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diff --git a/old/50994-0.txt b/old/50994-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index bb53f5d..0000000 --- a/old/50994-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,8452 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children, by Various - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children - Parts 1 and 2 - -Author: Various - -Editor: Kenneth Grahame - -Release Date: January 22, 2016 [EBook #50994] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CAMBRIDGE BOOK POETRY CHILDREN *** - - - - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/American -Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - -The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children - -PART I - - - - -CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS - -C. F. CLAY, MANAGER - - London: FETTER LANE, E.C. - Edinburgh: 100 PRINCES STREET - -[Illustration] - - Bombay, Calcutta and Madras: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. - Toronto: J. M. DENT AND SONS, LTD. - Tokyo: THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA - - Copyrighted in the United States of America by - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, - 2, 4 AND 6, WEST 45TH STREET, NEW YORK CITY - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - -The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children - - Edited by - KENNETH GRAHAME - - Author of _The Golden Age_, _Dream Days_, _The Wind - in the Willows_, _etc._ - -PART I - - Cambridge: - at the University Press - 1916 - - - - -NOTE - - -The Editor is indebted to the following authors and publishers for -leave to reprint copyright poems: Mr W. Graham Robertson and Mr Norman -Gale; Messrs Longmans Green & Co. for a poem by Walter Ramal and for a -poem from Stevenson’s _Child’s Garden of Verse_, Messrs Chatto & Windus -for an extract from Swinburne’s _Songs Before Sunrise_ and for a poem -from Walter Thornbury’s _Ballads and Songs_, Messrs G. Routledge & Sons -for a poem by Joaquin Miller, Mr Elliot Stock for an extract from a -play by H. N. Maugham; and Mr John Lane for the Rands, Eugene Field, -and Graham Robertson poems, and for two extracts from John Davidson’s -_Fleet Street Eclogues_. - - - - -PREFACE - - -In compiling a selection of Poetry for Children, a conscientious Editor -is bound to find himself confronted with limitations so numerous as -to be almost disheartening. For he has to remember that his task is, -not to provide simple examples of the whole range of English poetry, -but to set up a wicket-gate giving attractive admission to that wide -domain, with its woodland glades, its pasture and arable, its walled -and scented gardens here and there, and so to its sunlit, and sometimes -misty, mountain-tops--all to be more fully explored later by those who -are tempted on by the first glimpse. And always he must be proclaiming -to the small tourists that there is joy, light and fresh air in that -delectable country. - -Briefly, I think that blank verse generally, and the drama as a -whole, may very well be left for readers of a riper age. Indeed, I -believe that those who can ignore the plays of Shakespeare and his -fellow-Elizabethans till they are sixteen will be no losers in the -long run. The bulk, too, of seventeenth and eighteenth century poetry, -bending under its burden of classical form and crowded classical -allusion, requires a completed education and a wide range of reading -for its proper appreciation. - -Much else also is barred. There are the questions of subject, of -archaic language and thought, and of occasional expression, which will -occur to everyone. Then there is dialect, and here one has to remember -that these poems are intended for use at the very time that a child -is painfully acquiring a normal--often quite arbitrary--orthography. -Is it fair to that child to hammer into him--perhaps literally--that -porridge is spelt porridge, and next minute to present it to him, in an -official ‘Reader,’ under the guise of parritch? I think not; and I have -accordingly kept as far as possible to the normal, though at some loss -of material. - -In the output of those writers who have deliberately written for -children, it is surprising how largely the subject of _death_ is found -to bulk. Dead fathers and mothers, dead brothers and sisters, dead -uncles and aunts, dead puppies and kittens, dead birds, dead flowers, -dead dolls--a compiler of Obituary Verse for the delight of children -could make a fine fat volume with little difficulty. I have turned off -this mournful tap of tears as far as possible, preferring that children -should read of the joy of life, rather than revel in sentimental -thrills of imagined bereavement. - -There exists, moreover, any quantity of verse for children, which is -merely verse and nothing more. It lacks the vital spark of heavenly -flame, and is useless to a selector of Poetry. And then there is the -whole corpus of verse--most of it of the present day--which is written -_about_ children, and this has even more carefully to be avoided. When -the time comes that we send our parents to school, it will prove very -useful to the compilers of their primers. - -All these restrictions have necessarily led to two results. First, -that this collection is chiefly lyrical--and that, after all, is no -bad thing. Lyric verse may not be representative of the whole range of -English poetry, but as an introduction to it, as a Wicket-gate, there -is no better portal. The second result is, that it is but a small sheaf -that these gleanings amount to; but for those children who frankly do -not care for poetry it will be more than enough; and for those who -love it and delight in it, no ‘selection’ could ever be sufficiently -satisfying. - - KENNETH GRAHAME. - _October 1915._ - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - - PREFACE v - - _For the Very Smallest Ones_ - - RHYMES AND JINGLES - - Merry are the Bells 1 - Safe in Bed 2 - Jenny Wren 2 - Curly Locks 3 - Pussy-Cat Mew 3 - Draw a Pail of Water 4 - I Saw a Ship a-sailing 4 - The Nut-Tree 5 - My Maid Mary 5 - The Wind and the Fisherman 6 - Blow, Wind, Blow 6 - All Busy 6 - Winter has Come 7 - Poor Robin 7 - I have a Little Sister 7 - In Marble Walls 8 - - FAMILIAR OBJECTS - - The Moon _Eliza Lee Follen_ 8 - The Star _A. & J. Taylor_ 9 - Kitty _Mrs E. Prentiss_ 10 - Kitty: How to Treat Her 11 - Kitty: what She thinks of Herself _W. B. Rands_ 12 - The Sea Shell _Amy Lowell_ 12 - - COUNTRY BOYS’ SONGS - - The Cuckoo 13 - The Bird-Scarer’s Song 13 - Cradle Song 13 - - Good Night! _A. & J. Taylor_ 14 - - _For Those a Little Older_ - - A BUNCH OF LENT LILIES - - Daffodils _W. Shakespeare_ 15 - To Daffodils _R. Herrick_ 15 - Daffodils _W. Wordsworth_ 16 - - SEASONS AND WEATHER - - The Months _Sara Coleridge_ 17 - The Wind in a Frolic _William Howitt_ 19 - The Four Sweet Months _R. Herrick_ 22 - Glad Day _W. G. Robertson_ 22 - Buttercups and Daisies _Mary Howitt_ 24 - The Merry Month of March _W. Wordsworth_ 24 - What the Birds Say _S. T. Coleridge_ 25 - Spring’s Procession _Sydney Dobell_ 26 - The Call of the Woods _W. Shakespeare_ 28 - A Prescription for a Spring - Morning _John Davidson_ 28 - The Country Faith _Norman Gale_ 29 - The Butterfly’s Ball _W. Roscoe_ 30 - - TASTES AND PREFERENCES - - A Wish _Samuel Rogers_ 33 - Wishing _W. Allingham_ 34 - Bunches of Grapes _Walter Ramal_ 35 - Contentment _Eugene Field_ 36 - - TOYS AND PLAY, IN-DOORS AND OUT - The Land of Story-Books _R. L. Stevenson_ 38 - Sand Castles _W. G. Robertson_ 39 - Ring o’ Roses ” 41 - - DREAM-LAND - - Wynken, Blynken, and Nod _Eugene Field_ 42 - The Drummer-Boy and the - Shepherdess _W. B. Rands_ 44 - The Land of Dreams _William Blake_ 45 - Sweet and Low _Lord Tennyson_ 45 - Cradle Song _Sir Walter Scott_ 46 - Mother and I _Eugene Field_ 47 - - FAIRY-LAND - - The Fairies _W. Allingham_ 48 - Shakespeare’s Fairies _W. Shakespeare_ 51 - The Lavender Beds _W. B. Rands_ 54 - Farewell to the Fairies _Richard Corbet_ 55 - Death of Oberon _G. W. Thornbury_ 57 - Kilmeny _James Hogg_ 58 - - TWO SONGS - - A Boy’s Song _James Hogg_ 62 - A Girl’s Song _Thomas Moore_ 63 - - FUR AND FEATHER - - Three Things to Remember _William Blake_ 65 - The Knight of Bethlehem _H. N. Maugham_ 65 - The Lamb _William Blake_ 65 - The Tiger ” 66 - I had a Dove _J. Keats_ 67 - Robin Redbreast _W. Allingham_ 68 - Black Bunny _W. B. Rands_ 69 - The Cow _A. & J. Taylor_ 71 - The Skylark _James Hogg_ 72 - - CHRISTMAS POEMS - - Christmas Eve _John Davidson_ 73 - A Christmas Carol _R. Herrick_ 75 - A Child’s Present ” 76 - The Peace-Giver _A. C. Swinburne_ 77 - - VARIOUS - - To a Singer _P. B. Shelley_ 78 - The Happy Piper _William Blake_ 80 - The Destruction of Sennacherib _Lord Byron_ 81 - Sheridan’s Ride _T. Buchanan Read_ 83 - Columbus _Joaquin Miller_ 86 - Horatius _Lord Macaulay_ 88 - - INDEX OF AUTHORS 113 - - INDEX OF FIRST LINES 115 - - - - -_For the Very Smallest Ones_ - -RHYMES AND JINGLES - -_We begin with some jingles and old rhymes; for rhymes and jingles must -not be despised. They have rhyme, rhythm, melody, and joy; and it is -well for beginners to know that these are all elements of poetry, so -that they will turn to it with pleasant expectation._ - - - - -MERRY ARE THE BELLS - - - Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring, - Merry was myself, and merry could I sing; - With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, and free, - And a merry sing-song, happy let us be! - - Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are your hose; - Noddle goes your pate, and purple is your nose; - Merry is your sing-song, happy, gay, and free; - With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be! - - Merry have we met, and merry have we been; - Merry let us part, and merry meet again; - With our merry sing-song, happy, gay, and free, - With a merry ding-dong, happy let us be! - - - - -SAFE IN BED - - - Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, - Bless the bed that I lie on! - Four corners to my bed, - Five angels there lie spread; - Two at my head, - Two at my feet, - One at my heart, my soul to keep. - - - - -JENNY WREN - - - Jenny Wren fell sick; - Upon a merry time, - In came Robin Redbreast, - And brought her sops of wine. - - Eat well of the sop, Jenny, - Drink well of the wine; - Thank you Robin kindly, - You shall be mine. - - Jenny she got well, - And stood upon her feet, - And told Robin plainly - She loved him not a bit. - - Robin, being angry, - Hopp’d on a twig, - Saying, Out upon you, - Fye upon you, - Bold-faced jig! - - - - -CURLY LOCKS - - - Curly locks! Curly locks! - Wilt thou be mine? - Thou shalt not wash dishes - Nor yet feed the swine. - But sit on a cushion - And sew a fine seam, - And feed upon strawberries - Sugar and cream. - - - - -PUSSY-CAT MEW - - - Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal, - And in her best petticoat burnt a great hole. - Pussy-cat Mew shall have no more milk - Till she has mended her gown of silk. - - - - -DRAW A PAIL OF WATER - - - Draw a pail of water - For my Lady’s daughter. - Father’s a King, - Mother’s a Queen, - My two little sisters are dressed in green, - Stamping marigolds and parsley. - - - - -I SAW A SHIP A-SAILING - - - I saw a ship a-sailing, - A-sailing on the sea; - And it was full of pretty things - For baby and for me. - - There were sweetmeats in the cabin, - And apples in the hold; - The sails were made of silk, - And the masts were made of gold. - - The four-and-twenty sailors - That stood between the decks, - Were four-and-twenty white mice, - With chains about their necks. - - The captain was a duck, - With a packet on his back; - And when the ship began to move, - The captain cried, “Quack, quack!” - - - - -THE NUT-TREE - - - I had a little nut-tree, - Nothing would it bear - But a silver nutmeg - And a golden pear; - The King of Spain’s daughter - She came to see me, - And all because of my little nut-tree. - I skipped over water, - I danced over sea, - And all the birds in the air couldn’t catch me. - - - - -MY MAID MARY - - - My maid Mary she minds the dairy, - While I go a-hoeing and a-mowing each morn; - Gaily run the reel and the little spinning-wheel, - Whilst I am singing and mowing my corn. - - - - -THE WIND AND THE FISHERMAN - - - When the wind is in the East, - ’Tis neither good for man or beast; - When the wind is in the North, - The skilful fisher goes not forth; - When the wind is in the South, - It blows the bait in the fish’s mouth; - When the wind is in the West, - Then ’tis at the very best. - - - - -BLOW, WIND, BLOW - - - Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! - That the miller may grind his corn; - That the baker may take it and into rolls make it, - And send us some hot in the morn. - - - - -ALL BUSY - - - The cock’s on the house-top, - Blowing his horn; - The bull’s in the barn, - A-threshing of corn; - The maids in the meadows - Are making the hay, - The ducks in the river - Are swimming away. - - - - -WINTER HAS COME - - - Cold and raw - The north wind doth blow - Bleak in the morning early; - All the hills are covered with snow, - And winter’s now come fairly. - - - - -POOR ROBIN - - - The north wind doth blow, - And we shall have snow, - And what will poor Robin do then, poor thing? - He’ll sit in the barn, - And keep himself warm, - And hide his head under his wing, poor thing! - - - - -I HAVE A LITTLE SISTER - - - I have a little sister, they call her Peep, Peep, - She wades the waters, deep, deep, deep; - She climbs the mountains, high, high, high; - Poor little creature, she has but one eye. - (A star.) - - - - -IN MARBLE WALLS - - - In marble walls as white as milk, - Lined with a skin as soft as silk, - Within a fountain crystal-clear, - A golden apple doth appear. - No doors there are to this stronghold, - Yet thieves break in and steal the gold. - (An egg.) - - - - -FAMILIAR OBJECTS - - -_Here are some poems about things with which we are all quite familiar: -the Moon and the Stars that we see through our bedroom window; Pussy -purring on the hearthrug, the spotted shell on the mantelpiece._ - - - - -THE MOON - - - O, look at the moon! - She is shining up there; - O mother, she looks - Like a lamp in the air. - - Last week she was smaller, - And shaped like a bow; - But now she’s grown bigger, - And round as an O. - - Pretty moon, pretty moon, - How you shine on the door, - And make it all bright - On my nursery floor! - - You shine on my playthings, - And show me their place, - And I love to look up - At your pretty bright face. - - And there is a star - Close by you, and maybe - That small twinkling star - Is your little baby. - - ELIZA LEE FOLLEN. - - - - -THE STAR - - - Twinkle, twinkle, little star, - How I wonder what you are! - Up above the world so high, - Like a diamond in the sky. - - When the blazing sun is gone, - When he nothing shines upon, - Then you show your little light, - Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. - - Then the traveller in the dark - Thanks you for your tiny spark; - He could not see which way to go, - If you did not twinkle so. - - In the dark blue sky you keep, - And often through my curtains peep, - For you never shut your eye - Till the sun is in the sky. - - As your bright and tiny spark - Lights the traveller in the dark, - Though I know not what you are, - Twinkle, twinkle, little star. - - ANN AND JANE TAYLOR. - - - - -KITTY - - - Once there was a little kitty - Whiter than snow; - In a barn she used to frolic, - Long time ago. - - In the barn a little mousie - Ran to and fro; - For she heard the kitty coming, - Long time ago. - - Two eyes had little kitty, - Black as a sloe; - And they spied the little mousie, - Long time ago. - - Four paws had little kitty, - Paws soft as dough, - And they caught the little mousie, - Long time ago. - - Nine teeth had little kitty, - All in a row; - And they bit the little mousie, - Long time ago. - - When the teeth bit little mousie, - Little mouse cried “Oh!” - But she got away from kitty, - Long time ago. - - MRS E. PRENTISS. - - - - -KITTY: HOW TO TREAT HER - - - I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm, - And if I don’t hurt her she’ll do me no harm; - So I’ll not pull her tail, nor drive her away, - But Pussy and I very gently will play. - - - - -KITTY: WHAT SHE THINKS OF HERSELF - - - I am the Cat of Cats. I am - The everlasting cat! - Cunning, and old, and sleek as jam, - The everlasting cat! - I hunt the vermin in the night-- - The everlasting cat! - For I see best without the light-- - The everlasting cat! - - W. B. RANDS. - - - - -THE SEA SHELL - - - Sea Shell, Sea Shell, - Sing me a song, O please! - A song of ships and sailor-men, - Of parrots and tropical trees; - Of islands lost in the Spanish Main - Which no man ever may see again, - Of fishes and corals under the waves, - And sea-horses stabled in great green caves-- - Sea Shell, Sea Shell, - Sing me a song, O please! - - AMY LOWELL. - - - - -COUNTRY BOYS’ SONGS - - - - -THE CUCKOO - - - The cuckoo’s a bonny bird, - She sings as she flies; - She brings us good tidings, - And tells us no lies. - She sucks little birds’ eggs, - To make her voice clear, - And never cries Cuckoo - Till the spring of the year. - - - - -THE BIRD-SCARER’S SONG - - - We’ve ploughed our land, we’ve sown our seed, - We’ve made all neat and gay; - Then take a bit and leave a bit, - Away, birds, away! - - - - -CRADLE SONG - - - Sleep, baby, sleep, - Our cottage vale is deep; - The little lamb is on the green, - With woolly fleece so soft and clean, - Sleep, baby, sleep! - - Sleep, baby, sleep, - Down where the woodbines creep; - Be always like the lamb so mild, - A kind and sweet and gentle child, - Sleep, baby, sleep! - - - - -GOOD NIGHT! - - - Little baby, lay your head - On your pretty cradle-bed; - Shut your eye-peeps, now the day - And the light are gone away; - All the clothes are tucked in tight; - Little baby dear, good night. - - Yes, my darling, well I know - How the bitter wind doth blow; - And the winter’s snow and rain - Patter on the window-pane: - But they cannot come in here, - To my little baby dear. - - For the window shutteth fast, - Till the stormy night is past; - And the curtains warm are spread - Round about her cradle-bed: - So till morning shineth bright - Little baby dear, good night! - - ANN AND JANE TAYLOR. - - - - -_For Those a Little Older_ - -A BUNCH OF LENT LILIES - -_Here three Poets treat the same flower each from his own distinct and -delightful point of view. To the first it appeals as the flower of -courage, the brave early comer; to the second it is the early goer, -the flower of a too swift departure--though daffodils really bloom -for a fairly long time, as flowers go; the third is grateful for an -imperishable recollection._ - - - - -DAFFODILS - - - ... Daffodils - That come before the swallow dares, and take - The winds of March with beauty. - - SHAKESPEARE. - - - - -TO DAFFODILS - - - Fair daffodils, we weep to see - You haste away so soon; - As yet the early-rising sun - Has not attain’d his noon. - Stay, stay - Until the hasting day - Has run - But to the evensong; - And, having pray’d together, we - Will go with you along. - - We have short time to stay, as you, - We have as short a spring; - As quick a growth to meet decay, - As you, or anything. - We die - As your hours do, and dry - Away - Like to the summer’s rain; - Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, - Ne’er to be found again. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - - - - -DAFFODILS - - - I wander’d lonely as a cloud - That floats on high o’er vales and hills, - When all at once I saw a crowd, - A host, of golden daffodils; - Beside the lake, beneath the trees, - Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. - - Continuous as the stars that shine - And twinkle on the Milky Way, - They stretch’d in never-ending line - Along the margin of a bay: - Ten thousand saw I at a glance, - Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. - - The waves beside them danced, but they - Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: - A poet could not but be gay, - In such a jocund company: - I gazed--and gazed--but little thought - What wealth the show to me had brought: - - For oft, when on my couch I lie - In vacant or in pensive mood, - They flash upon that inward eye - Which is the bliss of solitude; - And then my heart with pleasure fills, - And dances with the daffodils. - - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - - - - -SEASONS AND WEATHER - - - - -THE MONTHS - - - January brings the snow, - Makes our feet and fingers glow. - - February brings the rain, - Thaws the frozen lake again. - - March brings breezes loud and shrill, - Stirs the dancing daffodil. - - April brings the primrose sweet, - Scatters daisies at our feet. - - May brings flocks of pretty lambs, - Skipping by their fleecy dams. - - June brings tulips, lilies, roses, - Fills the children’s hands with posies. - - Hot July brings cooling showers, - Apricots and gillyflowers. - - August brings the sheaves of corn, - Then the harvest home is borne. - - Warm September brings the fruit, - Sportsmen then begin to shoot. - - Fresh October brings the pheasant, - Then to gather nuts is pleasant. - - Dull November brings the blast, - Then the leaves are whirling fast. - - Chill December brings the sleet, - Blazing fire and Christmas treat. - - SARA COLERIDGE. - - - - -THE WIND IN A FROLIC - - - The wind one morning sprang up from sleep, - Saying, “Now for a frolic! now for a leap! - Now for a madcap galloping chase! - I’ll make a commotion in every place!” - So it swept with a bustle right through a great town, - Creaking the signs and scattering down - Shutters; and whisking, with merciless squalls, - Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread stalls. - There never was heard a much lustier shout, - As the apples and oranges trundled about; - And the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes - For ever on watch, ran off each with a prize. - - Then away to the field it went blustering and humming, - And the cattle all wondered whatever was coming. - It plucked by their tails the grave matronly cows, - And tossed the colts’ manes all about their brows, - Till, offended at such a familiar salute, - They all turned their backs, and stood sullenly mute. - So on it went, capering and playing its pranks; - Whistling with reeds on the broad river’s banks; - Puffing the birds as they sat on the spray, - Or the traveller grave on the king’s highway. - It was not too nice[1] to hustle the bags - Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags; - ’Twas so bold that it feared not to play its joke - With the doctor’s wig, or the gentleman’s cloak. - Through the forest it roared, and cried gaily, “Now, - You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you bow!” - And it made them bow without more ado, - Or it cracked their great branches through and through. - - Then it rushed like a monster on cottage and farm, - Striking their dwellers with sudden alarm; - And they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm. - There were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps, - To see if their poultry were free from mishaps; - The turkeys they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud, - And the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd; - There was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on - Where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone. - But the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane - With a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain; - For it tossed him and twirled him, then passed, and he stood - With his hat in a pool and his shoe in the mud. - - But away went the wind in its holiday glee, - And now it was far on the billowy sea, - And the lordly ships felt its staggering blow, - And the little boats darted to and fro. - But lo! it was night, and it sank to rest, - On the sea-bird’s rock in the gleaming West, - Laughing to think, in its fearful fun, - How little of mischief it had done. - - WILLIAM HOWITT. - -[1] _nice_: particular. - - - - -THE FOUR SWEET MONTHS - - - First, April, she with mellow showers - Opens the way for early flowers; - Then after her comes smiling May, - In a more sweet and rich array; - Next enters June, and brings us more - Gems than those two that went before: - Then, lastly, July comes and she - More wealth brings in than all those three. