a double verity! + + The last of those who came to court, + Was a lively beau, of the dapper sort, + "Without any visible means of support," + A crime by no means flagrant + In one who wears an elegant coat, + But the very point on which they vote + A ragged fellow "a vagrant!" + + Now dapper Jim his courtship plied + (I wish the fact could be denied) + With an eye to the purse of the old MacBride, + And really "nothing shorter!" + For he said to himself, in his greedy lust, + "Whenever he dies--as die he must-- + And yields to Heaven his vital trust, + He's very sure to 'come down with his dust,' + In behalf of his only daughter." + + And the very magnificent Miss MacBride, + Half in love, and half in pride, + Quite graciously relented; + And, tossing her head, and turning her back, + No token of proper pride to lack-- + To be a bride, without the "Mac," + With much disdain, consented! + + Old John MacBride, one fatal day, + Became the unresisting prey + Of fortune's undertakers; + And staking all on a single die, + His foundered bark went high and dry + Among the brokers and breakers! + + But, alas, for the haughty Miss MacBride, + 'T was such a shock to her precious pride! + She couldn't recover, although she tried + Her jaded spirits to rally; + 'T was a dreadful change in human affairs, + From a place "up town" to a nook "up stairs," + From an avenue down to an alley! + + 'T was little condolence she had, God wot, + From her "troops of friends," who hadn't forgot + The airs she used to borrow! + They had civil phrases enough, but yet + 'T was plain to see that their "deepest regret" + Was a different thing from sorrow! + + And one of those chaps who make a pun, + As if it were quite legitimate fun + To be blazing away at every one + With a regular, double-loaded gun-- + Remarked that moral transgression + Always brings retributive stings + To candle-makers as well as kings; + For "making light of _cereous_ things" + Was a very _wick_-ed profession! + + And vulgar people--the saucy churls-- + Inquired about "the price of pearls," + And mocked at her situation: + "She wasn't ruined--they ventured to hope-- + Because she was poor, she needn't mope; + Few people were better off for _soap_, + And that was a consolation!" + + And to make her cup of woe run over, + Her elegant, ardent plighted lover + Was the very first to forsake her; + "He quite regretted the step, 't was true-- + The lady had pride enough 'for two,' + But that alone would never do + To quiet the butcher and baker!" + + And now the unhappy Miss MacBride-- + The merest ghost of her early pride-- + Bewails her lonely position; + Cramped in the very narrowest niche, + Above the poor, and below the rich-- + Was ever a worse condition! + + MORAL. + + Because you flourish in worldly affairs, + Don't be haughty, and put on airs, + With insolent pride of station! + Don't be proud, and turn up your nose + At poorer people in plainer clothes, + But learn, for the sake of your mind's repose, + That wealth 's a bubble that comes--and goes! + And that all proud flesh, wherever it grows, + Is subject to irritation! + + JOHN GODFREY SAXE. + + + + + ON AN OLD MUFF. + + Time has a magic wand! + What is this meets my hand, + Moth-eaten, mouldy, and + Covered with fluff, + Faded and stiff and scant? + Can it be? no, it can't,-- + Yes,--I declare 't is Aunt + Prudence's Muff! + + Years ago--twenty-three! + Old Uncle Barnaby + Gave it to Aunty P., + Laughing and teasing,-- + "Pru. of the breezy curls, + Whisper these solemn churls, + _What holds a pretty girl's + Hand without squeezing?_" + + Uncle was then a lad, + Gay, but, I grieve to add, + Gone to what's called "the bad,"-- + Smoking,--and worse! + Sleek sable then was this + Muff, lined with _pinkiness_,-- + Bloom to which beauty is + Seldom averse. + + I see in retrospect + Aunt, in her best bedecked, + Gliding, with mien erect, + Gravely to meeting: + Psalm-book, and kerchief new, + Peeped from the Muff of Pru., + Young men--and pious, too-- + Giving her greeting. + + Pure was the life she led + Then: from her Muff, 't is said, + Tracts she distributed;-- + Scapegraces many, + Seeing the grace they lacked, + Followed her; one attacked + Prudence, and got his tract, + Oftener than any! + + Love has a potent spell! + Soon this bold ne'er-do-well, + Aunt's sweet susceptible + Heart undermining, + Slipped, so the scandal runs, + Notes in the pretty nun's + Muff,--triple-cornered ones,-- + Pink as its lining! + + Worse, even, soon the jade + Fled (to oblige her blade!) + Whilst her friends thought that they 'd + Locked her up tightly: + After such shocking games, + Aunt is of wedded dames + Gayest,--and now her name's + Mrs. Golightly. + + In female conduct flaw + Sadder I never saw, + Still I've faith in the law + Of compensation. + Once uncle went astray,-- + Smoked, joked, and swore away; + Sworn by, he 's now, by a + Large congregation! + + Changed is the child of sin; + Now he 's (he once was thin) + Grave, with a double chin,-- + Blest be his fat form! + Changed is the garb he wore: + Preacher was never more + Prized than is uncle for + Pulpit or platform. + + If all's as best befits + Mortals of slender wits, + Then beg this Muff, and its + Fair owner pardon; + _All's for the best_,--indeed, + Such is my simple creed; + Still I must go and weed + Hard in my garden. + + FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON + + + + + HOW PADDY GOT "UNDER GOVERNMENT." + + A place under Government + Was all that Paddy wanted. + He married soon a scolding wife, + And thus his wish was granted. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + II. + + + MISCELLANEOUS. + + + + + SAINT ANTHONY'S SERMON TO THE FISHES. + + Saint Anthony at church + Was left in the lurch, + So he went to the ditches + And preached to the fishes; + They wriggled their tails, + In the sun glanced their scales. + + The carps, with their spawn, + Are all hither drawn; + Have opened their jaws, + Eager for each clause. + No sermon beside + Had the carps so edified. + + Sharp-snouted pikes, + Who keep fighting like tikes, + Now swam up harmonious + To hear Saint Antonius. + No sermon beside + Had the pikes so edified. + + And that very odd fish, + Who loves fast-days, the cod-fish,-- + The stock-fish, I mean,-- + At the sermon was seen. + No sermon beside + Had the cods so edified. + + Good eels and sturgeon, + Which aldermen gorge on, + Went out of their way + To hear preaching that day. + No sermon beside + Had the eels so edified. + + Crabs and turtles also, + Who always move slow, + Made haste from the bottom, + As if the Devil had got 'em. + No sermon beside + Had the crabs so edified. + + Fish great and fish small, + Lords, lackeys, and all, + Each looked at the preacher + Like a reasonable creature: + At God's word, + They Anthony heard. + + The sermon now ended, + Each turned and descended; + The pikes went on stealing, + The eels went on eeling: + Much delighted were they, + But preferred the old way. + + The crabs are backsliders, + The stock-fish thick-siders, + The carps are sharp-set; + All the sermon forget: + Much delighted were they, + But preferred the old way. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY. + + FROM "PERCY'S RELIQUES." + + An ancient story I'll tell you anon + Of a notable prince that was called King John; + And he ruled England with main and with might, + For he did great wrong, and maintained little right. + + And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, + Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; + How for his house-keeping and high renowne, + They rode poste for him to fair London towne. + + An hundred men the king did heare say, + The abbot kept in his house every day; + And fifty golde chaynes without any doubt, + In velvet coates waited the abbot about. + + "How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee, + Thou keepest a farre better house than mee; + And for thy house-keeping and high renowne, + I feare thou work'st treason against my crowne." + + "My liege," quo' the abbot, "I would it were knowne + I never spend nothing, but what is my owne; + And I trust your grace will doe me no deere, + For spending of my owne true-gotten geere." + + "Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is highe, + And now for the same thou needest must dye; + For except thou canst answer me questions three, + Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. + + "And first," quo' the king, "when I'm in this stead, + With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, + Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worthe. + + "Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, + How soone I may ride the whole world about; + And at the third question thou must not shrink, + But tell me here truly what I do think." + + "O these are hard questions for my shallow witt. + Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: + But if you will give me but three weeks' space, + Ile do my endeavor to answer your grace." + + "Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, + And that is the longest time thou hast to live; + For if thou dost not answer my questions three, + Thy lands and the livings are forfeit to mee." + + Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, + And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; + But never a doctor there was so wise, + That could with his learning an answer devise. + + Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, + And he met his shepheard a-going to fold: + "How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; + What news do you bring us from good King John?" + + "Sad news, sad news, shepheard, I must give, + That I have but three days more to live; + For if I do not answer him questions three, + My head will be smitten from my bodie. + + "The first is to tell him, there in that stead, + With his crowne of golde so fair on his head, + Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, + To within one penny of what he is worth. + + "The seconde, to tell him without any doubt, + How soone he may ride this whole world about; + And at the third question I must not shrinke, + But tell him there truly what he does thinke." + + "Now cheare up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet, + That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? + Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, + And He ride to London to answere youre quarrel. + + "Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told unto me, + I am like your lordship, as ever may be; + And if you will but lend me your gowne, + There is none shall know us at fair London towne." + + "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have. + With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, + With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, + Fit to appear 'fore our fader the pope." + + "Now welcome, sire abbot," the king he did say, + "'T is well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day: + For and if thou canst answer my questions three, + Thy life and thy living both saved shall be. + + "And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, + With my crowne of golde so fair on my head, + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, + Tell me to one penny what I am worthe." + + "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold + Among the false Jews, as I have bin told, + And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, + For I thinke thou art one penny worser than he." + + The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Bittel, + "I did not think I had been worth so littel! + --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, + How soone I may ride this whole world about." + + "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same + Until the next morning he riseth againe; + And then your grace need not make any doubt + But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." + + The king he laughed, and swore by Saint Jone, + "I did not think it could be gone so soone! + --Now from the third question thou must not shrinke, + But tell me here truly what I do thinke." + + "Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry; + You thinke I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; + But I'm his poor shepheard, as plain you may see, + That am come to beg pardon for him and for me." + + The king he laughed, and swore by the Masse, + "Ile make thee lord abbot this day in his place!" + "Now naye, my liege, be not in such speede, + For alacke I can neither write ne reade." + + "Four nobles a week then I will give thee, + For this merry jest thou hast showne unto me; + And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, + Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John." + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + GLUGGITY GLUG. + + FROM "THE MYRTLE AND THE VINE." + + A jolly fat friar loved liquor good store, + And he had drunk stoutly at supper; + He mounted his horse in the night at the door, + And sat with his face to the crupper: + "Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse, + Some thief, whom a halter will throttle, + Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse, + While I was engaged at the bottle, + Which went gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug." + + The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale, + 'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level; + But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail, + So he scampered due north, like a devil: + "This new mode of docking," the friar then said, + "I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill; + And 't is cheap,--for he never can eat off his head + While I am engaged at the bottle, + Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug." + + The steed made a stop,--in a pond he had got, + He was rather for drinking than grazing; + Quoth the friar, "'Tis strange headless horses should trot, + But to drink with their tails is amazing!" + Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose, + In the pond fell this son of a pottle; + Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose,-- + I wish I were over a bottle, + Which goes gluggity, gluggity--glug--glug--glug!" + + GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER. + + + + + I AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. + + FROM THE OPERA OF "ROBIN HOOD." + + I am a friar of orders gray, + And down in the valleys I take my way; + I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip,-- + Good store of venison fills my scrip; + My long bead-roll I merrily chant; + Where'er I walk no money I want; + And why I'm so plump the reason I tell,-- + Who leads a good life is sure to live well. + What baron or squire, + Or knight of the shire, + Lives half so well as a holy friar? + + After supper of heaven I dream, + But that is a pullet and clouted cream; + Myself, by denial, I mortify-- + With a dainty bit of a warden-pie; + I'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin,-- + With old sack wine I'm lined within; + A chirping cup is my matin song, + And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding dong. + What baron or squire, + Or knight of the shire, + Lives half so well as a holy friar? + + JOHN O'KEEFFE. + + + + + GOOD ALE. + + I cannot eat but little meat,-- + My stomach is not good; + But, sure, I think that I can drink + With him that wears a hood. + Though I go bare, take ye no care; + I nothing am a-cold,-- + I stuff my skin so full within + Of jolly good ale and old. + _Back and side go bare, go bare; + Both foot and hand go cold; + But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, + Whether it be new or old!_ + + I love no roast but a nut-brown toast, + And a crab laid in the fire; + A little bread shall do me stead,-- + Much bread I not desire. + No frost, nor snow, nor wind, I trow, + Can hurt me if I wold,-- + I am so wrapt, and thorowly lapt + Of jolly good ale and old. + _Back and side_, etc. + + And Tyb, my wife, that as her life + Loveth well good ale to seek, + Full oft drinks she, till you may see + The tears run down her cheek; + Then doth she trowl to me the bowl, + Even as a malt-worm should; + And saith, "Sweetheart, I took my part + Of this jolly good ale and old." + _Back and side_, etc. + + Now let them drink till they nod and wink, + Even as good fellows should do; + They shall not miss to have the bliss + Good ale doth bring men to; + And all poor souls that have scoured bowls, + Or have them lustily trowled, + God save the lives of them and their wives, + Whether they be young or old! + _Back and side go bare, go bare; + Both foot and hand go cold; + But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, + Whether it be new or old!_ + + JOHN STILL. + + + + + THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS. + + A brace of sinners, for no good, + Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine, + Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, + And in a fair white wig looked wondrous fine. + Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, + With something in their shoes much worse than gravel; + In short, their toes so gentle to amuse, + The priest had ordered peas into their shoes: + A nostrum famous in old popish times + For purifying souls that stunk of crimes: + A sort of apostolic salt, + Which popish parsons for its powers exalt, + For keeping souls of sinners sweet, + Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat. + + The knaves set off on the same day, + Peas in their shoes, to go and pray; + But very different was their speed, I wot: + One of the sinners galloped on, + Swift as a bullet from a gun; + The other limped, as if he had been shot. + One saw the Virgin soon, Peccavi cried, + Had his soul whitewashed all so clever; + Then home again he nimbly hied, + Made fit with saints above to live forever. + + In coming back, however, let me say, + He met his brother rogue about half-way,-- + Hobbling, with outstretched arms and bended knees, + Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas; + His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat, + Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet. + + "How now," the light-toed, whitewashed pilgrim broke, + "You lazy lubber!" + "Ods curse it!" cried the other, "'t is no joke; + My feet, once hard as any rock, + Are now as soft as blubber. + + "Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear, + As for Loretto, I shall not get there; + No, to the devil my sinful soul must go, + For damme if I ha'n't lost every toe. + But, brother sinner, pray explain + How 't is that you are not in pain. + What power hath worked a wonder for your toes, + Whilst I just like a snail am crawling, + Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling, + Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes? + + "How is 't that you can like a greyhound go, + Merry as if that naught had happened, burn ye!" + "Why," cried the other, grinning, "you must know, + That just before I ventured on my journey, + To walk a little more at ease, + I took the liberty to _boil my peas_." + + DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (_Peter Pindar_). + + + + + THE VICAR OF BRAY.[3] + + In good King Charles's golden days, + When loyalty no harm meant, + A zealous high-churchman was I, + And so I got preferment. + + To teach my flock I never missed: + Kings were by God appointed, + And lost are those that dare resist + Or touch the Lord's anointed. + _And this is law that I 'll maintain + Until my dying day, sir, + That whatsoever king shall reign, + Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir._ + + When royal James possessed the crown, + And popery came in fashion, + The penal laws I hooted down, + And read the Declaration; + The Church of Rome I found would fit + Full well my constitution; + And I had been a Jesuit + But for the Revolution. + _And this is law_, etc. + + When William was our king declared, + To ease the nation's grievance; + With this new wind about I steered, + And swore to him allegiance; + Old principles I did revoke, + Set conscience at a distance; + Passive obedience was a joke, + A jest was non-resistance. + _And this is law_, etc. + + When royal Anne became our queen, + The Church of England's glory, + Another face of things was seen, + And I became a Tory; + Occasional conformists base, + I blamed their moderation; + And thought the Church in danger was, + By such prevarication. + _And this is law_, etc. + + When George in pudding-time came o'er, + And moderate men looked big, sir, + My principles I changed once more, + And so became a Whig, sir; + And thus preferment I procured + From our new faith's-defender, + And almost every day adjured + The Pope and the Pretender. + _And this is law_, etc. + + The illustrious house of Hanover, + And Protestant succession, + To these I do allegiance swear-- + While they can keep possession: + For in my faith and loyalty + I nevermore will falter, + And George my lawful king shall be-- + Until the times do alter. + _And this is law that I 'll maintain + Until my dying day, sir, + That whatsoever king shall reign, + Still I 'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir._ + + ANONYMOUS. + +[3] "The Vicar of Bray in Berkshire, England, was Simon Alleyn, or +Allen, who held his place from 1540 to 1588. He was a Papist under the +reign of Henry the Eighth, and a Protestant under Edward the Sixth. He +was a Papist again under Mary, and once more became a Protestant in the +reign of Elizabeth. When this scandal to the gown was reproached for his +versatility of religious creeds, and taxed for being a turn-coat and an +inconstant changeling, as Fuller expresses it, he replied: 'Not so +neither; for if I changed my religion, I am sure I kept true to my +principle, which is to live and die the Vicar of Bray.'"--DISRAELI. + + + + + HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER. + + FROM "HUDIBRAS," PART I. + + His puissant sword unto his side + Near his undaunted heart was tied, + With basket hilt that would hold broth, + And serve for fight and dinner both. + In it he melted lead for bullets + To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets, + To whom he bore so fell a grutch + He ne'er gave quarter to any such. + The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty, + For want of fighting was grown rusty, + And ate into itself, for lack + Of somebody to hew and hack. + The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, + The rancor of its edge had felt; + For of the lower end two handful + It had devoured, it was so manful; + And so much scorned to lurk in case, + As if it durst not show its face. + + * * * * * + + This sword a dagger had, his page, + That was but little for his age, + And therefore waited on him so + As dwarfs unto knight-errants do. + It was a serviceable dudgeon, + Either for fighting or for drudging. + When it had stabbed or broke a head, + It would scrape trenchers or chip bread, + Toast cheese or bacon, though it were + To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care; + 'T would make clean shoes, and in the earth + Set leeks and onions, and so forth: + It had been 'prentice to a brewer, + Where this and more it did endure; + But left the trade, as many more + Have lately done on the same score. + + DR. SAMUEL BUTLER. + + + + + THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN.[4] + + I'll sing you a good old song, + Made by a good old pate, + Of a fine old English gentleman + Who had an old estate, + And who kept up his old mansion + At a bountiful old rate; + With a good old porter to relieve + The old poor at his gate, + Like a fine old English gentleman + All of the olden time. + + His hall so old was hung around + With pikes and guns and bows, + And swords, and good old bucklers, + That had stood some tough old blows; + 'T was there "his worship" held his state + In doublet and trunk hose, + And quaffed his cup of good old sack, + To warm his good old nose, + Like a fine, etc. + + When winter's cold brought frost and snow, + He opened house to all; + And though threescore and ten his years, + He featly led the ball; + Nor was the houseless wanderer + E'er driven from his hall; + For while he feasted all the great, + He ne'er forgot the small; + Like a fine, etc. + + But time, though old, is strong in flight, + And years rolled swiftly by; + And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed + This good old man must die! + He laid him down right tranquilly, + Gave up life's latest sigh; + And mournful stillness reigned around, + And tears bedewed each eye, + For this good, etc. + + Now surely this is better far + Than all the new parade + Of theatres and fancy balls, + "At home" and masquerade: + And much more economical, + For all his bills were paid. + Then leave your new vagaries quite, + And take up the old trade + Of a fine old English gentleman, + All of the olden time. + + ANONYMOUS. + +[4] Modelled upon an old black-letter song, called "The Old and Young +Courtier." + + + + + TOBY TOSSPOT. + + Alas! what pity 't is that regularity, + Like Isaac Shove's, is such a rarity! + But there are swilling wights in London town, + Termed jolly dogs, choice spirits, alias swine, + Who pour, in midnight revel, bumpers down, + Making their throats a thoroughfare for wine. + + These spendthrifts, who life's pleasures thus run on, + Dozing with headaches till the afternoon, + Lose half men's regular estate of sun, + By borrowing too largely of the moon. + + One of this kidney--Toby Tosspot hight-- + Was coming from the Bedford late at night; + And being _Bacchi plenus_, full of wine, + Although he had a tolerable notion + Of aiming at progressive motion, + 'T wasn't direct,--'t was serpentine. + He worked with sinuosities, along, + Like Monsieur Corkscrew, worming through a cork, + Not straight, like Corkscrew's proxy, stiff Don Prong,--a fork. + + At length, with near four bottles in his pate, + He saw the moon shining on Shove's brass plate, + When reading, "Please to ring the bell," + And being civil beyond measure, + + "Ring it!" says Toby,--"very well; + I'll ring it with a deal of pleasure." + Toby, the kindest soul in all the town, + Gave it a jerk that almost jerked it down. + + He waited full two minutes,--no one came; + He waited full two minutes more;--and then + Says Toby, "If he's deaf, I'm not to blame; + I'll pull it for the gentleman again." + + But the first peal woke Isaac in a fright, + Who, quick as lightning, popping up his head, + Sat on his head's antipodes, in bed, + Pale as a parsnip,--bolt upright. + + At length he wisely to himself doth say, calming his fears.-- + "Tush! 