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diff --git a/43223.txt b/43223.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 230134a..0000000 --- a/43223.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,16055 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of The World's Best Poetry, Volume IX: Of -Tragedy: of Humour, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org - - -Title: The World's Best Poetry, Volume IX: Of Tragedy: of Humour - -Author: Various - -Contributor: Francis Barton Gummere - -Editor: Bliss Carman - -Release Date: July 15, 2013 [EBook #43223] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: ASCII - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOL IX *** - - - - -Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - - - - - - - - _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 CAESAR. - - FROM "JULIUS CAESAR," ACT III. SC. 2. - - ANTONY.--O mighty Caesar! 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 Caesar, not to praise him. - The evil that men do lives after them; - The good is oft interred with their bones; - So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus - Hath told you Caesar was ambitious: - If it were so, it was a grievous fault; - And grievously hath Caesar answered it. - Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest, - (For Brutus is an honorable man; - So are they all, all honorable men,) - Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. - He was my friend, faithful and just to me: - But Brutus says he was ambitious; - And Brutus is an honorable man. - He hath brought many captives home to Rome, - Whose ransom did the general coffers fill: - Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? - When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept: - Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: - Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; - And Brutus is an honorable man. - You all did see that on the Lupercal - I thrice presented him a kingly crown, - Which he did thrice refuse: was this ambition? - Yet Brutus says he was ambitious; - And, sure, he is an honorable man. - I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, - But here I am to speak what I do know. - You all did love him once,--not without cause! - What cause withholds you, then, to mourn for him? - O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts, - And men have lost their reason!--Bear with me; - My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, - And I must pause till it come back to me. - - * * * * * - - But yesterday, the word of Caesar might - Have stood against the world! now lies he there - And none so poor to do him reverence. - O masters! if I were disposed to stir - Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, - I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong, - Who, you all know, are honorable men: - I will not do them wrong; I rather choose - To wrong the dead, to wrong myself, and you, - Than I will wrong such honorable men. - But here 's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar,-- - I found it in his closet,--'tis his will. - Let but the commons hear this testament, - (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read,) - And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds, - And dip their napkins in his sacred blood: - Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, - And, dying, mention it within their wills, - Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, - Unto their issue. - - 4 CITIZEN.--We'll hear the will: read it, Mark Antony. - - CITIZENS.--The will, the will! we will hear Caesar's will. - - ANTONY.--Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; - It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. - You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; - And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, - It will inflame you, it will make you mad: - 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs, - For if you should, O, what would come of it! - - 4 CITIZEN.--Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony; - You shall read us the will,--Caesar'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 Caesar; 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 Caesar, - 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 Caesar put it on; - 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent; - That day he overcame the Nervii:-- - Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through: - See what a rent the envious Casca made: - Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed; - And, as he plucked his cursed steel away, - Mark how the blood of Caesar followed it, - As rushing out of doors, to be resolved - If Brutus so unkindly knocked, or no; - For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: - Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! - This was the most unkindest cut of all; - For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, - Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, - Quite vanquished him: then burst his mighty heart; - And, in his mantle muffling up his face, - Even at the base of Pompey's statua, - Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. - O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! - Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, - Whilst bloody treason flourished over us. - O, now you weep; and I perceive you feel - The dint of pity: these are gracious drops. - Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold - Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, - Here is himself, marred, as you see, with traitors. - - * * * * * - - 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 Caesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths, - And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus, - And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony - Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue - In every wound of Caesar, that should move - The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. - - 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 Caesar 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 Caesar's seal:-- - To every Roman citizen he gives, - To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. - - 2 CITIZEN.--Most noble Caesar!--we'll revenge his death. - - 3 CITIZEN.--O royal Caesar! - - 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 Caesar! 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 accursed 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 beloved 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 mailed 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 Seistan, - 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 Seistan, - 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 Seistan, - 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 Seistan, - 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 Seistan; - 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 breathed deep, and he breathed 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, cursed 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 arched 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 admonished; - 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 winged 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. - - - - - IVAN IVANOVITCH. - - 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 - Ivan Ivanovitch, 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--"Dmitri's wife! - Back without Dmitri 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 Vassili, he's Sergei, Ivan Ivanovitch"-- - - 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-- - "Loukeria, Louscha!"--still he, fondling, smoothed and smoothed. - At last her lips formed speech. - - "Ivan, 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, Ivan, 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 blessed 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--Ivan, dear, you the first! - How gay we jingled forth, all five--(my heart will burst)-- - While Dmitri 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 Dmitri, '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 Ivan Ivanovitch, - 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, Dmitri--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! - Stepan, he shall never have you for a meal,-- - here's your mother instead! - No, he will not be counselled--must cry, poor Stiopka, - 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! Terioscha, 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, - Terentii! - - "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? - Terentii--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 Terentii 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 Marpha--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 Kirill 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. Ivan Ivanovitch, - '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, - Ivan Ivanovitch, I owe you! Yours am I! - May God reward you, dear!" - - Down she sank. Solemnly - Ivan 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 Ivan Ivanovitch. - - 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 Louscha, 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, - Starosta, 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 Starosta--the thorpe's - Sagaciousest old man--hears what you just have heard, - From Droug's first inrush, all, up to Ivan'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? - - * * * * * - - Ivan Ivanovitch 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. - Ivan Ivanovitch, 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 - Ivan Ivanovitch 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. - - Ivan Ivanovitch - 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. - Stescha, Ivan's old mother, sat spinning by the heat - Of the oven where his wife Katia stood baking bread. - Ivan'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: Ivan Ivanovitch - 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-oppressed 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 blessed 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 discrowned head - Serene, that on the accursed 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 blessed 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 cursed 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 blessed 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 ragged 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 accursed 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, Senior,--my name - Is Ramon! - I'm the drunken engineer,-- - I'm the coward, Senior--" 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 Isaac 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 Isaac - 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' drowned maiden's hair,-- - Above the nets at sea? - Was never salmon yet that shone so fair, - Among the stakes on Dee." - - They rowed her in across the rolling foam,-- - The cruel, crawling foam, - The cruel, hungry foam,-- - To her grave beside the sea; - But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home - Across the sands 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 saved 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 AUGUeST BUeRGER. - 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 _recherche_ 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 Aphrodite 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 Koeln, 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 Maevius 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 Maevius is no ass; - But Maevius 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 ranked 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 blessed 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 aeva 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 Here'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 Palaeotherium; - 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-legged 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 palaeozoic 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 _soupcon_ 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 reclaimed 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 allowed 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 reformed 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 perplexed 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 daedal 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 horned 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 saecula saeculo-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 caetera_--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 quae 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._ - Beloved, 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 Maeonides, _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 Anapaests 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-a-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; - Chaldaean 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.] - - | L. | 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 praegelida_ - _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 Buerger_), 200 - - BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD. - Lawyer's Invocation to Spring, The, 435 - - BROWNING, ROBERT. - Ivan Ivanovitch, 102 - - BUCHANAN, ROBERT. - Fra Giacomo, 76 - - BUeRGER, 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 Caesar_), 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 THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WORLD'S BEST POETRY, VOL IX *** - -***** This file should be named 43223.txt or 43223.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/4/3/2/2/43223/ - -Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Paul Marshall and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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