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - - - - -GLAD DAY - - - Here’s another day, dear, - Here’s the sun again - Peeping in his pleasant way - Through the window pane. - Rise and let him in, dear, - Hail him “hip hurray!” - Now the fun will all begin. - Here’s another day! - - Down the coppice path, dear, - Through the dewy glade, - (When the Morning took her bath - What a splash she made!) - Up the wet wood-way, dear, - Under dripping green - Run to meet another day, - Brightest ever seen. - - Mushrooms in the field, dear, - Show their silver gleam. - What a dainty crop they yield - Firm as clouted cream, - Cool as balls of snow, dear, - Sweet and fresh and round! - Ere the early dew can go - We must clear the ground. - - Such a lot to do, dear, - Such a lot to see! - How we ever can get through - Fairly puzzles me. - Hurry up and out, dear, - Then--away! away! - In and out and round about, - Here’s another day! - - W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON. - - - - -BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES - - - Buttercups and daisies-- - O the pretty flowers! - Coming ere the spring-time, - To tell of sunny hours. - When the trees are leafless; - When the fields are bare; - Buttercups and daisies - Spring up here and there. - - Welcome, yellow buttercups! - Welcome, daisies white! - Ye are in my spirit - Vision’d, a delight! - Coming ere the spring-time, - Of sunny hours to tell-- - Speaking to our hearts of Him - Who doeth all things well. - - MARY HOWITT. - - - - -THE MERRY MONTH OF MARCH - - - The cock is crowing, - The stream is flowing, - The small birds twitter, - The lake doth glitter, - The green field sleeps in the sun; - The oldest and youngest - Are at work with the strongest; - The cattle are grazing, - Their heads never raising; - There are forty feeding like one! - - Like an army defeated - The snow hath retreated, - And now doth fare ill - On the top of the bare hill; - The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon. - There’s joy in the mountains; - There’s life in the fountains; - Small clouds are sailing, - Blue sky prevailing; - The rain is over and gone! - - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - - - - -WHAT THE BIRDS SAY - - - Do you know what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, - The linnet and thrush say “I love and I love!” - In the winter they’re silent--the wind is so strong; - What it says I don’t know, but it sings a loud song. - But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, - And singing, and loving, all come back together. - But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, - The green fields below him, the blue sky above, - That he sings, and he sings, and for ever sings he-- - “I love my love, and my love loves me!” - - S. T. COLERIDGE. - - - - -SPRING’S PROCESSION - - - First came the primrose, - On the bank high, - Like a maiden looking forth - From the window of a tower - When the battle rolls below, - So look’d she, - And saw the storms go by. - - Then came the wind-flower - In the valley left behind, - As a wounded maiden, pale - With purple streaks of woe, - When the battle has roll’d by - Wanders to and fro, - So tottered she, - Dishevell’d in the wind. - - Then came the daisies, - On the first of May, - Like a banner’d show’s advance - While the crowd runs by the way, - With ten thousand flowers about them - they came trooping through the fields. - As a happy people come, - So came they, - As a happy people come - When the war has roll’d away, - With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, - And all make holiday. - - Then came the cowslip, - Like a dancer in the fair, - She spread her little mat of green, - And on it danced she. - With a fillet bound about her brow, - A fillet round her happy brow, - A golden fillet round her brow, - And rubies in her hair. - - SYDNEY DOBELL. - - - - -THE CALL OF THE WOODS - - - Under the greenwood tree, - Who loves to lie with me, - And tune his merry note - Unto the sweet bird’s throat, - Come hither, come hither, come hither! - Here shall he see - No enemy - But winter and rough weather. - - Who doth ambition shun, - And loves to live in the sun, - Seeking the food he eats, - And pleas’d with what he gets, - Come hither, come hither, come hither! - Here shall he see - No enemy - But winter and rough weather. - - SHAKESPEARE. - - - - -A PRESCRIPTION FOR A SPRING MORNING - - - At early dawn through London you must go - Until you come where long black hedgerows grow, - With pink buds pearl’d, with here and there a tree, - And gates and stiles; and watch good country folk; - And scent the spicy smoke - Of wither’d weeds that burn where gardens be; - And in a ditch perhaps a primrose see. - The rooks shall stalk the plough, larks mount the skies, - Blackbirds and speckled thrushes sing aloud, - Hid in the warm white cloud - Mantling the thorn, and far away shall rise - The milky low of cows and farm-yard cries. - - From windy heavens the climbing sun shall shine, - And February greet you like a maid - In russet cloak array’d; - And you shall take her for your mistress fine, - And pluck a crocus for her valentine. - - JOHN DAVIDSON. - - - - -THE COUNTRY FAITH - - - Here in the country’s heart - Where the grass is green, - Life is the same sweet life - As it e’er hath been - - Trust in a God still lives, - And the bell at morn - Floats with a thought of God - O’er the rising corn. - - God comes down in the rain, - And the crop grows tall-- - This is the country faith, - And the best of all. - - NORMAN GALE. - - - - -THE BUTTERFLY’S BALL - - - “Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste - To the Butterfly’s Ball and the Grasshopper’s Feast; - The Trumpeter, Gadfly, has summoned the crew, - And the revels are now only waiting for you.” - So said little Robert, and pacing along, - His merry Companions came forth in a throng, - And on the smooth Grass by the side of a Wood, - Beneath a broad oak that for ages had stood, - Saw the Children of Earth and the Tenants of Air - For an Evening’s Amusement together repair. - - And there came the Beetle, so blind and so black, - Who carried the Emmet, his friend, on his back. - And there was the Gnat and the Dragon-fly too, - With all their Relations, green, orange and blue. - And there came the Moth, with his plumage of down, - And the Hornet in jacket of yellow and brown; - Who with him the Wasp, his companion, did bring, - But they promised that evening to lay by their sting. - And the sly little Dormouse crept out of his hole, - And brought to the feast his blind Brother, the Mole, - And the Snail, with his horns peeping out of his shell, - Came from a great distance, the length of an ell. - - A Mushroom their Table, and on it was laid - A water-dock leaf, which a table-cloth made. - The Viands were various, to each of their taste, - And the Bee brought her honey to crown the Repast. - Then close on his haunches, so solemn and wise, - The Frog from a corner look’d up to the skies; - And the Squirrel, well pleased such diversions to see, - Mounted high overhead and look’d down from a tree. - - Then out came the Spider, with finger so fine, - To show his dexterity on the tight-line. - From one branch to another his cobwebs he slung, - Then quick as an arrow he darted along. - But just in the middle--oh! shocking to tell, - From his rope, in an instant, poor Harlequin fell. - Yet he touched not the ground, but with talons outspread, - Hung suspended in air, at the end of a thread. - - Then the Grasshopper came, with a jerk and a spring, - Very long was his leg, though but short was his Wing; - He took but three leaps, and was soon out of sight, - Then chirp’d his own praises the rest of the night. - - With step so majestic the Snail did advance, - And promised the Gazers a Minuet to dance; - But they all laughed so loud that he pulled in his head, - And went in his own little chamber to bed. - Then as Evening gave way to the shadows of Night, - Their Watchman, the Glowworm, came out with a light. - - “Then home let us hasten, while yet we can see, - For no Watchman is waiting for you and for me.” - So said little Robert, and pacing along, - His merry Companions return’d in a throng. - - WILLIAM ROSCOE. - - - - -TASTES AND PREFERENCES - - - - -A WISH - - - Mine be a cot beside the hill; - A bee-hive’s hum shall soothe my ear; - A willowy brook, that turns a mill, - With many a fall shall linger near. - - The swallow oft beneath my thatch - Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; - Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch - And share my meal, a welcome guest. - - Around my ivied porch shall spring - Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; - And Lucy at her wheel shall sing - In russet gown and apron blue. - - The village church among the trees, - Where first our marriage vows were given, - With merry peals shall swell the breeze, - And point with taper spire to Heaven. - - SAMUEL ROGERS. - - - - -WISHING - - - Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose, - A bright yellow Primrose blowing in the Spring! - The stooping boughs above me, - The wandering bee to love me, - The fern and moss to creep across, - And the Elm-tree for our King! - - Nay--stay! I wish I were an Elm-tree, - A great lofty Elm-tree, with green leaves gay! - The winds would set them dancing, - The sun and moonshine glance in, - The birds would house among the boughs, - And sweetly sing! - - O--no! I wish I were a Robin, - A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere to go; - Through forest, field, or garden, - And ask no leave or pardon, - Till Winter comes with icy thumbs - To ruffle up our wing! - - Well--tell! Where should I fly to, - Where go to sleep in the dark wood or dell? - Before a day was over, - Home comes the rover, - For Mother’s kiss,--sweeter this - Than any other thing! - - WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. - - - - -BUNCHES OF GRAPES - - - “Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy; - “Pomegranates pink,” says Elaine; - “A junket of cream and a cranberry tart - For me,” says Jane. - - “Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy; - “Primroses pale,” says Elaine; - “A nosegay of pinks and mignonette - For me,” says Jane. - - “Chariots of gold,” says Timothy; - “Silvery wings,” says Elaine; - “A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay - For me,” says Jane. - - WALTER RAMAL. - - - - -CONTENTMENT - - - Once on a time an old red hen - Went strutting round with pompous clucks, - For she had little babies ten, - A part of which were tiny ducks. - “’Tis very rare that hens,” said she, - “Have baby ducks as well as chicks-- - But I possess, as you can see, - Of chickens four and ducklings six!” - - A season later, this old hen - Appeared, still cackling of her luck, - For, though she boasted babies ten, - Not one among them was a duck! - “’Tis well,” she murmured, brooding o’er - The little chicks of fleecy down, - “My babies now will stay ashore, - And, consequently, cannot drown!” - - The following spring the old red hen - Clucked just as proudly as of yore-- - But lo! her babes were ducklings ten, - Instead of chickens as before! - “’Tis better,” said the old red hen, - As she surveyed her waddling brood; - “A little water now and then - Will surely do my darlings good!” - - But oh! alas, how very sad! - When gentle spring rolled round again, - The eggs eventuated bad, - And childless was the old red hen! - Yet patiently she bore her woe, - And still she wore a cheerful air, - And said: “’Tis best these things are so, - For babies are a dreadful care!” - - I half suspect that many men, - And many, many women too, - Could learn a lesson from the hen - With plumage of vermilion hue. - She ne’er presumed to take offence - At any fate that might befall, - But meekly bowed to Providence-- - She was contented--that was all! - - EUGENE FIELD. - - - - -TOYS AND PLAY, IN-DOORS AND OUT - - - - -THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS - - At evening when the lamp is lit, - Around the fire my parents sit; - They sit at home and talk and sing, - And do not play at anything. - - Now, with my little gun, I crawl - All in the dark along the wall, - And follow round the forest track - Away behind the sofa back. - - There, in the night, where none can spy, - All in my hunter’s camp I lie, - And play at books that I have read - Till it is time to go to bed. - These are the hills, these are the woods, - These are my starry solitudes; - And there the river by whose brink - The roaring lions come to drink. - - I see the others far away - As if in firelit camp they lay, - And I, like to an Indian scout, - Around their party prowled about. - - So, when my nurse comes in for me, - Home I return across the sea, - And go to bed with backward looks - At my dear land of Story-books. - - R. L. STEVENSON. - - - - -SAND CASTLES - - Build me a castle of sand - Down by the sea. - Here on the edge of the strand - Build it for me. - How shall a foeman invade, - Where may he land, - While we can raise with our spade - Castles of sand? - - Turrets upleap and aspire, - Battlements rise - Sweeping the sea with their fire, - Storming the skies. - Pile that a monarch might own, - Mightily plann’d! - I can’t sit here on a throne, - This is too grand. - - Build me a cottage of sand - Up on the hill; - Snug in a cleft it must stand - Sunny and still. - Plant it with ragwort and ling, - Bramble and bine: - Castles I’ll leave to the King, - This shall be mine. - - Storm-clouds drive over the land, - High flies the spray; - Gone are our houses of sand, - Vanished away! - Look at the damage you’ve done, - Sea-wave and rain! - --“Nay, we but give you your fun - Over again.” - - W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON. - - - - -RING O’ ROSES - - - Hush a while, my darling, for the long day closes, - Nodding into slumber on the blue hill’s crest. - See the little clouds play Ring a ring o’ roses, - Planting Fairy gardens in the red-rose West. - - Greet him for us, cloudlets, say we’re not forgetting - Golden gifts of sunshine, merry hours of play. - Ring a ring o’ roses round the sweet sun’s setting, - Spread a bed of roses for the dear dead day. - - Hush-a-bye, my little one, the dear day dozes, - Doffed his crown of kingship and his fair flag furled, - While the earth and sky play Ring a ring o’ roses, - Ring a ring o’ roses round the rose-red world. - - W. GRAHAM ROBERTSON. - - - - -DREAM-LAND - - - - -WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD - - - Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night - Sailed off in a wooden shoe-- - Sailed on a river of crystal light, - Into a sea of dew. - “Where are you going, and what do you wish?” - The old moon asked the three. - “We have come to fish for the herring fish - That live in this beautiful sea; - Nets of silver and gold have we!” - Said Wynken, - Blynken, - And Nod. - - The old moon laughed and sang a song, - As they rocked in the wooden shoe, - And the wind that sped them all night long - Ruffled the waves of dew. - The little stars were the herring fish - That lived in that beautiful sea-- - “Now cast your nets wherever you wish-- - Never afeared are we”: - So cried the stars to the fishermen three: - Wynken, - Blynken, - And Nod. - - All night long their nets they threw - To the stars in the twinkling foam-- - Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, - Bringing the fishermen home; - ’Twas all so pretty a sail it seemed - As if it could not be, - And some folks thought ’twas a dream they’d dreamed - Of sailing that beautiful sea-- - But I shall name you the fishermen three: - Wynken, - Blynken, - And Nod. - - Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, - And Nod is a little head, - And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies - Is a wee one’s trundle-bed. - So shut your eyes while mother sings - Of wonderful sights that be, - And you shall see the beautiful things - As you rock in the misty sea, - Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: - Wynken, - Blynken, - And Nod. - - EUGENE FIELD. - - - - -THE DRUMMER-BOY AND THE SHEPERDESS - - - Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum? - And why do you weep, sitting here on your thumb? - The soldiers are out, and the fifes we can hear; - But where is the drum of the young grenadier? - - “My dear little drum it was stolen away - Whilst I was asleep on a sunshiny day; - It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee, - And sheep and a shepherdess under a tree.” - - Shepherdess, shepherdess, where is your crook? - And why is your little lamb over the brook? - It bleats for its dam, and dog Tray is not by, - So why do you stand with a tear in your eye? - - “My dear little crook it was stolen away - Whilst I dreamt a dream on a morning in May; - It was all through the drone of a big bumblebee, - And a drum and a drummer-boy under a tree.” - - W. B. RANDS. - - - - -THE LAND OF DREAMS - - - “Awake, awake, my little boy! - Thou wast thy mother’s only joy; - Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep? - O wake! thy father doth thee keep. - - O what land is the land of dreams? - What are its mountains and what are its streams?” - “O father! I saw my mother there, - Among the lilies by waters fair.” - - “Dear child! I also by pleasant streams - Have wandered all night in the land of dreams, - But, though calm and warm the waters wide - I could not get to the other side.” - - “Father, O father! what do we here, - In this land of unbelief and fear? - The land of dreams is better far, - Above the light of the morning star.” - - WILLIAM BLAKE. - - - - -SWEET AND LOW - - - Sweet and low, sweet and low, - Wind of the western sea, - Low, low, breathe and blow, - Wind of the western sea! - Over the rolling waters go, - Come from the dying moon, and blow, - Blow him again to me; - While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. - - Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, - Father will come to thee soon; - Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, - Father will come to thee soon; - Father will come to his babe in the nest, - Silver sails all out of the west - Under the silver moon: - Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep. - - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. - - - - -CRADLE SONG - - - O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight, - Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; - The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, - They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. - - O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, - It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; - Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, - Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. - - O hush thee, my baby, the time will soon come, - When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; - Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, - For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. - - SIR WALTER SCOTT. - - - - -MOTHER AND I - - - O Mother-My-Love, if you’ll give me your hand, - And go where I ask you to wander, - I will lead you away to a beautiful land-- - The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder. - We’ll walk in a sweet-posy garden out there, - Where moonlight and starlight are streaming, - And the flowers and the birds are filling the air - With the fragrance and music of dreaming. - - There’ll be no little tired-out boy to undress, - No questions or cares to perplex you; - There’ll be no little bruises or bumps to caress, - Nor patching of stockings to vex you. - For I’ll rock you away on a silver-dew stream, - And sing you asleep when you’re weary, - And no one shall know of our beautiful dream - But you and your own little dearie. - - And when I am tired I’ll nestle my head - In the bosom that’s sooth’d me so often, - And the wide-awake stars shall sing in my stead - A song which our dreaming shall soften. - So Mother-My-Love, let me take your dear hand, - And away through the starlight we’ll wander-- - Away through the mist to the beautiful land-- - The Dreamland that’s waiting out yonder! - - EUGENE FIELD. - - - - -FAIRY-LAND - - - - -THE FAIRIES - - - Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushy glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk, - Trooping all together; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather! - - Down along the rocky shore - Some make their home, - They live on crispy pancakes - Of yellow tide-foam; - Some in the reeds - Of the black mountain-lake, - With frogs for their watch-dogs, - All night awake. - - High on the hill-top - The old King sits; - He is now so old and grey - He’s nigh lost his wits. - With a bridge of white mist - Columbkill he crosses, - On his stately journeys - From Slieveleague to Rosses; - Or going up with music - On cold starry nights, - To sup with the Queen - Of the gay Northern Lights. - - They stole little Bridget - For seven years long; - When she came down again - Her friends were all gone. - They took her lightly back, - Between the night and morrow, - They thought that she was fast asleep, - But she was dead with sorrow. - They have kept her ever since - Deep within the lakes, - On a bed of flag-leaves, - Watching till she wakes. - - By the craggy hill-side, - Through the mosses bare, - They have planted thorn-trees - For pleasure here and there. - Is any man so daring - As dig one up in spite, - He shall find their sharpest thorns - In his bed at night. - - Up the airy mountain, - Down the rushy glen, - We daren’t go a-hunting - For fear of little men; - Wee folk, good folk, - Trooping all together, - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather! - - WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. - - - - -SHAKESPEARE’S FAIRIES - - -_Some of them_,-- - - Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves, - And ye that on the sands with printless foot - Do chase the ebbing Neptune and do fly him - When he comes back; you demi-puppets[2], that - By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make - Whereof the ewe not bites, and you whose pastime - Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice - To hear the solemn curfew.... - - -_They Dance and Play_,-- - - Come unto these yellow sands, - And then take hands: - Courtsied when you have, and kiss’d,-- - The wild waves whist[3],-- - Foot it featly[4] here and there; - And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. - Hark, hark! - _Bow, wow_, - The watch-dogs bark: - _Bow, wow_, - Hark, hark! I hear - The strain of strutting chanticleer - Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow! - - -_Ariel Sings_,-- - - Where the bee sucks, there suck I: - In a cowslip’s bell I lie; - There I couch when owls do cry. - On the bat’s back I do fly - After summer merrily. - Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, - Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. - - -_A Busy One_ - - Over hill, over dale, - Thorough bush, thorough brier, - Over park, over pale, - Thorough flood, thorough fire, - I do wander everywhere, - Swifter than the moonè’s sphere; - And I serve the fairy queen, - To dew her orbs[5] upon the green. - - The cowslips tall her pensioners be; - In their gold coats spots you see; - Those be rubies, fairy favours, - In those freckles live their savours: - I must go seek some dewdrops here, - And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. - - -_They Sing Their Queen to Sleep_,-- - - You spotted snakes with double tongue, - Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; - Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; - Come not near our fairy queen. - Philomel, with melody - Sing in our sweet lullaby; - Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! - Never harm, - Nor spell nor charm, - Come our lovely lady nigh; - So, good night, with lullaby. - - Weaving spiders, come not here; - Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence! - Beetles black, approach not near; - Worm nor snail, do no offence. - Philomel, with melody, - Sing in our sweet lullaby; - Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! - Never harm, - Nor spell nor charm, - Come our lovely lady nigh; - So, good night, with lullaby. - - SHAKESPEARE. - -[2] _Demi-puppets_: half the size of a doll. - -[3] _Whist_: silent. - -[4] _Featly_: neatly, elegantly. - -[5] _Orbs_: circles, or fairy rings. - - - - -THE LAVENDER BEDS - - - The garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers, - The sunflowers and hollyhocks stood up like towers; - There were dark turncap lilies and jessamine rare, - And sweet thyme and marjoram scented the air. - - The moon made the sun-dial tell the time wrong; - ’Twas too late in the year for the nightingale’s song; - The box-trees were clipped, and the alleys were straight, - Till you came to the shrubbery hard by the gate. - - The fairies stepped out of the lavender beds, - With mob-caps, or wigs, on their quaint little heads; - My lord had a sword and my lady a fan; - The music struck up and the dancing began. - - I watched them go through with a grave minuet; - Wherever they footed the dew was not wet; - They bowed and they curtsied, the brave and the fair; - And laughter like chirping of crickets was there. - - Then all on a sudden a church clock struck loud: - A flutter, a shiver, was seen in the crowd, - The cock crew, the wind woke, the trees tossed their heads, - And the fairy folk hid in the lavender beds. - - W. B. RANDS. - - - - -FAREWELL TO THE FAIRIES - - - Farewell rewards and fairies, - Good housewives now may say, - For now foul sluts in dairies - Do fare as well as they. - And though they sweep their hearths no less - Than maids were wont to do, - Yet who of late, for cleanliness, - Finds sixpence in her shoe? - - At morning and at evening both, - You merry were and glad, - So little care of sleep or sloth - Those pretty ladies had. - When Tom came home from labour, - Or Cis to milking rose, - Then merrily went their tabor, - And nimbly went their toes. - - Witness those rings and roundelays - Of theirs, which yet remain, - Were footed in Queen Mary’s days - On many a grassy plain; - But since of late Elizabeth, - And later, James came in, - They never danced on any heath - As when