't is some fool has rung and run away;" + When peal the second rattled in his ears. + + Shove jumped into the middle of the floor; + And, trembling at each breath of air that stirred, + He groped down stairs, and opened the street door, + While Toby was performing peal the third. + + Isaac eyed Toby, fearfully askant, + And saw he was a strapper, stout and tall; + Then put this question, "Pray, sir, what d'ye want?" + Says Toby, "I want nothing sir, at all." + + "Want nothing! Sir, you've pulled my bell, I vow, + As if you'd jerk it off the wire." + Quoth Toby, gravely making him a bow, + "I pulled it, sir, at your desire." + + "At mine?" "Yes, yours; I hope I've done it well. + High time for bed, sir; I was hastening to it; + But if you write up, 'Please to ring the bell,' + Common politeness makes me stop and do it." + + GEORGE COLMAN THE YOUNGER. + + + + + THE MILKMAID. + + A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on her head, + Thus mused on her prospects in life, it is said: + "Let me see,--I should think that this milk will procure + One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. + + "Well then,--stop a bit,--it must not be forgotten, + Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten; + But if twenty for accident should be detached, + It will leave me just sixty sound eggs to be hatched. + + "Well, sixty sound eggs,--no, sound chickens, I mean: + Of these some may die,--we'll suppose seventeen, + Seventeen! not so many--say ten at the most, + Which will leave fifty chickens to boil or to roast. + + "But then there's their barley: how much will they need? + Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed,-- + So that's a mere trifle; now then, let us see, + At a fair market price how much money there'll be. + + "Six shillings a pair--five--four--three-and-six. + To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix; + Now what will that make? fifty chickens, I said,-- + Fifty times three-and-sixpence--_I'll ask Brother Ned_. + + "O, but stop,--three-and-sixpence a _pair_ I must sell 'em; + Well, a pair is a couple,--now then let us tell 'em; + A couple in fifty will go (my poor brain!) + Why, just a score times and five pair will remain. + + "Twenty-five pair of fowls--now how tiresome it is + That I can't reckon up so much money as this! + Well, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess,-- + I'll say twenty pounds, _and it can't be no less_. + + "Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, + Thirty geese and two turkeys,--eight pigs and a sow; + Now if these turn out well, at the end of a year, + I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 't is clear." + + Forgetting her burden, when this she had said, + The maid superciliously tossed up her head; + When, alas for her prospects! her milk-pail descended, + And so all her schemes for the future were ended. + + This moral, I think, may be safely attached,-- + "Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched." + + JEFFREYS TAYLOR. + + + + + MORNING MEDITATIONS. + + Let Taylor preach, upon a morning breezy, + How well to rise while nights and larks are flying,-- + For my part, getting up seems not so easy + By half as _lying_. + + What if the lark does carol in the sky, + Soaring beyond the sight to find him out,-- + Wherefore am I to rise at such a fly? + I'm not a trout. + + Talk not to me of bees and such-like hums, + The smell of sweet herbs at the morning prime,-- + Only lie long enough, and bed becomes + A bed of _time_. + + To me Dan Phoebus and his car are naught, + His steeds that paw impatiently about,-- + Let them enjoy, say I, as horses ought, + The first turn-out! + + Right beautiful the dewy meads appear + Besprinkled by the rosy-fingered girl; + What then,--if I prefer my pillow-beer + To early pearl? + + My stomach is not ruled by other men's, + And, grumbling for a reason, quaintly begs + Wherefore should master rise before the hens + Have laid their eggs? + + Why from a comfortable pillow start + To see faint flushes in the east awaken? + A fig, say I, for any streaky part, + Excepting bacon. + + An early riser Mr. Gray has drawn, + Who used to haste the dewy grass among, + "To meet the sun upon the upland lawn,"-- + Well,--he died young. + + With charwomen such early hours agree, + And sweeps that earn betimes their bit and sup; + But I'm no climbing boy, and need not be + All up,--all up! + + So here I lie, my morning calls deferring, + Till something nearer to the stroke of noon;-- + A man that's fond precociously of _stirring_ + Must be a spoon. + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + + + ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. + + Good people all, of every sort, + Give ear unto my song; + And if you find it wondrous short, + It cannot hold you long. + + In Islington there was a man + Of whom the world might say, + That still a godly race he ran-- + Whene'er he went to pray. + + A kind and gentle heart he had, + To comfort friends and foes: + The naked every day he clad-- + When he put on his clothes. + + And in that town a dog was found, + As many dogs there be, + Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, + And curs of low degree. + + This dog and man at first were friends; + But when a pique began, + The dog to gain his private ends, + Went mad, and bit the man. + + Around from all the neighboring streets + The wondering neighbors ran, + And swore the dog had lost his wits, + To bite so good a man! + + The wound it seemed both sore and sad + To every Christian eye: + And while they swore the dog was mad, + They swore the man would die. + + But soon a wonder came to light, + That showed the rogues they lied:-- + The man recovered of the bite. + The dog it was that died! + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH. + + + + + OLD GRIMES. + + Old Grimes is dead, that good old man,-- + We ne'er shall see him more; + He used to wear a long black coat, + All buttoned down before. + + His heart was open as the day, + His feelings all were true; + His hair was some inclined to gray,-- + He wore it in a queue. + + Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, + His breast with pity burned; + The large round head upon his cane + From ivory was turned. + + Kind words he ever had for all; + He knew no base design; + His eyes were dark and rather small, + His nose was aquiline. + + He lived at peace with all mankind, + In friendship he was true; + His coat had pocket-holes behind, + His pantaloons were blue. + + Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes + He passed securely o'er,-- + And never wore a pair of boots + For thirty years or more. + + But good Old Grimes is now at rest, + Nor fears misfortune's frown; + He wore a double-breasted vest,-- + The stripes ran up and down. + + He modest merit sought to find, + And pay it its desert; + He had no malice in his mind, + No ruffles on his shirt. + + His neighbors he did not abuse,-- + Was sociable and gay; + He wore large buckles on his shoes, + And changed them every day. + + His knowledge, hid from public gaze, + He did not bring to view, + Nor make a noise, town-meeting days, + As many people do. + + His worldly goods he never threw + In trust to fortune's chances, + But lived (as all his brothers do) + In easy circumstances. + + Thus undisturbed by anxious cares + His peaceful moments ran; + And everybody said he was + A fine old gentleman. + + ALBERT G. GREENE. + + + + + ELEGY ON MADAM BLAIZE. + + Good people all, with one accord, + Lament for Madam Blaize; + Who never wanted a good word-- + From those who spoke her praise. + + The needy seldom passed her door, + And always found her kind; + She freely lent to all the poor-- + Who left a pledge behind. + + She strove the neighborhood to please, + With manner wondrous winning; + She never followed wicked ways-- + Unless when she was sinning. + + At church, in silk and satins new, + With hoop of monstrous size, + She never slumbered in her pew-- + But when she shut her eyes. + + Her love was sought, I do aver, + By twenty beaux, or more; + The king himself has followed her-- + When she has walked before. + + But now her wealth and finery fled, + Her hangers-on cut short all, + Her doctors found, when she was dead-- + Her last disorder mortal. + + Let us lament, in sorrow sore; + For Kent Street well may say, + That, had she lived a twelvemonth more-- + She had not died to-day. + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH. + + + + + THE GRAVE-YARD. + + FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS." + + Let us glance for a moment, 't is well worth the pains, + And note what an average grave-yard contains; + There lie levellers levelled, duns done up themselves, + There are booksellers finally laid on their shelves, + Horizontally there lie upright politicians, + Dose-a-dose with their patients sleep faultless physicians, + There are slave-drivers quietly whipt under-ground, + There bookbinders, done up in boards, are fast bound, + There card-players wait till the last trump be played, + There all the choice spirits get finally laid, + There the babe that's unborn is supplied with a berth, + There men without legs get their six feet of earth, + There lawyers repose, each wrapt up in his case, + There seekers of office are sure of a place, + There defendant and plaintiff get equally cast, + There shoemakers quietly stick to the last, + There brokers at length become silent as stocks, + There stage-drivers sleep without quitting their box, + And so forth and so forth and so forth and so on, + With this kind of stuff one might endlessly go on; + To come to the point, I may safely assert you + Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue; + (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, + That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive). + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + + + FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. + + A PATHETIC BALLAD. + + Ben Battle was a soldier bold, + And used to war's alarms; + But a cannon-ball took off his legs, + So he laid down his arms. + + Now as they bore him off the field, + Said he, "Let others shoot; + For here I leave my second leg, + And the Forty-second Foot." + + The army-surgeons made him limbs: + Said he, "They're only pegs; + But there's as wooden members quite + As represent my legs." + + Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,-- + Her name was Nelly Gray; + So he went to pay her his devours, + When he devoured his pay. + + But when he called on Nelly Gray, + She made him quite a scoff; + And when she saw his wooden legs, + Began to take them off. + + "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! + Is this your love so warm? + The love that loves a scarlet coat + Should be more uniform." + + Said she, "I loved a soldier once, + For he was blithe and brave; + But I will never have a man + With both legs in the grave. + + "Before you had those timber toes + Your love I did allow; + But then, you know, you stand upon + Another footing now." + + "O Nelly Gray! O Nelly Gray! + For all your jeering speeches, + At duty's call I left my legs + In Badajos's breaches." + + "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet + Of legs in war's alarms, + And now you cannot wear your shoes + Upon your feats of arms!" + + "O false and fickle Nelly Gray! + I know why you refuse: + Though I've no feet, some other man + Is standing in my shoes. + + "I wish I ne'er had seen your face; + But, now a long farewell! + For you will be my death;--alas! + You will not be my Nell!" + + Now when he went from Nelly Gray + His heart so heavy got, + And life was such a burden grown, + It made him take a knot. + + So round his melancholy neck + A rope he did intwine, + And, for his second time in life, + Enlisted in the Line. + + One end he tied around a beam, + And then removed his pegs; + And as his legs were off,--of course + He soon was off his legs. + + And there he hung till he was dead + As any nail in town; + For, though distress had cut him up, + It could not cut him down. + + A dozen men sat on his corpse, + To find out why he died,-- + And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, + With a stake in his inside. + + THOMAS HOOD. + + [Illustration: THE PRESS-GANG. + "But as they fetched a walk one day, + They met a press-gang crew; + And Sally she did faint away, + Whilst Ben he was brought to." + --THOMAS HOOD. + _From an engraving after painting by Alexander Johnston._] + + + + + FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN. + + Young Ben he was a nice young man, + A carpenter by trade; + And he fell in love with Sally Brown, + That was a lady's maid. + + But as they fetched a walk one day, + They met a press-gang crew; + And Sally she did faint away, + Whilst Ben he was brought to. + + The boatswain swore with wicked words + Enough to shock a saint, + That, though she did seem in a fit, + 'T was nothing but a feint. + + "Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head, + He'll be as good as me; + For when your swain is in our boat + A boatswain he will be." + + So when they'd made their game of her, + And taken off her elf, + She roused, and found she only was + A coming to herself. + + "And is he gone, and is he gone?" + She cried and wept outright; + "Then I will to the water-side, + And see him out of sight." + + A waterman came up to her; + "Now, young woman," said he, + "If you weep on so, you will make + Eye-water in the sea." + + "Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben, + To sail with old Benbow;" + And her woe began to run afresh, + As if she'd said, Gee woe! + + Says he, "They've only taken him + To the tender-ship, you see." + "The tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,-- + "What a hard-ship that must be!" + + "O, would I were a mermaid now, + For then I'd follow him! + But O, I'm not a fish-woman, + And so I cannot swim. + + "Alas! I was not born beneath + The Virgin and the Scales, + So I must curse my cruel stars, + And walk about in Wales." + + Now Ben had sailed to many a place + That's underneath the world; + But in two years the ship came home, + And all her sails were furled. + + But when he called on Sally Brown, + To see how she got on, + He found she'd got another Ben, + Whose Christian-name was John. + + "O Sally Brown! O Sally Brown! + How could you serve me so? + I've met with many a breeze before, + But never such a blow!" + + Then, reading on his 'bacco box, + He heaved a heavy sigh, + And then began to eye his pipe, + And then to pipe his eye. + + And then he tried to sing, "All's Well!" + But could not, though he tried; + His head was turned,--and so he chewed + His pigtail till he died. + + His death, which happened in his berth, + At forty-odd befell; + They went and told the sexton, and + The sexton tolled the bell. + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + + + ORATOR PUFF. + + Mr. Orator Puff had two tones in his voice, + The one squeaking _thus_, and the other down _so_; + In each sentence he uttered he gave you your choice, + For one half was B alt, and the rest G below. + O! O! Orator Puff, + One voice for an orator's surely enough. + + But he still talked away, spite of coughs and of frowns, + So distracting all ears with his ups and his downs, + That a wag once, on hearing the orator say, + "My voice is for war!" asked, "Which of them, pray?" + O! O! Orator Puff, etc. + + Reeling homeward one evening, top-heavy with gin, + And rehearsing his speech on the weight of the crown, + He tripped near a saw-pit, and tumbled right in, + "Sinking fund" the last words as his noddle came down. + O! O! Orator Puff, etc. + + "Good Lord!" he exclaimed, in his he-and-she tones, + "HELP ME OUT! _Help me out!_ I have broken my bones!" + "Help you out?" said a Paddy who passed, "what a bother! + Why, there's two of you there--can't you help one another?" + O! O! Orator Puff, + One voice for an orator's surely enough. + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + + + THE GOUTY MERCHANT AND THE STRANGER. + + In Broad Street building (on a winter night), + Snug by his parlor-fire, a gouty wight + Sat all alone, with one hand rubbing + His feet rolled up in fleecy hose: + With t' other he'd beneath his nose + The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing, + He noted all the sales of hops, + Ships, shops, and slops; + Gum, galls, and groceries; ginger, gin, + Tar, tallow, turmeric, turpentine, and tin; + When lo! a decent personage in black + Entered and most politely said,-- + "Your footman, sir, has gone his nightly track + To the King's Head, + And left your door ajar; which I + Observed in passing by, + And thought it neighborly to give you notice." + "Ten thousand thanks; how very few get, + In time of danger, + Such kind attention from a stranger! + Assuredly, that fellow's throat is + Doomed to a final drop at Newgate: + He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf!) + That there's no soul at home except myself." + "Indeed," replied the stranger (looking grave), + "Then he's a double knave; + He knows that rogues and thieves by scores + Nightly beset unguarded doors: + And see, how easily might one + Of these domestic foes, + Even beneath your very nose, + Perform his knavish tricks; + Enter your room, as I have done, + Blow out your candles--thus--and thus-- + Pocket your silver candlesticks, + And--walk off--thus"-- + So said, so done; he made no more remark + Nor waited for replies, + But marched off with his prize, + Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. + + HORACE SMITH. + + + + + THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. + + SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN + HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE + HOME AGAIN. + + John Gilpin was a citizen + Of credit and renown, + A trainband captain eke was he + Of famous London town. + + John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear-- + "Though wedded we have been + These twice ten tedious years, yet we + No holiday have seen. + + "To morrow is our wedding-day, + And we will then repair + Unto the Bell at Edmonton + All in a chaise and pair. + + "My sister and my sister's child, + Myself and children three, + Will fill the chaise; so you must ride + On horseback after we." + + He soon replied, "I do admire + Of womankind but one, + And you are she, my dearest dear: + Therefore it shall be done. + + "I am a linendraper bold, + As all the world doth know, + And my good friend the calender + Will lend his horse to go." + + Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; + And for that wine is dear, + We will be furnished with our own, + Which is both bright and clear." + + John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; + O'erjoyed was he to find, + That, though on pleasure she was bent, + She had a frugal mind. + + The morning came, the chaise was brought, + But yet was not allowed + To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stayed, + Where they did all get in; + Six precious souls, and all agog + To dash through thick and thin. + + Smack went the whip, round went the wheels. + Were never folks so glad; + The stones did rattle underneath, + As if Cheapside were mad. + + John Gilpin at his horse's side + Seized fast the flowing mane, + And up he got in haste to ride. + But soon came down again; + + For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, + His journey to begin, + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + + 'T was long before the customers + Were suited to their mind, + When Betty screaming came down stairs, + "The wine is left behind!" + + "Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword + When I do exercise." + + Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipped from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, + He manfully did throw. + + Now see him mounted once again + Upon his nimble steed, + Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, + With caution and good heed. + + But finding soon a smoother road + Beneath his well-shod feet, + The snorting beast began to trot, + Which galled him in his seat. + + "So, fair and softly," John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, + He grasped the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before. + What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; + Away went hat and wig; + He little dreamt, when he set out, + Of running such a rig. + + The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, + Like streamer long and gay, + Till, loop and button failing both, + At last it flew away. + + Then might all people well discern + The bottles he had slung; + A bottle swinging at each side, + As hath been said or sung. + + The dogs did bark, the children screamed, + Up flew the windows all; + And every soul cried out, "Well done!" + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin,--who but he? + His fame soon spread around, + "He carries weight! he rides a race! + 'T is for a thousand pound!" + + And still as fast as he drew near, + 'T was wonderful to view, + How in a trice the turnpike men + Their gates wide open threw. + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse's flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still he seemed to carry weight, + With leathern girdle braced; + For all might see the bottle necks + Still dangling at his waist. + + Thus all through merry Islington + These gambols did he play, + Until he came unto the Wash + Of Edmonton so gay; + + And there he threw the wash about + On both sides of the way, + Just like unto a trundling mop, + Or a wild goose at play. + + At Edmonton his loving wife + From the balcony spied + Her tender husband, wondering much + To see how he did ride. + + "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house," + They all at once did cry; + "The dinner waits, and we are tired." + Said Gilpin, "So am I!" + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; + For why?--his owner had a house + Pull ten miles off, at Ware. + + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly--which brings me to + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin out of breath, + And sore against his will. + Till at his friend the calender's + His horse at last stood still. + + The calender, amazed to see + His neighbor in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him: + + "What news? what news? your tidings tell; + Tell me you must and shall,-- + Say why bareheaded you are come, + Or why you come at all?" + + Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, + And loved a timely joke; + And thus unto the calender + In merry guise he spoke: + + "I came because your horse would come; + And, if I well forebode, + My hat and wig will soon be here, + They are upon the road." + + The calender, right glad to find + His friend in merry pin, + Returned him not a single word, + But to the house went in; + + Whence straight he came with hat and wig; + A wig that flowed behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and in his turn + Thus showed his ready wit, + "My head is twice as big as yours, + They therefore needs must fit. + + "But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case." + + Said John, "It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware." + + So turning to his horse, he said, + "I am in haste to dine; + 'T was for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine." + + Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For, while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + + Whereat his horse did snort, as he + Had heard a lion roar, + And galloped off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin's hat and wig: + He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?--they were too big. + + Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, + She pulled out half a crown; + + And thus unto the youth she said, + That drove them to the Bell, + "This shall be yours when you bring back + My husband safe and well." + + The youth did ride, and soon did meet + John coming back amain; + Whom in a trice he tried to stop + By catching at his rein; + + But not performing what he meant, + And gladly would have done, + The frightened steed he frightened more, + And made him faster run. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went postboy at his heels, + The postboy's horse right glad to miss + The lumbering of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road, + Thus seeing Gilpin fly, + With postboy scampering in the rear, + They raised the hue and cry:-- + + "Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!" + Not one of them was mute; + And all and each that passed that way + Did join in the pursuit. + + And now the turnpike-gates again + Flew open in short space; + The toll-man thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; + Nor stopped till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, "Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he; + And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see!" + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + + EPIGRAMS BY S. T. COLERIDGE. + + + + + COLOGNE. + + In Köln, a town of monks and bones, + And pavements fanged with murderous stones, + And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches,-- + I counted two-and-seventy stenches, + All well-defined and several stinks! + Ye nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, + The river Rhine, it is well known, + Doth wash your city of Cologne; + But tell me, nymphs! what power divine + Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? + + * * * * * + + Sly Beelzebub took all occasions + To try Job's constancy and patience. + He took his honor, took his health; + He took his children, took his wealth, + His servants, oxen, horses, cows-- + But cunning Satan did _not_ take his spouse. + + But Heaven, that brings out good from evil, + And loves to disappoint the devil, + Had predetermined to restore + _Twofold_ all he had before; + His servants, horses, oxen, cows-- + Short-sighted devil, not to take his spouse! + + * * * * * + + Hoarse Mævius reads his hobbling verse + To all, and at all times, + And finds them both divinely smooth, + His voice as well as rhymes. + + Yet folks say Mævius is no ass; + But Mævius makes it clear + That he's a monster of an ass,-- + An ass without an ear! + + * * * * * + + Swans sing before they die,--'t were no bad thing + Did certain persons die before they sing. + + + + + THE RAZOR-SELLER. + + A fellow in a market-town, + Most musical, cried razors up and down, + And offered twelve for eighteen pence; + Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, + And, for the money, quite a heap, + As every man would buy, with cash and sense. + + A country bumpkin the great offer heard,-- + Poor Hodge, who suffered by a broad black beard, + That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose: + With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid, + And proudly to himself in whispers said, + "This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. + + "No matter if the fellow _be_ a knave. + Provided that the razors _shave_; + It certainly will be a monstrous prize." + So home the clown, with his good fortune, went, + Smiling in heart and soul content, + And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes. + + Being well lathered from a dish or tub, + Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub, + Just like a hedger cutting furze; + 'T was a vile razor!--then the rest he tried,-- + All were impostors. "Ah!" Hodge sighed, + "I wish my eighteen pence within my purse." + + In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, + He cut, and dug, and winced, and stamped, and swore; + Brought blood, and danced, blasphemed, and made wry faces, + And cursed each razor's body o'er and o'er: + + His muzzle formed of _opposition_ stuff, + Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; + So kept it,--laughing at the steel and suds. + Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, + Vowing the direst vengeance with clenched claws, + On the vile cheat that sold the goods. + "Razors! a mean, confounded dog, + Not fit to scrape a hog!" + + Hodge sought the fellow,--found him,--and begun: + "P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 't is fun, + That people flay themselves out of their lives. + You rascal; for an hour have I been grubbing, + Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing, + With razors just like oyster-knives. + Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave, + To cry up razors that can't shave!" + + "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave; + As for the razors you have bought, + Upon my soul, I never thought + That they would _shave_." + "Not think they'd _shave_!" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes, + And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; + "What were they made for, then, you dog?" he cries. + "_Made_," quoth the fellow with a smile,--"_to sell_." + + DR. JOHN WOLCOTT (_Peter Pindar_). + + + + + PAPER. + + A CONVERSATIONAL PLEASANTRY. + + Some wit of old--such wits of old there were, + Whose hints showed meaning, whose allusions care-- + By one brave stroke to mark all human kind, + Called clear, blank paper every infant mind: + Where still, as opening sense her dictates wrote, + Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot. + + The thought was happy, pertinent, and true; + Methinks a genius might the plan pursue. + I (can you pardon my presumption?)--I, + No wit, no genius, yet for once will try. + + Various the paper various wants produce,-- + The wants of fashion, elegance, and use. + Men are as various; and, if right I scan, + Each sort of paper represents some man. + + Pray note the fop, half powder and half lace; + Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place; + He's the _gilt-paper_, which apart you store, + And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire. + + Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth + Are _copy-paper_ of inferior worth; + Less prized, more useful, for your desk decreed; + Free to all pens, and prompt at every need. + + The wretch whom avarice bids to pinch and spare, + Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir, + Is _coarse brown paper_, such as pedlers choose + To wrap up wares, which better men will use. + + Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys + Health, fame, and fortune in a round of joys; + Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout; + He's a true _sinking-paper_, past all doubt. + The retail politician's anxious thought + Deems this side always right, and that stark naught; + He foams with censure; with applause he raves; + A dupe to rumors and a tool of knaves; + He'll want no type, his weakness to proclaim, + While such a thing as _foolscap_ has a name. + + The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high, + Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry, + Who can't a jest, a hint, or look endure,-- + What is he?