the time hath been. - - By which we note the fairies - Were of the old profession, - Their songs were Ave-Maries, - Their dances were procession: - But now, alas! they all are dead, - Or gone beyond the seas; - Or farther for religion fled, - Or else they take their ease. - - A tell-tale in their company - They never could endure, - And whoso kept not secretly - Their mirth, was punished sure; - It was a just and Christian deed - To pinch such black and blue: - O how the commonwealth doth need - Such justices as you! - - RICHARD CORBET (1582-1635). - - - - -DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF OBERON, THE FAIRY KING - - - Toll the lilies’ silver bells! - Oberon, the King, is dead! - In her grief the crimson rose - All her velvet leaves has shed. - - Toll the lilies’ silver bells! - Oberon is dead and gone! - He who looked an emperor - When his glow-worm crown was on. - - Toll the lilies’ silver bells! - Slay the dragonfly, his steed; - Dig his grave within the ring - Of the mushrooms in the mead. - - G. W. THORNBURY. - -(_But he wasn’t dead really. It was all a mistake. So they didn’t slay -the dragonfly after all._) - - - - -KILMENY - -(_A Story about one who went there_) - - - Bonny Kilmeny gaed[6] up the glen; - But it wasna to meet Duneira’s men, - Nor the rosy monk of the isle to see, - For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. - It was only to hear the yorlin[7] sing, - And pull the blue cress-flower round the spring; - To pull the hip and the hindberrye[8], - And the nut that hung frae the hazel-tree; - For Kilmeny was pure as pure could be. - But lang may her minnie[9] look o’er the wa’, - And lang may she seek in the greenwood shaw; - Lang the Laird o’ Duneira blame, - And lang, lang greet[10] e’er Kilmeny come hame! - - When many a day had come and fled, - When grief grew calm, and hope was dead, - When mass for Kilmeny’s soul had been sung, - When the bedesman had prayed and the dead-bell rung; - Late, late in a gloaming, when all was still, - When the fringe was red on the westlin[11] hill, - The wood was sere, the moon i’ the wane, - The reek[12] of the cot hung o’er the plain, - Like a little wee cloud in the world its lane[13]; - When the ingle[14] lowed[15] with an eery gleam, - Late, late in the gloamin’, Kilmeny came hame! - - “Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been? - Lang hae we sought baith holt and dene; - By linn[16], by ford, and green-wood tree, - Yet you are halesome and fair to see. - Where gat you that joup[17] of the lily sheen? - That bonny snood[18] of the birk[19] sae green? - And these roses, the fairest that ever were seen? - Kilmeny, Kilmeny, where have you been?” - - Kilmeny look’d up with a lovely grace, - But nae smile was seen on Kilmeny’s face; - As still was her look, and as still was her ee, - As the stillness that lay on the emerald lea, - Or the mist that sleeps on a waveless sea. - For Kilmeny had been she knew not where, - And Kilmeny had seen what she could not declare. - Kilmeny had been where the cock never crew, - Where the rain never fell, and the wind never blew. - But it seem’d as the harp of the sky had rung, - And the airs of heaven play’d round her tongue, - When she spake of the lovely forms she had seen, - And a land where sin had never been; - A land of love and a land of light, - Withouten sun, or moon, or night; - The land of vision it would seem, - And still an everlasting dream. - - * * * * * - - They lifted Kilmeny, they led her away, - And she walk’d in the light of a sunless day; - The sky was a dome of crystal bright, - The fountain of vision, and fountain of light: - The emerald fields were of dazzling glow, - And the flowers of everlasting blow. - Then deep in the stream her body they laid, - That her youth and beauty might never fade; - And they smiled on heaven, when they saw her lie - In the stream of life that wander’d by. - And she heard a song, she heard it sung, - She kenn’d not where; but so sweetly it rung, - It fell on the ear like a dream of the morn: - “O blest be the day Kilmeny was born!” - - * * * * * - - To sing of the sights Kilmeny saw, - So far surpassing nature’s law, - The singer’s voice would sink away, - And the string of his harp would cease to play. - But she saw till the sorrows of man were by, - And all was love and harmony; - Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, - Like the flakes of snow on a winter day. - - * * * * * - - When seven lang years had come and fled, - When grief was calm and hope was dead; - When scarce was remembered Kilmeny’s name, - Late, late in a gloaming Kilmeny came hame! - And O, her beauty was fair to see, - But still and steadfast was her ee! - Her seymar[20] was the lily flower, - And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; - And her voice like the distant melody - That floats along the twilight sea. - But she loved to raike[21] the lanely glen, - And keepit away frae the haunts of men; - Her holy hymns unheard to sing, - To suck the flowers, and drink the spring. - But wherever her peaceful form appear’d, - The wild beasts of the hill were cheer’d; - The wolf play’d blythly round the field, - The lordly bison low’d and kneel’d; - The dun deer woo’d with manner bland, - And cower’d aneath her lily hand. - And all in a peaceful ring were hurl’d; - It was like an eve in a sinless world! - - When a month and a day had come and gane, - Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; - There laid her down on the leaves sae green, - And Kilmeny on earth was never mair seen. - - JAMES HOGG. - - [6] _gaed_: went. - - [7] _yorlin_: yellow-hammer. - - [8] _hindberrye_: wild raspberry. - - [9] _minnie_: mother. - -[10] _greet_: weep. - -[11] _westlin_: western. - -[12] _reek_: smoke. - -[13] _its lane_: alone. - -[14] _ingle_: fire. - -[15] _lowed_: flamed. - -[16] _linn_: waterfall. - -[17] _joup_: bodice. - -[18] _snood_: hair-ribbon. - -[19] _birk_: birch. - -[20] _seymar_: a light robe. - -[21] _raike_: wander through. - - - - -TWO SONGS - - - - -A BOY’S SONG - - - Where the pools are bright and deep, - Where the grey trout lies asleep, - Up the river and over the lea, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Where the blackbird sings the latest, - Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, - Where the nestlings chirp and flee, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Where the mowers mow the cleanest, - Where the hay lies thick and greenest, - There to track the homeward bee, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Where the hazel bank is steepest, - Where the shadow falls the deepest, - Where the clustering nuts fall free, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - Why the boys should drive away - Little sweet maidens from the play, - Or love to banter and fight so well, - That’s the thing I never could tell. - - But this I know, I love to play - Through the meadow, among the hay; - Up the water and over the lea, - That’s the way for Billy and me. - - JAMES HOGG. - - - - -A GIRL’S SONG - - - There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream, - And the nightingale sings round it all the day long; - In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream - To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song. - - That bower and its music I never forget, - But oft when alone in the bloom of the year, - I think--is the nightingale singing there yet? - Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer? - - No, the roses soon withered that hung o’er the wave, - But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone, - And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave - All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone. - - Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, - An essence that breathes of it many a year; - Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes, - Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer! - - THOMAS MOORE. - - - - -FUR AND FEATHER - - - “_Men are brethren of each other, - One in flesh and one in food; - And a sort of foster brother - Is the litter, or the brood, - Of that folk in fur or feather, - Who, with men together, - Breast the wind and weather._” - - CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. - - - - -THREE THINGS TO REMEMBER - - - A Robin Redbreast in a cage - Puts all Heaven in a rage. - - A skylark wounded on the wing - Doth make a cherub cease to sing. - - He who shall hurt the little wren - Shall never be beloved by men. - - WILLIAM BLAKE. - - - - -THE KNIGHT OF BETHLEHEM - - - There was a Knight of Bethlehem, - Whose wealth was tears and sorrows; - His men-at-arms were little lambs, - His trumpeters were sparrows. - His castle was a wooden cross, - On which he hung so high; - His helmet was a crown of thorns, - Whose crest did touch the sky. - - H. N. MAUGHAM. - - - - -THE LAMB - - - Little Lamb, who made thee? - Dost thou know who made thee? - Gave thee life, and bade thee feed - By the stream and o’er the mead; - Gave thee clothing of delight, - Softest clothing, woolly, bright; - Gave thee such a tender voice, - Making all the vales rejoice? - Little lamb, who made thee? - Dost thou know who made thee? - - Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; - Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: - He is callèd by thy name, - For He calls Himself a Lamb. - He is meek, and He is mild, - He became a little child. - I a child, and thou a lamb, - We are called by His name. - Little lamb, God bless thee! - Little lamb, God bless thee! - - WILLIAM BLAKE. - - - - -THE TIGER - - - Tiger, Tiger, burning bright - In the forest of the night, - What immortal hand or eye - Framed thy fearful symmetry? - - In what distant deeps or skies - Burned that fire within thine eyes? - On what wings dared he aspire? - What the hand dared seize the fire? - - And what shoulder, and what art, - Could twist the sinews of thy heart? - When thy heart began to beat, - What dread hand formed thy dread feet? - - What the hammer, what the chain, - Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? - What the anvil? What dread grasp - Dared thy deadly terrors clasp? - - When the stars threw down their spears, - And water’d heaven with their tears, - Did He smile His work to see? - Did He who made the lamb make thee? - - WILLIAM BLAKE. - - - - -I HAD A DOVE - - - I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; - And I have thought it died of grieving; - O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied - With a silken thread of my own hands’ weaving. - Sweet little red feet! why should you die-- - Why would you leave me, sweet bird! why? - You lived alone in the forest tree, - Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me? - I kiss’d you oft and gave you white peas; - Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees? - - JOHN KEATS. - - - - -ROBIN REDBREAST - - - Good-bye, good-bye to Summer! - For Summer’s nearly done; - The garden smiling faintly, - Cool breezes in the sun; - Our thrushes now are silent, - Our swallows flown away,-- - But Robin’s here in coat of brown, - And scarlet breast-knot gay. - Robin, Robin Redbreast, - O Robin dear! - Robin sings so sweetly - In the falling of the year. - - Bright yellow, red, and orange, - The leaves come down in hosts; - The trees are Indian princes, - But soon they’ll turn to ghosts; - The leathery pears and apples - Hang russet on the bough; - It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, - ’Twill soon be Winter now. - Robin, Robin Redbreast, - O Robin dear! - And what will this poor Robin do? - For pinching days are near. - - The fireside for the cricket, - The wheatstack for the mouse, - When trembling night-winds whistle - And moan all round the house. - The frosty ways like iron, - The branches plumed with snow,-- - Alas! in winter dead and dark, - Where can poor Robin go? - Robin, Robin Redbreast, - O Robin dear! - And a crumb of bread for Robin, - His little heart to cheer. - - WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. - - - - -BLACK BUNNY - - - It was a black Bunny, with white in its head, - Alive when the children went cosy to bed-- - O early next morning that Bunny was dead! - - When Bunny’s young master awoke up from sleep, - To look at the creatures young master did creep, - And saw that this black one lay all of a heap. - - “O Bunny, what ails you? What does it import - That you lean on one side, with your breath coming short? - For I never before saw a thing of the sort!” - - They took him so gently up out of his hutch, - They made him a sick-bed, they loved him so much; - They wrapped him up warm; they said, Poor thing, and such; - - But all to no purpose. Black Bunny he died, - And rolled over limp on his little black side; - The grown-up spectators looked awkward and sighed. - - While, as for those others in that congregation, - You heard voices lifted in sore lamentation; - But three-year-old Baby desired explanation: - - At least, so it seemed. Then they buried their dead - In a nice quiet place, with a flag at his head; - “Poor Bunny!”--in large print--was what the flag said. - - Now, as they were shovelling the earth in the hole, - Little Baby burst out, “I _don’t_ like it!”--poor soul! - And bitterly wept. So the dead had his dole. - - That evening, as Babe she was cuddling to bed, - “The Bunny will come back again,” Baby said, - “And be a _white_ bunny, and never be dead!” - - W. B. RANDS. - - - - -THE COW - - - Thank you, pretty cow, that made - Pleasant milk to soak my bread, - Every day, and every night, - Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white. - - Do not chew the hemlock rank, - Growing on the weedy bank; - But the yellow cowslips eat, - They will make it very sweet. - - Where the purple violet grows, - Where the bubbling water flows, - Where the grass is fresh and fine, - Pretty cow, go there and dine. - - ANN AND JANE TAYLOR. - - - - -THE SKYLARK - - - Bird of the wilderness, - Blythesome and cumberless[22], - Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea! - Emblem of happiness, - Blest is thy dwelling-place-- - O to abide in the desert with thee! - Wild is thy lay and loud - Far in the downy cloud, - Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. - Where, on thy dewy wing, - Where art thou journeying? - Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. - O’er fell and fountain sheen, - O’er moor and mountain green, - O’er the red streamer that heralds the day, - Over the cloudlet dim, - Over the rainbow’s rim, - Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! - Then, when the gloaming comes, - Low in the heather blooms, - Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! - Emblem of happiness, - Blest is thy dwelling-place-- - O to abide in the desert with thee! - - JAMES HOGG. - -[22] _cumberless_: unencumbered, free from care. - - - - -CHRISTMAS POEMS - -_Here one would like to have begun with some of the old-time carols. -But carols, somehow, seem to demand certain accompaniments--snow and -frost, starlight and lantern-light, a mingling of Church bells, and -above all their own simple haunting music. In cold print they do not -appeal to us to the same extent. But the poems that follow are in the -true carol-spirit._ - - - - -CHRISTMAS EVE - - - In holly hedges starving birds - Silently mourn the setting year; - Upright like silver-plated swords - The flags stand in the frozen mere. - - The mistletoe we still adore - Upon the twisted hawthorn grows: - In antique gardens hellebore - Puts forth its blushing Christmas rose. - - Shrivell’d and purple, cheek by jowl, - The hips and haws hang drearily; - Roll’d in a ball the sulky owl - Creeps far into his hollow tree. - - In abbeys and cathedrals dim - The birth of Christ is acted o’er; - The kings of Cologne worship him, - Balthazar, Jasper, Melchior. - - The shepherds in the field at night - Beheld an angel glory-clad, - And shrank away with sore affright. - “Be not afraid,” the angel bade. - - “I bring good news to king and clown, - To you here crouching on the sward; - For there is born in David’s town - A Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. - - “Behold the babe is swathed, and laid - Within a manger.” Straight there stood - Beside the angel all arrayed - A heavenly multitude. - - “Glory to God,” they sang; “and peace, - Good pleasure among men.” - The wondrous message of release! - Glory to God again! - - Hush! Hark! the waits, far up the street! - A distant, ghostly charm unfolds, - Of magic music wild and sweet, - Anomes and clarigolds. - - JOHN DAVIDSON. - - - - -A CHRISTMAS CAROL - - - What sweeter music can we bring - Than a carol, for to sing - The birth of this our heavenly King? - Awake the voice! awake the string! - Heart, ear, and eye, and everything! - - Dark and dull night, fly hence away, - And give the honour to this day, - That sees December turned to May. - - If we may ask the reason, say, - The why and wherefore all things here - Seem like the spring-time of the year? - - Why does the chilling winter’s morn - Smile, like a field beset with corn? - Or smell, like to a mead new-shorn, - Thus, on the sudden? - - Come and see - The cause, why things thus fragrant be. - ’Tis He is born, whose quickening birth - Gives light and lustre, public mirth, - To heaven, and the under-earth. - - We see Him come, and know Him ours, - Who with His sunshine and His showers - Turns all the patient ground to flowers. - - The darling of the world is come, - And fit it is we find a room - To welcome Him. The nobler part - Of all the house here, is the heart, - Which we will give Him; and bequeath - This holly, and this ivy wreath, - To do Him honour; who’s our King, - And Lord of all this revelling. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - - - - -A CHILD’S PRESENT TO HIS CHILD-SAVIOUR - - - Go, pretty child, and bear this flower - Unto thy little Saviour; - And tell Him, by that bud now blown, - He is the Rose of Sharon known; - When thou hast said so, stick it there - Upon his bib, or stomacher; - And tell Him, for good handsel[23] too, - That thou hast brought a whistle new, - Made of a clean straight oaten reed, - To charm his cries at time of need. - Tell Him, for coral thou hast none; - But if thou hadst, He should have one; - But poor thou art, and known to be - Even as moneyless, as He. - Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss - From those mellifluous lips of His, - Then never take a second on, - To spoil the first impression. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - -[23] _handsel_: a gift for good luck. - - - - -THE PEACE-GIVER - - - Thou whose birth on earth - Angels sang to men, - While thy stars made mirth, - Saviour, at thy birth. - This day born again; - - As this night was bright - With thy cradle-ray, - Very light of light, - Turn the wild world’s night - To thy perfect day. - - Thou the Word and Lord - In all time and space - Heard, beheld, adored, - With all ages poured - Forth before thy face, - - Lord, what worth in earth - Drew thee down to die? - What therein was worth, - Lord, thy death and birth? - What beneath thy sky? - - Thou whose face gives grace - As the sun’s doth heat, - Let thy sunbright face - Lighten time and space - Here beneath thy feet. - - Bid our peace increase, - Thou that madest morn; - Bid oppression cease; - Bid the night be peace; - Bid the day be born. - - A. C. SWINBURNE. - - - - -VARIOUS - - - - -TO A SINGER - - - My soul is an enchanted boat, - Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float - Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing; - And thine doth like an angel sit - Beside the helm conducting it, - Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing. - It seems to float ever, for ever, - Upon that many-winding river, - Between mountains, woods, abysses, - A paradise of wildernesses! - Till, like one in slumber bound, - Borne to the ocean, I float down, around, - Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound. - Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions - In music’s most serene dominions; - Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. - And we sail on, away, afar, - Without a course, without a star, - But by the instinct of sweet music driven; - Till through Elysian garden islets - By thee, most beautiful of pilots, - Where never mortal pinnace glided, - The boat of my desire is guided: - Realms where the air we breathe is love, - Which in the winds on the waves doth move, - Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above. - - P. B. SHELLEY. - - - - -THE HAPPY PIPER - - - Piping down the valleys wild, - Piping songs of pleasant glee, - On a cloud I saw a child, - And he laughing said to me: - - “Pipe a song about a Lamb!” - So I piped with merry cheer. - “Piper, pipe that song again”; - So I piped: he wept to hear. - - “Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; - Sing thy songs of happy cheer!” - So I sang the same again, - While he wept with joy to hear. - - “Piper, sit thee down and write - In a book that all may read.” - So he vanish’d from my sight, - And I pluck’d a hollow reed, - - And I made a rural pen, - And I stain’d the water clear, - And I wrote my happy songs - Every child may joy to hear. - - WILLIAM BLAKE. - - - - -THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB - - - The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, - And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold; - And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, - When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. - - Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, - That host with their banners at sunset were seen: - Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, - That host on the morrow lay wither’d and strown. - - For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, - And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; - And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, - And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still! - - And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, - But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride: - And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, - And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. - - And there lay the rider distorted and pale, - With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; - And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, - The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. - - And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, - And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; - And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, - Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! - - LORD BYRON. - - - - -_The next two spirited poems--both hailing from America--are inserted -with a view to their being useful to boys who have a taste for -recitation._ - - - - -SHERIDAN’S RIDE - - - Up from the south at break of day, - Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, - The affrighted air with a shudder bore, - Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain’s door, - The terrible grumble and rumble and roar, - Telling the battle was on once more-- - And Sheridan twenty miles away! - - And wilder still those billows of war - Thundered along the horizon’s bar; - And louder yet into Winchester rolled - The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, - Making the blood of the listener cold - As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, - With Sheridan twenty miles away! - - But there is a road from Winchester town, - A good broad highway leading down; - And there, through the flash of the morning light, - A steed, as black as the steeds of night, - Was seen to pass as with eagle flight. - As if he knew the terrible need, - He stretched away with his utmost speed; - Hills rose and fell, but his heart was gay, - With Sheridan fifteen miles away! - - Still sprang from those swift hoofs, thundering south, - The dust, like the smoke from the cannon’s mouth, - Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, - Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster; - The heart of the steed and the heart of the master - Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, - Impatient to be where the battle-field calls; - Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, - With Sheridan only ten miles away! - - The first that the General saw was the groups - Of stragglers, and then--the retreating troops! - What was done--what to do--a glance told him both; - And, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath - He dashed down the line ’mid a storm of huzzahs, - And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because - The sight of the Master compelled it to pause. - With foam and with dust the black charger was grey; - By the flash of his eye and his red nostril’s play - He seemed to the whole great army to say - “I have brought you Sheridan, all the way - From Winchester town to save the day!” - - Hurrah, hurrah, for Sheridan! - Hurrah, hurrah, for horse and man! - And when their statues are placed on high - Under the dome of the Union sky - --The American soldier’s Temple of Fame-- - There, with the glorious General’s name, - Be it said in letters both bold and bright, - “Here is the steed that saved the day - By carrying Sheridan into the fight, - From Winchester--twenty miles