--what? _Touch-paper_, to be sure. + + What are our poets, take them as they fall, + Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all? + They and their works in the same class you'll find; + They are the mere _waste-paper_ of mankind. + + Observe the maiden, innocently sweet! + She's fair, _white paper_, an unsullied sheet; + On which the happy man whom fate ordains + May write his name, and take her for his pains. + + One instance more, and only one I'll bring; + 'T is the great man who scorns a little thing; + Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims, are his own, + Formed on the feelings of his heart alone, + True, genuine, _royal paper_ is his breast; + Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best. + + BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. + + + + + EPITAPH + + FOR THE TOMBSTONE ERECTED OVER THE MARQUIS + OF ANGLESEA'S LEG, LOST AT WATERLOO. + + Here rests, and let no saucy knave + Presume to sneer and laugh, + To learn that moldering in the grave + Is laid a British Calf. + + For he who writes these lines is sure, + That those who read the whole + Will find such laugh was premature, + For here, too, lies a sole. + + And here five little ones repose, + Twin born with other five, + Unheeded by their brother toes, + Who all are now alive. + + A leg and foot to speak more plain, + Rests here of one commanding; + Who though his wits he might retain, + Lost half his understanding. + + And when the guns, with thunder fraught, + Poured bullets thick as hail, + Could only in this way be taught + To give the foe leg-bail. + + And now in England, just as gay + As in the battle brave, + Goes to a rout, review, or play, + With one foot in the grave. + + Fortune in vain here showed her spite, + For he will still be found, + Should England's sons engage in fight, + Resolved to stand his ground. + + But Fortune's pardon I must beg; + She meant not to disarm, + For when she lopped the hero's leg, + She did not seek his harm. + + And but indulged a harmless whim; + Since he could walk with one, + She saw two legs were lost on him, + Who never meant to run. + + GEORGE CANNING. + + + + + RUDOLPH THE HEADSMAN. + + FROM "THIS IS IT." + + Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, + Alike was famous for his arm and blade. + One day a prisoner Justice had to kill + Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. + Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, + Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. + His falchion lightened with a sudden gleam, + As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. + He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; + The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. + "Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act," + The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) + "Friend, I _have_ struck," the artist straight replied; + "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." + He held his snuff-box,--"Now then, if you please!" + The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, + Off his head tumbled, bowled along the floor, + Bounced down the steps;--the prisoner said no more. + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + + + SONG + + OF ONE ELEVEN YEARS IN PRISON. + + Whene'er with haggard eyes I view + This dungeon that I 'm rotting in, + I think of those companions true + Who studied with me at the U- + niversity of Gottingen, + niversity of Gottingen. + + [_Weeps and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he + wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds:_] + + Sweet kerchief, checked with heavenly blue, + Which once my love sat knotting in-- + Alas, Matilda then was true! + At least I thought so at the U- + niversity of Gottingen, + niversity of Gottingen. + + [_At the repetition of this line he clanks his chains + in cadence._] + + Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, + Her neat post-wagon trotting in! + Ye bore Matilda from my view; + Folorn I languished at the U- + niversity of Gottingen, + niversity of Gottingen. + + This faded form! this pallid hue! + This blood my veins is clotting in! + My years are many--they were few + When first I entered at the U- + niversity of Gottingen, + niversity of Gottingen. + + There first for thee my passion grew, + Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen! + Thou wert the daughter of my tu- + tor, law-professor at the U- + niversity of Gottingen, + niversity of Gottingen. + + Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, + That kings and priests are plotting in; + Here doomed to starve on water gru- + el, never shall I see the U- + niversity of Gottingen, + niversity of Gottingen. + + [_During the last stanza he dashes his head repeatedly + against the walls of his prison, and + finally so hard as to produce a visible contusion. + He then throws himself on the floor in an + agony. The curtain drops, the music still continuing + to play till it is wholly fallen._] + + GEORGE CANNING. + + + + + LITTLE BILLEE. + + There were three sailors of Bristol City + Who took a boat and went to sea, + But first with beef and captain's biscuits + And pickled pork they loaded she. + + There was gorging Jack, and guzzling Jimmy, + And the youngster he was little Billee; + Now when they'd got as far as the Equator, + They'd nothing left but one split pea. + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "I am extremely hungaree." + To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, + "We've nothing left, us must eat we." + + Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, + "With one another we shouldn't agree! + There's little Bill, he's young and tender, + We're old and tough, so let's eat he." + + "O Billy! we're going to kill and eat you, + So undo the button of your chemie." + When Bill received this information, + He used his pocket-handkerchie. + + "First let me say my catechism + Which my poor mother taught to me." + "Make haste! make haste!" says guzzling Jimmy, + While Jack pulled out his snickersnee. + + Billy went up to the main-top-gallant mast, + And down he fell on his bended knee, + He scarce had come to the Twelfth Commandment + When up he jumps--"There's land I see! + + "Jerusalem and Madagascar + And North and South Amerikee, + There's the British flag a-riding at anchor, + With Admiral Napier, K. C. B." + + So when they got aboard of the Admiral's, + He hanged fat Jack and flogged Jimmee, + But as for little Bill he made him + The Captain of a Seventy-three. + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + + + + CAPTAIN REECE.[5] + + Of all the ships upon the blue, + No ship contained a better crew + Than that of worthy Captain Reece, + Commanding of The Mantelpiece. + + He was adored by all his men, + For worthy Captain Reece, R. N., + Did all that lay within him to + Promote the comfort of his crew. + + If ever they were dull or sad, + Their captain danced to them like mad, + Or told, to make the time pass by, + Droll legends of his infancy. + + A feather-bed had every man, + Warm slippers and hot-water can, + Brown windsor from the captain's store, + A valet, too, to every four. + + Did they with thirst in summer burn, + Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, + And on all very sultry days + Cream ices handed round on trays. + + Then currant wine and ginger pops + Stood handily on all the "tops:" + And, also, with amusement rife, + A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." + + New volumes came across the sea + From Mister Mudie's libraree; + The Times and Saturday Review + Beguiled the leisure of the crew. + + Kind-hearted Captain Reece. R. N., + Was quite devoted to his men; + In point of fact, good Captain Reece + Beatified The Mantelpiece. + + One summer eve, at half past ten, + He said (addressing all his men), + "Come, tell me, please, what I can do, + To please and gratify my crew. + + "By any reasonable plan + I'll make you happy if I can; + My own convenience count as _nil_; + It is my duty, and I will." + + Then up and answered William Lee + (The kind captain's coxswain he, + A nervous, shy, low-spoken man); + He cleared his throat and thus began: + + "You have a daughter, Captain Reece, + Ten female cousins and a niece, + A ma, if what I'm told is true, + Six sisters, and an aunt or two. + + "Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, + More friendly-like we all should be, + If you united of 'em to + Unmarried members of the crew. + + "If you'd ameliorate our life, + Let each select from them a wife; + And as for nervous me, old pal, + Give me your own enchanting gal!" + + Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, + Debated on his coxswain's plan: + "I quite agree," he said, "O Bill; + It is my duty, and I will. + + "My daughter, that enchanting gurl, + Has just been promised to an earl, + And all my other familee + To peers of various degree. + + "But what are dukes and viscounts to + The happiness of all my crew? + The word I gave you I'll fulfil; + It is my duty, and I will. + + "As you desire it shall befall, + I 'll settle thousands on you all, + And I shall be, despite my hoard, + The only bachelor on board." + + The boatswain of The Mantelpiece, + He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece: + "I beg your honor's leave," he said, + "If you would wish to go and wed. + + "I have a widowed mother who + Would be the very thing for you-- + She long has loved you from afar, + She washes for you, Captain R." + + The captain saw the dame that day-- + Addressed her in his playful way-- + "And did it want a wedding-ring? + It was a tempting ickle sing! + + "Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, + We'll all be married this day week + At yonder church upon the hill; + It is my duty, and I will!" + + The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, + And widowed ma of Captain Reece, + Attended there as they were bid; + It was their duty, and they did. + + WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT. + +[5] Containing the germs of Gilbert's two famous comic operas,--"H. M. +S. Pinafore," with its amiable captain, cheerful crew, and the "sisters +and the cousins and the aunts," and "The Pirates of Penzance, or the +Slave of Duty." + + + + + THE YARN OF THE "NANCY BELL." + + FROM "THE BAB BALLADS." + + 'T was on the shores that round our coast + From Deal to Ramsgate span, + That I found alone, on a piece of stone, + An elderly naval man. + + His hair was weedy, his beard was long, + And weedy and long was he; + And I heard this wight on the shore recite, + In a singular minor key:-- + + "O, I am a cook and a captain bold, + And the mate of the Nancy brig, + And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain's gig." + + And he shook his fist and he tore his hair, + Till I really felt afraid, + For I couldn't help thinking the man had been drinking, + And so I simply said:-- + + "O elderly man, it 's little I know + Of the duties of men of the sea, + And I'll eat my hand if I understand + How you can possibly be + + "At once a cook and a captain bold, + And the mate of the Nancy brig, + And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain's gig!" + + Then he gave a hitch to his trousers, which + Is a trick all seamen larn, + And having got rid of a thumping quid + He spun this painful yarn:-- + + "'T was in the good ship Nancy Bell + That we sailed to the Indian sea, + And there on a reef we come to grief, + Which has often occurred to me. + + "And pretty nigh all o' the crew was drowned + (There was seventy-seven o' soul); + And only ten of the Nancy's men + Said 'Here' to the muster-roll. + + "There was me, and the cook, and the captain bold, + And the mate of the Nancy brig, + And the bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain's gig. + + "For a month we 'd neither wittles nor drink, + Till a-hungry we did feel, + So we drawed a lot, and accordin', shot + The captain for our meal. + + "The next lot fell to the Nancy's mate, + And a delicate dish he made; + Then our appetite with the midshipmite + We seven survivors stayed. + + "And then we murdered the bo'sun tight, + And he much resembled pig; + Then we wittled free, did the cook and me, + On the crew of the captain's gig. + + "Then only the cook and me was left, + And the delicate question, 'Which + Of us two goes to the kettle?' arose, + And we argued it out as sich. + + "For I loved that cook as a brother, I did, + And the cook he worshipped me; + But we 'd both be blowed if we 'd either be stowed + In the other chap's hold, you see. + + "I 'll be eat if you dines off me,' says Tom. + 'Yes, that,' says I, 'you 'll be. + I 'm boiled if I die, my friend,' quoth I; + And 'Exactly so,' quoth he. + + "Says he: 'Dear James, to murder me + Were a foolish thing to do, + For don't you see that you can't cook me, + While I can--and will--cook you!' + + "So he boils the water, and takes the salt + And the pepper in portions true + (Which he never forgot), and some chopped shalot, + And some sage and parsley too. + + "'Come here,' says he, with a proper pride, + Which his smiling features tell; + ''T will soothing be if I let you see + How extremely nice you 'll smell.' + + "And he stirred it round, and round, and round, + And he sniffed at the foaming froth; + When I ups with his heels, and smothers his squeals + In the scum of the boiling broth. + + "And I eat that cook in a week or less, + And as I eating be + The last of his chops, why I almost drops, + For a wessel in sight I see. + + * * * * * + + "And I never larf, and I never smile, + And I never lark nor play; + But I sit and croak, and a single joke + I have--which is to say: + + "O, I am a cook and a captain bold + And the mate of the Nancy brig, + And a bo'sun tight, and a midshipmite, + And the crew of the captain's gig!" + + WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT. + + + + + THE ART OF BOOK-KEEPING. + + How hard, when those who do not wish + To lend, thus lose, their books, + Are snared by anglers--folks that fish + With literary hooks-- + Who call and take some favorite tome, + But never read it through; + They thus complete their set at home + By making one at you. + + I, of my "Spenser" quite bereft, + Last winter sore was shaken; + Of "Lamb" I 've but a quarter left, + Nor could I save my "Bacon"; + And then I saw my "Crabbe" at last, + Like Hamlet, backward go, + And, as the tide was ebbing fast, + Of course I lost my "Rowe." + + My "Mallet" served to knock me down, + Which makes me thus a talker, + And once, when I was out of town, + My "Johnson" proved a "Walker." + While studying o'er the fire one day + My "Hobbes" amidst the smoke, + They bore my "Colman" clean away, + And carried off my "Coke." + + They picked my "Locke," to me far more + Than Bramah's patent worth, + And now my losses I deplore, + Without a "Home" on earth. + If once a book you let them lift, + Another they conceal, + For though I caught them stealing "Swift," + As swiftly went my "Steele." + + "Hope" is not now upon my shelf, + Where late he stood elated, + But, what is strange, my "Pope" himself + Is excommunicated. + My little "Suckling" in the grave + Is sunk to swell the ravage, + And what was Crusoe's fate to save, + 'T was mine to lose--a "Savage." + + Even "Glover's" works I cannot put + My frozen hands upon, + Though ever since I lost my "Foote" + My "Bunyan" has been gone. + My "Hoyle" with "Cotton" went oppressed, + My "Taylor," too, must fail, + To save my "Goldsmith" from arrest, + In vain I offered "Bayle." + + I "Prior" sought, but could not see + The "Hood" so late in front, + And when I turned to hunt for "Lee," + O, where was my "Leigh Hunt"? + I tried to laugh, old Care to tickle, + Yet could not "Tickell" touch, + And then, alack! I missed my "Mickle," + And surely mickle's much. + + 'T is quite enough my griefs to feed, + My sorrows to excuse, + To think I cannot read my "Reid," + Nor even use my "Hughes." + My classics would not quiet lie,-- + A thing so fondly hoped; + Like Dr. Primrose, I may cry, + My "Livy" has eloped. + + My life is ebbing fast away; + I suffer from these shocks; + And though I fixed a lock on "Gray," + There's gray upon my locks. + I 'm far from "Young," am growing pale, + I see my "Butler" fly, + And when they ask about my ail, + 'T is "Burton" I reply. + + They still have made me slight returns, + And thus my griefs divide; + For O, they cured me of my "Burns," + And eased my "Akenside." + But all I think I shall not say, + Nor let my anger burn, + For, as they never found me "Gay," + They have not left me "Sterne." + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + + + ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. + + My curse upon thy venomed stang, + That shoots my tortured gums alang; + An' through my lugs gies mony a twang, + Wi' gnawing vengeance! + Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang, + Like racking engines. + + When fevers burn, or ague freezes, + Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; + Our neighbor's sympathy may ease us, + Wi' pitying moan; + But thee,--thou hell o' a' diseases, + Aye mocks our groan. + + Adown my beard the slavers trickle; + I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, + As round the fire the giglets keckle + To see me loup; + While, raving mad, I wish a heckle + Were in their doup. + + O' a' the numerous human dools, + Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, + Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, + Sad sight to see! + The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, + Thou bear'st the gree. + + Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, + Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, + And rankèd plagues their numbers tell, + In dreadfu' raw, + Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, + Among them a'; + + O thou grim mischief-making chiel, + And surely mickle 's much. + Till daft mankind aft dance a reel + In gore a shoe-thick!-- + Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal + A fowmond's Toothache! + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + + + TO THE TERRESTRIAL GLOBE. + + BY A MISERABLE WRETCH. + + Roll on, thou ball, roll on! + Through pathless realms of space + Roll on! + What though I 'm in a sorry case? + What though I cannot meet my bills? + What though I suffer toothache's ills? + What though I swallow countless pills? + Never _you_ mind! + Roll on! + + Roll on, thou ball, roll on! + Through seas of inky air + Roll on! + It 's true I 've got no shirts to wear, + It 's true my butcher's bill is due, + It 's true my prospects all look blue,-- + But don't let that unsettle you! + Never _you_ mind! + Roll on! + [_It rolls on._ + + WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT. + + + + + THE NOSE AND THE EYES. + + Between Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose; + The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; + The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, + To whom the said spectacles ought to belong. + + So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause, + With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning, + While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws,-- + So famed for his talent in nicely discerning. + + "In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear + (And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find) + That the Nose has the spectacles always to wear, + Which amounts to possession, time out of mind." + + Then, holding the spectacles up to the court, + "Your lordship observes, they are made with a straddle. + As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, + Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle. + + "Again, would your lordship a moment suppose + ('T is a case that has happened, and may happen again) + That the visage or countenance had _not_ a Nose, + Pray, who _would_, or who _could_, wear spectacles then? + + "On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows, + With a reasoning the court will never condemn, + That the spectacles, plainly, were made for the Nose, + And the Nose was, as plainly, intended for them." + + Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), + He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: + But what were his arguments, few people know, + For the court did not think them equally wise. + + So his lordship decreed, with a grave, solemn tone, + Decisive and clear, without one _if_ or _but_, + That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, + By daylight or candlelight,--Eyes should be _shut_. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + + + + THE VOWELS: AN ENIGMA. + + We are little airy creatures, + All of different voice and features; + One of us in glass is set, + One of us you 'll find in jet, + T'other you may see in tin, + And the fourth a box within; + If the fifth you should pursue, + It can never fly from you. + + JONATHAN SWIFT. + + + + + ALNWICK CASTLE. + + Home of the Percys' high-born race, + Home of their beautiful and brave, + Alike their birth and burial place, + Their cradle and their grave! + Still sternly o'er the castle gate + Their house's Lion stands in state, + As in his proud departed hours; + And warriors frown in stone on high, + And feudal banners "flout the sky" + Above his princely towers. + + A gentle hill its side inclines, + Lovely in England's fadeless green, + To meet the quiet stream which winds + Through this romantic scene + As silently and sweetly still + As when, at evening, on that hill, + While summer's wind blew soft and low, + Seated by gallant Hotspur's side, + His Katherine was a happy bride, + A thousand years ago. + + I wandered through the lofty halls + Trod by the Percys of old fame, + And traced upon the chapel walls + Each high, heroic name, + From him who once his standard set + Where now, o'er mosque and minaret, + Glitter the Sultan's crescent moons, + To him who, when a younger son, + Fought for King George at Lexington, + A major of dragoons. + + That last half-stanza,--it has dashed + From my warm lips the sparkling cup; + The light that o'er my eyebeam flashed, + The power that bore my spirit up + Above this bank-note world, is gone; + And Alnwick's but a market town, + And this, alas! its market day, + And beasts and borderers throng the way; + Oxen and bleating lambs in lots, + Northumbrian boors and plaided Scots, + Men in the coal and cattle line; + From Teviot's bard and hero land, + From royal Berwick's beach of sand, + From Wooller, Morpeth, Hexham, and + Newcastle-upon-Tyne. + + These are not the romantic times + So beautiful in Spenser's rhymes, + So dazzling to the dreaming boy; + Ours are the days of fact, not fable, + Of knights, but not of the round table, + Of Bailie Jarvie, not Rob Roy; + 'T is what "Our President," Monroe, + Has called "the era of good feeling;" + The Highlander, the bitterest foe + To modern laws, has felt their blow, + Consented to be taxed, and vote, + And put on pantaloons and coat, + And leave off cattle-stealing: + Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, + The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, + The Douglas in red herrings; + And noble name and cultured land, + Palace, and park, and vassal band, + Are powerless to the notes of hand + Of Rothschilds or the Barings. + + The age of bargaining, said Burke, + Has come: to-day the turbaned Turk + (Sleep, Richard of the lion heart! + Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) + Is England's friend and fast ally; + The Moslem tramples on the Greek, + And on the Cross and altar-stone, + And Christendom looks tamely on, + And hears the Christian maiden shriek, + And sees the Christian father die; + And not a sabre-blow is given + For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, + By Europe's craven chivalry. + + You'll ask if yet the Percy lives + In the armed pomp of feudal state. + The present representatives + Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate," + Are some half-dozen serving-men + In the drab coat of William Penn; + A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, + And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, + Spoke nature's aristocracy; + And one, half groom, half seneschal, + Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, + From donjon keep to turret wall, + For ten-and-six-pence sterling. + + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. + + + + + THE LATEST DECALOGUE. + + Thou shalt have one God only: who + Would be at the expense of two? + No graven images may be + Worshipped, save in the currency. + Swear not at all; since for thy curse + Thine enemy is none the worse. + At church on Sunday to attend + Will serve to keep the world thy friend: + Honor thy parents; that is, all + From whom advancement may befall. + Thou shalt not kill; but need'st not strive + Officiously to keep alive. + Adultery it is not fit + Or safe (for woman) to commit. + Thou shalt not steal: an empty feat, + When 't is as lucrative to cheat. + Bear not false witness: let the lie + Have time on its own wings to fly. + Thou shalt not covet; but tradition + Approves all forms of competition. + + ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. + + + + + THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN. + + They've got a bran new organ, Sue, + For all their fuss and search; + They 've done just as they said they 'd do, + And fetched it into church. + They 're bound the critter shall be seen, + And on the preacher's right, + They 've hoisted up their new machine + In everybody's sight. + They 've got a chorister and choir, + Ag'in _my_ voice and vote; + For it was never _my_ desire + To praise the Lord by note! + + I've been a sister good an' true, + For five an' thirty year; + I've done what seemed my part to do, + An' prayed my duty clear; + I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, + Just as the preacher read; + And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, + I took the fork an' led! + An' now, their bold, new-fangled ways + Is comin' all about; + And I, right in my latter days, + Am fairly crowded out! + + To-day, the preacher, good old dear, + With tears all in his eyes, + Read--"I can read my title clear + To mansions in the skies."-- + I al'ays liked that blessèd hymn-- + I s'pose I al'ays will; + It somehow gratifies _my_ whim, + In good old Ortonville; + But when that choir got up to sing, + I couldn't catch a word; + They sung the most dog-gonedest thing + A body ever heard! + + Some worldly chaps was standin' near, + An' when I see them grin, + I bid farewell to every fear, + And boldly waded in. + I thought I 'd chase the tune along, + An' tried with all my might; + But though my voice is good an' strong, + I couldn't steer it right. + When they was high, then I was low, + An' also contra'wise; + And I too fast, or they too slow, + To "mansions in the skies." + + An' after every verse, you know, + They played a little tune; + I didn't understand, an' so + I started in too soon. + I pitched it purty middlin' high, + And fetched a lusty tone, + But O, alas! I found that I + Was singin' there alone! + They laughed a little, I am told; + But I had done my best; + And not a wave of trouble rolled + Across my peaceful breast. + + And Sister Brown,--I could but look,-- + She sits right front of me; + She never was no singin' book, + An' never went to be; + But then she al'ays tried to do + The best she could, she said; + She understood the time, right through, + An' kep' it with her head; + But when she tried this mornin', O, + I had to laugh, or cough! + It kep' her head a bobbin' so, + It e'en a'most come off! + + An' Deacon Tubbs,--he all broke down, + As one might well suppose; + He took one look at Sister Brown, + And meekly scratched his nose. + He looked his hymn-book through and through, + And laid it on the seat, + And then a pensive sigh he drew, + And looked completely beat. + An' when they took another bout, + He didn't even rise; + But drawed his red bandanner out, + An' wiped his weepin' eyes. + + I've been a sister, good an' true, + For five an' thirty year; + I've done what seemed my part to do, + An' prayed my duty clear; + But death will stop my voice, I know, + For he is on my track; + And some day, I 'll to meetin' go, + And nevermore come back. + And when the folks get up to sing-- + Whene'er that time shall be-- + I do not want no _patent_ thing + A squealin' over me! + + WILL CARLETON. + + + + + TONIS AD RESTO MARE. + + AIR: "_O Mary, heave a sigh for me_." + + O mare æva si forme; + Forme ure tonitru; + Iambicum as amandum, + Olet Hymen promptu; + Mihi is vetas an ne se, + As humano erebi; + Olet mecum marito te, + Or _eta beta pi_. + + Alas, plano more meretrix, + Mi ardor vel uno; + Inferiam ure artis base, + Tolerat me urebo. + Ah me ve ara silicet, + Vi laudu vimin thus? + Hiatus as arandum sex-- + Illuc Ionicus. + + Heu sed heu vix en imago, + My missis mare sta; + O cantu redit in mihi + Hibernas arida? + A veri vafer heri si, + Mihi resolves indu: + Totius olet Hymen cum-- + Accepta tonitru. + + JONATHAN SWIFT. + + + + + THE IRISHMAN AND THE LADY. + + There was a lady lived at Leith, + A lady very stylish, man; + And yet, in spite of all her teeth, + She fell in love with an Irishman-- + A nasty, ugly Irishman, + A wild, tremendous Irishman, + A tearing, swearing, thumping, bumping, ranting, + roaring Irishman. + + His face was no ways beautiful, + For with small-pox 't was scarred across; + And the shoulders of the ugly dog + Were almost double a yard across. + Oh, the lump of an Irishman, + The whiskey-devouring Irishman, + The great he-rogue with his wonderful brogue-- + the fighting, rioting Irishman. + + One of his eyes was bottle-green, + And the other eye was out, my dear; + And the calves of his wicked-looking legs + Were more than two feet about, my dear. + Oh, the great big Irishman, + The rattling, battling Irishman-- + The stamping, ramping, swaggering, staggering, leathering + swash of an Irishman. + + He took so much of Lundy-foot + That he used to snort and snuffle--O! + And in shape and size the fellow's neck + Was as bad as the neck of a buffalo. + Oh, the horrible Irishman, + The thundering, blundering Irishman-- + The slashing, dashing, smashing, lashing, thrashing, + hashing Irishman. + + His name was a terrible name, indeed, + Being Timothy Thady Mulligan; + And whenever he emptied his tumbler of punch + He'd not rest till he filled it full again. + The boozing, bruising Irishman, + The 'toxicated Irishman-- + The whiskey, frisky, rummy, gummy, brandy, + no dandy Irishman. + + This was the lad the lady loved, + Like all the girls of quality; + And he broke the skulls of the men of Leith, + Just by the way of jollity. + Oh, the leathering Irishman, + The barbarous, savage Irishman-- + The hearts of the maids, and the gentlemen's heads, were bothered + I'm sure by this Irishman. + + WILLIAM MAGINN. + + + + + THE RECRUIT. + + Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: + "Bedad, yer a bad 'un! + Now turn out yer toes! + Yer belt is unhookit, + Yer cap is on crookit, + Ye may not be dhrunk, + But, be jabers, ye look it! + Wan--two! + Wan--two! + Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through! + Wan--two!-- + Time! Mark! + Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!" + + Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: + "A saint it ud sadden + To dhrill such a mug! + Eyes front!--ye baboon, ye!-- + Chin up!--ye gossoon, ye! + Ye've jaws like a goat-- + Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye! + Wan--two! + Wan--two! + Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you! + Wan--two!-- + Time! Mark! + Ye've eyes like a bat!--can ye see in the dark?" + + Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: + "Yer figger wants padd'n'-- + Sure, man, ye've no shape! + Behind ye yer shoulders + Stick out like two bowlders; + Yer shins is as thin + As a pair of pen-holders! + Wan--two! + Wan--two! + Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew! + Wan--two!-- + Time! Mark! + I'm dhry as a dog--I can't shpake but I bark!" + + Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: + "Me heart it ud gladden + To blacken yer eye. + Ye're gettin' too bold, ye + Compel me to scold ye,-- + 'Tis halt! that I say,-- + Will ye heed what I told ye? + Wan--two! + Wan--two! + Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru! + Wan--two!