away!” - - THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. - - - - -COLUMBUS - - - Behind him lay the gray Azores, - Behind, the Gates of Hercules; - Before him not the ghost of shores; - Before him only shoreless seas. - The good mate said: “Now must we pray, - For lo! the very stars are gone. - Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?” - “Why, say ‘Sail on! sail on! and on!’” - - “My men grow mutinous day by day; - My men grow ghastly, wan and weak.” - The stout mate thought of home; a spray - Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. - “What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, - If we sight naught but seas at dawn?” - “Why, you shall say at break of day: - ‘Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!’” - - They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, - Until at last the blanched mate said: - “Why, now not even God would know - Should I and all my men fall dead. - These very winds forget their way, - For God from these dread seas is gone. - Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say--” - He said: “Sail on! sail on! and on!” - - They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: - “This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. - He curls his lip, he lies in wait, - He lifts his teeth as if to bite! - Brave Admiral, say but one good word: - What shall we do when hope is gone?” - The words leapt like a leaping sword: - “Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!” - - Then, pale and worn, he paced his deck, - And peered through darkness. Ah, that night - Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- - A light! A light! At last a light! - It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! - It grew to be Time’s burst of dawn. - He gained a world; he gave that world - Its grandest lesson: “On! sail on!” - - JOAQUIN MILLER. - - - - -_Macaulay’s “Lays of Ancient Rome,” of which this is the first, -deal only with the legends that Rome in her greatness liked to tell -concerning her early beginnings. Unfortunately there is no similar -group of poems treating of Imperial Rome, the centre of a world-empire; -but children must please not think of the Mistress of the World purely -as a little riverside town which could free itself from outside trouble -by chopping down a wooden bridge._ - - - - -HORATIUS - - Lars Porsena of Clusium - By the Nine Gods he swore - That the great house of Tarquin - Should suffer wrong no more. - By the Nine Gods he swore it, - And named a trysting day, - And bade his messengers ride forth - East and west and south and north - To summon his array. - - East and west and south and north - The messengers ride fast, - And tower and town and cottage - Have heard the trumpet’s blast. - Shame on the false Etruscan - Who lingers in his home, - When Porsena of Clusium - Is on the march for Rome. - - The horsemen and the footmen - Are pouring in amain - From many a stately market-place, - From many a fruitful plain; - From many a lonely hamlet - Which, hid by beech and pine, - Like an eagle’s nest hangs on the crest - Of purple Apennine; - - From lordly Volaterræ, - Where scowls the far-famed hold - Piled by the hands of giants - For godlike kings of old; - From sea-girt Populonia - Whose sentinels descry - Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops - Fringing the southern sky; - - From the proud mart of Pisæ, - Queen of the western waves, - Where ride Massilia’s triremes - Heavy with fair-haired slaves; - From where sweet Clanis wanders - Through corn and vines and flowers; - From where Cortona lifts to heaven - Her diadem of towers. - - Tall are the oaks whose acorns - Drop in dark Auser’s rill; - Fat are the stags that champ the boughs - Of the Ciminian hill; - Beyond all streams Clitumnus - Is to the herdsman dear; - Best of all pools the fowler loves - The great Volsinian mere. - - But now no stroke of woodman - Is heard by Auser’s rill; - No hunter tracks the stag’s green path - Up the Ciminian hill; - Unwatched along Clitumnus - Grazes the milk-white steer; - Unharmed the water-fowl may dip - In the Volsinian mere. - - The harvests of Arretium - This year old men shall reap; - This year young boys in Umbro - Shall plunge the struggling sheep; - And in the vats of Luna - This year the must[24] shall foam - Round the white feet of laughing girls - Whose sires have marched to Rome. - - There be thirty chosen prophets, - The wisest of the land, - Who always by Lars Porsena - Both morn and evening stand: - Evening and morn the Thirty - Have turned the verses o’er, - Traced from the right on linen white - By mighty Seers of yore. - - And with one voice the Thirty - Have their glad answer given: - “Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; - Go forth, beloved of Heaven; - Go, and return in glory - To Clusium’s royal dome, - And hang round Nurscia’s altars - The golden shields of Rome.” - - And now hath every city - Sent up her tale of men; - The foot are fourscore thousand, - The horse are thousands ten. - Before the gates of Sutrium - Is met the great array. - A proud man was Lars Porsena - Upon the trysting day! - - For all the Etruscan armies - Were ranged beneath his eye, - And many a banished Roman, - And many a stout ally; - And with a mighty following - To join the muster came - The Tusculan Mamilius, - Prince of the Latian name. - - But by the yellow Tiber - Was tumult and affright: - From all the spacious champaign - To Rome men took their flight. - A mile around the city - The throng stopped up the ways; - A fearful sight it was to see, - Through two long nights and days. - - For agèd folk on crutches, - And women great with child, - And mothers sobbing over babes - That clung to them and smiled, - And sick men borne in litters - High on the necks of slaves, - And troops of sun-burned husbandmen - With reaping-hooks and staves, - - And droves of mules and asses - Laden with skins of wine, - And endless flocks of goats and sheep, - And endless herds of kine, - And endless trains of waggons - That creaked beneath the weight - Of corn-sacks and of household goods, - Choked every roaring gate. - - Now from the rock Tarpeian - Could the wan burghers spy - The line of blazing villages - Red in the midnight sky. - The Fathers of the City, - They sat all night and day, - For every hour some horseman came - With tidings of dismay. - - To eastward and to westward - Have spread the Tuscan bands; - Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote - In Crustumerium stands. - Verbenna down to Ostia - Hath wasted all the plain; - Astur hath stormed Janiculum, - And the stout guards are slain. - - I wis, in all the Senate - There was no heart so bold - But sore it ached, and fast it beat, - When that ill news was told. - Forthwith up rose the Consul, - Up rose the Fathers all; - In haste they girded up their gowns, - And hied them to the wall. - - They held a council standing - Before the River-Gate; - Short time was there, ye well may guess, - For musing or debate. - Out spake the Consul roundly: - “The bridge must straight go down; - For, since Janiculum is lost, - Nought else can save the town.” - - Just then a scout came flying, - All wild with haste and fear: - “To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: - Lars Porsena is here.” - On the low hills to westward - The Consul fixed his eye, - And saw the swarthy storm of dust - Rise fast along the sky. - - And nearer fast and nearer - Doth the red whirlwind come; - And louder still and still more loud - From underneath that rolling cloud - Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, - The trampling, and the hum. - And plainly and more plainly - Now through the gloom appears, - Far to left and far to right, - In broken gleams of dark-blue light, - The long array of helmets bright, - The long array of spears. - - And plainly and more plainly - Above that glimmering line - Now might ye see the banners - Of twelve fair cities shine; - But the banner of proud Clusium - Was highest of them all, - The terror of the Umbrian, - The terror of the Gaul. - - And plainly and more plainly - Now might the burghers know, - By port and vest, by horse and crest, - Each warlike Lucumo[25]. - There Cilnius of Arretium - On his fleet roan was seen; - And Astur of the fourfold shield, - Girt with the brand none else may wield, - Tolumnius with the belt of gold, - And dark Verbenna from the hold - By reedy Thrasymene. - - Fast by the royal standard - O’erlooking all the war, - Lars Porsena of Clusium - Sate in his ivory car. - By the right wheel rode Mamilius, - Prince of the Latian name; - And by the left false Sextus, - That wrought the deed of shame. - - But when the face of Sextus - Was seen among the foes, - A yell that rent the firmament - From all the town arose. - On the house-tops was no woman - But spat towards him, and hissed; - No child but screamed out curses, - And shook its little fist. - - But the Consul’s brow was sad, - And the Consul’s speech was low, - And darkly looked he at the wall, - And darkly at the foe. - “Their van will be upon us - Before the bridge goes down; - And if they once may win the bridge, - What hope to save the town?” - - Then out spake brave Horatius, - The Captain of the gate: - “To every man upon this earth - Death cometh soon or late; - And how can man die better - Than facing fearful odds - For the ashes of his fathers - And the temples of his Gods, - - And for the tender mother - Who dandled him to rest, - And for the wife who nurses - His baby at her breast, - And for the holy maidens - Who feed the eternal flame, - To save them from false Sextus - That wrought the deed of shame? - - Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, - With all the speed ye may; - I, with two more to help me, - Will hold the foe in play. - In yon strait path a thousand - May well be stopped by three: - Now who will stand on either hand, - And keep the bridge with me?” - - Then out spake Spurius Lartius, - A Ramnian proud was he: - “Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, - And keep the bridge with thee.” - And out spake strong Herminius, - Of Titian blood was he: - “I will abide on thy left side, - And keep the bridge with thee.” - - “Horatius,” quoth the Consul, - “As thou sayest, so let it be.” - And straight against that great array - Forth went the dauntless Three. - For Romans in Rome’s quarrel - Spared neither land nor gold, - Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life - In the brave days of old. - - Then none was for a party; - Then all were for the State; - Then the great man helped the poor, - And the poor man loved the great; - Then lands were fairly portioned; - Then spoils were fairly sold; - The Romans were like brothers - In the brave days of old. - - Now Roman is to Roman - More hateful than a foe, - And the Tribunes beard the high, - And the Fathers grind the low. - As we wax hot in faction, - In battle we wax cold: - Wherefore men fight not as they fought - In the brave days of old. - - Now while the Three were tightening - Their harness on their backs, - The Consul was the foremost man - To take in hand an axe: - And Fathers mixed with Commons - Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, - And smote upon the planks above, - And loosed the props below. - - Meanwhile the Tuscan army, - Right glorious to behold, - Came flashing back the noonday light, - Rank behind rank, like surges bright - Of a broad sea of gold. - Four hundred trumpets sounded - A peal of warlike glee, - As that great host, with measured tread, - And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, - Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head, - Where stood the dauntless Three. - - The Three stood calm and silent, - And looked upon the foes, - And a great shout of laughter - From all the vanguard rose: - And forth three chiefs came spurring - Before that deep array; - To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, - And lifted high their shields, and flew - To win the narrow way; - - Aunus from green Tifernum, - Lord of the Hill of Vines; - And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves - Sicken in Ilva’s mines; - And Picus, long to Clusium - Vassal in peace and war, - Who led to fight his Umbrian powers - From that grey crag where, girt with towers, - The fortress of Nequinum lowers - O’er the pale waves of Nar. - - Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus - Into the stream beneath: - Herminius struck at Seius, - And clove him to the teeth: - At Picus brave Horatius - Darted one fiery thrust, - And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms - Clashed in the bloody dust. - - Then Ocnus of Falerii - Rushed on the Roman Three; - And Lausulus of Urgo, - The rover of the sea; - And Aruns of Volsinium, - Who slew the great wild boar, - The great wild boar that had his den - Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen, - And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, - Along Albinia’s shore. - - Herminius smote down Aruns: - Lartius laid Ocnus low: - Right to the heart of Lausulus - Horatius sent a blow. - “Lie there,” he cried, “fell pirate! - No more, aghast and pale, - From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark - The track of thy destroying bark. - No more Campania’s hinds shall fly - To woods and caverns when they spy - Thy thrice-accursed sail.” - - But now no sound of laughter - Was heard amongst the foes. - A wild and wrathful clamour - From all the vanguard rose. - Six spears’ lengths from the entrance - Halted that deep array, - And for a space no man came forth - To win the narrow way. - - But hark! the cry is “Astur!” - And lo! the ranks divide; - And the great Lord of Luna - Comes with his stately stride. - Upon his ample shoulders - Clangs loud the fourfold shield, - And in his hand he shakes the brand - Which none but he can wield. - - He smiled on those bold Romans - A smile serene and high; - He eyed the flinching Tuscans, - And scorn was in his eye. - Quoth he, “The she-wolf’s litter - Stand savagely at bay: - But will ye dare to follow, - If Astur clears the way?” - - Then, whirling up his broadsword - With both hands to the height, - He rushed against Horatius, - And smote with all his might. - With shield and blade Horatius - Right deftly turned the blow: - The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; - It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: - The Tuscans raised a joyful cry - To see the red blood flow. - - He reeled, and on Herminius - He leaned one breathing-space; - Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, - Sprang right at Astur’s face. - Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, - So fierce a thrust he sped, - The good sword stood a handbreadth out - Behind the Tuscan’s head. - - And the great Lord of Luna - Fell at that deadly stroke, - As falls on Mount Alvernus - A thunder-smitten oak: - Far o’er the crashing forest - The giant arms lie spread; - And the pale augurs, muttering low, - Gaze on the blasted head. - - On Astur’s throat Horatius - Right firmly pressed his heel, - And thrice and four times tugged amain, - Ere he wrenched out the steel. - “And see,” he cried, “the welcome, - Fair guests, that waits you here! - What noble Lucumo comes next - To taste our Roman cheer?” - - But at his haughty challenge - A sullen murmur ran, - Mingled of wrath and shame and dread, - Along that glittering van. - There lacked not men of prowess, - Nor men of lordly race; - For all Etruria’s noblest - Were round the fatal place. - - But all Etruria’s noblest - Felt their hearts sink to see - On the earth the bloody corpses, - In the path the dauntless Three: - And, from the ghastly entrance - Where those bold Romans stood, - All shrank, like boys who unaware, - Ranging the woods to start a hare, - Come to the mouth of the dark lair - Where, growling low, a fierce old bear - Lies amidst bones and blood. - - Was none who would be foremost - To lead such dire attack; - But those behind cried “Forward!” - And those before cried “Back!” - And backward now and forward - Wavers the deep array; - And on the tossing sea of steel, - To and fro the standards reel; - And the victorious trumpet-peal - Dies fitfully away. - - Yet one man for one moment - Strode out before the crowd; - Well known was he to all the Three, - And they gave him greeting loud. - “Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! - Now welcome to thy home! - Why dost thou stay, and turn away? - Here lies the road to Rome.” - - Thrice looked he at the city; - Thrice looked he at the dead; - And thrice came on in fury, - And thrice turned back in dread: - And, white with fear and hatred, - Scowled at the narrow way - Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, - The bravest Tuscans lay. - - But meanwhile axe and lever - Have manfully been plied; - And now the bridge hangs tottering - Above the boiling tide. - “Come back, come back, Horatius!” - Loud cried the Fathers all. - “Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! - Back, ere the ruin fall!” - - Back darted Spurius Lartius; - Herminius darted back: - And, as they passed, beneath their feet - They felt the timbers crack. - But, when they turned their faces, - And on the farther shore - Saw brave Horatius stand alone, - They would have crossed once more. - - But with a crash like thunder - Fell every loosened beam, - And, like a dam the mighty wreck - Lay right athwart the stream: - And a long shout of triumph - Rose from the walls of Rome, - As to the highest turret-tops - Was splashed the yellow foam. - - And, like a horse unbroken - When first he feels the rein, - The furious river struggled hard, - And tossed his tawny mane; - And burst the curb, and bounded, - Rejoicing to be free; - And whirling down, in fierce career, - Battlement, and plank, and pier, - Rushed headlong to the sea. - - Alone stood brave Horatius, - But constant still in mind; - Thrice thirty thousand foes before, - And the broad flood behind. - “Down with him!” cried false Sextus, - With a smile on his pale face. - “Now yield thee,” cried Lars Porsena, - “Now yield thee to our grace.” - - Round turned he, as not deigning - Those craven ranks to see; - Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, - To Sextus nought spake he; - But he saw on Palatinus - The white porch of his home; - And he spake to the noble river - That rolls by the towers of Rome. - - “O Tiber! father Tiber! - To whom the Romans pray, - A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms - Take thou in charge this day!” - So he spake, and speaking sheathèd - The good sword by his side, - And with his harness on his back - Plunged headlong in the tide. - - No sound of joy or sorrow - Was heard from either bank; - But friends and foes in dumb surprise, - With parted lips and straining eyes, - Stood gazing where he sank; - And when above the surges - They saw his crest appear, - All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, - And even the ranks of Tuscany - Could scarce forbear to cheer. - - But fiercely ran the current, - Swollen high by months of rain: - And fast his blood was flowing; - And he was sore in pain, - And heavy with his armour, - And spent with changing blows: - And oft they thought him sinking, - But still again he rose. - - Never, I ween, did swimmer, - In such an evil case, - Struggle through such a raging flood - Safe to the landing-place: - But his limbs were borne up bravely - By the brave heart within, - And our good father Tiber - Bare bravely up his chin. - - “Curse on him!” quoth false Sextus; - “Will not the villain drown? - But for this stay ere close of day - We should have sacked the town!” - “Heaven help him!” quoth Lars Porsena, - “And bring him safe to shore; - For such a gallant feat of arms - Was never seen before.” - - And now he feels the bottom; - Now on dry earth he stands; - Now round him throng the Fathers - To press his gory hands; - And now with shouts and clapping, - And noise of weeping loud, - He enters through the River-Gate, - Borne by the joyous crowd. - - They gave him of the corn-land, - That was of public right, - As much as two strong oxen - Could plough from morn till night; - And they made a molten image, - And set it up on high, - And there it stands unto this day - To witness if I lie. - - It stands in the Comitium - Plain for all folk to see; - Horatius in his harness, - Halting upon one knee: - And underneath is written, - In letters all of gold, - How valiantly he kept the bridge - In the brave days of old. - - And still his name sounds stirring - Unto the men of Rome, - As the trumpet-blast that cries to them - To charge the Volscian home; - And wives still pray to Juno - For boys with hearts as bold - As his who kept the bridge so well - In the brave days of old. - - And in the nights of winter, - When the cold north winds blow, - And the long howling of the wolves - Is heard amidst the snow; - When round the lonely cottage - Roars loud the tempest’s din, - And the good logs of Algidus - Roar louder yet within; - - When the oldest cask is opened, - And the largest lamp is lit; - When the chestnuts glow in the embers, - And the kid turns on the spit; - When young and old in circle - Around the firebrands close; - When the girls are weaving baskets, - And the lads are shaping bows; - - When the goodman mends his armour - And trims his helmet’s plume; - When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily - Goes flashing through the loom; - With weeping and with laughter - Still is the story told, - How well Horatius kept the bridge - In the brave days of old. - - LORD MACAULAY. - -[24] _must_: grape-juice. - -[25] _Lucumo_: Etruscan nobleman. - - - - -INDEX OF AUTHORS - - - PAGE - - Allingham, William 34, 48, 68 - - Anonymous 1-8, 11, 13 - - Blake, William 45, 65, 66, 80 - - Byron, Lord 81 - - Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 25 - - Coleridge, Sara 17 - - Corbet, Richard 55 - - Davidson, John 28, 73 - - Dobell, Sydney 26 - - Field, Eugene 36, 42, 47 - - Follen, Eliza Lee 8 - - Gale, Norman 29 - - Herrick, Robert 15, 22, 75, 76 - - Hogg, James 58, 62, 72 - - Howitt, Mary 24 - - Howitt, William 19 - - Keats, John 67 - - Lowell, Amy 12 - - Macaulay, Lord 88 - - Maugham, H. N. 65 - - Miller, Joaquin 86 - - Moore, Thomas 63 - - Prentiss, Mrs E. 10 - - Ramal, Walter 35 - - Rands, William Brighty 12, 44, 54, 69 - - Read, Thomas Buchanan 83 - - Robertson, W. Graham 22, 39, 41 - - Rogers, Samuel 33 - - Roscoe, William 30 - - Scott, Sir Walter 46 - - Shakespeare, William 15, 28, 51 - - Shelley, Percy Bysshe 78 - - Stevenson, Robert Louis 38 - - Swinburne, Algernon Charles 77 - - Taylor, Ann and Jane 9, 14, 71 - - Tennyson, Lord 45 - - Thornbury, G. W. 57 - - Wordsworth, William 16, 24 - - - - -INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - - PAGE - - A Robin Redbreast in a cage 65 - - At early dawn through London you must go 28 - - At evening when the lamp is lit 38 - - Awake, awake, my little boy 45 - - Behind him lay the gray Azores 86 - - Bird of the wilderness 72 - - Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! 6 - - Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 58 - - Build me a castle of sand 39 - - “Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy 35 - - Buttercups and daisies 24 - - Cold and raw 7 - - Come, take up your hats, and away let us haste 30 - - Come unto these yellow sands 51 - - Curly Locks! Curly Locks! 