-- + Time! Mark! + What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!" + + Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden: + "I'll not stay a gadd'n + Wid dagoes like you! + I'll travel no farther, + I'm dyin' for--wather;-- + Come on, if ye like,-- + Can ye loan me a quather? + Ya-as, you, + What,--two? + And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! + Whurroo! + You'll do! + Whist! Mark! + The Rigiment's flatthered to own ye, me spark!" + + ROBERT WILLIAM CHAMBERS. + + + + + RITTER HUGO. + + Der noble Ritter Hugo + Von Schwillensanfenstein + Rode out mit shpeer und helmet, + Und he coom to de panks of de Rhine. + + Und oop dere rose a meermaid, + Vot hadn't got nodings on, + Und she say, "O, Ritter Hugo, + Vare you goes mit yourself alone?" + + Und he says, "I ride in de creen-wood, + Mit helmet and mit shpeer, + Till I cooms into ein Gasthaus, + Und dere I drinks some peer." + + Und den outshpoke de maiden, + Vot hadn't got nodings on, + "I ton't dink mooch of beebles + Dat goes mit demselfs alone. + + "You'd petter come down in de wasser, + Vare dere's heaps of dings to see, + Und hafe a shplendid dinner, + Und trafel along mit me. + + "Dare you sees de fish a schwimmin, + Und you catches dem efery one." + So sang dis wasser maiden, + Vot hadn't got nodings on. + + "Dare is drunks all full mit money, + In ships dat vent down of old; + Und you helpsh yourself, by dunder! + To shimmerin crowns of gold. + + "Shoost look at dese shpoons und vatches! + Shoost look at dese diamond rings! + Come down und fill your bockets, + Und I'll kiss you like eferydings! + + "Vot you vantsh mit your schnapps und your lager? + Coom down into der Rhine! + Dere ish pottles der Kaiser Charlemagne, + Vonce filled mit gold-red vine!" + + _Dat_ fetched him,--he shtood all shpell-pound, + She pulled his coat-tails down, + She drawed him under de wasser, + Dis maid mit nodings on. + + CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. + + + + + HANS BREITMANN'S PARTY. + + Hans Breitmann gife a barty, + Dey had biano-blayin; + I felled in lofe mit a Merican frau, + Her name was Madilda Yane. + She had haar as prown ash a pretzel, + Her eyes vas himmel-plue, + Und ven dey looket indo mine, + Dey shplit mine heart in two. + + Hans Breitmann gife a barty, + I vent dere you'll pe pound. + I valtzet mit Madilda Yane + Und vent shpinnen round und round. + De pootiest Frauelein in de house, + She vayed 'pout dwo hoondred pound, + Und efery dime she gife a shoomp + She make de vindows sound. + + Hans Breitmann gife a barty; + I dells you it cost him dear. + Dey rolled in more as sefen kecks + Of foost-rate Lager Beer. + Und venefer dey knocks de shpicket in + De Deutschers gifes a cheer. + I dinks dat so vine a barty + Nefer coom to a het dis year. + + Hans Breitmann gife a barty; + Dere all vas Souse und Brouse. + Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany + Did make demselfs to house; + Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, + De Bratwurst und Braten vine, + Und vash der Abendessen down + Mit four parrels of Neckarwein. + + Hans Breitmann gife a barty; + We all cot troonk ash bigs. + I poot mine mout to a parrel of bier, + Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. + Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane + Und she shlog me on de kop, + Und de gompany fited mit daple-lecks + Dill de coonshtable made oos shtop. + + Hans Breitmann gife a barty-- + Where ish dat barty now? + Where ish de lofely golden cloud + Dat float on de moundain's prow? + Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern-- + De shtar of de shpirit's light? + All goned afay mit de Lager Beer-- + Afay in de Ewigkeit! + + CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. + + + + + LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. + + I haf von funny leedle poy, + Vot gomes schust to mine knee; + Der queerest chap, der createst rogue, + As efer you dit see. + He runs und schumps und schmashes dings + In all barts off der house; + But vot off dot? he vas mine son, + Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. + + He get der measles und der mumbs, + Und efferyding dot's oudt; + He sbills mine glass off lager-bier, + Poots snoof indo mine kraut; + He fills mine pipe mit Limberg cheese-- + Dot vas der roughest chouse; + I'd take dot from no oder poy + But little Yawcob Strauss. + + He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum + Und cuts mine cane in two + To make der schticks to beat it mit-- + Mine cracious! dot vas drue. + I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart, + He kicks oup sooch a touse; + But neffer mind--der poys vas few + Like dot young Yawcob Strauss. + + He ask me questions sooch as dose: + Who baints mine nose so red? + Who vas it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt + Vrom der hair upon mine hed? + Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp + Vene'er der glim I douse; + How gan I all dose dings eggsblain + To dot schmall Yawcob Strauss? + + I somedimes dink I shall go vild + Mit sooch a grazy poy, + Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest, + Und beaceful dimes enshoy; + But ven he vas ashleep in ped, + So guiet as a mouse, + I brays der Lord, "Dake anydings, + But leaf dot Yawcob Strauss." + + CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. + + + + + DOT LONG-HANDLED DIPPER. + + Der boet may sing off "Der Oldt Oaken Bookit," + Und in schveetest langvitch its virtues may tell; + Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it, + Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose vrom der vell. + I don'd take some schtock in dot manner off trinking! + It vas too mooch like horses und cattle, I dink. + Dhere vas more sadisfactions, in my vay of dinking, + Mit dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink. + + "How schveet from der green mossy brim to receive it"-- + Dot vould soundt pooty goot--eef it only vas drue-- + Der vater schbills ofer, you petter pelieve it! + Und runs down your schleeve and schlops into your shoe. + Dhen down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle, + Und makes your eyes vater so gvick as a vink. + I dells you dot bookit don'd hold a candle + To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink. + + How nice it musd been in der rough vinter veddher, + Vhen it settles righdt down to a cold, freezing rain, + To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feddher, + Und findt dot der bookit vas proke off der chain. + Dhen down in der vell mit a pole you go fishing, + Vhile indo your back cooms an oldt-fashioned kink; + I pet you mine life all der time you vas vishing + For dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink. + + How handy it vas schust to turn on der faucet, + Vhere der vater flows down vrom der schpring on der hill! + I schust vas der schap dot vill alvays indorse it, + Oxsbecially nighds vhen der veddher vas chill. + Vhen Pfeiffer's oldt vell mit der schnow vas all cofered, + Und he vades droo der schnow drift to get him a trink, + I schlips vrom der hearth vhere der schiltren vas hofered, + To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink. + + Dhen gife oup der bookits und pails to der horses; + Off mikerobes und tadpoles schust gif dhem dheir fill! + Gife me dot pure vater dot all der time courses + Droo dhose pipes dot run down vrom der schpring on der hill. + Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I gets rich in, + Und frendts all aroundt me dheir glasses schall clink, + I schtill vill rememper dot oldt coundtry kitchen, + Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs by der sink. + + CHARLES FOLLEN ADAMS. + + + + + THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. + + The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair! + Bishop and abbot and prior were there; + Many a monk, and many a friar, + Many a knight, and many a squire, + With a great many more of lesser degree,-- + In sooth, a goodly company; + And they served the Lord Primate on bended knee. + Never, I ween, + Was a prouder seen, + Read of in books, or dreamt of in dreams, + Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of Rheims! + In and out, + Through the motley rout, + That little Jackdaw kept hopping about: + Here and there, + Like a dog in a fair, + Over comfits and cates, + And dishes and plates, + Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, + Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all. + With a saucy air, + He perched on the chair + Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal sat, + In the great Lord Cardinal's great red hat; + And he peered in the face + Of his Lordship's Grace, + With a satisfied look, as if he would say, + "WE TWO are the greatest folks here to-day!" + And the priests, with awe, + As such freaks they saw, + Said, "The Devil must be in that Little Jackdaw!" + The feast was over, the board was cleared, + The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, + And six little Singing-boys,--dear little souls + In nice clean faces, and nice white stoles,-- + Came, in order due, + Two by two, + Marching that grand refectory through! + A nice little boy held a golden ewer, + Embossed and filled with water, as pure + As any that flows between Rheims and Namur. + Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch + In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. + Two nice little boys, rather more grown, + Carried lavender-water and eau-de-Cologne; + And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap, + Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope! + One little boy more + A napkin bore, + Of the best white diaper, fringed with pink, + And a cardinal's hat marked in "permanent ink." + + The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight + Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; + From his finger he draws + His costly turquoise: + And, not thinking at all about little Jackdaws, + Deposits it straight + By the side of his plate, + While the nice little boys on his Eminence wait: + Till, when nobody's dreaming of any such thing, + That little Jackdaw hops off with the ring! + + * * * * * + + There's a cry and a shout, + And a deuce of a rout, + And nobody seems to know what they're about, + But the monks have their pockets all turned inside out; + The friars are kneeling, + And hunting and feeling + The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and the ceiling. + The Cardinal drew + Off each plum-colored shoe, + And left his red stockings exposed to the view; + He peeps, and he feels + In the toes and the heels. + They turn up the dishes,--they turn up the plates,-- + They take up the poker and poke out the grates, + --They turn up the rugs, + They examine the mugs; + But, no!--no such thing,-- + They can't find THE RING! + And the Abbot declared that "when nobody twigged it, + Some rascal or other had popped in and prigged it!" + + The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, + He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! + In holy anger and pious grief + He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! + He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; + From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; + He cursed him in sleeping, that every night + He should dream of the Devil, and wake in a fright. + He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, + He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; + He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; + He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; + He cursed him living, he cursed him dying!-- + Never was heard such a terrible curse! + But what gave rise + To no little surprise, + Nobody seemed one penny the worse! + + The day was gone, + The night came on, + The monks and the friars they searched till dawn; + When the sacristan saw, + On crumpled claw, + Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw! + No longer gay, + As on yesterday; + His feathers all seemed to be turned the wrong way;-- + His pinions drooped,--he could hardly stand,-- + His head was as bald as the palm of your hand; + His eye so dim, + So wasted each limb, + That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, "THAT'S HIM!-- + That's the scamp that has done this scandalous thing, + That's the thief that has got my Lord Cardinal's Ring!" + The poor little Jackdaw, + When the monks he saw, + Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; + And turned his bald head as much as to say, + "Pray be so good as to walk this way!" + Slower and slower + He limped on before, + Till they came to the back of the belfry-door, + Where the first thing they saw, + Midst the sticks and the straw, + Was the RING, in the nest of that little Jackdaw! + + Then the great Lord Cardinal called for his book, + And off that terrible curse he took: + The mute expression + Served in lieu of confession, + And, being thus coupled with full restitution, + The Jackdaw got plenary absolution! + --When those words were heard, + That poor little bird + Was so changed in a moment, 't was really absurd: + He grew sleek and fat; + In addition to that, + A fresh crop of feathers came thick as a mat! + His tail waggled more + Even than before; + But no longer it wagged with an impudent air, + No longer he perched on the Cardinal's chair: + He hopped now about + With a gait devout; + At Matins, at Vespers, he never was out; + And, so far from any more pilfering deeds, + He always seemed telling the Confessor's beads. + If any one lied, or if any one swore, + Or slumbered in prayer-time and happened to snore, + That good Jackdaw + Would give a great "Caw!" + As much as to say, "Don't do so any more!" + While many remarked, as his manners they saw, + That they "never had known such a pious Jackdaw!" + He long lived the pride + Of that country side, + And at last in the odor of sanctity died; + When, as words were too faint + His merits to paint, + The Conclave determined to make him a Saint. + And on newly made Saints and Popes, as you know, + It is the custom of Rome new names to bestow, + So they canonized him by the name of Jem Crow! + + RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM. + (_Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq._) + + + + + AMERICA. + + FROM "A FABLE FOR CRITICS." + + There are truths you Americans need to be told, + And it never'll refute them to swagger and scold; + John Bull, looking o'er the Atlantic, in choler, + At your aptness for trade, says you worship the dollar; + But to scorn i-dollar-try's what very few do, + And John goes to that church as often as you do. + No matter what John says, don't try to outcrow him, + 'Tis enough to go quietly on and outgrow him; + Like most fathers, Bull hates to see Number One + Displacing himself in the mind of his son, + And detests the same faults in himself he'd neglected + When he sees them again in his child's glass reflected; + To love one another you're too like by half, + If he is a bull, you're a pretty stout calf, + And tear your own pasture for naught but to show + What a nice pair of horns you're beginning to grow. + + There are one or two things I should just like to hint, + For you don't often get the truth told you in print; + The most of you (this is what strikes all beholders) + Have a mental and physical stoop in the shoulders; + Though you ought to be free as the winds and the waves, + You've the gait and the manner of runaway slaves; + Though you brag of your New World, you don't half believe in it; + And as much of the Old as is possible weave in it; + Your goddess of freedom, a tight, buxom girl, + With lips like a cherry and teeth like a pearl, + With eyes bold as Herë's, and hair floating free, + And full of the sun as the spray of the sea, + Who can sing at a husking or romp at a shearing, + Who can trip through the forests alone without fearing, + Who can drive home the cows with a song through the grass, + Keeps glancing aside into Europe's cracked glass, + Hides her red hands in gloves, pinches up her lithe waist, + And makes herself wretched with transmarine taste; + She loses her fresh country charm when she takes + Any mirror except her own rivers and lakes. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + + + WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS.[6] + + FROM "THE BIGLOW PAPERS," NO. III. + + Guvener B. is a sensible man; + He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks; + He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can, + An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;-- + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B. + + My! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du? + We can't never choose him o' course,--thet's flat; + Guess we shall hev to come round, (don't you?) + An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez he wunt vote for Guvener B. + + Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man: + He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf; + But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,-- + He's ben true to _one_ party,--an' thet is himself;-- + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote for Gineral C. + + Gineral C, has gone in fer the war; + He don't vally principle more'n an old cud; + Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer, + But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood? + So John P. + Robinson he + Sez he shall vote for Gineral C. + + We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village, + With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut ain't. + We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage, + An' thet eppylets worn't the best mark of a saint; + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez this kind o' thing 's an exploded idee. + + The side of our country must ollers be took, + An' President Polk, you know, _he_ is our country; + An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book + Puts the _debit_ to him, an' to us the _per contry_; + An' John P. + Robinson he + Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T. + + Parson Wilbur he calls all these argimunts lies; + Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest _fee_, _faw_, _fum_: + And thet all this big talk of our destinies + Is half ov it ign'ance, an' t' other half rum; + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez it ain't no sech thing; an', of course, so must we. + + Parson Wilbur sez _he_ never heerd in his life + Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swallertail coats, + An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife, + To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes; + But John P. + Robinson he + Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee. + + Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us + The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,-- + God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers, + To drive the world's team wen it gits in a slough; + Fer John P. + Robinson he + Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out + Gee! + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + +[6] Written at the time of the Mexican war, which was strongly opposed +by the Anti-slavery party as being unnecessary and wrong. + + + + + SWELL'S SOLILOQUY. + + I don't appwove this hawid waw; + Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes; + And guns and dwums are such a baw,-- + Why don't the pawties compwamise? + + Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms; + But why must all the vulgah cwowd + Pawsist in spawting unifawms, + In cullahs so extwemely loud? + + And then the ladies, pwecious deahs!-- + I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow; + Bai Jove! I weally have my feahs + They wathah like the hawid wow! + + To heah the chawming cweatures talk, + Like patwons of the bloody wing, + Of waw and all its dawty wawk,-- + It doesn't seem a pwappah thing! + + I called at Mrs. Gweene's last night, + To see her niece, Miss Mawy Hertz, + And found her making--cwushing sight!-- + The weddest kind of flannel shirts! + + Of cawce, I wose, and sought the daw, + With fawyah flashing from my eyes! + I can't appwove this hawid waw;-- + Why don't the pawties compwamise? + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + THE COMPLIMENT. + + Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest, + And other raiment fair to view, + I stood before my sweetheart Sue-- + The charming creature I love best. + "Tell me and does my costume suit?" + I asked that apple of my eye-- + And then the charmer made reply, + "Oh, yes, you _do_ look awful cute!" + Although I frequently had heard + My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, + I must confess I did not know + The meaning of that favorite word. + + But presently at window side + We stood and watched the passing throng, + And soon a donkey passed along + With ears like wings extended wide. + And gazing at the doleful brute + My sweetheart gave a merry cry-- + I quote her language with a sigh-- + "O Charlie, ain't he awful cute?" + + EUGENE FIELD. + + + + + THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER. + + Many a long, long year ago, + Nantucket skippers had a plan + Of finding out, though "lying low," + How near New York their schooners ran. + + They greased the lead before it fell, + And then by sounding through the night, + Knowing the soil that stuck so well, + They always guessed their reckoning right. + + A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, + Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, + And so below he'd "douse the glim,"-- + After, of course, his "something hot." + + Snug in his berth at eight o'clock, + This ancient skipper might be found; + No matter how his craft would rock, + He slept,--for skippers' naps are sound. + + The watch on deck would now and then + Run down and wake him, with the lead; + He'd up, and taste, and tell the men + How many miles they went ahead. + + One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch, + A curious wag,--the pedler's son; + And so he mused, (the wanton wretch!) + "To-night I'll have a grain of fun. + + "We're all a set of stupid fools, + To think the skipper knows, by tasting, + What ground he's on; Nantucket schools + Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting!" + + And so he took the well-greased lead, + And rubbed it o'er a box of earth + That stood on deck,--a parsnip-bed,-- + And then he sought the skipper's berth. + + "Where are we now, sir? Please to taste." + The skipper yawned, put out his tongue, + Opened his eyes in wondrous haste, + And then upon the floor he sprung! + + The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, + Hauled on his boots, and roared to Marden, + "Nantucket's sunk, and here we are + Right over old Marm Hackett's garden!" + + JAMES THOMAS FIELDS. + + [Illustration: OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + _After a photogravure from life-photograph._] + + + + + THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; + OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE. + + A LOGICAL STORY. + + Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, + That was built in such a logical way + It ran a hundred years to a day, + And then of a sudden, it--ah, but stay, + I'll tell you what happened without delay, + Scaring the parson into fits, + Frightening people out of their wits,-- + Have you ever heard of that, I say? + + Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. + _Georgius Secundus_ was then alive,-- + Snuffy old drone from the German hive. + That was the year when Lisbon-town + Saw the earth open and gulp her down, + And Braddock's army was done so brown, + Left without a scalp to its crown. + It was on the terrible Earthquake-day + That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay. + + Now in the building of chaises, I tell you what, + There is always _somewhere_ a weakest spot,-- + In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, + In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, + In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,--lurking still, + Find it somewhere you must and will,-- + Above or below, or within or without,-- + And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, + A chaise _breaks down_, but doesn't wear _out_. + But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, + With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell _yeou_,") + He would build one shay to beat the taown + 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; + It should be so built that it _couldn't_ break daown; + --"Fur," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain + Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; + 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, + Is only jest + T' make that place uz strong uz the rest." + + So the Deacon inquired of the village folk + Where he could find the strongest oak, + That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- + That was for spokes and door and sills; + He sent for lancewood to make the thills; + The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; + The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, + But lasts like iron for things like these; + The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-- + Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em, + Never an axe had seen their chips, + And the wedges flew from between their lips, + Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; + Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, + Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, + Steel of the finest, bright and blue; + Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; + Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide + Found in the pit when the tanner died. + That was the way he "put her through." + "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!" + Do! I tell you, I rather guess + She was a wonder, and nothing less! + Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, + Deacon and deaconess dropped away, + Children and grandchildren,--where were they? + But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay + As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day! + + EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;--it came and found + The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. + Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-- + "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. + Eighteen hundred and twenty came;-- + Running as usual; much the same. + Thirty and forty at last arrive, + And then came fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. + + Little of all we value here + Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year + Without both feeling and looking queer. + In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, + So far as I know, but a tree and truth. + (This is a moral that runs at large; + Take it.--You're welcome.--No extra charge.) + + FIRST OF NOVEMBER,--the Earthquake-day.-- + There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, + A general flavor of mild decay, + But nothing local as one may say. + There couldn't be,--for the Deacon's art + Had made it so like in every part + That there wasn't a chance for one to start, + For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, + And the floor was just as strong as the sills, + And the panels just as strong as the floor, + And the whippletree neither less nor more, + And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, + And spring and axle and hub _encore_. + And yet, _as a whole_, it is past a doubt + In another hour it will be _worn out_! + + First of November, 'Fifty-five! + This morning the parson takes a drive. + Now, small boys, get out of the way! + Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, + Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. + "Huddup!" said the parson.--Off went they. + The parson was working his Sunday's text,-- + Had got to _fifthly_, and stopped perplexed + At what the--Moses--was coming next. + All at once the horse stood still, + Close by the meetin'-house on the hill. + --First a shiver and then a thrill, + Then something decidedly like a spill,-- + And the parson was sitting upon a rock, + At half past nine by the meetin'-house clock,-- + Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! + --What do you think the parson found, + When he got up and stared around? + The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, + As if it had been to the mill and ground! + You see, of course, if you're not a dunce, + How it went to pieces all at once,-- + All at once, and nothing first,-- + Just as bubbles do when they burst. + + End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. + Logic is logic. That's all I say. + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + + + GRIGGSBY'S STATION. + + Pap's got his patent right, and rich as all creation; + But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before? + Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- + Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! + + The likes of us a-livin' here! It's just a mortal pity + To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, + And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city! city!-- + And nothin' but the city all around us ever' wheres! + + Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple, + And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree! + And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people, + And none that neighbors with us, or we want to go and see! + + Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- + Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, + And ever' neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation-- + Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! + + I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit and bilin' + A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through; + And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin' + Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do! + + I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin'; + And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, + And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', + Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land. + + Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's station-- + Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' anymore; + Shet away safe in the woods around the old location-- + Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! + + I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin', + And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, + And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin', + And smile as I have saw her 'fore she put her mournin' on. + + And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty-- + Where John our oldest boy, he was tuk and buried--for + His own sake and Katy's--and I want to cry with Katy + As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War. + + What's all this grand life and high situation, + And nary pink nor hollyhawk bloomin' at the door?-- + Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station-- + Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore! + + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. + + + + + HE'D HAD NO SHOW. + + Joe Beall 'ud set upon a keg + Down to the groc'ry store, an' throw + One leg right over t'other leg + An' swear he'd never had no show, + "O, no," said Joe, + "Hain't hed no show," + Then shift his quid to t'other jaw, + An' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw, an' chaw. + + He said he got no start in life, + Didn't get no money from his dad, + The washin' took in by his wife + Earned all the funds he ever had. + "O, no," said Joe, + "Hain't hed no show," + An' then he'd look up at the clock + An' talk, an' talk, an' talk, an' talk. + + "I've waited twenty year--let's see-- + Yes, twenty-four, an' never struck, + Altho, I've sot roun' patiently, + The fust tarnation streak er luck. + O, no," said Joe, + "Hain't hed no show," + Then stuck like mucilage to the spot, + An' sot, an' sot, an' sot, an' sot. + + "I've come down regerlar every day + For twenty years to Piper's store. + I've sot here in a patient way, + Say, hain't I, Piper?" Piper swore. + "I tell ye, Joe, + Yer hain't no show; + Yer too dern patient"--ther hull raft + Jest laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed, an' laffed. + + SAM WALTER FOSS. + + + + + THE MYSTIFIED QUAKER IN NEW YORK. + + RESPECTED WIFE: By these few lines my whereabouts + thee'll learn: + Moreover, I impart to thee my serious concern. + The language of this people is a riddle unto me; + For words with them are figments of a reckless mockery. + For instance, as I left the cars, a youth with smutty face + Said, "Shine?" "Nay I'll not shine," I said, + "except with inward grace." + "What's inward grace?" said this young Turk; + "A liquid or a paste? Hi, daddy, how does the old thing work?" + I then said to a jehu, whose breath suggested gin, + "Friend, can thee take me to a reputable inn?" + But this man's gross irrelevance I shall not soon forget; + Instead of simply Yea or Nay, he gruffly said, "You bet!" + "Nay, nay, I will not bet," I said, "for that would be a sin. + Why dost not answer plainly? can thee take me to an inn? + Thy vehicle is doubtless made to carry folks about in; + Why then prevaricate?" Said he, "Aha! well now, you're shoutin'!" + "I did not shout," I said, "my friend; surely my speech is mild: + But thine (I grieve to say it) with falsehood is defiled. + Thee ought to be admonished to rid thy heart of guile." + "Look here, my lovely moke," said he, "you sling on too much style." + "I've had these plain drab garments twenty years or more," said I; + "And when thee says I 'sling on style' thee tells a wilful lie." + With that he pranced about as tho' a bee were in his bonnet, + And with hostile demonstrations inquired if I was "on it." + "On what? Till thee explain, I cannot tell," I said; + But he swore that something was "too thin," moreover it was "played." + But all his antics were surpassed in wild absurdity + By threats, profanely emphasized, to "put a head" on me. + "No son of Belial," I said, "that miracle can do." + With that he fell upon me with blows and curses too; + But failed to work that miracle, if such was his design; + Instead of putting on a head, he strove to smite off mine. + Thee knows that I profess the peaceful precepts of our sect, + But this man's acts worked on me to a curious effect; + And when he knocked my broad-brim off, and said, "How's that for high!" + It roused the Adam in me, and I smote him hip and thigh. + This was a signal for the crowd, for calumny broke loose; + They said I'd "snatched him bald-headed," and likewise + "cooked his goose." + But yet I do affirm, that I had not pulled his hair; + Nor had I cooked his poultry, for he had no poultry there. + They called me "bully boy," though I have seen full three-score year; + And they said that I was "lightning when I got upon my ear." + And when I asked if lightning climbed its ear, and dressed in drab, + "You know how 'tis yourself," said one insolent young blab. + So I left them in disgust: plain-spoken men like me + With such perverters of our tongue can have no unity. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + TO THE "SEXTANT." + + O Sextant of the meetin house, wich sweeps + And dusts, or is supposed to! and makes fires, + And lites the gass, and sumtimes leaves a screw loose, + in wich case it smells orful, worse than lamp ile; + And wrings the Bel and toles it when men dyes, + to the grief of survivin pardners, and sweeps paths + And for the servusses gets $100 per annum, + Wich them that thinks deer, let 'em try it; + Gettin up before starlite in all wethers and + Kindlin fires when the wether is as cold + As zero, and like as not green wood for kindlin, + i wouldn't be hired to do it for no sum. + But O Sextant! there are 1 kermoddity + Wich's more than gold, wich doant cost nothin, + Worth more than anything except the sole of man! + i mean pewer Are, Sextant, i mean pewer are! + O it is plenty out of doors, so plenty it doant no + What on airth to dew with itself, but flys about + Scatterin leaves and bloin off men's hatts! + in short, it's jest as "fre as are" out dores, + But O Sextant, in our church its scarce as buty, + Scarce as bank bills, when agints begs for mischuns, + Wich some say is purty offten (taint nothin to me, + wat I give aint nothin to nobody) but O Sextant + U shet 500 men, wimmin, and children, + Speshally the latter, up in a tite place, + And every 1 on em brethes in and out, and out and in, + Say 50 times a minnit, or 1 million and a half breths an our. + Now how long will a church ful of are last at that rate, + I ask you--say 15 minits--and then wats to be did? + Why then they must brethe it all over agin, + And then agin, and so on till each has took it down + At least 10 times, and let it up agin, and wats more + The same individoal don't have the priviledge + of brethin his own are, and no ones else, + Each one must take whatever comes to him. + O Sextant, doant you no our lungs is bellusses, + To blo the fier of life, and keep it from goin out; + and how can bellusses blo without wind + And aint wind _are_? i put it to your conschens. + Are is the same to us as milk to babies, + Or water is to fish, or pendlums to clox, + Or roots and airbs unto an injun doctor, + Or little pills unto an omepath, + Or boys to gurls. Are is for us to brethe, + What signifies who preaches if i cant brethe? + Wats Pol? Wats Pollus to sinners who are ded? + Ded for want of breth, why Sextant, when we dy + Its only coz we can't brethe no more, thats all. + And now O Sextant, let me beg of you + To let a little are into our church. + (Pewer are is sertain proper for the pews) + And do it weak days, and Sundays tew, + It aint much trouble, only make a hole + And the are will come of itself; + (It luvs to come in where it can git warm) + And O how it will rouze the people up, + And sperrit up the preacher, and stop garps, + And yawns and figgits, as effectooal + As wind on the dry boans the Profit tells of. + + ARABELLA M. WILLSON. + + + + + JIM BLUDSO OF THE PRAIRIE BELLE. + + PIKE COUNTY BALLADS. + + Wall, no! I can't tell whar he lives, + Becase he don't live, you see; + Leastways, he's got out of the habit + Of livin' like you and me. + Whar have you been for the last three year + That you haven't heard folks tell + How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks + The night of the Prairie Belle? + + He weren't no saint,--them engineers + Is all pretty much alike,-- + One wife in Natchez-under-the-Hill + And another one here, in Pike; + A keerless man in his talk was Jim, + And an awkward hand in a row, + But he never flunked, and he never lied,-- + I reckon he never knowed how. + + And this was all the religion he had,-- + To treat his engine well; + Never be passed on the river; + To mind the pilot's bell; + And if ever the Prairie Belle took fire,-- + A thousand times he swore + He 'd hold her nozzle agin the bank + Till the last soul got ashore. + + All boats has their day on the Mississip, + And her day come at last,-- + The Movastar was a better boat, + But the Belle she _wouldn't_ be passed. + And so she come tearin' along that night-- + The oldest craft on the line-- + With a nigger squat on her safety-valve, + And her furnace crammed, rosin and pine. + + The fire bust out as she clared the bar, + And burnt a hole in the night, + And quick as a flash she turned, and made + For that willer-bank on the right. + There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out, + Over all the infernal roar, + "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank + Till the last galoot 's ashore." + + Through the hot, black breath of the burnin' boat + Jim Bludso's voice was heard, + And they all had trust in his cussedness, + And knowed he would keep his word. + And, sure 's you're born, they all got off + Afore the smokestacks fell,-- + And Bludso's ghost went up alone + In the smoke of the Prairie Belle. + + He weren't no saint,--but at jedgment + I'd run my chance with Jim, + 'Longside of some pious gentlemen + That wouldn't shook hands with him. + He seen his duty, a dead-sure thing,-- + And went for it thar and then; + And Christ ain't a going to be too hard + On a man that died for men. + + JOHN HAY. + + + + + TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL. + + A GEOLOGICAL ADDRESS. + + "A human skull has been found in California, in the + pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant, not only of + the earliest pioneer of this State, but the oldest known + human being.... The skull was found in a shaft one hundred + and fifty feet deep, two miles from Angel's, in Calaveras + County, by a miner named James Matson, who gave it to Mr. + Scribner, a merchant, and he gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent + it to the State Geological Survey.... The published volume + of the State Survey on the Geology of California states that + man existed contemporaneously with the mastodon, but this + fossil proves that he was here before the mastodon was known + to exist."--_Daily Paper._ + + "Speak, O man, less recent! Fragmentary fossil! + Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, + Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum + Of Volcanic tufa! + + "Older than the beasts, the oldest Palæotherium; + Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogamia; + Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions + Of earth's epidermis! + + "Eo--Mio--Plio--whatsoe'er the 'cene' was + That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder,-- + Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches,-- + Tell us thy strange story! + + "Or has the Professor slightly antedated + By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, + Giving thee an air that's somewhat better fitted + For cold-blooded creatures? + + "Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest, + When above thy head the stately Sigillaria + Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant + Carboniferous epoch? + + "Tell us of that scene,--the dim and watery woodland, + Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, + Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club-mosses, + Lycopodiacea-- + + "When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, + And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, + While from time to time above thee flew and circled + Cheerful Pterodactyls. + + "Tell us of thy food,--those half-marine refections, + Crinoids on the shell, and Brachipods _au naturel_,-- + Cuttle-fish to which the _pieuvre_ of Victor Hugo + Seems a periwinkle. + + "Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth's creation,-- + Solitary fragment of remains organic! + Tell the wondrous secrets of thy past existence,-- + Speak! thou oldest primate!" + + Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla + And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, + With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, + Ground the teeth together; + + And from that imperfect dental exhibition, + Stained with expressed juices of the weed Nicotian, + Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs + Of expectoration: + + "Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted + Falling down a shaft, in Calaveras County, + But I'd take it kindly if you'd send the pieces + Home to old Missouri!" + + BRET HARTE. + + + + + LITTLE BREECHES. + + A PIKE COUNTY VIEW OF SPECIAL PROVIDENCE. + + I don't go much on religion, + I never ain't had no show; + But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, + On the handful o' things I know. + I don't pan out on the prophets + And free-will, and that sort o' thing,-- + But believe in God and the angels, + Ever sence one night last spring. + + I come into town with some turnips, + And my little Gabe come along,-- + No four-year-old in the county + Could beat him for pretty and strong, + Peart and chipper and sassy, + Always ready to swear and fight,-- + And I'd learnt him ter chaw terbacker, + Jest to keep his milk-teeth white. + + The snow come down like a blanket + As I passed by Taggart's store; + I went in for a jug of molasses + And left the team at the door. + They scared at something and started,-- + I heard one little squall, + And hell-to-split over the prairie + Went team, Little Breeches and all. + + Hell-to-split over the prairie! + I was almost froze with skeer; + But we rousted up some torches, + And sarched for 'em far and near. + At last we struck hosses and wagon, + Snowed under a soft white mound, + Upsot, dead beat,--but of little Gabe + No hide nor hair was found. + + And here all hope soured on me + Of my fellow-critter's aid,-- + I jest flopped down on my marrow-bones, + Crotch-deep in the snow, and prayed. + + * * * * * + + By this, the torches was played out, + And me and Isrul Parr + Went off for some wood to a sheepfold + That he said was somewhar thar. + + We found it at last, and a little shed + Where they shut up the lambs at night. + We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, + So warm and sleepy and white; + And THAR sot Little Breeches and chirped, + As pert as ever you see, + "I want a chaw of terbacker, + And that's what's the matter of me." + + How did he git thar? Angels. + He could never have walked in that storm. + They just scooped down and toted him + To whar it was safe and warm. + And I think that saving a little child, + And bringing him to his own, + Is a derned sight better business + Than loafing around the Throne. + + JOHN HAY. + + + + + JIM + + Say there! P'r'aps + Some on you chaps + Might know Jim Wild? + Well,--no offence: + Thar ain't no sense + In gettin' riled! + + Jim was my chum + Up on the Bar: + That's why I come + Down from up thar, + Lookin' for Jim. + Thank ye, sir! _you_ + Ain't of that crew,-- + Blest if you are! + + Money?--Not much: + That ain't my kind; + I an't no such. + Rum?--I don't mind, + Seein' it's you. + + Well, this yer Jim, + Did you know him?-- + Jess 'bout your size; + Same kind of eyes?-- + Well, that is strange: + Why, it's two year + Since he come here, + Sick, for a change. + + Well, here's to us; + Eh? + The _deuce_ you say! + Dead?-- + That little cuss? + + What makes you star,-- + You over thar? + Can't a man drop + 's glass in yer shop + + But you must rar'? + It wouldn't take + _Derned_ much to break + You and your bar. + + Dead! + Poor--little--Jim! + --Why, there was me, + Jones, and Bob Lee, + Harry and Ben,-- + No-account men: + Then to take _him_! + + Well, thar--Good-bye,-- + No more, sir,--I-- + Eh? + What's that you say?-- + Why, dern it!--sho!-- + No? Yes! By Jo! + Sold! + Sold! Why you limb, + You ornery, + Derned old + Long-leggèd Jim! + + BRET HARTE. + + + + + BANTY TIM. + + [Remarks of Sergeant Tilmon Joy to the White Man's + Committee of Spunky Point, Illinois.] + + I reckon I git your drift, gents-- + You 'low the boy sha'n't stay; + This is a white man's country: + You're Dimocrats, you say: + And whereas, and seein', and wherefore, + The times bein' all out o' jint, + The nigger has got to mosey + From the limits o' Spunky P'int! + + Let's reason the thing a minute; + I'm an old-fashioned Dimocrat, too, + Though I laid my politics out o' the way + For to keep till the war was through. + But I come back here allowin' + To vote as I used to do, + Though it gravels me like the devil to train + Along o' sich fools as you. + + Now dog my cats if I kin see + In all the light of the day, + What you've got to do with the question + Ef Tim shall go or stay. + And furder than that I give notice, + Ef one of you tetches the boy, + He kin check his trunks to a warmer clime + Than he'll find in Illanoy. + + Why, blame your hearts, jist hear me! + You know that ungodly day + When our left struck Vicksburg Heights, how ripped + And torn and tattered we lay. + When the rest retreated, I stayed behind, + Fur reasons sufficient to me,-- + With a rib caved in, and a leg on a strike, + I sprawled on that cursed glacee. + + Lord! how the hot sun went for us, + And broiled and blistered and burned! + How the rebel bullets whizzed round us + When a cuss in his death-grip turned! + Till along toward dusk I seen a thing + I couldn't believe for a spell: + That nigger--that Tim--was a-crawlin' to me + Through that fire-proof, gilt-edged hell! + + The rebels seen him as quick as me, + And the bullets buzzed like bees; + But he jumped for me, and shouldered me, + Though a shot brought him once to his knees; + But he staggered up, and packed me off, + With a dozen stumbles and falls, + Till safe in our lines he drapped us both, + His black hide riddled with balls. + + So, my gentle gazelles, thar's my answer, + And here stays Banty Tim: + He trumped Death's ace for me that day, + And I 'm not goin' back on him! + You may rezoloot till the cows come home, + But ef one of you tetches the boy, + He 'll wrastle his hash to-night in hell, + Or my name's not Tilmon Joy! + + JOHN HAY. + + + + + DOW'S FLAT. + + 1856. + + Dow's flat. That's its name. + And I reckon that you + Are a stranger? The same? + Well, I thought it was true, + For thar isn't a man on the river as can't spot + the place at first view. + + It was called after Dow,-- + Which the same was an ass; + And as to the how + Thet the thing kem to pass,-- + Just tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye + down here in the grass. + + You see this yer Dow + Hed the worst kind of luck; + He slipped up somehow + On each thing thet he struck. + Why, ef he'd straddled thet fence-rail the derned + thing 'ed get up and buck. + + He mined on the bar + Till he couldn't pay rates; + He was smashed by a car + When he tunnelled with Bates; + And right on top of his trouble kem his wife and + five kids from the States. + + It was rough,--mighty rough; + But the boys they stood by, + And they brought him the stuff + For a house, on the sly; + And the old woman,--well, she did washing, and + took on when no one was nigh. + + But this yer luck of Dow's + Was so powerful mean + That the spring near his house + Dried right up on the green; + And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary + a drop to be seen. + + Then the bar petered out, + And the boys wouldn't stay; + And the chills got about, + And his wife fell away; + But Dow, in his well, kept a peggin' in his usual + ridikilous way. + + One day,--it was June,-- + And a year ago, jest,-- + This Dow kem at noon + To his work like the rest, + With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and a + derringer hid in his breast. + + He goes to the well, + And he stands on the brink, + And stops for a spell + Jest to listen and think: + For the sun in his eyes, (jest like this, sir!) you + see, kinder made the cuss blink. + + His two ragged gals + In the gulch were at play, + And a gownd that was Sal's + Kinder flapped on a bay: + Not much for a man to be leavin', but his all,-- + as I've heer'd the folks say. + + And--that's a peart hoss + Thet you've got--ain't it now? + What might be her cost? + Eh? Oh!--Well then, Dow-- + Let's see,--well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, + sir, that day, anyhow. + + For a blow of his pick + Sorter caved in the side, + And he looked and turned sick, + Then he trembled and cried. + For you see the dern cuss had struck--"Water?" + --beg your parding, young man, there you lied! + + It was _gold_,--in the quartz, + And it ran all alike; + And I reckon five oughts + Was the worth of that strike; + And that house with coopilow's his'n,--which + the same isn't bad for a Pike. + + Thet's why it's Dow's Flat; + And the thing of it is + That he kinder got that + Through sheer contrairiness: + For 't was =water= the derned cuss was seekin', and + his luck made him certain to miss. + + Thet's so. Thar's your way + To the left of yon tree; + But--a--look h'yur, say, + Won't you come up to tea? + No? Well, then the next time you're passin'; and + ask after Dow,--and thet's _me_. + + BRET HARTE. + + + + + THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. + + I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James: + I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games; + And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row + That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. + + But first I would remark, that 'tis not a proper plan + For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man; + And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, + To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him. + + Now, nothing could be finer, or more beautiful to see, + Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society; + Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones + That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. + + Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, + From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; + And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, + Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. + + Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault; + It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; + He was a most sarcastic man this quiet Mr. Brown, + And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. + + Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent + To say another is an ass,--at least, to all intent; + Nor should the individual who happens to be meant + Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent. + + Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when + A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen; + And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled upon the floor, + And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. + + For in less time than I write it, every member did engage + In a warfare with the remnants of a palæozoic age; + And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, + Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. + + And this is all I have to say of these improper games, + For I live at Table Mountain and my name is Truthful James, + And I've told in simple language what I know about the row + That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. + + BRET HARTE. + + + + + PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. + + POPULARLY KNOWN AS "THE HEATHEN CHINEE." + + Which I wish to remark-- + And my language is plain-- + That for ways that are dark + And for tricks that are vain, + The heathen Chinee is peculiar: + Which the same I would rise to explain. + + Ah Sin was his name; + And I shall not deny + In regard to the same + What that name might imply; + But his smile it was pensive and childlike, + As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. + + [Illustration: BRET HARTE. + _From a photogravure after the original portrait by J. Pettie._] + + It was August the third, + And quite soft was the skies, + Which it might be inferred + That Ah Sin was likewise; + Yet he played it that day upon William + And me in a way I despise. + + Which we had a small game, + And Ah Sin took a hand: + It was euchre. The same + He did not understand, + But he smiled, as he sat by the table, + With the smile that was childlike and bland. + + Yet the cards they were stocked + In a way that I grieve, + And my feelings were shocked + At the state of Nye's sleeve, + Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, + And the same with intent to deceive. + + But the hands that were played + By that heathen Chinee, + And the points that he made, + Were quite frightful to see,-- + Till at last he put down a right bower, + Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. + + Then I looked up at Nye, + And he gazed upon me; + And he rose with a sigh, + And said, "Can this be? + We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,"-- + And he went for that heathen Chinee. + In the scene that ensued + I did not take a hand, + But the floor it was strewed, + Like the leaves on the strand, + With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding + In the game "he did not understand." + + In his sleeves, which were long, + He had twenty-four jacks,-- + Which was coming it strong, + Yet I state but the facts. + And we found on his nails, which were taper,-- + What is frequent in tapers,--that's wax. + + Which is why I remark, + And my language is plain, + That for ways that are dark, + And for tricks that are vain, + The heathen Chinee is peculiar,-- + Which the same I am free to maintain. + + BRET HARTE. + + + + + A PLANTATION DITTY. + + De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top: + "Who--who--is--you-oo?" + En I say: "Good Lawd, hit's des po' me, + En I ain't quite ready fer de Jasper Sea; + I'm po' en sinful, en you 'lowed I'd be; + Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!" + + De gray owl sing fum de cypress tree: + "Who--who--is--you-oo?" + En I say: "Good Lawd, ef you look you'll see + Hit ain't nobody but des po' me, + En I like ter stay 'twell my time is free; + Oh, wait, good Lawd, 'twell ter-morror!" + + FRANK LEBBY STANTON. + + + + + DE FUST BANJO. + + Go 'way, fiddle! folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. + Keep silence fur yo' betters!--don't you hear de banjo talkin'? + About de 'possum's tail she's gwine to lecter--ladies, listen!-- + About de ha'r whut isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin': + + "Dar's gwine to be a' oberflow," said Noah, lookin' solemn-- + Fur Noah tuk the "Herald," an' he read de ribber column-- + An' so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl'arin' timber-patches, + An' lowed he's gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez. + + Ol' Noah kep' a-nailin' an' a-chippin' an' a-sawin'; + An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin'; + But Noah didn't min' 'em, knowin' whut wuz gwine to happen: + An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappin'. + + Now, Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es-- + Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces! + He had a Morgan colt an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle-- + An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon 's he heered de thunder rattle. + + Den sech anoder fall ob rain!--it come so awful hebby, + De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee; + De people all wuz drowned out--'cep' Noah an' de critters, + An' men he'd hired to work de boat--an' one to mix de bitters. + + De Ark she kep' a-sailin' an' a-sailin' an' a-sailin'; + De lion got his dander up, an' like to bruk de palin'; + De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; tell, whut + wid all de fussin', + You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossin' 'roun' an' cussin'. + + Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet, + Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket; + An' so, fur to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it, + An' soon he had a banjo made--de fust dat wuz invented. + + He wet de ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an' screws an' aprin; + An' fitted in a proper neck--'t wuz berry long an' tap'rin'; + He tuk some tin an' twisted him a thimble fur to ring it; + An' den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it? + + De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin'; + De ha'rs so long an' thick an' strong,--des fit fur banjo-stringin'; + Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as washday-dinner graces; + An' sorted ob 'em by de size, f'om little E's to basses. + + He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,--'t wuz + "Nebber min' de wedder,"-- + She soun' like forty-lebben bands a-playin' all togedder; + Some went to pattin'; some to dancin': Noah called de figgers; + An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers! + + Now, sence dat time--it's mighty strange--der 's not + de slightes' showin' + Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin'; + An' curi's, too, dat nigger's ways: his people nebber los' 'em-- + Fur whar you finds de nigger--dar's de banjo an' an' de 'possum! + + IRWIN RUSSELL. + + + + + PERILS OF THINKING. + + A centipede was happy quite, + Until a frog in fun + Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?" + This raised her mind to such a pitch, + She lay distracted in the ditch + Considering how to run. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + NEBUCHADNEZZAR. + + You, Nebuchadnezzah, whoa, sah! + Whar is you tryin' to go, sah? + I'd hab you fur to know, sah, + I's a-holdin' ob de lines. + You better stop dat prancin', + You's paw'ful fond ob dancin', + But I'll bet my yeah's advancin' + Dat I'll cure you ob yo' shines. + + Look heah, mule! Better min' out; + Fus' t'ing you know you'll fin' out + How quick I'll wear dis line out + On your ugly, stubbo'n back. + You needn't try to steal up; + An' lif' dat precious heel up; + You's got to plough dis fiel' up, + You has, sah, fur a fac'. + + Dar, _dat's_ de way to do it; + He's comin' right down to it; + Jes watch him ploughin' troo it! + Dis nigger ain't no fool. + Some folks dey would 'a' beat him; + Now, dat would only heat him-- + I know just how to treat him: + You mus' _reason_ wid a mule. + + He minds me like a nigger. + If he wuz only bigger + He'd fotch a mighty figger, + He would, I _tell_ you! Yes, sah! + See how he keeps a-clickin'! + He's as gentle as a chicken, + And nebber thinks o' kickin'-- + _Whoa dar! Nebuchadnezzah!