3 - - Daffodils 15 - - Do you know what the birds say? The sparrow, - the dove 25 - - Draw a pail of water 4 - - Drummer-boy, drummer-boy, where is your drum 44 - - Fair daffodils, we weep to see 15 - - Farewell rewards and fairies 55 - - First, April, she with mellow showers 22 - - First came the primrose 26 - - Go, pretty child, and bear this flower 76 - - Good-bye, good-bye to Summer 68 - - Here in the country’s heart 29 - - Here’s another day, dear 22 - - Hush a while, my darling, for the long day closes 41 - - I am the Cat of Cats. I am 12 - - I had a dove, and the sweet dove died 67 - - I had a little nut-tree 5 - - I have a little sister, they call her Peep, Peep 7 - - I like little Pussy, her coat is so warm 11 - - I saw a ship a-sailing 4 - - I wander’d lonely as a cloud 16 - - In holly hedges starving birds 73 - - In marble walls as white as milk 8 - - It was a black Bunny, with white in its head 69 - - January brings the snow 17 - - Jenny Wren fell sick 2 - - Lars Porsena of Clusium 88 - - Little baby, lay your head 14 - - Little Lamb, who made thee? 65 - - Matthew, Mark, Luke and John 2 - - Merry are the bells, and merry would they ring 1 - - Mine be a cot beside the hill 33 - - My maid Mary she minds the dairy 5 - - My soul is an enchanted boat 78 - - O hush thee, my baby, thy sire was a knight 46 - - O look at the moon 8 - - O Mother-my-Love, if you’ll give me your hand 47 - - Once on a time an old red hen 36 - - Once there was a little kitty 10 - - Over hill, over dale 52 - - Piping down the valleys wild 80 - - Pussy-cat Mew jumped over a coal 3 - - Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose 34 - - Sea shell, Sea shell 12 - - Sleep, baby, sleep 13 - - Sweet and low, sweet and low 45 - - Thank you, pretty cow, that made 71 - - The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold 81 - - The cock is crowing 24 - - The cock’s on the housetop 6 - - The cuckoo’s a bonny bird 13 - - The garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers 54 - - The north wind doth blow 7 - - The wind one morning sprang up from sleep 19 - - There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream 63 - - There was a Knight of Bethlehem 65 - - Thou whose birth on earth 77 - - Tiger, Tiger, burning bright 66 - - Toll the lilies’ silver bells 57 - - Twinkle, twinkle, little star 9 - - Under the greenwood tree 28 - - Up from the south at break of day 83 - - Up the airy mountain 48 - - We’ve plough’d our land, we’ve sown our seed 13 - - What sweeter music can we bring 75 - - When the wind is in the East 6 - - Where the bee sucks there suck I 52 - - Where the pools are bright and deep 62 - - Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 42 - - Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes and groves 51 - - You spotted snakes with double tongue 53 - - - - -Cambridge: - -PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A. AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS - - - - -The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children - -PART II - - - - -CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS - -C. F. CLAY, MANAGER - - London: FETTER LANE, E.C. - Edinburgh: 100 PRINCES STREET - -[Illustration] - - Bombay, Calcutta and Madras: MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD. - Toronto: J. M. DENT AND SONS, LTD. - Tokyo: THE MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA - - Copyrighted in the United States of America by - G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, - 2, 4 AND 6, WEST 45TH STREET, NEW YORK CITY - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - -The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children - - Edited by - KENNETH GRAHAME - - Author of _The Golden Age_, _Dream Days_, _The Wind - in the Willows_, _etc._ - -PART II - - Cambridge: - at the University Press - 1916 - - - - -NOTE - - -The Editor has to express his thanks for permission to use copyright -matter to the Editor of _A Sailor’s Garland_ and its publishers, Messrs -Methuen, to Mr Elkin Mathews for the poem by Richard Hovey, to Messrs -G. Routledge & Sons for a poem by Joaquin Miller. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - NATURE, COUNTRY AND THE OPEN AIR - - To Meadows _R. Herrick_ 1 - The Brook _A. Tennyson_ 2 - Recollections of Early Childhood _W. Wordsworth_ 4 - To Autumn J. _Keats_ 7 - Ode to the West Wind _P. B. Shelley_ 9 - To a Skylark ” 13 - The Moon-Goddess _Ben Jonson_ 18 - Home-Thoughts from Abroad _R. Browning_ 19 - Home-Thoughts from the Sea ” 20 - - GREEN SEAS AND SAILOR MEN - - 1. _The Call of the Sea_ - Ye Mariners of England _T. Campbell_ 21 - The Secret of the Sea _H. W. Longfellow_ 22 - A Dutch Picture ” 24 - Sea Memories ” 26 - The Sea Gypsy _Richard Hovey_ 27 - The Greenwich Pensioner 28 - The Press-Gang 30 - A Sea Dirge _W. Shakespeare_ 30 - - 2. _Its Lawless Joys_ - The Old Buccaneer _C. Kingsley_ 31 - The Salcombe Seaman’s Flaunt to the - Proud Pirate 34 - The Smuggler 36 - - ARMS AND THE MAN - - The Maid _Theodore Roberts_ 37 - The Eve of Waterloo _Lord Byron_ 39 - The Glory that was Greece ” 43 - Battle Hymn of the American Republic _Julia Ward Howe_ 47 - To Lucasta, on going to the Wars _Richard Lovelace_ 48 - The Black Prince _Sir Walter Scott_ 49 - The Burial of Sir John Moore _Charles Wolfe_ 50 - How Sleep the Brave _William Collins_ 52 - Soldier, Rest! _Sir Walter Scott_ 53 - - THE OTHER SIDE OF IT - - 1. The Patriot _Robert Browning_ 54 - 2. For those who fail _Joaquin Miller_ 56 - 3. Keeping On _A. H. Clough_ 57 - - STORY-POEMS - - The Lady of Shalott _Alfred Tennyson_ 58 - The Forsaken Merman _Matthew Arnold_ 65 - The Legend Beautiful _H. W. Longfellow_ 72 - Abou Ben Adhem _Leigh Hunt_ 77 - The Sands of Dee _Charles Kingsley_ 78 - Lochinvar _Sir Walter Scott_ 79 - - DAY-DREAMS - - Dreams to Sell _T. L. Beddoes_ 83 - The Lost Bower _E. B. Browning_ 84 - Echo and the Ferry _Jean Ingelow_ 92 - Poor Susan’s Dream _W. Wordsworth_ 100 - Fancy W. _Shakespeare_ 101 - - TWO HOME-COMINGS - - 1. The Good Woman Made Welcome in - Heaven _R. Crashaw_ 102 - 2. The Soldier Relieved _R. Browning_ 103 - - WHEN KNIGHTS WERE BOLD - - Hunting Song _Sir Walter Scott_ 104 - The Riding to the Tournament _G. W. Thornbury_ 105 - - VARIOUS - - A Red, Red Rose _Robert Burns_ 113 - Blow, Bugle, Blow _Alfred Tennyson_ 114 - West and East _Matthew Arnold_ 115 - Genseric _Owen Meredith_ 116 - Kubla Khan _S. T. Coleridge_ 118 - Something to Remember _R. Browning_ 120 - Ring Out, Wild Bells _A. Tennyson_ 121 - - - - -NATURE, COUNTRY, AND THE OPEN AIR - - - - -TO MEADOWS - - - Ye have been fresh and green, - Ye have been fill’d with flowers; - And ye the walks have been - Where maids have spent their hours. - - You have beheld how they - With wicker arks did come - To kiss and bear away - The richer cowslips home. - - You’ve heard them sweetly sing, - And seen them in a round: - Each virgin like a spring, - With honeysuckles crown’d. - - But now we see none here - Whose silv’ry feet did tread - And with dishevelled hair - Adorn’d this smoother mead. - - Like unthrifts, having spent - Your stock, and needy grown, - You’re left here to lament - Your poor estates, alone. - - ROBERT HERRICK. - - - - -THE BROOK - - - I come from haunts of coot and hern[26], - I make a sudden sally, - And sparkle out among the fern, - To bicker down a valley. - - By thirty hills I hurry down, - Or slip between the ridges, - By twenty thorps[27], a little town, - And half a hundred bridges. - - I chatter over stony ways - In little sharps and trebles, - I bubble into eddying bays, - I babble on the pebbles. - - With many a curve my banks I fret - By many a field and fallow, - And many a fairy foreland set - With willow-weed and mallow. - - I chatter, chatter, as I flow - To join the brimming river, - For men may come and men may go, - But I go on for ever. - - I wind about and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling. - - And here and there a foamy flake - Upon me, as I travel - With many a silvery waterbreak - Above the golden gravel. - - I steal by lawns and grassy plots, - I slide by hazel covers; - I move the sweet forget-me-nots - That grow for happy lovers. - - I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, - Among my skimming swallows; - I make the netted sunbeam dance - Against my sandy shallows. - - I murmur under moon and stars - In brambly wildernesses; - I linger by my shingly bars; - I loiter round my cresses; - - And out again I curve and flow - To join the brimming river, - For men may come and men may go, - But I go on for ever. - - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. - -[26] _hern_: heron. - -[27] _thorps_: villages. - - - - -RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD - - - There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, - The earth, and every common sight, - To me did seem - Apparell’d in celestial light, - The glory and the freshness of a dream. - It is not now as it hath been of yore;-- - Turn wheresoe’er I may, - By night or day, - The things which I have seen I now can see no more. - - The rainbow comes and goes, - And lovely is the rose; - The moon doth with delight - Look round her when the heavens are bare; - Waters on a starry night - Are beautiful and fair; - The sunshine is a glorious birth; - But yet I know, where’er I go, - That there hath passed away a glory from the earth. - - Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, - And while the young lambs bound - As to the tabor’s sound, - To me alone there came a thought of grief: - A timely utterance gave that thought relief, - And I again am strong. - The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; - No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; - I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, - The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, - And all the earth is gay; - Land and sea - Give themselves up to jollity, - And with the heart of May - Doth every beast keep holiday;-- - Thou Child of Joy, - Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! - - Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call - Ye to each other make; I see - The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; - My heart is at your festival, - My head hath its coronal, - The fulness of your bliss, I feel--I feel it all. - O evil day! if I were sullen - While Earth herself is adorning, - This sweet May morning, - And the children are culling - On every side, - In a thousand valleys far and wide, - - Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm, - And the babe leaps up on his mother’s arm:-- - I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! - --But there’s a tree, of many one, - A single field which I have look’d upon, - Both of them speak of something that is gone: - The pansy at my feet - Doth the same tale repeat: - Whither is fled the visionary gleam? - Where is it now, the glory and the dream? - - Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: - The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, - Hath had elsewhere its setting, - And cometh from afar: - Not in entire forgetfulness, - And not in utter nakedness, - But trailing clouds of glory do we come - From God, who is our home: - Heaven lies about us in our infancy! - Shades of the prison-house begin to close - Upon the growing Boy, - But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, - He sees it in his joy; - The Youth, who daily further from the east - Must travel, still is Nature’s priest, - And by the vision splendid - Is on his way attended; - At length the man perceives it die away, - And fade into the light of common day. - - * * * * * - - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - -(_This is only a portion of the poem, which later you should take an -opportunity of reading as a whole._) - - - - -TO AUTUMN - - - Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness! - Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; - Conspiring with him how to load and bless - With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; - To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees, - And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; - To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells - With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, - And still more, later flowers for the bees, - Until they think warm days will never cease, - For Summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. - - Who hath not seen Thee oft amid thy store? - Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find - Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, - Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; - Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, - Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook - Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; - And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep - Steady thy laden head across a brook; - Or by a cider-press, with patient look, - Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. - - Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? - Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-- - While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, - And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; - Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn - Among the river sallows[28], borne aloft - Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; - And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn[29]; - Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft - The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft[30]; - And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. - - JOHN KEATS. - -[28] _sallows_: willows. - -[29] _bourn_: stream, water-course. - -[30] _croft_: enclosure. - - - - -ODE TO THE WEST WIND - - -I. - - O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, - Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead - Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, - - Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, - Pestilence-stricken multitudes! O thou - Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed - - The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, - Each like a corpse within its grave, until - Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow - - Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill - (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) - With living hues and odours plain and hill: - - Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; - Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! - - -II. - - Thou on whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion, - Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, - Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, - - Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread - On the blue surface of thine airy surge, - Like the bright hair uplifted from the head - - Of some fierce Maenad[31], even from the dim verge - Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, - The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge - - Of the dying year, to which this closing night - Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, - Vaulted with all thy congregated might - - Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere - Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: O hear! - - -III. - - Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams - The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, - Lull’d by the coil[32] of his crystalline streams, - - Beside a pumice[33] isle in Baiae’s bay, - And saw in sleep old palaces and towers - Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, - - All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers - So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou - For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers - - Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below - The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear - The sapless foliage of the ocean, know - - Thy voice, and suddenly grow grey with fear, - And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear! - - -IV. - - If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; - If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; - A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share - - The impulse of thy strength, only less free - Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even - I were as in my boyhood, and could be - - The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, - As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed - Scarce seem’d a vision--I would ne’er have striven - - As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. - O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! - I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! - - A heavy weight of years has chain’d and bow’d - One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud. - - -V. - - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: - What if my leaves are falling like its own? - The tumult of thy mighty harmonies - - Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, - Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, - My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! - - Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, - Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth; - And, by the incantation of this verse, - - Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth - Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! - Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth - - The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, - If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? - - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - -[31] _Maenad_: a priestess of Bacchus, the wine-god. - -[32] _coil_: confused noise, murmur. - -[33] _pumice_: formed of volcanic lava. - - - - -TO A SKYLARK - - - Hail to thee, blithe spirit! - Bird thou never wert-- - That from heaven or near it - Pourest thy full heart - In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. - - Higher still and higher - From the earth thou springest - Like a cloud of fire; - The blue deep thou wingest, - And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. - - In the golden lightning - Of the sunken sun, - O’er which clouds are bright’ning, - Thou dost float and run, - Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. - - The pale purple even - Melts around thy flight; - Like a star of heaven, - In the broad daylight - Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. - - Keen as are the arrows - Of that silver sphere, - Whose intense lamp narrows - In the white dawn clear, - Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. - - All the earth and air - With thy voice is loud, - As, when night is bare, - From one lonely cloud - The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow’d. - - What thou art we know not; - What is most like thee? - From rainbow clouds there flow not - Drops so bright to see, - As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- - - Like a poet hidden - In the light of thought, - Singing hymns unbidden, - Till the world is wrought - To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: - - Like a high-born maiden - In a palace tower, - Soothing her love-laden - Soul in secret hour - With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: - - Like a glow-worm golden - In a dell of dew, - Scattering unbeholden - Its aërial hue - Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: - - Like a rose embower’d - In its own green leaves, - By warm winds deflower’d, - Till the scent it gives - Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd thieves: - - Sound of vernal showers - On the twinkling grass, - Rain-awaken’d flowers-- - All that ever was - Joyous and clear and fresh--thy music doth surpass. - - Teach us, sprite or bird, - What sweet thoughts are thine: - I have never heard - Praise of love or wine - That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. - - Chorus hymeneal - Or triumphal chant, - Match’d with thine would be all - But an empty vaunt-- - A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. - - What objects are the fountains - Of thy happy strain? - What fields, or waves, or mountains? - What shapes of sky or plain? - What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? - - With thy clear keen joyance - Languor cannot be: - Shadow of annoyance - Never came near thee: - Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety. - - Waking or asleep, - Thou of death must deem - Things more true and deep - Than we mortals dream, - Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? - - We look before and after, - And pine for what is not: - Our sincerest laughter - With some pain is fraught; - Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. - - Yet if we could scorn - Hate and pride and fear, - If we were things born - Not to shed a tear, - I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. - - Better than all measures - Of delightful sound, - Better than all treasures - That in books are found, - Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! - - Teach me half the gladness - That thy brain must know; - Such harmonious madness - From my lips would flow, - The world should listen then, as I am listening now. - - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - - - - -THE MOON-GODDESS - - - Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, - Now the sun is laid to sleep, - Seated in thy silver chair, - State in wonted manner keep: - Hesperus entreats thy light, - Goddess excellently bright. - - Earth, let not thy envious shade - Dare itself to interpose; - Cynthia’s shining orb was made - Heaven to clear when day did close: - Bless us then with wishèd sight, - Goddess excellently bright. - - Lay thy bow of pearl apart, - And thy crystal-shining quiver; - Give unto the flying hart - Space to breathe, how short soever: - Thou that mak’st a day of night-- - Goddess excellently bright. - - BEN JONSON. - - - - -HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD - - - O, to be in England - Now that April’s there, - And whoever wakes in England - Sees, some morning, unaware, - That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf - Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, - While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough - In England--now! - - And after April, when May follows, - And the white throat builds, and all the swallows! - Hark, where my blossom’d pear-tree in the hedge - Leans to the field and scatters on the clover - Blossoms and dewdrops--at the bent spray’s edge-- - That’s the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, - - Lest you should think he never could recapture - The first fine careless rapture! - And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, - All will be gay when noontide wakes anew - The buttercups, the little children’s dower - --Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! - - ROBERT BROWNING. - - - - -HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA - - - Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the North-west died away; - Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; - Bluish ’mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; - In the dimmest North-east distance dawn’d Gibraltar grand and gray; - “Here and here did England help me: how can I help England?”--say, - Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and pray, - While Jove’s planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. - - ROBERT BROWNING. - - - - -GREEN SEAS AND SAILOR MEN - - - - -1. _The Call of the Sea_ - - - - -YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND - - - Ye Mariners of England! - That guard our native seas; - Whose flag has braved a thousand years - The battle and the breeze! - Your glorious standard launch again - To match another foe; - And sweep through the deep, - While the stormy winds do blow! - While the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - The spirits of your fathers - Shall start from every wave; - For the deck it was their field of fame, - And Ocean was their grave: - Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell - Your manly hearts shall glow, - As ye sweep through the deep, - While the stormy winds do blow! - While the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - Britannia needs no bulwarks, - No towers along the steep; - Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, - Her home is on the deep. - With thunders from her native oak - She quells the floods below, - As they roar on the shore, - When the stormy winds do blow! - When the battle rages loud and long, - And the stormy winds do blow. - - The meteor flag of England - Shall yet terrific burn; - Till danger’s troubled night depart - And the star of peace return. - Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! - Our song and feast shall flow - To the fame of your name, - When the storm has ceased to blow! - When the fiery fight is heard no more, - And the storm has ceased to blow. - - THOMAS CAMPBELL. - - - - -THE SECRET OF THE SEA - - - Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me - As I gaze upon the sea! - All the old romantic legends, - All my dreams come back to me. - - Sails of silk and ropes of sendal[34], - Such as gleam in ancient lore; - And the singing of the sailors, - And the answer from the shore! - - Most of all, the Spanish ballad - Haunts me oft, and tarries long, - Of the noble Count Arnaldos - And the sailor’s mystic song. - - Telling how the Count Arnaldos, - With his hawk upon his hand, - Saw a fair and stately galley, - Steering onward to the land;-- - - How he heard the ancient helmsman - Chant a song so wild and clear, - That the sailing sea-bird slowly - Poised upon the mast to hear, - - Till his soul was full of longing, - And he cried, with impulse strong,-- - “Helmsman! for the love of heaven, - Teach me, too, that wondrous song!” - - “Wouldst thou,”--so the helmsman answered, - “Learn the secret of the sea? - Only those who brave its dangers - Comprehend its mystery!” - - In each sail that skims the horizon, - In each landward-blowing breeze, - I behold that stately galley, - Hear those mournful melodies. - - Till my soul is full of longing - For the secret of the sea, - And the heart of the great ocean - Sends a thrilling pulse through me. - - H. W. LONGFELLOW. - -[34] _sendal_: coarse narrow silken material. - - - - -A DUTCH PICTURE - - - Simon Danz has come home again, - From cruising about with his buccaneers[35]; - He has singed the beard of the King of Spain, - And carried away the Dean of Jaen, - And sold him in Algiers. - - In his house by the Maese, with its roof of tiles, - And weathercocks flying aloft in air, - There are silver tankards in antique styles, - Plunder of convent and castle, and piles - Of carpets rich and rare. - - In his tulip-garden there by the town, - Overlooking the sluggish stream, - With his Moorish cap and dressing-gown, - The old sea-captain, hale and brown, - Walks in a waking dream. - - A smile in his gray mustachio lurks - Whenever he thinks of the King of Spain, - And the listed[36] tulips look like Turks, - And the silent gardener as he works - Is changed to the Dean of Jaen[37]. - - The windmills on the outermost - Verge of the landscape in the haze, - To him are towers on the