_ + + Is this heah me, or not me? + Or is de debbil got me? + Wuz dat a cannon shot me? + Hab I laid heah more 'n a week? + Dat mule do kick amazin'! + De beast was sp'iled in raisin'; + But now I spect he's grazin' + On de oder side de creek. + + IRWIN RUSSELL. + + + + + A LIFE'S LOVE. + + I loved him in my dawning years-- + Far years, divinely dim; + My blithest smiles, my saddest tears, + Were evermore for him. + My dreaming when the day began, + The latest thought I had, + Was still some little loving plan + To make my darling glad. + + They deemed he lacked the conquering wiles, + That other children wear; + To me his face, in frowns or smiles, + Was never aught but fair. + They said that self was all his goal, + He knew no thought beyond; + To me, I know, no living soul + Was half so true and fond. + + In love's eclipse, in friendship's dearth, + In grief and feud and bale, + My heart has learnt the sacred worth + Of one that cannot fail; + And come what must, and come what may. + Nor power, nor praise, nor pelf, + Shall lure my faith from thee to stray. + My sweet, my own--_Myself_. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + DARWIN. + + There was an ape in the days that were earlier; + Centuries passed, and his hair grew curlier; + Centuries more gave a thumb to his wrist, + Then he was a Man and a Positivist. + + MORTIMER COLLINS. + + + + + ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING. + + WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALLER. + + [Transcriber Note: + The words contained in braces "{}" have been struck through + by an imaginary editor, to be placed with the words written + immediately above. Strikethrough cannot be done in text + format, so this is a compromise in order to retain the + poet's intention. ] + + Come! fill a fresh bumper,--for why should we go + + logwood + While the {nectar} still reddens our cups as they flow? + + decoction + Pour out the {rich juices} still bright with the sun, + + dye-stuff + Till o'er the brimmed crystal the {rubies} shall run. + + half-ripened apples + The {purple-globed clusters} their life-dews have bled; + + taste sugar of lead + How sweet is the {breath} of the {fragrance they shed}! + + rank-poisons _wines_!!! + For summer's {last roses} lie hid in the {wines} + + stable-boys smoking long-nines + That were garnered by {maidens who laughed through the vines}. + + scowl howl scoff sneer + Then a {smile}, and a {glass}, and a {toast}, and a {cheer}, + + strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer + For {all the good wine, and we 've some of it here}! + + In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, + + Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all! + {Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all!} + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + + + + HOLLOW HOSPITALITY. + + FROM "SATIRES," BOOK III. SAT. 3. + + The courteous citizen bade me to his feast + With hollow words, and overly[7] request: + "Come, will ye dine with me this holiday?" + I yielded, though he hoped I would say nay: + For I had maidened it, as many use; + Loath for to grant, but loather to refuse. + "Alack, sir, I were loath--another day,-- + I should but trouble you;--pardon me, if you may." + No pardon should I need; for, to depart + He gives me leave, and thanks too, in his heart. + Two words for money, Darbyshirian wise: + (That's one too many) is a naughty guise. + Who looks for double biddings to a feast, + May dine at home for an importune guest. + I went, then saw, and found the great expense; + The face and fashions of our citizens. + Oh, Cleopatrical! what wanteth there + For curious cost, and wondrous choice of cheer? + Beef, that erst Hercules held for finest fare; + Pork, for the fat Boeotian, or the hare + For Martial; fish for the Venetian; + Goose-liver for the licorous Roman; + Th' Athenian's goat; quail, Iolaus' cheer; + The hen for Esculape, and the Parthian deer; + Grapes for Arcesilas, figs for Pluto's mouth, + And chestnuts fair for Amarillis' tooth. + Hadst thou such cheer? wert thou ever there before? + Never,--I thought so: nor come there no more. + Come there no more; for so meant all that cost: + Never hence take me for thy second host. + For whom he means to make an often guest, + One dish shall serve; and welcome make the rest. + + DR. JOSEPH HALL. + + [7] Superficial. + + + + + A RECIPE. + + ROASTED SUCKING-PIG. + + _Air._--"Scots wha hae." + + Cooks who'd roast a sucking-pig, + Purchase one not over big; + Coarse ones are not worth a fig; + So a young one buy. + See that he is scalded well + (That is done by those who sell, + Therefore on that point to dwell + Were absurdity). + + Sage and bread, mix just enough, + Salt and pepper _quantum suff._, + And the pig's interior stuff, + With the whole combined. + To a fire that 's rather high, + Lay it till completely dry; + Then to every part apply + Cloth, with butter lined. + + Dredge with flour o'er and o'er, + Till the pig will hold no more; + Then do nothing else before + 'T is for serving fit. + Then scrape off the flour with care; + Then a buttered cloth prepare; + Rub it well; then cut--not tear-- + Off the head of it. + + Then take out and mix the brains + With the gravy it contains; + While it on the spit remains, + Cut the pig in two. + Chop the sage and chop the bread + Fine as very finest shred; + O'er it melted butter spread,-- + Stinginess won't do. + + When it in the dish appears, + Garnish with the jaws and ears; + And when dinner-hour nears, + Ready let it be. + Who can offer such a dish + May dispense with fowl and fish; + And if he a guest should wish, + Let him send for me! + + PUNCH'S _Poetical Cookery Book_. + + + + + A RECIPE FOR SALAD. + + To make this condiment your poet begs + The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs; + Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve, + Smoothness and softness to the salad give; + Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, + And, half suspected, animate the whole; + Of mordant mustard add a single spoon, + Distrust the condiment that bites so soon; + But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault + To add a double quantity of salt; + Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown, + And twice with vinegar, procured from town; + And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss + A magic _soupçon_ of anchovy sauce. + O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat! + 'T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat; + Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, + And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl; + Serenely full, the epicure would say, + "Fate cannot harm me,--I have dined to-day." + + SYDNEY SMITH. + + + + + ODE TO TOBACCO. + + Thou who, when fears attack, + Bid'st them avaunt, and Black + Care, at the horseman's back + Perching, unseatest; + Sweet when the morn is gray; + Sweet, when they 've cleared away + Lunch; and at close of day + Possibly sweetest: + + I have a liking old + For thee, though manifold + Stories, I know, are told, + Not to thy credit; + How one (or two at most) + Drops make a cat a ghost-- + Useless, except to roast-- + Doctors have said it: + + How they who use fusees + All grow by slow degrees + Brainless as chimpanzees, + Meagre as lizards; + Go mad, and beat their wives; + Plunge (after shocking lives) + Razors and carving-knives + Into their gizzards. + + Confound such knavish tricks! + Yet know I five or six + Smokers who freely mix + Still with their neighbors; + Jones--(who, I 'm glad to say, + Asked leave of Mrs. J.)-- + Daily absorbs a clay + After his labors. + + Cats may have had their goose + Cooked by tobacco-juice; + Still why deny its use + Thoughtfully taken? + We're not as tabbies are: + Smith, take a fresh cigar! + Jones, the tobacco-jar! + Here's to thee, Bacon! + + CHARLES S. CALVERLEY. + + + + + A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. + + May the Babylonish curse + Straight confound my stammering verse, + If I can a passage see + In this word-perplexity, + Or a fit expression find, + Or a language to my mind + (Still the phrase is wide or scant), + To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT! + Or in any terms relate + Half my love, or half my hate; + For I hate, yet love, thee so, + That, whichever thing I show, + The plain truth will seem to be + A constrained hyperbole, + And the passion to proceed + More from a mistress than a weed. + + Sooty retainer to the vine! + Bacchus' black servant, negro fine! + Sorcerer! that mak'st us dote upon + Thy begrimed complexion, + And, for thy pernicious sake, + More and greater oaths to break + Than reclaimèd lovers take + 'Gainst women! Thou thy siege dost lay + Much, too, in the female way, + While thou suck'st the laboring breath + Faster than kisses, or than death. + + Thou in such a cloud dost bind us + That our worst foes cannot find us, + And ill fortune, that would thwart us, + Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; + While each man, through thy heightening steam, + Does like a smoking Etna seem; + And all about us does express + (Fancy and wit in richest dress) + A Sicilian fruitfulness. + + Thou through such a mist dost show us + That our best friends do not know us, + And, for those allowèd features + Due to reasonable creatures, + Liken'st us to fell chimeras, + Monsters,--that who see us, fear us; + Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, + Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. + + Bacchus we know, and we allow + His tipsy rites. But what art thou, + That but by reflex canst show + What his deity can do,-- + As the false Egyptian spell + Aped the true Hebrew miracle? + Some few vapors thou mayst raise + The weak brain may serve to amaze; + But to the reins and nobler heart + Canst nor life nor heat impart. + + Brother of Bacchus, later born! + The old world was sure forlorn, + Wanting thee, that aidest more + The god's victories than, before, + All his panthers, and the brawls + Of his piping Bacchanals. + These, as stale, we disallow, + Or judge of thee meant: only thou + His true Indian conquest art; + And, for ivy round his dart, + The reformèd god now weaves + A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. + + Scent to match thy rich perfume + Chemic art did ne'er presume, + Through her quaint alembic strain, + None so sovereign to the brain. + Nature, that did in thee excel, + Framed again no second smell. + Roses, violets, but toys + For the smaller sort of boys, + Or for greener damsels meant; + Thou art the only manly scent. + + Stinkingest of the stinking kind! + Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind! + Africa, that brags her foison, + Breeds no such prodigious poison! + Henbane, nightshade, both together, + Hemlock, aconite-- + Nay rather, + Plant divine, of rarest virtue; + Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! + 'T was but in a sort I blamed thee; + None e'er prospered who defamed thee; + Irony all, and feigned abuse, + Such as perplexèd lovers use + At a need, when, in despair + To paint forth their fairest fair, + Or in part but to express + That exceeding comeliness + Which their fancies doth so strike, + They borrow language of dislike; + And, instead of dearest Miss, + Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, + And those forms of old admiring, + Call her cockatrice and siren, + Basilisk, and all that 's evil, + Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, + Ethiop, wench, and blackamoor, + Monkey, ape, and twenty more; + Friendly trait'ress, loving foe,-- + Not that she is truly so, + But no other way they know, + A contentment to express + Borders so upon excess + That they do not rightly wot + Whether it be from pain or not. + + Or, as men, constrained to part + With what 's nearest to their heart, + While their sorrow 's at the height + Lose discrimination quite, + And their hasty wrath let fall, + To appease their frantic gall, + On the darling thing, whatever, + Whence they feel it death to sever, + Though it be, as they, perforce, + Guiltless of the sad divorce. + + For I must (nor let it grieve thee, + Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. + Would do anything but die, + And but seek to extend my days + Long enough to sing thy praise. + But, as she who once hath been + A king's consort is a queen + Ever after, nor will bate + Any tittle of her state + Though a widow, or divorced, + So I, from thy converse forced, + The old name and style retain, + A right Katherine of Spain; + And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys + Of the blest Tobacco Boys; + Where, though I, by sour physician, + Am debarred the full fruition + Of thy favors, I may catch + Some collateral sweets, and snatch + Sidelong odors, that give life + Like glances from a neighbor's wife; + And still live in the by-places + And the suburbs of thy graces; + And in thy borders take delight, + An unconquered Canaanite. + + CHARLES LAMB. + + + + + TOO GREAT A SACRIFICE. + + The maid, as by the papers doth appear, + Whom fifty thousand dollars made so dear, + To test Lothario's passion, simply said: + "Forego the weed before we go to wed. + For smoke take flame; I 'll be that flame's bright fanner: + To have your Anna, give up your Havana." + But he, when thus she brought him to the scratch, + Lit his cigar and threw away his match. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + FROM "LOVE SONNETS OF A HOODLUM." + + PROLOGUE. + + Wouldn't it jar you, wouldn't it make you sore + To see the poet, when the goods play out, + Crawl off of poor old Pegasus and tout + His skate to two-step sonnets off galore? + Then, when the plug, a dead one, can no more + Shake rag-time than a biscuit, right about + The poem-butcher turns with gleeful shout + And sends a batch of sonnets to the store. + + The sonnet is a very easy mark, + A James P. Dandy as a carry-all + For brain-fag wrecks who want to keep it dark + Just why their crop of thinks is running small. + On the low down, dear Mame, my looty loo, + That's why I've cooked this batch of rhymes for you. + + EPILOGUE. + + To just one girl I've turned my sad bazoo, + Stringing my pipe-dream off as it occurred, + And as I've tipped the straight talk every word, + If you don't like it you know what to do. + Perhaps you think I've handed out to you + An idle jest, a touch-me-not, absurd + As any sky-blue-pink canary bird, + Billed for a record season at the Zoo. + + If that's your guess you'll have to guess again, + For thus I fizzled in a burst of glory, + And this rhythmatic side-show doth contain + The sum and substance of my hard-luck story, + Showing how Vanity is still on deck + And Humble Virtue gets it in the neck. + + WALLACE IRWIN. + + + + + A SADDENED TRAMP. + + "Now unto yonder wood-pile go, + Where toil till I return; + And feel how proud a thing it is + A livelihood to earn." + A saddened look came o'er the tramp; + He seemed like one bereft. + He stowed away the victuals cold, + He--saw the wood, and left. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + III. + + PARODIES: IMITATIONS. + + + + + THE MODERN HOUSE THAT JACK BUILT. + + Behold the mansion reared by dædal Jack. + + See the malt, stored in many a plethoric sack, + In the proud cirque of Ivan's bivouac. + + Mark how the rat's felonious fangs invade + The golden stores in John's pavilion laid. + + Anon, with velvet foot and Tarquin strides, + Subtle grimalkin to his quarry glides,-- + Grimalkin grim, that slew the fierce rodent + Whose tooth insidious Johann's sackcloth rent. + + Lo! now the deep-mouthed canine foe's assault, + That vexed the avenger of the stolen malt; + Stored in the hallowed precincts of the hall + That rose complete at Jack's creative call. + + Here stalks the impetuous cow, with the crumpled horn, + Whereon the exacerbating hound was torn, + Who bayed the feline slaughter-beast, that slew + The rat predaceous, whose keen fangs ran through + The textile fibres that involved the grain + That lay in Hans' inviolate domain. + + Here walks forlorn the damsel crowned with rue, + Lactiferous spoils from vaccine dugs who drew, + Of that corniculate beast whose tortuous horn + Tossed to the clouds, in fierce vindictive scorn, + The harrowing hound, whose braggart bark and stir + Arched the lithe spine and reared the indignant fur + Of puss, that with verminicidal claw + Struck the weird rat, in whose insatiate maw + Lay reeking malt, that erst in Ivan's courts we saw. + + Robed in senescent garb, that seemed, in sooth, + Too long a prey to Chronos' iron tooth, + Behold the man whose amorous lips incline, + Full with young Eros' osculative sign, + To the lorn maiden, whose lac-albic hands + Drew albu-lactic wealth from lacteal glands + Of the immortal bovine, by whose horn, + Distort, to realm ethereal was borne + The beast catulean, vexer of that sly + Ulysses quadrupedal who made die + The old mordacious rat, that dared devour + Antecedaneous ale in John's domestic bower. + + Lo! here, with hirsute honors doffed, succinct + Of saponaceous locks, the priest who linked + In Hymen's golden bands the torn unthrift, + Whose means exiguous stared from many a rift, + Even as he kissed the virgin all forlorn, + Who milked the cow with the implicated horn, + Who in fine wrath the canine torturer skied, + That dared to vex the insidious muricide, + Who let auroral effluence through the pelt + Of the sly rat that robbed the palace Jack had built. + + The loud cantankerous Shanghai comes at last, + Whose shouts aroused the shorn ecclesiast, + Who sealed the vows of Hymen's sacrament + To him who, robed in garments indigent, + Exosculates the damsel lachrymose, + The emulgator of that hornèd brute morose + That tossed the dog that worried the cat that kilt + The rat that ate the malt that lay in the house that Jack built. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND + + THE KNIFE-GRINDER.[8] + + FRIEND OF HUMANITY. + + Needy knife-grinder! whither are you going? + Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order. + Bleak blows the blast;--your hat has got a hole in't; + So have your breeches! + + Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones, + Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike- + Road, what hard work 't is crying all day, + "Knives and Scissors to grind O!" + + Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives? + Did some rich man tyrannically use you? + Was it the squire? or parson of the parish? + Or the attorney? + + Was it the squire for killing of his game? or + Covetous parson for his tithes distraining? + Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little + All in a lawsuit? + + (Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine?) + Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids, + Ready to fall as soon as you have told your + Pitiful story. + + KNIFE-GRINDER. + + Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir; + Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers, + This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were + Torn in a scuffle. + + Constables came up for to take me into + Custody; they took me before the justice; + Justice Oldmixon put me into the parish + Stocks for a vagrant. + + I should be glad to drink your honor's health in + A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence; + But for my part, I never love to meddle + With politics, sir. + + FRIEND OF HUMANITY. + + I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first,-- + Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance,-- + Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, + Spiritless outcast! + + (_Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and + exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm + and universal philanthropy._) + + GEORGE CANNING. + +[8] A burlesque upon the humanitarian sentiments of Southey in his +younger days, as well as of the Sapphic stanzas in which he sometimes +embodied them. + + + + + DEBORAH LEE[9] + + 'T is a dozen or so of years ago, + Somewhere in the West countree, + That a nice girl lived, as ye Hoosiers know + By the name of Deborah Lee; + Her sister was loved by Edgar Poe, + But Deborah by me. + + Now I was green, and she was green, + As a summer's squash might be; + And we loved as warmly as other folks,-- + I and my Deborah Lee,-- + With a love that the lasses of Hoosierdom + Coveted her and me. + + But somehow it happened a long time ago, + In the aguish West countree, + That chill March morning gave the _shakes_ + To my beautiful Deborah Lee; + And the grim steam-doctor (drat him!) came, + And bore her away from me,-- + The doctor and death, old partners they,-- + In the aguish West countree. + + The angels wanted her in heaven + (But they never asked for me), + And that is the reason, I rather guess, + In the aguish West countree, + That the cold March wind, and the doctor, and death, + Took off my Deborah Lee-- + My beautiful Deborah Lee-- + From the warm sunshine and the opening flowers, + And bore her away from me. + + Our love was as strong as a six-horse team, + Or the love of folks older than we, + Or possibly wiser than we; + But death, with the aid of doctor and steam, + Was rather too many for me: + He closed the peepers and silenced the breath + Of my sweetheart Deborah Lee, + And her form lies cold in the prairie mold, + Silent and cold,--ah me! + + The foot of the hunter shall press her grave, + And the prairie's sweet wild flowers + In their odorous beauty around it wave + Through all the sunny hours,-- + The still, bright summer hours; + And the birds shall sing in the tufted grass + And the nectar-laden bee, + With his dreamy hum, on his gauze wings pass,-- + She wakes no more to me; + Ah, nevermore to me! + Though the wild birds sing and the wild flowers spring, + She wakes no more to me. + + Yet oft in the hush of the dim, still night, + A vision of beauty I see + Gliding soft to my bedside,--a phantom of light, + Dear, beautiful Deborah Lee,-- + My bride that was to be; + And I wake to mourn that the doctor, and death, + And the cold March wind, should stop the breath + Of my darling Deborah Lee,-- + Adorable Deborah Lee,-- + That angels should want her up in heaven + Before they wanted me. + + WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH. + +[9] See Poe's "Annabel Lee," Volume III. p. 312. + + + + + THE COCK AND THE BULL.[10] + + You see this pebble-stone? It's a thing I bought + Of a bit of a chit of a boy i' the mid o' the day-- + I like to dock the smaller parts-o'-speech, + As we curtail the already cur-tailed cur + (You catch the paronomasia, play o' words?)-- + Did, rather, i' the pre-Landseerian days. + Well, to my muttons. I purchased the concern, + And clapt it i' my poke, and gave for same + By way, to-wit, of barter or exchange-- + "Chop" was my snickering dandiprat's own term-- + One shilling and fourpence, current coin o' the realm. + O-n-e one and f-o-u-r four + Pence, one and fourpence--you are with me, sir?-- + What hour it skills not: ten or eleven o' the clock, + One day (and what a roaring day it was!) + In February, eighteen sixty-nine, + Alexandrina Victoria, Fidei + Hm--hm--how runs the jargon?--being on throne. + + Such, sir, are all the facts, succinctly put, + The basis or substratum--what you will-- + Of the impending eighty thousand lines. + "Not much in 'em either," quoth perhaps simple Hodge. + But there's a superstructure. Wait a bit. + + Mark first the rationale of the thing: + Hear logic rival and levigate the deed. + That shilling--and for matter o' that, the pence-- + I had o' course upo' me--wi' me, say-- + (_Mecum_ 's the Latin, make a note o' that) + When I popped pen i' stand, blew snout, scratched ear, + Sniffed--tch!--at snuff-box; tumbled up, he-heed, + Haw-hawed (not hee-hawed, that's another guess thing:) + Then fumbled at, and stumbled out of, door, + I shoved the door ope wi' my omoplat; + And _in vestibulo_, i' the entrance-hall, + Donned galligaskins, antigropelos, + And so forth; and, complete with hat and gloves, + One on and one a-dangle i' my hand. + And ombrifuge, (Lord love you!) case o' rain, + I flopped forth, 's buddikins! on my own ten toes, + (I do assure you there be ten of them.) + And went clump-clumping up hill and down dale + To find myself o' the sudden i' front o' the boy. + Put case I hadn't 'em on me, could I ha' bought + This sort-o'-kind-o'-what-you-might-call toy, + This pebble-thing, o' the boy-thing? Q. E. D. + That's proven without aid from mumping Pope, + Sleek porporate or bloated Cardinal. + (Isn't it, old Fatchaps? You 're in Euclid now.) + So, having the shilling--having i' fact a lot-- + And pence and halfpence, ever so many o' them, + I purchased, as I think I said before, + The pebble (lapis, lapidis,--di,--dem.--de,-- + What nouns 'crease short i' the genitive, Fatchaps, eh?) + O' the boy, a bare-legged beggarly son of a gun, + For one and fourpence. Here we are again. + Now Law steps in, big-wigged, voluminous-jawed; + Investigates and re-investigates. + Was the transaction illegal? Law shakes head. + Perpend, sir, all the bearings of the case. + + At first the coin was mine, the chattel his. + But now (by virtue of the said exchange + And barter) _vice versa_ all the coin, + _Per juris operationem_, vests + I' the boy and his assigns till ding o' doom; + (_In sæcula sæculo-o-o-orum_; + I think I hear the Abbate mouth out that.) + To have and hold the same to him and them ... + _Confer_ some idiot on Conveyancing, + Whereas the pebble and every part thereof, + And all that appertaineth thereunto, + Or shall, will, may, might, can, could, would, or should, + (_Subandi cætera_--clap me to the close-- + For what's the good of law in a case o' the kind?) + Is mine to all intents and purposes. + This settled, I resume the thread o' the tale. + + Now for a touch o' the vendor's quality. + He says a gen'lman bought a pebble of him, + (This pebble i' sooth, sir, which I hold i' my hand)-- + And paid for 't, _like_ a gen'lman, on the nail. + "Did I o'ercharge him a ha'penny? Devil a bit. + Fiddlestick's end! Get out, you blazing ass! + Gabble o' the goose. Don't bugaboo-baby _me_! + Go double or quits? Yah! tittup! what's the odds?" + --There's the transaction viewed, i' the vendor's light. + + Next ask that dumpled hag, stood snuffling by, + With her three frowsy-browsy brats o' babes, + The scum o' the kennel, cream o' the filth-heap--Faugh? + Aie, aie, aie, aie! [Greek: otototototoi], + ('Stead which we blurt out Hoighty-toighty now)-- + And the baker and candlestick-maker, and Jack and Gill, + Bleared Goody this and queasy Gaffer that. + Ask the schoolmaster. Take schoolmaster first. + + He saw a gentleman purchase of a lad + A stone, and pay for it _rite_, on the square, + And carry it off _per saltum_, jauntily, + _Propria quæ maribus_, gentleman's property now + (Agreeable to the law explained above), + _In proprium usum_, for his private ends. + The boy he chucked a brown i' the air, and bit + I' the face the shilling: heaved a thumping-stone + At a lean hen that ran cluck-clucking by, + (And hit her, dead as nail i' post o' door,) + Then _abiit_--what's the Ciceronian phrase?-- + _Excessit, evasit, erupit,_--off slogs boy; + Off in three flea-skips. _Hactenus_, so far, + So good, _tam bene_. _Bene, satis, male_,-- + Where was I? who said what of one in a quag? + I did once hitch the syntax into verse: + _Verbum personale_, a verb personal, + _Concordat_,--ay, "agrees," old Fatchaps--_cum_ + _Nominativo_, with its nominative, + Genere, i' point o' gender, _numero_, + O' number, _et persona_, and person. _Ut_, + Instance: _Sol ruit_, down flops sun, _et_, and, + _Montes umbrantur_, snuffs out mountains. Pah! + Excuse me, sir, I think I'm going mad. + You see the trick on 't though, and can yourself + Continue the discourse _ad libitum_. + It takes up about eighty thousand lines, + A thing imagination boggles at: + And might, odds-bobs, sir! in judicious hands, + Extend from here to Mesopotamy. + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + +[10] In imitation of Robert Browning--"The Ring and the Book." + + + + + THE AULD WIFE.[11] + + The auld wife sat at her ivied door, + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + A thing she had frequently done before; + And her spectacles lay on her aproned knees. + + The piper he piped on the hill-top high, + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + Till the cow said "I die" and the goose asked "Why;" + And the dog said nothing but searched for fleas. + + The farmer he strode through the square farmyard; + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + His last brew of ale was a trifle hard, + The connection of which with the plot one sees. + + The farmer's daughter hath frank blue eyes, + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + She hears the rooks caw in the windy skies, + As she sits at her lattice and shells her peas. + + The farmer's daughter hath ripe red lips; + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + If you try to approach her, away she skips + Over tables and chairs with apparent ease. + + The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair; + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, + Which wholly consists of lines like these. + + She sat with her hands 'neath her dimpled cheeks, + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + And spake not a word. While a lady speaks + There is hope, but she didn't even sneeze. + + She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + She gave up mending her father's breeks, + And let the cat roll in her best chemise. + + She sat with her hands 'neath her crimson cheeks + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + And gazed at the piper for thirteen weeks; + Then she followed him out o'er the misty leas. + + Her sheep followed her as their tails did them + (_Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese_) + And this song is considered a perfect gem, + And as to the meaning, it's what you please. + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + +[11] Imitation of Rossetti. + + + + + LOVERS, AND A REFLECTION.