Spanish coast, - With whiskered sentinels at their post, - Though this is the river Maese. - - But when the winter rains begin, - He sits and smokes by the blazing brands, - And old seafaring men come in, - Goat-bearded, gray, and with double chin, - And rings upon their hands. - - They sit there in the shadow and shine - Of the flickering fire of the winter night; - Figures in colour and design - Like those by Rembrandt of the Rhine, - Half darkness and half light. - - And they talk of ventures lost or won, - And their talk is ever and ever the same, - While they drink the red wine of Tarragon, - From the cellars of some Spanish Don, - Or convent set on flame. - - Restless at times, with heavy strides - He paces his parlour to and fro; - He is like a ship that at anchor rides, - And swings with the rising and falling tides, - And tugs at her anchor-tow. - - Voices mysterious far and near, - Sound of the wind and sound of the sea, - Are calling and whispering in his ear, - “Simon Danz! Why stayest thou here? - Come forth and follow me!” - - So he thinks he shall take to the sea again - For one more cruise with his buccaneers, - To singe the beard of the King of Spain, - And capture another Dean of Jaen, - And sell him in Algiers. - - H. W. LONGFELLOW. - -[35] _buccaneers_: sea rovers, pirates. - -[36] _listed_: striped. - -[37] _Jaen_: a town in Spain. - - - - -SEA MEMORIES - - - Often I think of the beautiful town - That is seated by the sea; - Often in thought go up and down - The pleasant streets of that dear old town, - And my youth comes back to me. - And a verse of a Lapland song - Is haunting my memory still: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” - - I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, - And catch, in sudden gleams, - The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, - And islands that were the Hesperides[38] - Of all my boyish dreams. - And the burden of that old song, - It murmurs and whispers still: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” - - I remember the black wharves and the slips, - And the sea-tides tossing free; - And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, - And the beauty and mystery of the ships, - And the magic of the sea. - And the voice of that wayward song - Is singing and saying still: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” - - H. W. LONGFELLOW. - -[38] _Hesperides_: the fabulous “Isles of the Blest” in far -western seas. - - - - -THE SEA GYPSY - - - I am fever’d with the sunset, - I am fretful with the bay, - For the wander-thirst is on me - And my soul is in Cathay. - - There’s a schooner in the offing, - With her topsails shot with fire, - And my heart has gone aboard her - For the Islands of Desire. - - I must forth again to-morrow! - With the sunset I must be - Hull down on the trail of rapture - In the wonder of the Sea. - - RICHARD HOVEY. - - - - -THE GREENWICH PENSIONER - - - ’Twas in the good ship _Rover_, - I sailed the world all round, - And for three years and over - I ne’er touched British ground; - At length in England landed, - I left the roaring main, - Found all relations stranded, - And went to sea again, - And went to sea again. - - That time bound straight for Portugal, - Right fore and aft we bore, - But when we made Cape Ortegal, - A gale blew off the shore; - She lay, so did it shock her, - A log upon the main, - Till, saved from Davy’s locker, - We put to sea again, - We put to sea again. - - Next sailing in a frigate - I got my timber toe. - I never more shall jig it - As once I used to do; - My leg was shot off fairly, - All by a ship of Spain; - But I could swab the galley, - I went to sea again, - I went to sea again. - - And still I am enabled - To bring up in the rear, - Although I’m quite disabled - And lie in Greenwich tier. - There’s schooners in the river - A riding to the chain, - But I shall never, ever - Put out to sea again, - Put out to sea again. - - From _A Sailor’s Garland_. - - - - -THE PRESS-GANG - - - Here’s the tender[39] coming, - Pressing all the men; - O, dear honey, - What shall we do then? - Here’s the tender coming, - Off at Shields Bar. - Here’s the tender coming, - Full of men of war. - - Here’s the tender coming, - Stealing of my dear; - O, dear honey, - They’ll ship you out of here, - They’ll ship you foreign, - For that is what it means. - Here’s the tender coming, - Full of red marines. - - From _A Sailor’s Garland_. - -[39] _tender_: a boat or other small vessel, that ‘attends’ a ship -with men, stores, etc. - - - - -A SEA DIRGE - - - Full fathom five thy father lies: - Of his bones are coral made; - Those are pearls that were his eyes: - Nothing of him that doth fade, - But doth suffer a sea-change - Into something rich and strange. - Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: - Hark! now I hear them, - Ding, dong, bell. - - SHAKESPEARE. - - - - -2. _Its Lawless Joys_ - - - - -THE OLD BUCCANEER - - - Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and high, - But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I; - And such a port for mariners I ne’er shall see again - As the pleasant Isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main. - - There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout, - All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about; - And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free - To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally. - - Thence we sailed against the Spaniard with his hoards of plate - and gold, - Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old; - Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone, - Who flog men, and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone. - - O the palms grew high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold, - And the colibris[40] and parrots they were gorgeous to behold; - And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee, - To welcome gallant sailors, a-sweeping in from sea. - - O sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze, - A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees, - With a negro lass to fan you, while you listened to the roar - Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore. - - But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be; - So the King’s ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we. - All day we fought like bulldogs, but they burst the booms at night; - And I fled in a piragua[41], sore wounded, from the fight. - - Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside, - Till, for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing she died; - But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by, - And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die. - - And now I’m old and going--I’m sure I can’t tell where; - One comfort is, this world’s so hard, I can’t be worse off there: - If I might but be a sea-dove, I’d fly across the main, - To the pleasant Isle of Avès, to look at it once again. - - CHARLES KINGSLEY. - -[40] _colibris_: humming-birds. - -[41] _piragua_: a “dug-out” canoe. - - - - -THE SALCOMBE SEAMAN’S FLAUNT TO THE PROUD PIRATE - - - A lofty ship from Salcombe came, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - She had golden trucks[42] that shone like flame, - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - “Masthead, masthead,” the captains hail, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - “Look out and round, d’ye see a sail?” - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - “There’s a ship that looms like Beachy Head,” - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - “Her banner aloft it blows out red,” - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - “Oh, ship ahoy, where do you steer?” - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - “Are you man-of-war, or privateer?” - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - “I am neither one of the two,” said she, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - “I’m a pirate, looking for my fee,” - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - “I’m a jolly pirate, out for gold:” - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - “I will rummage through your after hold,” - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - The grumbling guns they flashed and roared, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - Till the pirate’s masts went overboard, - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - They fired shots till the pirate’s deck, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - Was blood and spars and broken wreck, - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - “O do not haul the red flag down,” - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - “O keep all fast until we drown,” - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - They called for cans of wine, and drank, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - They sang their songs until she sank, - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - Now let us brew good cans of flip, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - And drink a bowl to the Salcombe ship, - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - And drink a bowl to the lad of fame, - _Blow high, blow low, and so sailed we;_ - Who put the pirate ship to shame, - _On the bonny coasts of Barbary_. - - From _A Sailor’s Garland_. - -[42] _trucks_: mast-head caps. - - - - -THE SMUGGLER - - - O my true love’s a smuggler and sails upon the sea, - And I would I were a seaman to go along with he; - To go along with he for the satins and the wine, - And run the tubs at Slapton when the stars do shine. - - O Hollands is a good drink when the nights are cold, - And Brandy is a good drink for them as grows old. - There is lights in the cliff-top when the boats are home-bound, - And we run the tubs at Slapton when the word goes round. - - The King he is a proud man in his grand red coat, - But I do love a smuggler in a little fishing-boat; - For he runs the Mallins lace and he spends his money free, - And I would I were a seaman to go along with he. - - From _A Sailor’s Garland_. - - - - -ARMS AND THE MAN - -_The generations pass, each in its turn wondering whether it is to be -the one to see the ending of War and the awakening of the common sense -of nations. But the Poetry of the glory of Battle, the hymning of high -heroisms, the dirges for those who nobly died--these will remain, to -gild its memory, long after the last echo of the last war-drum has -faded out of the world._ - - - - -THE MAID - - - Thunder of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod; - Clash of reeking squadrons, steel-capped, iron-shod; - The White Maid and the white horse, and the flapping banner of God. - - Black hearts riding for money; red hearts riding for fame; - The Maid who rides for France and the King who rides for shame-- - Gentlemen, fools, and a saint riding in Christ’s high name! - - “Dust to dust!” it is written. Wind-scattered are lance and bow. - Dust, the Cross of Saint George; dust, the banner of snow. - The bones of the King are crumbled, and rotted the shafts of the foe. - - Forgotten, the young knight’s valour; forgotten, the captain’s skill; - Forgotten, the fear and the hate and the mailed hands raised to kill; - Forgotten, the shields that clashed and the arrows that cried - so shrill. - - Like a story from some old book, that battle of long ago: - Shadows, the poor French King and the might of his English foe; - Shadows, the charging nobles and the archers kneeling a-row-- - But a flame in my heart and my eyes, the Maid with her banner of snow! - - THEODORE ROBERTS. - - - - -THE EVE OF WATERLOO - - - There was a sound of revelry by night, - And Belgium’s capital had gather’d then - Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright - The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men. - A thousand hearts beat happily; and when - Music arose with its voluptuous swell, - Soft eyes look’d love to eyes which spake again, - And all went merry as a marriage-bell; - But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! - - Did ye not hear it?--No; ’twas but the wind, - Or the car rattling o’er the stony street; - On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; - No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet - To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. - But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more, - As if the clouds its echo would repeat; - And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! - Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon’s opening roar! - - Within a window’d niche of that high hall - Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear - That sound, the first amidst the festival, - And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear; - And when they smiled because he deem’d it near, - His heart more truly knew that peal too well - Which stretch’d his father on a bloody bier, - And rous’d the vengeance blood alone could quell: - He rush’d into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. - - Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, - And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, - And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago - Blush’d at the praise of their own loveliness; - And there were sudden partings, such as press - The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs - Which ne’er might be repeated: who would guess - If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, - Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! - - And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, - The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, - Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, - And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; - And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; - And near, the beat of the alarming drum - Rous’d up the soldier ere the morning star; - While throng’d the citizens with terror dumb, - Or whispering with white lips--“The foe! they come! they come!” - - And wild and high the “Camerons’ gathering” rose, - The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills - Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: - How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills - Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills - Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers - With the fierce native daring which instils - The stirring memory of a thousand years, - And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears! - - And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, - Dewy with Nature’s tear-drops, as they pass, - Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves, - Over the unreturning brave,--alas! - Ere evening to be trodden like the grass - Which now beneath them, but above shall grow - In its next verdure, when this fiery mass - Of living valour, rolling on the foe, - And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. - - Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, - Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay, - The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, - The morn the marshalling in arms,--the day - Battle’s magnificently stern array! - The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent - The earth is cover’d thick with other clay, - Which her own clay shall cover, heap’d and pent, - Rider and horse,--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! - - LORD BYRON. - - - - -THE GLORY THAT WAS GREECE - -_I include this among the War Poems, because it is a call to a -conquered nation to rise in arms against their oppressors--a call that -was in due course answered._ - - - The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! - Where burning Sappho loved and sung, - Where grew the arts of war and peace, - Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! - Eternal summer gilds them yet, - But all except their sun is set. - - The Scian and the Teian[43] muse, - The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, - Have found the fame your shores refuse: - Their place of birth alone is mute - To sounds which echo further west - Than your sires’ “Islands of the Blest.” - - The mountains look on Marathon, - And Marathon looks on the sea; - And, musing there an hour alone, - I dreamed that Greece might still be free; - For, standing on the Persian’s grave, - I could not deem myself a slave. - - A king sate on the rocky brow - Which looks o’er sea-born Salamis; - And ships by thousands lay below, - And men in nations;--all were his! - He counted them at break of day, - And when the sun set, where were they? - - And where are they? and where art thou, - My country? On thy voiceless shore - The heroic lay is tuneless now, - The heroic bosom beats no more! - And must thy lyre, so long divine, - Degenerate into hands like mine? - - ’Tis something in the dearth of fame, - Though linked among the fettered race, - To feel at least a patriot’s shame, - Even as I sing, suffuse my face; - For what is left the poet here? - For Greeks a blush--for Greece a tear! - - Must _we_ but weep o’er days more blest? - Must _we_ but blush? Our fathers bled. - Earth! render back from out thy breast - A remnant of our Spartan dead! - Of the three hundred grant but three, - To make a new Thermopylæ! - - What, silent still? and silent all? - Ah! no: the voices of the dead - Sound like a distant torrent’s fall, - And answer, “Let one living head, - But one arise,--we come, we come!” - ’Tis but the living who are dumb. - - In vain--in vain; strike other chords; - Fill high the cup with Samian wine! - Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, - And shed the blood of Scio’s vine! - Hark! rising to the ignoble call, - How answers each bold Bacchanal! - - You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet; - Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone? - Of two such lessons, why forget - The nobler and the manlier one? - You have the letters Cadmus gave; - Think ye he meant them for a slave? - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - We will not think of themes like these! - It made Anacreon’s song divine: - He served--but served Polycrates: - A tyrant; but our masters then - Were still, at least, our countrymen. - - The tyrant of the Chersonese - Was freedom’s best and bravest friend; - _That_ tyrant was Miltiades! - Oh that the present hour would lend - Another despot of the kind! - Such chains as his were sure to bind. - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - On Suli’s rock and Parga’s shore - Exists the remnant of a line - Such as the Doric mothers bore; - And there, perhaps, some seed is sown - The Heracleidan blood might own. - - Trust not for freedom to the Franks-- - They have a king who buys and sells; - In native swords and native ranks - The only hope of courage dwells: - But Turkish force and Latin fraud - Would break your shield, however broad. - - Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! - Our virgins dance beneath the shade-- - I see their glorious black eyes shine; - But, gazing on each glowing maid, - My own the burning tear-drop laves, - To think such breasts must suckle slaves. - - Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep, - Where nothing save the waves and I - May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; - There, swan-like, let me sing and die: - A land of slaves shall ne’er be mine-- - Dash down yon cup of Samian wine! - - LORD BYRON. - -[43] _Scian_ and _Teian_: i.e. Homer and Anacreon. - - - - -BATTLE HYMN OF THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC - - - Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: - He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; - He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword: - His truth is marching on. - - I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; - They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps; - I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps: - His day is marching on. - - He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; - He is sifting out the hearts of men before his Judgment Seat; - O, be swift, my soul to answer Him, be jubilant my feet! - Our God is marching on. - - In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born, across the sea, - With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: - As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, - While God is marching on. - - JULIA WARD HOWE. - - - - -TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS - - - Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind, - That from the nunnery - Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind - To war and arms I fly. - - True, a new mistress now I chase, - The first foe in the field; - And with a stronger faith embrace - A sword, a horse, a shield. - - Yet this inconstancy is such - As you too shall adore; - I could not love thee, Dear, so much, - Loved I not Honour more. - - RICHARD LOVELACE. - - - - -THE BLACK PRINCE - - - O for the voice of that wild horn, - On Fontarabian echoes borne, - The dying hero’s call, - That told imperial Charlemagne - How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain - Had wrought his champion’s fall. - - Sad over earth and ocean sounding, - And England’s distant cliffs astounding, - Such are the notes should say - How Britain’s hope, and France’s fear, - Victor of Cressy and Poitier, - In Bordeaux dying lay. - - “Raise my faint head, my squires,” he said, - “And let the casement be displayed, - That I may see once more - The splendour of the setting sun - Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne, - And Blay’s empurpled shore. - - “Like me, he sinks to Glory’s sleep, - His fall the dews of evening steep, - As if in sorrow shed. - So soft shall fall the trickling tear, - When England’s maids and matrons hear - Of their Black Edward dead. - - “And though my sun of glory set, - Nor France nor England shall forget - The terror of my name; - And oft shall Britain’s heroes rise, - New planets in these southern skies, - Through clouds of blood and flame.” - - SIR WALTER SCOTT. - - - - -THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE - - - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, - As his corse to the rampart we hurried; - Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot - O’er the grave where our hero we buried. - - We buried him darkly at dead of night, - The sods with our bayonets turning, - By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light - And the lantern dimly burning. - - No useless coffin enclosed his breast, - Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; - But he lay like a warrior taking his rest - With his martial cloak around him. - - Few and short were the prayers we said, - And we spoke not a word of sorrow; - But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, - And we bitterly thought of the morrow. - - We thought, as we hollow’d his narrow bed - And smooth’d down his lonely pillow, - That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head, - And we far away on the billow! - - Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone, - And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him-- - But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on - In the grave where a Briton has laid him. - - But half of our heavy task was done - When the clock struck the hour for retiring; - And we heard the distant and random gun - That the foe was sullenly firing. - - Slowly and sadly we laid him down, - From the field of his fame fresh and gory; - We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, - But we left him alone with his glory. - - CHARLES WOLFE. - - - - -HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE - - - How sleep the brave, who sink to rest - By all their country’s wishes blest! - When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, - Returns to deck their hallowed mould, - She there shall dress a sweeter sod - Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. - - By fairy hands their knell is rung; - By forms unseen their dirge is sung; - There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, - To bless the turf that wraps their clay; - And Freedom shall awhile repair - To dwell, a weeping hermit, there! - - WILLIAM COLLINS. - - - - -SOLDIER, REST! - - - Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, - Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking! - Dream of battled fields no more, - Days of danger, nights of waking. - In our isle’s enchanted hall, - Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, - Fairy strains of music fall, - Every sense in slumber dewing. - Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er, - Dream of fighting fields no more; - Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, - Morn of toil, nor night of waking. - - No rude sound shall reach thine ear, - Armour’s clang, or war-steed champing - Trump nor pibroch summon here - Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. - Yet the lark’s shrill fife may come - At the daybreak from the fallow, - And the bittern sound his drum, - Booming from the sedgy shallow. - Ruder sounds shall none be near, - Guards nor warders challenge here, - Here’s no war-steed’s neigh and champing, - Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping. - - Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; - While our slumbrous spells assail ye, - Dream not, with the rising sun, - Bugles here shall sound reveillé. - Sleep! the deer is in his den; - Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; - Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, - How thy gallant steed lay dying. - Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done, - Think not of the rising sun, - For at dawning to assail ye, - Here no bugles sound reveillé. - - SIR WALTER SCOTT. - - - - -THE OTHER SIDE OF IT - - - - -1. THE PATRIOT - - - It was roses, roses, all the way, - With myrtle mixed in my path like mad: - The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, - The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, - A year ago on this very day. - - The air broke into a mist with bells, - The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries. - Had I said, “Good folk, mere noise repels-- - But give me your sun from yonder skies!” - They had answered, “And afterward, what else?” - - Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun - To give it my loving friends to keep! - Nought man could do, have I left undone: - And you see my harvest, what I reap - This very day, now a year is run. - - There’s nobody on the house-tops now-- - Just a palsied few at the windows set; - For the best of the sight is, all allow, - At the Shambles’ Gate--or, better yet, - By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow. - - I go in the rain, and, more than needs, - A rope cuts both my wrists behind; - And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, - For they fling, whoever has a mind, - Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds. - - Thus I entered, and thus I go! - In triumphs, people have dropped down dead, - “Paid by the world, what dost thou owe - Me?”