[12] + + In moss-prankt dells which the sunbeams flatter + (And heaven it knoweth what that may mean; + Meaning, however, is no great matter) + Where woods are a-tremble, with rifts atween; + + Through God's own heather we wonned together, + I and my Willie (O love my love): + I need hardly remark it was glorious weather, + And flitterbats waved alow, above: + + Boats were curtseying, rising, bowing + (Boats in that climate are so polite), + And sands were a ribbon of green endowing, + And O the sun-dazzle on bark and bight! + + Through the rare red heather we danced together, + (O love my Willie!) and smelt for flowers: + I must mention again it was glorious weather, + Rhymes are so scarce in this world of ours:-- + + By rises that flushed with their purple favors, + Through becks that brattled o'er grasses sheen, + We walked or waded, we two young shavers, + Thanking our stars we were both so green. + + We journeyed in parallels, I and Willie, + In "fortunate parallels!" Butterflies, + Hid in weltering shadows of daffodilly + Or marjoram, kept making peacock's eyes: + + Song-birds darted about, some inky + As coal, some snowy (I ween) as curds; + Or rosy as pinks, or as roses pinky-- + They reck of no eerie To-come, those birds! + + But they skim over bents which the mill-stream washes, + Or hang in the lift 'neath a white cloud's hem; + They need no parasols, no galoshes; + And good Mrs. Trimmer[13] she feedeth them. + + Then we thrid God's cowslips (as erst his heather) + That endowed the wan grass with their golden blooms; + And snapt--(it was perfectly charming weather)-- + Our fingers at Fate and her goddess glooms: + + And Willie 'gan sing--(O, his notes were fluty; + Wafts fluttered them out to the white-winged sea)-- + Something made up of rhymes that have done much duty, + Rhymes (better to put it) of "ancientry:" + + Bowers of flowers encountered showers + In William's carol (O love my Willie!) + When he bade sorrow borrow from blithe Tomorrow + I quite forget what--say a daffodilly: + + A nest in a hollow, "with buds to follow," + I think occurred next in his nimble strain; + And clay that was "kneaden" of course in Eden-- + A rhyme most novel, I do maintain: + + Mists, bones, the singer himself, love-stories, + And all least furlable things got "furled;" + Not with any design to conceal their glories, + But simply and solely to rhyme with "world." + + O, if billows and pillows and hours and flowers, + And all the brave rhymes of an elder day, + Could be furled together this genial weather, + And carted, or carried on wafts away, + Nor ever again trotted out--ay me! + How much fewer volumes of verse there'd be! + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + +[12] See Jean Ingelow's "Divided," Volume III. p. 64. + +[13] Mrs. Trimmer was the author of a famous little book for children, +"The History of the Robins." It has been republished in America. + + + + + NEPHELIDIA. + + From the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn + through a notable nimbus of nebulous noon-shine, + Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower + that flickers with fear of the flies as they float, + Are they looks of our lovers that lustrously lean + from a marvel of mystic miraculous moon-shine, + These that we feel in the blood of our blushes + that thicken and threaten with sobs from the throat? + Thicken and thrill as a theatre thronged at appeal + of an actor's appalled agitation, + Fainter with fear of the fires of the future than + pale with the promise of pride in the past; + Flushed with the famishing fulness of fever that + reddens with radiance of rathe recreation, + Gaunt as the ghastliest of glimpses that gleam + through the gloom of the gloaming when ghosts go aghast? + Nay, for the nick of the tick of the time is a tremulous + touch on the temples of terror, + Strained as the sinews yet strenuous with strife + of the dead who is dumb as the dust-heaps of death: + Surely no soul is it, sweet as the spasm of erotic + emotional exquisite error, + Bathed in the balms of beatified bliss, beatific itself + by beatitude's breath. + Surely no spirit or sense of a soul that was soft to + the spirit and soul of our senses + Sweetens the stress of suspiring suspicion that + sobs in the semblance and sound of a sigh; + Only this oracle opens Olympian, in mystical + moods and triangular tenses-- + Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is + dark till the dawn of the day when we die. + Mild is the mirk and monotonous music of memory, + melodiously mute as it may be, + While the hope in the heart of a hero is bruised + by the breach of men's rapiers resigned to the rod; + Made meek as a mother whose bosom-beats bound + with the bliss-bringing bulk of a balm-breathing baby, + As they grope through the grave-yards of creeds, + under skies growing green at a groan for the grimness of God. + Blank is the book of his bounty beholden of old + and its binding is blacker than bluer: + Out of blue into black is the scheme of the skies, + and their dews are the wine of the blood-shed of things; + Till the darkling desire of delight shall be free + as a fawn that is freed from the fangs that pursue her, + Till the heart-beats of hell shall be hushed by + a hymn from the hunt that has harried the kernel of kings. + + ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. + + + + + THE ARAB. + + On, on, my brown Arab, away, away! + Thou hast trotted o'er many a mile to-day, + And I trow right meagre hath been thy fare + Since they roused thee at dawn from thy straw-piled lair, + To tread with those echoless, unshod feet + Yon weltering flats in the noontide heat, + Where no palm-tree proffers a kindly shade, + And the eye never rests on a cool grass blade; + And lank is thy flank, and thy frequent cough, + O, it goes to my heart--but away, friend, off! + + And yet, ah! what sculptor who saw thee stand, + As thou standest now, on thy native strand, + With the wild wind ruffling thine uncombed hair, + And thy nostril upturned to the odorous air, + Would not woo thee to pause, till his skill might trace + At leisure the lines of that eager face; + The collarless neck and the coal-black paws + And the bit grasped tight in the massive jaws; + The delicate curve of the legs, that seem + Too slight for their burden--and, O, the gleam + Of that eye, so sombre and yet so gay! + Still away, my lithe Arab, once more away! + + Nay, tempt me not, Arab, again to stay; + Since I crave neither _Echo_ nor _Fun_ to-day. + For thy _hand_ is not Echoless--there they are, + _Fun_, _Glowworm_, and _Echo_, and _Evening Star_, + And thou hintest withal that thou fain wouldst shine, + As I read them, these bulgy old boots of mine. + But I shrink from thee, Arab! Thou eatest eel-pie, + Thou evermore hast at least one black eye; + There is brass on thy brow, and thy swarthy hues + Are due not to nature, but handling shoes; + And the bit in thy mouth, I regret to see, + Is a bit of tobacco-pipe--Flee, child, flee! + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + + + + + THE MODERN HIAWATHA. + + He killed the noble Mudjokivis. + Of the skin he made him mittens, + Made them with the fur side inside, + Made them with the skin side outside. + He, to get the warm side inside, + Put the inside skin side outside; + He, to get the cold side outside, + Put the warm side fur side inside. + That's why he put the fur side inside, + Why he put the skin side outside, + Why he turned them inside outside. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + POEMS + + RECEIVED IN RESPONSE TO AN ADVERTISED + CALL FOR A NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY H. W. L----, OF CAMBRIDGE. + + Back in the years when Phlagstaff, the Dane, was monarch + Over the sea-ribbed land of the fleet-footed Norsemen, + Once there went forth young Ursa to gaze at the heavens,-- + Ursa, the noblest of all Vikings and horsemen. + + Musing he sat in his stirrups and viewed the horizon, + Where the Aurora lapt stars in a north-polar manner: + Wildly he started,--for there in the heavens before him + Fluttered and flew the original star-spangled banner. + + Two objections are in the way of the acceptance of this + anthem by the committee: in the first place, it is not an + anthem at all; secondly, it is a gross plagiarism from an + old Sclavonic war-song of the primeval ages. + +Next we quote from a + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY THE HON. EDWARD E----, OF BOSTON. + + Ponderous projectiles, hurled by heavy hands, + Fell on our Liberty's poor infant head, + Ere she a stadium had well advanced + On the great path that to her greatness led; + Her temple's propylon, was shatter-ed; + Yet, thanks to saving Grace and Washington, + Her incubus was from her bosom hurled; + And, rising like a cloud-dispelling sun, + She took the oil with which her hair was curled + To grease the "hub" round which revolves the world. + + This fine production is rather heavy for an "anthem," + and contains too much of Boston to be considered strictly + national. To set such an "anthem" to music would require + a Wagner; and even were it really accommodated to + a tune, it could only be whistled by the populace. + +We now come to a + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY JOHN GREENLEAF W----. + + My native land, thy Puritanic stock + Still finds its roots firm bound in Plymouth Rock; + And all thy sons unite in one grand wish,-- + To keep the virtues of Preserv-ed Fish. + + Preserv-ed Fish, the Deacon stern and true, + Told our New England what her sons should do; + And, should they swerve from loyalty and right, + Then the whole land were lost indeed in night. + + The sectional bias of this "anthem" renders it unsuitable + for use in that small margin of the world situated outside + of New England. Hence the above must be rejected. + +Here we have a very curious + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY DR. OLIVER WENDELL H----. + + A diagnosis of our history proves + Our native land a land its native loves: + Its birth a deed obstetric without peer, + Its growth a source of wonder far and near. + + To love it more, behold how foreign shores + Sink into nothingness beside its stores. + Hyde Park at best--though counted ultra grand-- + The "Boston Common" of Victoria's land-- + +The committee must not be blamed for rejecting the above after +reading thus far, for such an "anthem" could only be sung by a +college of surgeons or a Beacon Street tea-party. + +Turn we now to a + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY WILLIAM CULLEN B----. + + The sun sinks softly to his evening post, + The sun swells grandly to his morning crown; + Yet not a star our flag of heaven has lost, + And not a sunset stripe with him goes down. + + So thrones may fall; and from the dust of those + New thrones may rise, to totter like the last; + But still our country's noble planet glows, + While the eternal stars of Heaven are fast. + +Upon finding that this does not go well to the air of "Yankee Doodle," +the committee feel justified in declining it; it being furthermore +prejudiced against it by a suspicion that the poet has crowded an +advertisement of a paper which he edits into the first line. + +Next we quote from a + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY GENERAL GEORGE P. M----. + + In the days that tried our fathers, + Many years ago, + Our fair land achieved her freedom + Blood-bought, you know. + Shall we not defend her ever, + As we'd defend + That fair maiden, kind and tender, + Calling us friend? + + Yes! Let all the echoes answer, + From hill and vale; + Yes! Let other nations hearing, + Joy in the tale. + Our Columbia is a lady, + High born and fair, + We have sworn allegiance to her,-- + Touch her who dare. + +The tone of this "anthem" not being devotional enough to suit the +committee, it should be printed on an edition of linen-cambric +hankerchiefs for ladies especially. + +Observe this + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY N. P. W----. + + One hue of our flag is taken + From the cheeks of my blushing pet, + And its stars beat time and sparkle + Like the studs on her chemisette. + + Its blue is the ocean shadow + That hides in her dreamy eyes, + And it conquers all men, like her, + And still for a Union flies. + +Several members of the committee find that this "anthem" has too much of +the Anacreon spice to suit them. + +We next peruse a + + + + + NATIONAL ANTHEM. + + BY THOMAS BAILEY A----. + + The little brown squirrel hops in the corn, + The cricket quaintly sings; + The emerald pigeon nods his head, + And the shad in the river springs; + The dainty sunflower hangs its head + On the shore of the summer sea; + And better far that I were dead, + If Maud did not love me. + + I love the squirrel that hops in the corn, + And the cricket that quaintly sings; + And the emerald pigeon that nods his head, + And the shad that gayly springs. + I love the dainty sunflower, too, + And Maud with her snowy breast; + I love them all; but I love--I love-- + I love my country best. + +This is certainly very beautiful, and sounds somewhat like Tennyson. +Though it may be rejected by the committee, it can never lose its value +as a piece of excellent reading for children. It is calculated to fill +the youthful mind with patriotism and natural history, beside touching +the youthful heart with an emotion palpitating for all. + + ROBERT H. NEWELL (_Orpheus C. Kerr_). + + + + + BELAGCHOLLY DAYS. + + Chilly Dovebber with its boadigg blast + Dow cubs add strips the beddow add the lawd, + Eved October's suddy days are past-- + Add Subber's gawd! + + I kdow dot what it is to which I cligg + That stirs to sogg add sorrow, yet I trust + That still I sigg, but as the liddets sigg-- + Because I bust. + + Dear leaves that rustle sadly 'death by feet-- + By liggerigg feet--add fill by eyes with tears, + Ye bake be sad, add oh! it gars be greet + That ye are sear! + + The sud id sulled skies too early sigks; + Do trees are greed but evergreeds add ferds; + Gawd are the orioles add bobligks-- + Those Robert Burds! + + Add dow, farewell to roses add to birds, + To larded fields and tigkligg streablets eke; + Farewell to all articulated words + I faid would speak. + + Farewell, by cherished strolliggs od the sward, + Greed glades add forest shades, farewell to you; + With sorrowigg heart I, wretched add forlord, + Bid you--_achew!!!_ + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + SNEEZING. + + What a moment, what a doubt! + All my nose is inside out,-- + All my thrilling, tickling caustic, + Pyramid rhinocerostic, + Wants to sneeze and cannot do it! + How it yearns me, thrills me, stings me, + How with rapturous torment wrings me! + Now says, "Sneeze, you fool,--get through it." + Shee--shee--oh! 'tis most del-ishi-- + Ishi--ishi--most del-ishi! + (Hang it, I shall sneeze till spring!) + Snuff is a delicious thing. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + + + TO MY NOSE. + + Knows he that never took a pinch, + Nosey, the pleasure thence which flows? + Knows he the titillating joys + Which my nose knows? + O nose, I am as proud of thee + As any mountain of its snows; + I gaze on thee, and feel that pride + A Roman knows! + + ALFRED A. FORRESTER (_Alfred Crowquill_). + + + + + LAPSUS CALAMI. + + TO R. K. + + Will there never come a season + Which shall rid us from the curse + Of a prose which knows no reason + And an unmelodious verse: + When the world shall cease to wonder + At the genius of an ass, + And a boy's eccentric blunder + Shall not bring success to pass: + + When mankind shall be delivered + From the clash of magazines, + And the inkstand shall be shivered + Into countless smithereens: + When there stands a muzzled stripling, + Mute, beside a muzzled bore: + When the Rudyards cease from Kipling + And the Haggards ride no more? + + JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN. + + + + + A CONSERVATIVE. + + The garden beds I wandered by + One bright and cheerful morn, + When I found a new-fledged butterfly, + A-sitting on a thorn, + A black and crimson butterfly, + All doleful and forlorn. + + I thought that life could have no sting, + To infant butterflies, + So I gazed on this unhappy thing + With wonder and surprise, + While sadly with his waving wing + He wiped his weeping eyes. + + Said I, "What can the matter be? + Why weepest thou so sore? + With garden fair and sunlight free + And flowers in goodly store:"-- + But he only turned away from me + And burst into a roar. + + Cried he, "My legs are thin and few + Where once I had a swarm! + Soft fuzzy fur--a joy to view-- + Once kept my body warm, + Before these flapping wing-things grew, + To hamper and deform!" + + At that outrageous bug I shot + The fury of mine eye; + Said I, in scorn all burning hot, + In rage and anger high, + "You ignominious idiot! + Those wings are made to fly!" + + "I do not want to fly," said he, + "I only want to squirm!" + And he drooped his wings dejectedly, + But still his voice was firm: + "I do not want to be a fly! + I want to be a worm!" + + O yesterday of unknown lack! + To-day of unknown bliss! + I left my fool in red and black, + The last I saw was this,-- + The creature madly climbing back + Into his chrysalis. + + CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN. + + + + + "FOREVER." + + Forever! 'T is a single word! + Our rude forefathers deemed it two; + Can you imagine so absurd + A view? + + Forever! What abysms of woe + The word reveals, what frenzy, what + Despair! For ever (printed so) + Did not. + + It looks, ah me! how trite and tame; + It fails to sadden or appall + Or solace--it is not the same + At all. + + O thou to whom it first occurred + To solder the disjoined, and dower + Thy native language with a word + Of power: + + We bless thee! Whether far or near + Thy dwelling, whether dark or fair + Thy kingly brow, is neither here + Nor there. + + But in men's hearts shall be thy throne, + While the great pulse of England beats: + Thou coiner of a word unknown + To Keats! + + And nevermore must printer do + As men did long ago; but run + "For" into "ever," bidding two + Be one. + + Forever! passion-fraught, it throws + O'er the dim page a gloom, a glamour: + It's sweet, it's strange; and I suppose + It's grammar. + + Forever! 'T is a single word! + And yet our fathers deemed it two: + Nor am I confident they erred;-- + Are you? + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + + + + + IV. + + INGENUITIES: ODDITIES. + + + + + SIEGE OF BELGRADE. + + An Austrian army, awfully arrayed, + Boldly by battery besieged Belgrade. + Cossack commanders cannonading come, + Dealing destruction's devastating doom. + Every endeavor engineers essay, + For fame, for fortune fighting,--furious fray! + Generals 'gainst generals grapple--gracious God! + How honors Heaven heroic hardihood! + Infuriate, indiscriminate in ill, + Kindred kill kinsmen, kinsmen kindred kill. + Labor low levels longest loftiest lines; + Men march mid mounds, mid moles, mid murderous mines; + Now noxious, noisy numbers nothing, naught + Of outward obstacles, opposing ought; + Poor patriots, partly purchased, partly pressed, + Quite quaking, quickly "Quarter! Quarter!" quest. + Reason returns, religious right redounds, + Suwarrow stops such sanguinary sounds. + Truce to thee, Turkey! Triumph to thy train, + Unwise, unjust, unmerciful Ukraine! + Vanish, vain victory! vanish, victory vain! + Why wish we warfare? Wherefore welcome were + Xerxes, Ximenes, Xanthus, Xavier? + Yield, yield, ye youths! ye yeomen, yield your yell! + Zeus's, Zarpater's, Zoroaster's zeal, + Attracting all, arms against acts appeal! + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + MY LOVE. + + I only knew she came and went _Lowell._ + Like troutlets in a pool; _Hood._ + She was a phantom of delight, _Wordsworth._ + And I was like a fool. _Eastman._ + + One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed, _Coleridge._ + Out of those lips unshorn: _Longfellow._ + She shook her ringlets round her head, _Stoddard._ + And laughed in merry scorn. _Tennyson._ + + Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, _Tennyson._ + You heard them, O my heart; _Alice Carey._ + 'T is twelve at night by the castle clock, _Coleridge._ + Belovèd, we must part. _Alice Carey._ + + "Come back, come back!" she cried in grief, _Campbell._ + "My eyes are dim with tears, _Bayard Taylor._ + How shall I live through all the days? _Osgood._ + All through a hundred years?" _T. S. Perry._ + + 'T was in the prime of summer time _Hood._ + She blessed me with her hand; _Hoyt._ + We strayed together, deeply blest, _Edwards._ + Into the dreaming land. _Cornwall._ + + The laughing bridal roses blow, _Patmore._ + To dress her dark-brown hair; _Bayard Taylor._ + My heart is breaking with my woe, _Tennyson._ + Most beautiful! most rare! _Read._ + + I clasped it on her sweet, cold hand, _Browning._ + The precious golden link! _Smith._ + I calmed her fears, and she was calm, _Coleridge._ + "Drink, pretty creature, drink." _Wordsworth._ + + And so I won my Genevieve, _Coleridge._ + And walked in Paradise; _Hervey._ + The fairest thing that ever grew _Wordsworth._ + Atween me and the skies. _Osgood._ + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + ODE TO THE HUMAN HEART. + + Blind Thamyris, and Blind Mæonides, _Milton._ + Pursue the triumph and partake the gale! _Pope._ + Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees, _Shakespeare._ + To point a moral or adorn a tale. _Johnson._ + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene, _Gray._ + Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears, _Tennyson._ + Like angels' visits, few and far between, _Campbell._ + Deck the long vista of departed years. _?_ + + Man never is, but always to be blessed; _Pope._ + The tenth transmitter of a foolish face, _Savage._ + Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest, _Pope._ + And makes a sunshine in the shady place. _Spenser._ + + For man the hermit sighed, till the woman smiled, _Campbell._ + To waft a feather or to drown a fly, _Young._ + (In wit a man, simplicity a child,) _Pope._ + With silent finger pointing to the sky. _?_ + + But fools rush in where angels fear to tread, _Pope._ + Far out amid the melancholy main; _Thomson._ + As when a vulture on Imaus bred, _?_ + Dies of a rose in aromatic pain. _Pope._ + + LAMAN BLANCHARD. + + + + + METRICAL FEET. + + Trochee trips from long to short; + From long to long in solemn sort + Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yet ill able + Ever to come up with dactyl trisyllable. + Iambics march from short to long;-- + With a leap and a bound the swift Anapæsts throng; + One syllable long, with one short at each side, + Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;-- + First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer + Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud high-bred racer. + + SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. + + + + + NOCTURNAL SKETCH. + + BLANK VERSE IN RHYME. + + Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark, + The signal of the setting sun--one gun! + And six is sounding from the chime, prime time + To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,-- + Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out,-- + Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, + Denying to his frantic clutch much touch; + Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride + Four horses as no other man can span; + Or in the small Olympic pit sit split + Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. + + Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things + Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung; + The gas upblazes with its bright white light, + And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl + About the streets, and take up Pall-Mall Sal, + Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs. + + Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, + Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep, creep, + But, frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee, + And while they're going, whisper low, "No go!" + + Now puss, when folks are in their beds, treads leads, + And sleepers, waking, grumble, "Drat that cat!" + Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls + Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will. + + Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise + In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor + Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;-- + But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed, + Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games, + And that she hears--what faith is man's!--Ann's banns + And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice; + White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out, + That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes! + + THOMAS HOOD. + + + + + RAILROAD RHYME. + + Singing through the forests, + Rattling over ridges; + Shooting under arches, + Rumbling over bridges; + Whizzing through the mountains, + Buzzing o'er the vale,-- + Bless me! this is pleasant, + Riding on the rail! + + Men of different "stations" + In the eye of fame, + Here are very quickly + Coming to the same; + High and lowly people, + Birds of every feather, + On a common level, + Travelling together. + + Gentleman in shorts, + Looming very tall; + Gentleman at large + Talking very small; + Gentleman in tights, + With a loose-ish mien; + Gentleman in gray, + Looking rather green; + + Gentleman quite old, + Asking for the news, + Gentleman in black, + In a fit of blues; + Gentleman in claret, + Sober as a vicar; + Gentleman in tweed, + Dreadfully in liquor! + + Stranger on the right + Looking very sunny, + Obviously reading + Something rather funny. + Now the smiles are thicker,-- + Wonder what they mean! + Faith, he's got the Knicker- + Bocker Magazine! + + Stranger on the left + Closing up his peepers; + Now he snores amain, + Like the Seven Sleepers; + At his feet a volume + Gives the explanation, + How the man grew stupid + From "Association"! + + Ancient maiden lady + Anxiously remarks, + That there must be peril + 'Mong so many sparks; + Roguish-looking fellow, + Turning to the stranger, + Says it's his opinion + _She_ is out of danger! + + Woman with her baby, + Sitting _vis-à-vis_; + Baby keeps a-squalling, + Woman looks at me; + Asks about the distance, + Says it 's tiresome talking, + Noises of the cars + Are so very shocking! + + Market-woman, careful + Of the precious casket, + Knowing eggs are eggs, + Tightly holds her basket; + Feeling that a smash, + If it came, would surely + Send her eggs to pot, + Rather prematurely. + Singing through the forests, + Rattling over ridges; + Shooting under arches, + Rumbling over bridges; + Whizzing through the mountains, + Buzzing o'er the vale,-- + Bless me! this is pleasant, + Riding on the rail! + + JOHN GODFREY SAXE. + + + + + PHYSICS. + + (THE UNCONSCIOUS POETIZING OF A PHILOSOPHER.) + + There is no force however great + Can stretch a cord however fine + Into a horizontal line + That shall be accurately straight. + + WILLIAM WHEWELL. + + + + + THE COLLEGIAN TO HIS BRIDE: + + BEING A MATHEMATICAL MADRIGAL IN THE + + SIMPLEST FORM. + + Charmer, on a given straight line, + And which we will call B C, + Meeting at a common point A, + Draw the lines A C, A B. + But, my sweetest, so arrange it + That they're equal, all the three; + Then you'll find that, in the sequel, + All their angles, too are equal. + Equal angles, so to term them, + Each one opposite its brother! + Equal joys and equal sorrows, + Equal hopes, 'twere sin to smother, + Equal,--O, divine ecstatics,-- + Based on Hutton's mathematics! + + PUNCH. + + + + + THE LAWYER'S INVOCATION TO SPRING. + + Whereas, on certain boughs and sprays + Now divers birds are heard to sing, + And sundry flowers their heads upraise, + Hail to the coming on of spring! + + The songs of those said birds arouse + The memory of our youthful hours, + As green as those said sprays and boughs, + As fresh and sweet as those said flowers. + + The birds aforesaid,--happy pairs,-- + Love, mid the aforesaid boughs, inshrines + In freehold nests; themselves, their heirs, + Administrators, and assigns. + + O busiest term of Cupid's Court, + Where tender plaintiffs actions bring,-- + Season of frolic and of sport, + Hail, as aforesaid, coming spring! + + HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. + + + + + THE COSMIC EGG. + + Upon a rock yet uncreate, + Amid a chaos inchoate, + An uncreated being sate; + Beneath him, rock, + Above him, cloud. + And the cloud was rock, + And the rock was cloud. + The rock then growing soft and warm, + The cloud began to take a form, + A form chaotic, vast, and vague, + Which issued in the cosmic egg. + Then the Being uncreate + On the egg did incubate, + And thus became the incubator; + And of the egg did allegate, + And thus became the alligator; + And the incubator was potentate, + But the alligator was potentator. + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + THE HEN. + + A famous hen's my story's theme, + Which ne'er was known to tire + Of laying eggs, but then she'd scream + So loud o'er every egg, 't would seem + The house must be on fire. + A turkey-cock, who ruled the walk, + A wiser bird and older, + Could bear 't no more, so off did stalk + Right to the hen, and told her: + "Madam, that scream, I apprehend, + Adds nothing to the matter; + It surely helps the egg no whit; + Then lay your egg, and done with it! + I pray you, madam, as a friend, + Cease that superfluous clatter! + You know not how 't goes through my head." + "Humph! very likely!" madam said, + Then proudly putting forth a leg,-- + "Uneducated barnyard fowl! + You know, no more than any owl, + The noble privilege and praise + Of authorship in modern days-- + I'll tell you why I do it: + First, you perceive, I lay the egg, + And then--review it." + + From the German of MATTHAIAS CLAUDIUS. + + + + + ODE--TO THE ROC. + + O unhatched Bird, so high preferred, + As porter of the Pole, + Of beakless things, who have no wings, + Exact no heavy toll. + If this my song its theme should wrong, + The theme itself is sweet; + Let others rhyme the unborn time, + I sing the Obsolete. + + And first, I praise the nobler traits + Of birds preceding Noah, + The giant clan, whose meat was Man, + Dinornis, Apteryx, Moa. + These, by hints we get from prints + Of feathers and of feet, + Excelled in wits the later tits, + And so are obsolete. + + I sing each race whom we displace + In their primeval woods, + While Gospel Aid inspires Free-Trade + To traffic with their goods. + With Norman Dukes the still Sioux + In breeding might compete; + But where men talk the tomahawk + Will soon grow obsolete. + + I celebrate each perished State; + Great cities ploughed to loam; + Chaldæan kings; the Bulls with wings; + Dead Greece, and dying Rome. + The Druids' shrine may shelter swine, + Or stack the farmer's peat; + 'Tis thus mean moths treat finest cloths, + Mean men the obsolete. + + Shall nought be said of theories dead? + The Ptolemaic system? + Figure and phrase, that bent all ways + Duns Scotus liked to twist 'em? + Averrhoes' thought? and what was taught, + In Salamanca's seat? + Sihons and Ogs? and showers of frogs? + Sea-serpents