--God might question; now instead, - ’Tis God shall repay: I am safer so. - - ROBERT BROWNING. - - - - -2. FOR THOSE WHO FAIL - - - “All honour to him who shall win the prize,” - The world has cried for a thousand years; - But to him who tries and who fails and dies, - I give great honour and glory and tears. - - O great is the hero who wins a name, - But greater many and many a time - Some pale-faced fellow who dies in shame, - And lets God finish the thought sublime. - - And great is the man with a sword undrawn, - And good is the man who refrains from wine; - But the man who fails and yet fights on, - Lo he is the twin-born brother of mine! - - JOAQUIN MILLER. - - - - -3. KEEPING ON - - - Say not the struggle nought availeth, - The labour and the wounds are vain, - The enemy faints not, nor faileth, - And as things have been they remain. - - If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; - It may be, in yon smoke concealed, - Your comrades chase e’en now the fliers, - And, but for you, possess the field. - - For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, - Seem here no painful inch to gain, - Far back, through creeks and inlets making, - Comes silent, flooding in, the main. - - And not by eastern windows only, - When daylight comes, comes in the light; - In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! - But westward, look, the land is bright! - - A. H. CLOUGH. - - - - -STORY-POEMS - - - - -THE LADY OF SHALOTT - - -I. - - On either side the river lie - Long fields of barley and of rye, - That clothe the wold and meet the sky; - And through the field the road runs by - To many-towered Camelot; - And up and down the people go, - Gazing where the lilies blow - Round an island there below, - The island of Shalott. - - Willows whiten, aspens quiver, - Little breezes dusk and shiver - Through the wave that runs for ever - By the island in the river - Flowing down to Camelot. - Four gray walls, and four gray towers, - Overlook a space of flowers, - And the silent isle embowers - The Lady of Shalott. - - By the margin, willow-veil’d, - Slide the heavy barges trail’d - By slow horses; and unhail’d - The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d - Skimming down to Camelot: - But who has seen her wave her hand? - Or at the casement seen her stand? - Or is she known in all the land, - The Lady of Shalott? - - Only reapers, reaping early - In among the bearded barley, - Hear a song that echoes cheerly - From the river winding clearly, - Down to towered Camelot: - And by moon the reaper weary, - Piling sheaves in upland airy, - Listening, whispers, “’Tis the fairy - Lady of Shalott.” - - -II. - - There she weaves by night and day - A magic web with colours gay. - She has heard a whisper say, - A curse is on her if she stay - To look down to Camelot. - She knows not what the curse may be, - And so she weaveth steadily, - And little other care hath she, - The Lady of Shalott. - - And moving thro’ a mirror clear - That hangs before her all the year, - Shadows of the world appear. - There she sees the highway near - Winding down to Camelot: - There the river eddy whirls, - And there the surly village-churls, - And the red cloaks of market girls, - Pass onward from Shalott. - - Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, - An abbot on an ambling pad, - Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, - Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad, - Goes by to tower’d Camelot: - And sometimes through the mirror blue - The knights come riding two and two: - She hath no loyal knight and true, - The Lady of Shalott. - - But in her web she still delights - To weave the mirror’s magic sights, - For often through the silent nights - A funeral, with plumes and lights - And music, went to Camelot: - Or, when the moon was overhead, - Came two young lovers lately wed; - “I am half sick of shadows,” said - The Lady of Shalott. - - -III. - - A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, - He rode between the barley-sheaves, - The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves, - And flamed upon the brazen greaves[44] - Of bold Sir Lancelot. - A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d - To a lady in his shield, - That sparkled on the yellow field - Beside remote Shalott. - - The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, - Like to some branch of stars we see - Hung in the golden Galaxy[45]. - The bridle bells rang merrily - As he rode down to Camelot: - And from his blazon’d baldric[46] slung - A mighty silver bugle hung, - And as he rode his armour rung, - Beside remote Shalott. - - All in the blue unclouded weather - Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather, - The helmet and the helmet-feather - Burn’d like one burning flame together, - As he rode down to Camelot. - As often thro’ the purple night, - Below the starry clusters bright, - Some bearded meteor, trailing light, - Moves over still Shalott. - - His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d; - On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode; - From underneath his helmet flow’d - His coal-black curls as on he rode, - As he rode down to Camelot. - From the bank and from the river - He flash’d into the crystal mirror, - “Tirra lirra,” by the river - Sang Sir Lancelot. - - She left the web, she left the loom, - She made three paces thro’ the room, - She saw the water-lily bloom, - She saw the helmet and the plume, - She look’d down to Camelot. - Out flew the web and floated wide; - The mirror crack’d from side to side; - “The curse is come upon me,” cried - The Lady of Shalott. - - -IV. - - In the stormy east-wind straining, - The pale yellow woods were waning, - The broad stream in his banks complaining, - Heavily the low sky raining - Over tower’d Camelot; - Down she came and found a boat - Beneath a willow left afloat, - And round about the prow she wrote - _The Lady of Shalott_. - - And down the river’s dim expanse-- - Like some bold seer in a trance, - Seeing all his own mischance-- - With a glassy countenance - Did she look to Camelot. - And at the closing of the day - She loosed the chain and down she lay; - The broad stream bore her far away, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Lying, robed in snowy white - That loosely flew to left and right-- - The leaves upon her falling light-- - Thro’ the noises of the night - She floated down to Camelot: - And as the boat-head wound along - The willowy hills and fields among, - They heard her singing her last song, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Heard a carol, mournful, holy, - Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, - Till her blood was frozen slowly, - And her eyes were darken’d wholly, - Turn’d to tower’d Camelot. - For ere she reached upon the tide - The first house by the water-side, - Singing in her song she died, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Under tower and balcony, - By garden-wall and gallery, - A gleaming shape she floated by, - Dead-pale between the houses high, - Silent into Camelot. - Out upon the wharfs they came, - Knight and burgher[47], lord and dame, - And round the prow they read her name, - _The Lady of Shalott_. - - Who is this? and what is here? - And in the lighted palace near - Died the sound of royal cheer; - And they cross’d themselves for fear - All the knights at Camelot: - But Lancelot mused a little space; - He said, “She has a lovely face; - God in his mercy lend her grace, - The Lady of Shalott.” - - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. - -[44] _greaves_: leg-armour below the knee. - -[45] _galaxy_: the “Milky Way.” - -[46] _blazon’d baldric_: a broad shoulder-belt painted -heraldically. - -[47] _burgher_: citizen. - - - - -THE FORSAKEN MERMAN - - - Come, dear children, let us away; - Down and away below. - Now my brothers call from the bay; - Now the great winds shoreward blow; - Now the salt tides seaward flow; - Now the wild white horses play, - Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. - Children dear, let us away. - This way, this way! - - Call her once before you go-- - Call once yet! - In a voice that she will know: - “Margaret! Margaret!” - Children’s voices should be dear - (Call once more) to a mother’s ear; - Children’s voices, wild with pain-- - Surely she will come again! - Call her once and come away. - This way, this way! - “Mother dear, we cannot stay!” - The wild white horses foam and fret. - Margaret! Margaret! - - Come, dear children, come away down. - Call no more. - One last look at the white-wall’d town, - And the little grey church on the windy shore. - Then come down. - She will not come though you call all day. - Come away, come away! - - Children dear, was it yesterday - We heard the sweet bells over the bay? - In the caverns where we lay, - Through the surf and through the swell, - The far-off sound of a silver bell? - Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, - Where the winds are all asleep; - Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; - Where the salt weed sways in the stream; - Where the sea-beasts, ranged all round, - Feed in the ooze of their pasture-ground; - Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, - Dry their mail and bask in the brine; - Where great whales come sailing by, - Sail and sail, with unshut eye, - Round the world for ever and aye? - When did music come this way? - Children dear, was it yesterday? - - Children dear, was it yesterday - (Call yet once) that she went away? - Once she sate with you and me, - On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea, - And the youngest sate on her knee. - She combed its bright hair, and she tended it well, - When down swung the sound of a far-off bell. - She sigh’d, she look’d up through the clear green sea; - She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray - In the little grey church on the shore to-day, - ’Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! - And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.” - I said, “Go up, dear heart, through the waves; - Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.” - She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. - Children dear, was it yesterday? - - Children dear, were we long alone? - “The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan. - Long prayers,” I said, “in the world they say. - Come!” I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. - We went up the beach, by the sandy down - Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town. - Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, - To the little grey church on the windy hill. - From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, - But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. - We climb’d on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, - And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. - She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear: - “Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here! - Dear heart,” I said, “we are long alone. - The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.” - But, ah! she gave me never a look, - For her eyes were sealed to the holy book. - Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. - Come away, children, call no more. - Come away, come down, call no more. - - Down, down, down, - Down to the depths of the sea! - She sits at her wheel in the humming town, - Singing most joyfully. - Hark what she sings: “O joy, O joy, - For the humming street, and the child with its toy! - For the priest, and the bell, and the holy well; - For the wheel where I spun, - And the blessèd light of the sun!” - And so she sings her fill. - Singing most joyfully, - Till the spindle drops from her hand, - And the whizzing wheel stands still. - She steals to the window and looks at the sand, - And over the sand at the sea; - And her eyes are set in a stare; - And anon there breaks a sigh, - And anon there drops a tear, - From a sorrow-clouded eye, - And a heart sorrow-laden, - A long, long sigh - For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden - And the gleam of her golden hair. - - Come away, away, children! - Come children, come down! - The hoarse wind blows coldly; - Lights shine in the town. - She will start from her slumber - When gusts shake the door; - She will hear the winds howling, - Will hear the waves roar. - We shall see, while above us - The waves roar and whirl, - A ceiling of amber, - A pavement of pearl. - Singing: “Here came a mortal, - But faithless was she: - And alone dwell for ever - The kings of the sea.” - - But, children, at midnight, - When soft the winds blow, - When clear falls the moonlight, - When spring-tides are low: - When sweet airs come seaward - From heaths starr’d with broom; - And high rocks throw mildly - On the blanch’d sands a gloom: - Up the still, glistening beaches, - Up the creeks we will hie, - Over banks of bright seaweed - The ebb-tide leaves dry. - We will gaze, from the sand-hills, - At the white, sleeping town; - At the church on the hill-side-- - And then come back down. - Singing: “There dwells a loved one, - But cruel is she. - She left lonely for ever - The kings of the sea.” - - MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - - - -THE LEGEND BEAUTIFUL - - - “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!” - That is what the Vision said. - - In his chamber all alone, - Kneeling on the floor of stone, - Prayed the Monk in deep contrition - For his sins of indecision, - Prayed for greater self-denial - In temptation and in trial; - It was noonday by the dial, - And the Monk was all alone. - - Suddenly, as if it lighten’d, - An unwonted splendour brighten’d - All within him and without him - In that narrow cell of stone; - And he saw the Blessed Vision - Of our Lord, with light Elysian[48] - Like a vesture wrapped about him, - Like a garment round him thrown. - - Not as crucified and slain, - Not in agonies of pain, - Not with bleeding hands and feet, - Did the Monk his Master see; - But as in the village street, - In the house or harvest-field, - Halt and lame and blind he healed, - When he walked in Galilee. - - In an attitude imploring, - Hands upon his bosom crossed, - Wondering, worshipping, adoring, - Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. - Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest, - Who am I, that thus thou deignest - To reveal thyself to me? - Who am I, that from the centre - Of thy glory thou shouldst enter - This poor cell, my guest to be? - - Then amid his exaltation, - Loud the convent bell appalling, - From its belfry calling, calling, - Rang through court and corridor - With persistent iteration - He had never heard before. - It was now the appointed hour - When alike in sun or shower, - Winter’s cold or summer’s heat, - To the convent portals came - All the blind and halt and lame, - All the beggars of the street, - For their daily dole of food - Dealt them by the brotherhood; - And their almoner[49] was he - Who upon his bended knee, - Rapt in silent ecstasy - Of divinest self-surrender, - Saw the Vision and the Splendour. - - Deep distress and hesitation - Mingled with his adoration; - Should he go or should he stay? - Should he leave the poor to wait - Hungry at the convent gate, - Till the Vision passed away? - Should he slight his radiant guest, - Slight his visitant celestial, - For a crowd of ragged, bestial - Beggars at the convent gate? - Would the Vision there remain? - Would the Vision come again? - - Then a voice within his breast - Whispered, audible and clear, - As if to the outward ear: - “Do thy duty; that is best; - Leave unto thy Lord the rest!” - Straightway to his feet he started, - And with longing look intent - On the Blessed Vision bent, - Slowly from his cell departed, - Slowly on his errand went. - - At the gate the poor were waiting, - Looking through the iron grating, - With that terror in the eye - That is only seen in those - Who amid their wants and woes - Hear the sound of doors that close, - And of feet that pass them by; - Grown familiar with disfavour, - Grown familiar with the savour - Of the bread by which men die! - But to-day, they knew not why, - Like the gate of Paradise - Seemed the convent gate to rise, - Like a sacrament divine - Seemed to them the bread and wine. - In his heart the Monk was praying, - Thinking of the homeless poor, - What they suffer and endure; - What we see not, what we see; - And the inward voice was saying: - “Whatsoever thing thou doest - To the least of mine and lowest, - That thou doest unto me!” - - Unto me! but had the Vision - Come to him in beggar’s clothing, - Come a mendicant imploring, - Would he then have knelt adoring, - Or have listened with derision, - And have turned away with loathing? - - Thus his conscience put the question, - Full of troublesome suggestion, - As at length, with hurried pace, - Towards his cell he turned his face, - And beheld the convent bright - With a supernatural light, - Like a luminous cloud expanding - Over floor and wall and ceiling. - - But he paused with awe-struck feeling - At the threshold of his door, - For the Vision still was standing - As he left it there before, - When the convent bell appalling, - From its belfry calling, calling, - Summoned him to feed the poor. - - Through the long hour intervening - It had waited his return, - And he felt his bosom burn, - Comprehending all the meaning, - When the Blessed Vision said, - “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled!” - - H. W. LONGFELLOW. - -[48] _Elysian_: heavenly. - -[49] _almoner_: giver of alms or charity. - - - - -ABOU BEN ADHEM - - - Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) - Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, - And saw, within the moonlight in his room, - Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, - An angel writing in a book of gold:-- - Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, - And to the presence in the room he said, - “What writest thou?”--The vision rais’d its head, - And with a look made all of sweet accord, - Answer’d, “The names of those that love the Lord.” - “And is mine one?” said Abou. “Nay, not so,” - Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, - But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then, - Write me as one that loves his fellow men.” - - The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night - It came again with a great wakening light, - And show’d the names whom love of God had blest, - And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest. - - LEIGH HUNT. - - - - -THE SANDS OF DEE - - - “O Mary, go and call the cattle home, - And call the cattle home, - And call the cattle home, - Across the sands of Dee”; - The western wind was wild and dank with foam, - And all alone went she. - - The western tide crept up along the sand, - And o’er and o’er the sand, - And round and round the sand, - As far as eye could see. - The rolling mist came down and hid the land: - And never home came she. - - “O is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- - A tress of golden hair, - A drownèd maiden’s hair, - Above the nets at sea?” - Was never salmon yet that shone so fair - Among the stakes of Dee. - - They rowed her in across the rolling foam, - The cruel crawling foam, - The cruel hungry foam, - To her grave beside the sea. - But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, - Across the sands of Dee. - - CHARLES KINGSLEY. - - - - -LOCHINVAR - - - O young Lochinvar is come out of the west, - Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, - And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; - He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. - So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, - There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. - - He stay’d not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone, - He swam the Esk river where ford there was none; - But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, - The bride had consented, the gallant came late: - For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, - Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. - - So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, - Among bride’s-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: - Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword - (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), - “O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, - Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” - - “I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied:-- - Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- - And now I am come, with this lost love of mine - To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. - There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, - That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.” - - The bride kiss’d the goblet; the knight took it up, - He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup; - She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh, - With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. - He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- - “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. - - So stately his form, and so lovely her face, - That never a hall such a galliard[50] did grace; - While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, - And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; - And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “’Twere better by far - To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.” - - One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, - When they reach’d the hall door and the charger stood near; - So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, - So light to the saddle before her he sprung! - “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur[51]; - They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar. - - There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; - Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: - There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, - But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. - So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, - Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? - - SIR WALTER SCOTT. - -[50] _galliard_: a gay dance. - -[51] _scaur_: a steep bank. - - - - -DAY-DREAMS - - -_This section will appeal to girls rather than to boys. And yet -day-dreams are no bad things for either sex--just now and again, as a -getting away from realities._ - - - - -DREAMS TO SELL - - - If there were dreams to sell, - What would you buy? - Some cost a passing bell; - Some a light sigh, - That shakes from Life’s fresh crown - Only a rose-leaf down. - If there were dreams to sell, - Merry and sad to tell, - And the crier rang the bell, - What would you buy? - - A cottage lone and still, - With bowers nigh, - Shadowy, my woes to still, - Until I die. - Such pearl from Life’s fresh crown - Fain would I shake me down. - Were dreams to have at will, - This would best heal my ill, - This would I buy. - - T. L. BEDDOES. - - - - -THE LOST BOWER - - - In the pleasant orchard closes, - “God bless all our gains,” say we; - But “May God bless all our losses,” - Better suits with our degree.