obsolete? + + Pillion and pack have left their track; + Dead is "the Tally-ho;" + Steam rails cut down each festive crown + Of the old world and slow; + Jack-in-the-Green no more is seen, + Nor Maypole in the street; + No mummers play on Christmas-day; + St. George is obsolete. + + O fancy, why hast thou let die + So many a frolic fashion? + Doublet and hose, and powdered beaux? + Where are thy songs whose passion + Turned thought to fire in knight and squire, + While hearts of ladies beat? + Where thy sweet style, ours, ours erewhile? + All this is obsolete. + + In Auvergne low potatoes grow + Upon volcanoes old; + The moon, they say, had her young day, + Though now her heart is cold; + Even so our earth, sorrow and mirth, + Seasons of snow and heat, + Checked by her tides in silence glides + To become obsolete. + + The astrolabe of every babe + Reads, in its fatal sky, + "Man's largest room is the low tomb-- + Ye all are born to die." + Therefore this theme, O Bird, I deem + The noblest we may treat; + The final cause of Nature's laws + Is to grow obsolete. + + WILLIAM JOHN COURTHOPE. + + + + + MOTHERHOOD. + + She laid it where the sunbeams fall + Unscanned upon the broken wall. + Without a tear, without a groan, + She laid it near a mighty stone, + Which some rude swain had haply cast + Thither in sport, long ages past, + And time with mosses had o'erlaid, + And fenced with many a tall grass-blade, + And all about bid roses bloom + And violets shed their soft perfume. + There, in its cool and quiet bed, + She set her burden down and fled: + Nor flung, all eager to escape, + One glance upon the perfect shape, + That lay, still warm and fresh and fair, + But motionless and soundless there. + No human eye had marked her pass + Across the linden-shadowed grass + Ere yet the minster clock chimed seven: + Only the innocent birds of heaven-- + The magpie, and the rook whose nest + Swings as the elm-tree waves his crest-- + And the lithe cricket, and the hoar + And huge-limbed hound that guards the door, + Looked on when, as a summer wind + That, passing, leaves no trace behind, + All unapparelled, barefoot all, + She ran to that old ruined wall, + To leave upon the chill dank earth + (For ah! she never knew its worth), + Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling, + And dews of night, that precious thing! + And then it might have lain forlorn + From morn to eve, from eve to morn: + But, that, by some wild impulse led, + The mother, ere she turned and fled, + One moment stood erect and high; + Then poured into the silent sky + A cry so jubilant, so strange, + That Alice--as she strove to range + Her rebel ringlets at her glass-- + Sprang up and gazed across the grass; + Shook back those curls so fair to see, + Clapped her soft hands in childish glee; + And shrieked--her sweet face all aglow, + Her very limbs with rapture shaking-- + "My hen has laid an egg, I know; + And only hear the noise she's making!" + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + + + + + DISASTER. + + 'Twas ever thus from childhood's hour + My fondest hopes would not decay: + I never loved a tree or flower + Which was the first to fade away! + The garden, where I used to delve + Short-frocked, still yields me pinks in plenty; + The pear-tree that I climbed at twelve, + I see still blossoming, at twenty. + + I never nursed a dear gazelle. + But I was given a paroquet-- + How I did nurse him if unwell! + He's imbecile but lingers yet. + He's green, with an enchanting tuft; + He melts me with his small black eye: + He'd look inimitable stuffed, + And knows it--but he will not die! + + I had a kitten--I was rich + In pets--but all too soon my kitten + Became a full-sized cat, by which + I've more than once been scratched and bitten: + And when for sleep her limbs she curled + One day beside her untouched plateful, + And glided calmly from the world, + I freely own that I was grateful. + + And then I bought a dog--a queen! + Ah, Tiny, dear departing pug! + She lives, but she is past sixteen, + And scarce can crawl across the rug. + I loved her beautiful and kind; + Delighted in her pert bow-wow: + But now she snaps if you don't mind; + 'T were lunacy to love her now. + + I used to think, should e'er mishap + Betide my crumple-visaged Ti, + In shape of prowling thief, or trap, + Or coarse bull-terrier--I should die. + But ah! disasters have their use; + And life might e'en be too sunshiny: + Nor would I make myself a goose, + If some big dog should swallow Tiny. + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + + + + + LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM. + + + [A farmers daughter, during the rage for albums, handed + to the author an old account-book ruled for pounds, + shillings, and pence, and requested a contribution.] + + | £. | s. | d. + This world's a scene as dark as Styx, | | | + Where hope is scarce worth | | 2 | 6 + Our joys are borne so fleeting hence | | | + That they are dear at | | | 18 + And yet to stay here most are willing, | | | + Although they may not have | | 1 | + + WILLIS GAYLORD. + + + + + ON THE BRINK. + + I watched her as she stooped to pluck + A wild flower in her hair to twine; + And wished that it had been my luck + To call her mine; + + Anon I heard her rate with mad, + Mad words her babe within its cot, + And felt particularly glad + That it had not. + + I knew (such subtle brains have men!) + That she was uttering what she shouldn't; + And thought that I would chide, and then + I thought I wouldn't. + + Few could have gazed upon that face, + Those pouting coral lips, and chided: + A Rhadamanthus, in my place, + Had done as I did. + + For wrath with which our bosoms glow + Is chained there oft by Beauty's spell; + And, more than that, I did not know + The widow well. + + So the harsh phrase passed unreproved: + Still mute--(O brothers, was it sin?)-- + I drank unutterably moved, + Her beauty in. + + And to myself I murmured low, + As on her upturned face and dress + The moonlight fell, "Would she say No,-- + By chance, or Yes?" + + She stood so calm, so like a ghost, + Betwixt me and that magic moon, + That I already was almost + A finished coon. + + But when she caught adroitly up + And soothed with smiles her little daughter; + And gave it, if I'm right, a sup + Of barley-water; + + And, crooning still the strange, sweet lore + Which only mothers' tongues can utter, + Snowed with deft hand the sugar o'er + Its bread-and-butter; + + And kissed it clingingly (ah, why + Don't women do these things in private?)-- + I felt that if I lost her, I + Should not survive it. + + And from my mouth the words nigh flew,-- + The past, the future, I forgat 'em,-- + "Oh, if you'd kiss me as you do + That thankless atom!" + + But this thought came ere yet I spake, + And froze the sentence on my lips: + "They err who marry wives that make + Those little slips." + + It came like some familiar rhyme, + Some copy to my boyhood set; + And that's perhaps the reason I'm + Unmarried yet. + + Would she have owned how pleased she was, + And told her love with widow's pride? + I never found out that, because + I never tried. + + Be kind to babes and beasts and birds, + Hearts may be hard though lips are coral; + And angry words are angry words: + And that's the moral. + + CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY. + + + + + THE V-A-S-E. + + From the maddening crowd they stand apart, + The maidens four and the Work of Art; + + And none might tell from sight alone + In which had culture ripest grown,-- + + The Gotham Millions fair to see, + The Philadelphia Pedigree, + + The Boston Mind of azure hue, + Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo,-- + + For all loved Art in a seemly way, + With an earnest soul and a capital A. + + * * * * * + + Long they worshipped; but no one broke + The sacred stillness, until up spoke + + The Western one from the nameless place, + Who blushingly said: "What a lovely vace!" + + Over three faces a sad smile flew, + And they edged away from Kalamazoo. + + But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred + To crush the stranger with one small word + + Deftly hiding reproof in praise, + She cries: "'T is, indeed, a lovely vaze!" + + But brief her unworthy triumph when + The lofty one from the home of Penn, + + With the consciousness of two grand papas, + Exclaims: "It is quite a lovely vahs!" + + And glances round with an anxious thrill, + Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. + + But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee, + And gently murmurs: "Oh pardon me! + + "I did not catch your remark, because + I was so entranced with that charming vaws!" + + _Dies erit prægelida_ + _Sinistra quum Bostonia._ + + JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE. + + + + + LARKS AND NIGHTINGALES. + + Alone I sit at eventide: + The twilight glory pales, + And o'er the meadows far and wide + Chant pensive bobolinks. + (One might say nightingales!) + + Song-sparrows warble on the tree, + I hear the purling brook, + And from the old "manse o'er the lea" + Flies slow the cawing crow. + (In England 'twere a rook!) + + The last faint golden beams of day + Still glow on cottage panes, + And on their lingering homeward way + Walk weary laboring men. + (Oh, would that we had swains!) + + From farm-yards, down fair rural glades + Come sounds of tinkling bells, + And songs of merry brown milkmaids, + Sweeter than oriole's. + (Yes, thank you--Philomel's!) + + I could sit here till morning came, + All through the night hours dark, + Until I saw the sun's bright flame + And heard the chickadee. + (Alas we have no lark!) + + We have no leas, no larks, no rooks, + No swains, no nightingales, + No singing milkmaids (save in books): + The poet does his best-- + It is the rhyme that fails! + + NATHAN HASKELL DOLE. + + + + + OF BLUE CHINA. + + There's a joy without canker or cark, + There's a pleasure eternally new, + 'T is to gloat on the glaze and the mark + Of china that's ancient and blue; + Unchipped, all the centuries through + It has passed, since the chime of it rang, + And they fashioned it, figure and hue, + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + These dragons (their tails, you remark, + Into bunches of gillyflowers grew),-- + When Noah came out of the ark, + Did these lie in wait for his crew? + They snorted, they snapped, and they slew, + They were mighty of fin and of fang, + And their portraits Celestials drew + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + Here's a pot with a cot in a park, + In a park where the peach-blossoms blew, + Where the lovers eloped in the dark, + Lived, died, and were changed into two + Bright birds that eternally flew + Through the boughs of the may, as they sang; + 'T is a tale was undoubtedly true + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + ENVOY + + Come, snarl at my ecstasies, do, + Kind critic; your "tongue has a tang," + But--a sage never heeded a shrew + In the reign of the Emperor Hwang. + + ANDREW LANG. + + + + + A RIDDLE.[14] + + THE LETTER "H." + + 'T was in heaven pronounced, and 't was muttered in hell, + And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; + On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, + And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed; + 'T will be found in the sphere when 't is riven asunder, + Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. + 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, + Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death, + Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health, + Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. + In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, + But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. + It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, + With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned. + Without it the soldier, the seaman may roam, + But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! + In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, + Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. + 'T will not soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, + It will make it acutely and instantly hear. + Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, + Ah, breathe on it softly,--it dies in an hour. + + CATHARINE FANSHAWE. + +[14] Sometimes attributed to Byron. + + + + + A THRENODY. + + "The Ahkoond of Swat is dead."--_London Papers._ + + What, what, what, + What's the news from Swat? + Sad news, + Bad news, + Comes by the cable led + Through the Indian Ocean's bed, + Through the Persian Gulf, the Red + Sea and the Med- + Iterranean--he's dead; + The Ahkoond is dead! + + For the Ahkoond I mourn, + Who wouldn't? + He strove to disregard the message stern, + But he Ahkoodn't. + Dead, dead, dead; + (Sorrow Swats!) + Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled, + Swats whom he had often led + Onward to a gory bed, + Or to victory, + As the case might be, + Sorrow Swats! + Tears shed, + Shed tears like water, + Your great Ahkoond is dead! + That Swats the matter! + + Mourn, city of Swat! + Your great Ahkoond is not, + But lain 'mid worms to rot. + His mortal part alone, his soul was caught + (Because he was a good Ahkoond) + Up to the bosom of Mahound. + Though earthy walls his frame surround + (Forever hallowed be the ground!) + And sceptics mock the lowly mound + And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!" + His soul is in the skies,-- + The azure skies that bend above his loved Metropolis of Swat. + He sees with larger, other eyes, + Athwart all earthly mysteries-- + He knows what's Swat. + + Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond + With a noise of mourning and of lamentation! + Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond + With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation! + + Fallen is at length + Its tower of strength, + Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned; + Dead lies the great Ahkoond, + The great Ahkoond of Swat + Is not! + + GEORGE THOMAS LANIGAN. + + + + + LINES TO MISS FLORENCE HUNTINGTON. + + Sweet maiden of Passamaquoddy, + Shall we seek for communion of souls + Where the deep Mississippi meanders, + Or the distant Saskatchewan rolls? + + Ah no,--for in Maine I will find thee + A sweetly sequestrated nook, + Where the far winding Skoodoowabskooksis + Conjoins with the Skoodoowabskook. + + There wander two beautiful rivers, + With many a winding and crook; + The one is the Skoodoowabskooksis, + The other--the Skoodoowabskook. + + Ah, sweetest of haunts! though unmentioned + In geography, atlas, or book, + How fair is the Skoodoowabskooksis, + When joining the Skoodoowabskook! + + Our cot shall be close by the waters + Within that sequestrated nook-- + Reflected in Skoodoowabskooksis + And mirrored in Skoodoowabskook. + + You shall sleep to the music of leaflets, + By zephyrs in wantonness shook, + And dream of the Skoodoowabskooksis, + And, perhaps, of the Skoodoowabskook. + + When awaked by the hens and the roosters, + Each morn, you shall joyously look + On the junction of Skoodoowabskooksis + With the soft gliding Skoodoowabskook. + + Your food shall be fish from the waters, + Drawn forth on the point of a hook, + From murmuring Skoodoowabskookis, + Or wandering Skoodoowabskook! + + You shall quaff the most sparkling of water, + Drawn forth from a silvery brook + Which flows to the Skoodoowabskooksis, + And then to the Skoodoowabskook! + + And you shall preside at the banquet, + And I will wait on thee as cook; + And we'll talk of the Skoodoowabskooksis, + And sing of the Skoodoowabskook! + + Let others sing loudly of Saco, + Of Quoddy, and Tattamagouche, + Of Kennebeccasis, and Quaco, + Of Merigonishe, and Buctouche, + + Of Nashwaak, and Magaguadavique, + Or Memmerimammericook,-- + There's none like the Skoodoowabskooksis, + Excepting the Skoodoowabskook! + + ANONYMOUS. + + + + + V. + + NONSENSE. + + + + + NONSENSE. + + Good reader, if you e'er have seen, + When Phoebus hastens to his pillow, + The mermaids with their tresses green + Dancing upon the western billow; + If you have seen at twilight dim, + When the lone spirit's vesper hymn + Floats wild along the winding shore, + The fairy train their ringlets weave + Glancing along the spangled green; + I you have seen all this, and more-- + God bless me! what a deal you've seen! + + THOMAS MOORE. + + + + + THE PURPLE COW. + + I never saw a Purple Cow, + I never hope to see one; + But I can tell you, anyhow, + I rather see than be one. + + GELETT BURGESS. + + + + + PSYCHOLOPHON. + + [Supposed to be translated from the Old Parsee.] + + Twine then the rays + Round her soft Theban tissues! + All will be as She says, + When that dead past reissues. + Matters not what nor where, + Hark, to the moon's dim cluster! + How was her heavy hair + Lithe as a feather duster! + Matters not when nor whence; + Flittertigibbet! + Sound makes the song, not sense, + Thus I inhibit! + + GELETT BURGESS. + + + + + THE BAKER'S TALE. + + FROM "THE HUNTING OF THE SNARK." + + They roused him with muffins--they roused him with ice-- + They roused him with mustard and cress-- + They roused him with jam and judicious advice-- + They set him conundrums to guess. + + When at length he sat up and was able to speak, + His sad story he offered to tell; + And the Bellman cried "Silence! Not even a shriek!" + And excitedly tingled his bell. + + There was silence supreme! Not a shriek, not a scream, + Scarcely even a howl or a groan, + As the man they called "Ho!" told his story of woe + In an antediluvian tone. + + "My father and mother were honest though poor--" + "Skip all that!" cried the Bellman in haste. + "If it once become dark, there's no chance of a Snark-- + We have hardly a minute to waste!" + + "I skip forty years," said the Baker, in tears, + "And proceed without further remark + To the day when you took me aboard of your ship + To help you in hunting the Snark. + + "A dear uncle of mine (after whom I was named) + Remarked, when I bade him farewell--" + "Oh, skip your dear uncle!" the Bellman exclaimed, + As he angrily tingled his bell. + + "He remarked to me then," said that mildest of men, + "'If your Snark be a Snark, that is right: + Fetch it home by all means--you may serve it with greens, + And it's handy for striking a light. + + "'You may seek it with thimbles--and seek it with care; + You may hunt it with forks and hope; + You may threaten its life with a railway-share; + You may charm it with smiles and soap--'" + + ("That's exactly the method," the Bellman bold + In a hasty parenthesis cried, + "That's exactly the way I have always been told + That the capture of Snarks should be tried!") + + "'But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day, + If your Snark be a Boojum! For then + You will softly and suddenly vanish away, + And never be met with again!' + + "It is this, it is this that oppresses my soul, + When I think of my uncle's last words: + And my heart is like nothing so much as a bowl + Brimming over with quivering curds! + + "It is this, it is this--" "We have had that before!" + The Bellman indignantly said. + And the Baker replied, "Let me say it once more. + It is this, it is this that I dread! + + "I engage with the Snark--every night after dark-- + In a dreamy, delirious fight: + I serve it with greens in those shadowy scenes, + And I use it for striking a light: + + "But if ever I meet with a Boojum, that day, + In a moment (of this I am sure), + I shall softly and suddenly vanish away-- + And the notion I cannot endure!" + + CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON (_Lewis Carroll_). + + + + + JABBERWOCKY. + + 'T was brillig, and the slithy toves + Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; + All mimsy were the borogoves, + And the mome raths outgrabe. + + "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! + The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! + Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun + The frumious Bandersnatch!" + + He took his vorpal sword in hand: + Long time the manxome foe he sought-- + So rested he by the Tumtum tree, + And stood awhile in thought. + + And as in uffish thought he stood, + The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, + Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, + And burbled as it came! + + One, two! One, two! And through and through + The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! + He left it dead, and with its head + He went galumphing back. + + "And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? + Come to my arms, my beamish boy! + O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" + He chortled in his joy. + + 'T was brillig, and the slithy toves + Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; + All mimsy were the borogoves, + And the mome raths outgrabe. + + CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON (_Lewis Carroll_). + + + + + FOR A NOVEL OF HALL CAINE'S. + + AFTER KIPLING. + + He sits in a sea-green grotto with a bucket of + lurid paint, + And draws the Thing as it isn't for the God of things as + they ain't. + + ROBERT BRIDGES (_Droch_). + + + + + INDEX OF AUTHORS AND TITLES. + + _For occupation, nativity, etc., of authors, and the_ + _American publishers of American poetical works, see_ + _General Index of Authors, Volume X._ + + ADAMS, CHARLES FOLLEN. PAGE. + Dot Long-Handled Dipper, 328 + Little Yawcob Strauss, 327 + + ARISTOPHANES. + Women's Chorus (_Collins' Translation_), 200 + + ARNOLD, MATTHEW. + Slaying of Sohrab, The, 28 + + BARHAM, RICHARD HARRIS (_Thomas Ingoldsby, Esq._). + Jackdaw of Rheims, The, 331 + + BLANCHARD, LAMON. + Ode to the Human Heart, 428 + + BOKER, GEORGE HENRY. + Countess Laura, 55 + + BRIDGES, ROBERT (_Droch_). + For a Novel of Hall Caine's, 460 + + BROOKS, CHARLES TIMOTHY. + Wives of Weinsberg, The (_German of Bürger_), 200 + + BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. + Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The, 435 + + BROWNING, ROBERT. + Ivàn Ivànovitch, 102 + + BUCHANAN, ROBERT. + Fra Giacomo, 76 + + BÜRGER, GOTTFRIED AUGUST. + Wives of Weinsberg, The (_Brooks' Translation_), 200 + + BURGESS, FRANK GELETT. + Psycholophon, 456 + Purple Cow, The, 455 + + BURLEIGH, WILLIAM HENRY. + Deborah Lee, 400 + + BURNS, ROBERT. + Address to the Toothache, 307 + + BUTLER, SAMUEL. + Hudibras' Sword and Dagger (_Hudibras_), 254 + + BUTLER, WILLIAM ALLEN. + "Nothing to wear", 213 + + BYRON, GEORGE NOEL GORDON, LORD. + Prisoner of Chillon, The, 88 + + CALVERLEY, CHARLES STUART. + Arab, The, 413 + Auld Wife, The, 407 + Cock and the Bull, The, 402 + Disaster, 441 + Forever, 424 + Lovers and Reflection, 409 + Motherhood, 440 + Ode to Tobacco, 387 + On the Brink, 443 + + CANNING, GEORGE. + Epitaph on Marquis of Anglesea's Leg, 292 + Friend of Humanity and the Knife Grinder, The, 398 + Song of One eleven years in Prison, 293 + + CARLETON, WILL. + New Church Organ, The, 316 + + CHAMBERS, ROBERT WILLIAM. + Recruit, The, 321 + + CLAUDIUS, MATTHIAS. + Hen, The (_Translation_), 436 + + CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH. + Latest Decalogue, The, 315 + + COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR. + Epigrams, 286 + Metrical Feet, 429 + + COLLINS, MORTIMER. + Darwin, 383 + + COLLINS, WILLIAM. + Women's Chorus (_Greek of Aristophanes_), 200 + + COLMAN, GEORGE, THE YOUNGER. + Gluggity Glug (_The Myrtle and the Vine_), 245 + Toby Tosspot, 257 + + COURTHOPE, WILLIAM JOHN. + Ode to the Roc, 437 + + COWPER, WILLIAM. + Diverting History of John Gilpin, The, 276 + Nose and the Eyes, The, 310 + On the Loss of the Royal George, 182 + + DAVIS, THOMAS OSBORNE. + Sack of Baltimore, The, 127 + + DOBSON, [HENRY] AUSTIN. + Before Sedan, 101 + + DODGSON, CHARLES LUTWIDGE (_Lewis Carroll_). + Baker's Tale, The (_The Hunting of the Snark_), 456 + Jabberwocky, 459 + + DOLE, NATHAN HASKELL. + _Larks and Nightingales_, 447 + + DOWLING, BARTHOLOMEW. + Revelry of the Dying, 170 + + EURIPIDES. + Sacrifice of Polyxena, The (_Symord's Translation_), 5 + + FANSHAWE, CATHERINE MARIA. + Riddle, A (_The Letter "H"_), 450 + + FIELD, EUGENE. + Compliment, The, 342 + + FIELDS, JAMES THOMAS. + Nantucket Skipper, The, 343 + + FORRESTER, ALFRED H. (_Alfred Crowquill_). + My Nose, To, 421 + + FOSS, SAM WALTER. + He'd Had No Show, 351 + + FRANKLIN, BENJAMIN. + Paper, 289 + + GAYLORD, WILLIS. + Lines written in an Album, 443 + + GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHWENCK. + Captain Reece, 297 + Terrestrial Globe, To the, 309 + Yarn of the "Nancy Bell," The, 301 + + GILMAN, CHARLOTTE PERKINS STETSON. + Conservative, A, 422 + + GOLDSMITH, OLIVER. + Elegy on Madam Blaize, 266 + Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 263 + + GREENE, ALBERT GORTON. + Old Grimes, 264 + + HALL, JOSEPH. + Hollow Hospitality, 384 + + HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE. + Alnwick Castle, 312 + + HARRINGTON, SIR JOHN. + Of a Certaine Man, 199 + + HARTE, [FRANCIS] BRET. + Dow's Flat, 368 + Jim, 364 + Plain Language from Truthful James, 374 + Pliocene Skull, To the, 360 + Ramon, 176 + Society upon the Stanislaus, The, 372 + + HAY, JOHN. + Banty Jim, 366 + Jim Bludso of the Prairie Bell, 358 + Little Breeches, 362 + + HEMANS, FELICIA DOROTHEA BROWNE. + Bernardo del Carpio, 85 + Casabianca, 184 + + HICKEY, EMILY HENRIETTA. + Sea Story, A, 193 + + HOGG, JAMES. + Women Fo'k, The, 197 + + HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL. + Ode for a Social Meeting., 383 + One-Hoss Shay, The, 345 + Rudolph the Headsman (_This is It_), 293 + + HOOD, THOMAS. + Art of Book-Keeping, The, 305 + Dream of Eugene Aram, The, 157 + Faithless Nelly Gray, 268 + Faithless Sally Brown, 271 + Morning Meditations, 261 + Nocturnal Sketch, 430 + + HUGO, VICTOR MARIE. + Sack of the City, The (_Translation_), 26 + + HUNT, LEIGH. + Sneezing, 421 + + INGELOW, JEAN. + High-Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, 145 + + IRWIN, WALLACE. + From "Love Sonnets of a Hoodlum", 394 + + KINGSLEY, CHARLES. + Sands o' Dee, The, 181 + Three Fishers, The, 183 + + LAMB, CHARLES. + Farewell to Tobacco, A, 389 + + LANDOR, WALTER SAVAGE. + Iphigeneia and Agamemnon, 3 + + LANG, ANDREW. + Of Blue China, 448 + + LANIGAN, GEORGE THOMAS. + Threnody, A, 451 + + LELAND, CHARLES GODFREY. + Hans Breitmann's Party, 325 + Ritter Hugo, 324 + + LOCKER-LAMPSON, FREDERICK. + On an Old Muff, 235 + + LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH. + Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 186 + + LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL. + America (_A Fable for Critics_), 337 + Grave-Yard, The (_A Fable for Critics_), 261 + What Mr. Robinson Thinks (_Biglow Papers_), 339 + + MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD. + Roman Father's Sacrifice, The (_Virginia_), 16 + + MAGINN, WILLIAM. + Irishman and the Lady, The, 320 + + MOORE, THOMAS. + Nonsense, 455 + Orator Puff, 273 + + NEWELL, EGBERT HENRY (_Orpheus C. Kerr_). + Poems for a National Anthem, 415 + + O'BRIEN, FITZ-JAMES. + Second Mate, The, 189 + + OGDEN, EVA L. + Sea, The, 227 + + O'KEEFFE, JOHN. + "I am a friar of orders gray" (_Robin Hood_), 247 + + PAYNE, JOHN HOWARD. + Lucius Junius Brutus over the body of Lucretia + (_Brutus_), 14 + + PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH. + Belle of the Ball, The, 207 + + PUNCH. + Collegian to his Bride, The, 434 + + PUNCH'S "POETICAL COOKERY BOOK." + Roasted Sucking-Pig, 385 + + RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB. + Griggsby's Station, 349 + + ROCHE, JAMES JEFFREY. + V-A-S-E-, The, 446 + + ROGERS, SAMUEL. + Ginevra, 81 + + RUSSELL, IRWIN. + De Fust Banjo, 377 + Nebuchadnezzar, 380 + + SAXE, JOHN GODFREY. + Echo, 211 + Proud Miss MacBride, The, 228 + Railroad Rhyme, 431 + + SCHILLER, JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON. + Diver, The (_Translation_), 44 + + SCOLLARD, CLINTON. + Khamsin, 42 + + SCOTT, DUNCAN CAMPBELL. + At the Cedars, 178 + + SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM. + Antony's Oration (_Julius Cæsar_), 20 + Dagger of the Mind, A (_Macbeth_), 120 + Murder, The (_Macbeth_), 122 + Othello's Remorse (_Othello_), 67 + + SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE. + Trial of Beatrice (_The Cenci_), 68 + + SMITH, HORACE. + Gouty Merchant and the Stranger, The, 275 + + SMITH, SYDNEY. + Recipe for Salad, A, 387 + + SOUTHEY, CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES. + Young Gray Head, The, 132 + + SOUTHEY, ROBERT. + God's Judgment on a wicked Bishop, 52 + Well of St. Keyne, The, 204 + + STANTON, FRANK LEBBY. + Plantation Ditty, A (_Comes One with a Song_), 376 + + STEPHEN, JAMES KENNETH. + Lapsus Calami, 422 + + STERLING, JOHN. + Rose and the Gauntlet, The, 131 + + STILL, JOHN. + Good Ale, 248 + + STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY. + Sea, The, 192 + + SWIFT, JONATHAN. + Tonis ad Resto Mare, 319 + Vowels, The: An Enigma, 311 + + SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES. + Nephelidia, 411 + + SYMONDS, JOHN ADDINGTON. + Sacrifice of Polyxena, The (_Greek of Euripides_), 5 + + TAYLOR, JEFFREYS. + Milkmaid, The, 259 + + TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD. + Rizpah, 151 + + THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE. + Little Billee, 296 + Sorrows of Werther, 204 + + WHEWELL, WILLIAM. + Physics, 434 + + WILKINS, WILLIAM, + In the Engine-Shed, 165 + + WILLIS, NATHANIEL PARKER. + Parrhasius, 8 + + WILLSON, ARABELLA M. + To the "Sextant", 355 + + WOLCOTT, OR WOLCOT, JOHN (_Peter Pindar_). + Pilgrims and the Peas, The, 249 + Razor-Seller, The, 287 + + ANONYMOUS. + Belagholly Days, 420 + Cosmic Egg, The, 436 + Drummer-Boy's Burial, The, 172 + Echo and the Lover, 210 + Fine old English Gentleman, The, 255 + King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, 241 + Life's Love, 382 + Lines to Miss Florence Huntingdon, 453 + Modern Hiawatha, The, 414 + Modern House that Jack Built, The, 396 + My Love, 427 + Mystified Quaker in New York, The, 352 + Perils of Thinking, 380 + Saddened Tramp, A, 395 + Saint Anthony's Sermon to the Fishes, 239 + Siege of Belgrade, 426 + Swell's Soliloquy, The, 341 + Too Great a Sacrifice, 394 + Twa Corbies, The, 126 + Vicar of Bray, The, 251 + Woman, 197 + + _____________________________ + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The World's Best Poetry, Volume IX: Of +Tragedy: of Humour, by Various + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 43223 *** |