-- - Listen gentle--ay, and simple! Listen children on the knee! - - Green the land is where my daily - Steps in jocund childhood played-- - Dimpled close with hill and valley, - Dappled very close with shade; - Summer-snow of apple blossoms, running up from glade to glade. - - There is one hill I see nearer, - In my vision of the rest; - And a little wood seems clearer, - As it climbeth from the west, - Sideway from the tree-locked valley, to the airy upland crest. - - Small the wood is, green with hazels, - And, completing the ascent, - Where the wind blows and sun dazzles, - Thrills in leafy tremblement: - Like a heart that, after climbing, beateth quickly through content. - - Not a step the wood advances - O’er the open hill-top’s bound: - There, in green arrest, the branches - See their image on the ground: - You may walk between them smiling, glad with sight and glad with - sound. - - For you hearken on your right hand, - How the birds do leap and call - In the greenwood, out of sight and - Out of reach and fear of all; - And the squirrels crack the filberts, through their cheerful madrigal. - - On your left, the sheep are cropping - The slant grass and daisies pale; - And five apple-trees stand, dropping - Separate shadows toward the vale, - Over which, in choral silence, the hills look you their “All hail!” - - Yet in childhood little prized I - That fair walk and far survey: - ’Twas a straight walk, unadvised by - The least mischief worth a nay-- - Up and down--as dull as grammar on an eve of holiday! - - But the wood, all close and clenching - Bough in bough and root in root,-- - No more sky (for over-branching) - At your head than at your foot,-- - Oh, the wood drew me within it, by a glamour past dispute. - - Few and broken paths showed through it, - Where the sheep had tried to run,-- - Forced with snowy wool to strew it - Round the thickets, when anon - They with silly thorn-pricked noses bleated back into the sun. - - But my childish heart beat stronger - Than those thickets dared to grow: - _I_ could pierce them! _I_ could longer - Travel on, methought, than so! - Sheep for sheep-paths! braver children climb and creep where they - would go. - - On a day, such pastime keeping, - With a fawn’s heart debonair, - Under-crawling, overleaping - Thorns that prick and boughs that bear, - I stood suddenly astonished--I was gladdened unaware! - - From the place I stood in, floated - Back the covert dim and close; - And the open ground was suited - Carpet-smooth with grass and moss, - And the blue-bell’s purple presence signed it worthily across. - - ’Twas a bower for garden fitter, - Than for any woodland wide! - Though a fresh and dewy glitter - Struck it through, from side to side, - Shaped and shaven was the freshness, as by garden-cunning plied. - - Rose-trees, either side the door, were - Growing lithe and growing tall; - Each one set a summer warder - For the keeping of the hall,-- - With a red rose, and a white rose, leaning, nodding at the wall. - - As I entered--mosses hushing - Stole all noises from my foot: - And a round elastic cushion, - Clasped within the linden’s root, - Took me in a chair of silence, very rare and absolute. - - So, young muser, I sat listening - To my Fancy’s wildest word-- - On a sudden, through the glistening - Leaves around, a little stirred, - Came a sound, a sense of music, which was rather felt than heard. - - Softly, finely, it inwound me-- - From the world it shut me in,-- - Like a fountain falling round me, - Which with silver waters thin - Clips a little marble Naiad, sitting smilingly within. - - Whence the music came, who knoweth? - _I_ know nothing. But indeed - Pan or Faunus never bloweth - So much sweetness from a reed - Which has sucked the milk of waters, at the oldest river-head. - - Never lark the sun can waken - With such sweetness! when the lark, - The high planets overtaking - In the half-evanished Dark, - Casts his singing to their singing, like an arrow to the mark. - - Never nightingale so singeth-- - Oh! she leans on thorny tree, - And her poet-soul she flingeth - Over pain to victory! - Yet she never sings such music,--or she sings it not to me! - - Never blackbirds, never thrushes, - Nor small finches sing as sweet, - When the sun strikes through the bushes - To their crimson clinging feet, - And their pretty eyes look sideways to the summer heavens complete. - - In a child-abstraction lifted, - Straightway from the bower I passed; - Foot and soul being dimly drifted - Through the greenwood, till, at last, - In the hill-top’s open sunshine, I all consciously was cast. - - And I said within me, laughing, - I have found a bower to-day, - A green lusus[52]--fashioned half in - Chance, and half in Nature’s play-- - And a little bird sings nigh it, I will never more missay. - - Henceforth, _I_ will be the fairy - Of this bower, not built by one; - I will go there, sad or merry, - With each morning’s benison; - And the bird shall be my harper in the dream-hall I have won. - - So I said. But the next morning, - (--Child, look up into my face-- - ’Ware, O sceptic, of your scorning! - This is truth in its pure grace;) - The next morning, all had vanished, or my wandering missed the place. - - Day by day, with new desire, - Toward my wood I ran in faith-- - Under leaf and over brier-- - Through the thickets, out of breath-- - Like the prince who rescued Beauty from the sleep as long as death. - - But his sword of mettle clashèd, - And his arm smote strong, I ween; - And her dreaming spirit flashèd - Through her body’s fair white screen, - And the light thereof might guide him up the cedarn alleys green. - - But for me, I saw no splendour-- - All my sword was my child-heart; - And the wood refused surrender - Of that bower it held apart, - Safe as Œdipus’s grave-place, ’mid Colone’s olives swart. - - I have lost--oh many a pleasure-- - Many a hope, and many a power-- - Studious health and merry leisure-- - The first dew on the first flower! - But the first of all my losses was the losing of the bower. - - All my losses did I tell you, - Ye, perchance, would look away;-- - Ye would answer me, “Farewell! you - Make sad company to-day; - And your tears are falling faster than the bitter words you say.” - - For God placed me like a dial - In the open ground, with power; - And my heart had for its trial, - All the sun and all the shower! - And I suffered many losses; and my first was of the bower. - - ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. - -[52] _lusus_: a sport, a freak. - - - - -ECHO AND THE FERRY - - - Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven; - He looked at me pouting and rosy. I blushed where I stood. - They had told us to play in the orchard (and I only seven! - A small guest at the farm); but he said, “Oh, a girl was no good,” - So he whistled and went, he went over the stile to the wood. - It was sad, it was sorrowful! Only a girl--only seven! - At home in the dark London smoke I had not found it out. - The pear trees looked on in their white, and blue birds flashed - about; - And they too were angry as Oliver. Were they eleven? - I thought so. Yes, every one else was eleven--eleven! - - So Oliver went, but the cowslips were tall at my feet, - And all the white orchard with fast-falling blossom was littered, - And under and over the branches those little birds twittered, - While hanging head downwards they scolded because I was seven. - A pity. A very great pity. One should be eleven. - But soon I was happy, the smell of the world was so sweet. - And I saw a round hole in an apple-tree rosy and old. - Then I knew! for I peeped, and I felt it was right they should - scold! - Eggs small and eggs many. For gladness I broke into laughter; - And then some one else--oh, how softly! came after, came after - With laughter--with laughter came after. - - So this was the country; clear dazzle of azure and shiver - And whisper of leaves, and a humming all over the tall - White branches, a humming of bees. And I came to the wall-- - A little low wall--and looked over, and there was the river, - The lane that led on to the village, and then the sweet river. - Clear-shining and slow, she had far far to go from her snow; - But each rush gleamed a sword in the sunlight to guard her long - flow, - And she murmured methought, with a speech very soft, very low-- - “The ways will be long, but the days will be long,” quoth the - river, - “To me a long liver, long, long!” quoth the river--the river. - - I dreamed of the country that night, of the orchard, the sky, - The voice that had mocked coming after and over and under. - But at last--in a day or two namely--Eleven and I - Were very fast friends, and to him I confided the wonder. - He said that was Echo. “Was Echo a wise kind of bee - That had learned how to laugh: could it laugh in one’s ear and then - fly, - And laugh again yonder?” “No; Echo”--he whispered it low-- - “Was a woman, they said, but a woman whom no one could see - And no one could find; and he did not believe it, not he, - But he could not get near for the river that held us asunder. - Yet I that had money--a shilling, a whole silver shilling-- - We might cross if I thought I would spend it.” “Oh yes, I was - willing”-- - And we ran hand in hand, we ran down to the ferry, the ferry, - And we heard how she mocked at the folk with a voice clear and merry - When they called for the ferry; but oh! she was very--was very - Swift-footed. She spoke and was gone; and when Oliver cried, - “Hie over! hie over! you man of the ferry--the ferry!” - By the still water’s side she was heard far and wide--she replied, - And she mocked in her voice sweet and merry “You man of the ferry, - You man of--you man of the ferry!” - - “Hie over!” he shouted. The ferryman came at his calling, - Across the clear reed-bordered river he ferried us fast;-- - Such a chase! Hand in hand, foot to foot, we ran on; it surpassed - All measure her doubling--so close, then so far away falling, - Then gone, and no more. Oh! to see her but once unaware, - And the mouth that had mocked, but we might not (yet sure she was - there!) - Nor behold her wild eyes and her mystical countenance fair. - - We sought in the wood, and we found the wood-wren in her stead; - In the field, and we found but the cuckoo that talked overhead; - By the brook, and we found the reed-sparrow deep-nested, in brown-- - Not Echo, fair Echo! for Echo, sweet Echo! was flown. - - So we came to the place where the dead people wait till God call. - The church was among them, grey moss over roof, over wall. - Very silent, so low. And we stood on a green grassy mound - And looked in at a window, for Echo, perhaps, in her round - Might have come in to hide there. But no; every oak carven seat - Was empty. We saw the great Bible--old, old, very old, - And the parson’s great Prayer-book beside it; we heard the slow beat - Of the pendulum swing in the tower; we saw the clear gold - Of a sunbeam float down to the aisle and then waver and play - On the low chancel step and the railing, and Oliver said, - “Look, Katie! Look, Katie! when Lettice came here to be wed - She stood where that sunbeam drops down, and all white was her gown; - And she stepped upon flowers they strewed for her.” Then quoth small - Seven, - “Shall I wear a white gown and have flowers to walk upon ever?” - - All doubtful: “It takes a long time to grow up,” quoth Eleven; - “You’re so little, you know, and the church is so old, it can never - Last on till you’re tall.” And in whispers--because it was old, - And holy, and fraught with strange meaning, half felt, but not told, - Full of old parsons’ prayers, who were dead, of old days, of old folk - Neither heard nor beheld, but about us, in whispers we spoke. - Then we went from it softly, and ran hand in hand to the strand, - While bleating of flocks and birds piping made sweeter the land, - And Echo came back e’en as Oliver drew to the ferry, - “O Katie!” “O Katie!” “Come on, then!” “Come on, then!” “For, see, - The round sun, all red, lying low by the tree”--“by the tree.” - “By the tree.” Ay, she mocked him again, with her voice sweet and - merry: - “Hie over!” “Hie over!” “You man of the ferry”--“the ferry.” - “You man of the ferry--you man of--you man of--the ferry.” - - Ay, here--it was here that we woke her, the Echo of old; - All life of that day seems an echo, and many times told. - Shall I cross by the ferry to-morrow, and come in my white - To that little old church? and will Oliver meet me anon? - Will it all seem an echo from childhood passed over--passed on? - Will the grave parson bless us? Hark, hark! in the dim failing light - I hear her! As then the child’s voice clear and high, sweet and merry - Now she mocks the man’s tone with “Hie over! Hie over the ferry!” - “And Katie.” “And Katie.” “Art out with the glowworms to-night, - My Katie?” “My Katie.” For gladness I break into laughter - And tears. Then it all comes again as from far-away years; - Again, some one else--Oh, how softly!--with laughter comes after, - Comes after--with laughter comes after. - - JEAN INGELOW. - - - - -POOR SUSAN’S DREAM - - - At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, - Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: - Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard - In the silence of morning the song of the bird. - - ’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees - A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; - Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, - And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. - - Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale - Down which she so often has tripp’d with her pail; - And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s, - The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. - - She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, - The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; - The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, - And the colours have all passed away from her eyes! - - WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. - - - - -FANCY - - - Tell me where is Fancy bred, - Or in the heart or in the head? - How begot, how nourishèd? - Reply, reply. - It is engender’d in the eyes, - With gazing fed; and Fancy dies - In the cradle where it lies. - Let us all ring Fancy’s knell: - I’ll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell. - Ding, dong, bell. - - SHAKESPEARE. - - - - -TWO HOME-COMINGS - - - - -1. THE GOOD WOMAN MADE WELCOME IN HEAVEN - - - Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee, - Glad at their own home now to meet thee. - All thy good works which went before, - And waited for thee at the door, - Shall own thee there; and all in one - Weave a constellation - Of crowns, with which the King, thy spouse, - Shall build up thy triumphant brows. - All thy old woes shall now smile on thee, - And thy pains sit bright upon thee: - All thy sorrows here shall shine, - And thy sufferings be divine. - Tears shall take comfort, and turn gems, - And wrongs repent to diadems. - Even thy deaths shall live, and new - Dress the soul which late they slew. - Thy wounds shall blush to such bright scars - As keep account of the Lamb’s wars. - - RICHARD CRASHAW. - - - - -2. THE SOLDIER RELIEVED - - - I’d like now, yet had haply been afraid, - To have just looked, when this man came to die, - And seen who lined the clean gay garret sides, - And stood about the neat low truckle-bed, - With the heavenly manner of relieving guard. - Here had been, mark, the general-in-chief, - Thro’ a whole campaign of the world’s life and death, - Doing the King’s work all the dim day long, - In his old coat and up to knees in mud, - Smoked like a herring, dining on a crust,-- - And, now the day was won, relieved at once! - No further show or need of that old coat, - You are sure, for one thing! Bless us, all the while - How sprucely we are dressed out, you and I! - A second, and the angels alter that. - - ROBERT BROWNING. - - - - -WHEN KNIGHTS WERE BOLD - - - - -HUNTING SONG - - - Waken, lords and ladies gay, - On the mountain dawns the day, - All the jolly chase is here, - With horse, and hawk, and hunting spear! - Hounds are in their couples yelling, - Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling[53]. - Merrily, merrily, mingle they, - “Waken, lords and ladies gay.” - - Waken, lords and ladies gay, - The mist has left the mountain grey, - Springlets in the dawn are steaming, - Diamonds on the brake[54] are gleaming, - And foresters have busy been - To track the buck in thicket green; - Now we come to chant our lay, - “Waken, lords and ladies gay.” - - Waken, lords and ladies gay, - To the greenwood haste away; - We can show you where he lies, - Fleet of foot, and tall of size; - We can show the marks he made - When ’gainst the oak his antlers[55] frayed; - You shall see him brought to bay; - “Waken, lords and ladies gay.” - - Louder, louder chant the lay, - Waken, lords and ladies gay! - Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, - Run a course as well as we; - Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, - Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk? - Think of this, and rise with day, - Gentle lords and ladies gay! - - SIR WALTER SCOTT. - -[53] _knelling_: sounding like a bell. - -[54] _brake_: fern, bracken. - -[55] _antlers_: horns. - - - - -THE RIDING TO THE TOURNAMENT - - - Over meadows purple-flowered, - Through the dark lanes oak-embowered, - Over commons dry and brown, - Through the silent red-roofed town, - Past the reapers and the sheaves, - Over white roads strewn with leaves, - By the gipsy’s ragged tent, - Rode we to the Tournament. - - Over clover wet with dew, - Whence the sky-lark, startled, flew, - Through brown fallows, where the hare - Leapt up from its subtle lair, - Past the mill-stream and the reeds - Where the stately heron feeds, - By the warren’s sunny wall, - Where the dry leaves shake and fall, - By the hall’s ancestral trees, - Bent and writhing in the breeze, - Rode we all with one intent, - Gaily to the Tournament. - - Golden sparkles, flashing gem, - Lit the robes of each of them, - Cloak of velvet, robe of silk, - Mantle snowy-white as milk, - Rings upon our bridle-hand, - Jewels on our belt and band, - Bells upon our golden reins, - Tinkling spurs and shining chains-- - In such merry mob we went - Riding to the Tournament. - - Laughing voices, scraps of song, - Lusty music loud and strong, - Rustling of the banners blowing, - Whispers as of rivers flowing. - Whistle of the hawks we bore - As they rise and as they soar, - Now and then a clash of drums - As the rabble louder hums, - Now and then a burst of horns - Sounding over brooks and bourns, - As in merry guise we went - Riding to the Tournament. - - There were abbots fat and sleek, - Nuns in couples, pale and meek, - Jugglers tossing cups and knives, - Yeomen with their buxom wives, - Pages playing with the curls - Of the rosy village girls, - Grizzly knights with faces scarred, - Staring through their vizors barred, - Huntsmen cheering with a shout - At the wild stag breaking out, - Harper, stately as a king, - Touching now and then a string, - As our revel laughing went - To the solemn Tournament. - - Charger with the massy chest, - Foam-spots flecking mane and breast, - Pacing stately, pawing ground, - Fretting for the trumpet’s sound, - White and sorrel, roan and bay, - Dappled, spotted, black, and grey, - Palfreys snowy as the dawn, - Ponies sallow as the fawn, - All together neighing went - Trampling to the Tournament. - - Long hair scattered in the wind, - Curls that flew a yard behind, - Flags that struggled like a bird - Chained and restive--not a word - But half buried in a laugh; - And the lance’s gilded staff - Shaking when the bearer shook - At the jester’s merry look, - As he grins upon his mule, - Like an urchin leaving school, - Shaking bauble, tossing bells, - At the merry jest he tells,-- - So in happy mood we went, - Laughing to the Tournament. - - What a bustle at the inn, - What a stir, without--within; - Filling flagons, brimming bowls - For a hundred thirsty souls; - Froth in snow-flakes flowing down, - From the pitcher big and brown, - While the tankards brim and bubble - With the balm for human trouble; - How the maiden coyly sips, - How the yeoman wipes his lips, - How the old knight drains the cup - Slowly and with calmness up, - And the abbot, with a prayer, - Fills the silver goblet rare, - Praying to the saints for strength - As he holds it at arm’s length; - How the jester spins the bowl - On his thumb, then quaffs the whole; - How the pompous steward bends - And bows to half-a-dozen friends, - As in a thirsty mood we went - Duly to the Tournament. - - Then again the country over - Through the stubble and the clover, - By the crystal-dropping springs, - Where the road dust clogs and clings - To the pearl-leaf of the rose, - Where the tawdry nightshade blows, - And the bramble twines its chains - Through the sunny village lanes, - Where the thistle sheds its seed, - And the goldfinch loves to feed, - By the milestone green with moss, - By the broken wayside cross, - In a merry band we went - Shouting to the Tournament. - - Pilgrims with their hood and cowl, - Pursy burghers cheek by jowl, - Archers with their peacock’s wing - Fitting to the waxen string, - Pedlars with their pack and bags, - Beggars with their coloured rags, - Silent monks, whose stony eyes - Rest in trance upon the skies, - Children sleeping at the breast, - Merchants from the distant West, - All in gay confusion went - To the royal Tournament. - - Players with the painted face - And a drunken man’s grimace, - Grooms who praise their raw-boned steeds, - Old wives telling maple beads,-- - Blackbirds from the hedges broke, - Black crows from the beeches croak, - Glossy swallows in dismay - From the mill-stream fled away, - The angry swan, with ruffled breast, - Frowned upon her osier nest, - The wren hopped restless on the brake, - The otter made the sedges shake, - The butterfly before our rout - Flew like a blossom blown about, - The coloured leaves, a globe of life, - Spun round and scattered as in strife, - Sweeping down the narrow lane - Like the slant shower of the rain, - The lark in terror, from the sod, - Flew up and straight appealed to God, - As a noisy band we went - Trotting to the Tournament. - - But when we saw the holy town, - With its river and its down, - Then the drums began to beat - And the flutes piped mellow sweet; - Then the deep and full bassoon - Murmured like a wood in June, - And the fifes, so sharp and bleak, - All at once began to speak. - Hear the trumpets clear and loud, - Full-tongued, eloquent and proud, - And the dulcimer that ranges - Through such wild and plaintive changes; - Merry sounds the jester’s shawm[56], - To our gladness giving form; - And the shepherd’s chalumeau[57], - Rich and soft and sad and low; - Hark! the bagpipes squeak and groan-- - Every herdsman has his own; - So in measured step we went - Pacing to the Tournament. - - All at once the chimes break out, - Then we hear the townsmen shout, - And the morris-dancers’ bells - Tinkling in the grassy dells; - The bell thunder from the tower - Adds its sound of doom and power, - As the cannon’s loud salute - For a moment made us mute; - Then again the laugh and joke - On the startled silence broke;-- - Thus in merry mood we went - Laughing to the Tournament. - - G. W. THORNBURY. - -[56] _shawm_: reed pipe. - -[57] _chalumeau_: reed pipe. - - - - -VARIOUS - - - - -A RED, RED ROSE - - - O, my love is like a red, red rose, - That’s newly sprung in June: - O, my love is like the melody - That’s sweetly play’d in tune. - - As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, - So deep in love am I, - And I will love thee still, my dear, - Till all the seas gang[58] dry. - - Till all the seas gang dry, my dear, - And the rocks melt wi’ the sun! - And I will love thee still, my dear, - While the sands o’ life shall run. - - And fare thee well, my only love, - And fare thee well a while! - And I will come again, my love, - Tho’ it were ten thousand mile! - - ROBERT BURNS. - -[58] _gang_: go. - - - - -BLOW, BUGLE, BLOW - - - The splendour falls on castle walls - And snowy summits old in story: - The long light shakes across the lakes, - And the wild cataract leaps in glory. - Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, - Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. - - O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, - And thinner, clearer, farther going! - O sweet and far from cliff and scar[59] - The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! - Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: - Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. - - O love, they die in yon rich sky, - They faint on hill or field or river: - Our echoes roll from soul to soul, - And grow for ever and for ever. - Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, - And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. - - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. - -[59] _scar_: a crag, a precipice. - - - - -WEST AND EAST - -_Rome is chiefly known to young readers through the medium of -Macaulay’s spirited “Lays,” which, however, are only a re-telling, -in English ballad form, of some of the legends which survived into -historical times concerning the infant city, about which nothing -certain is known. They give no idea of the Rome of history, the -world-power, or of the brooding immensity of her influence through -centuries. This and the following poem illustrate, to some slight -extent, the later Rome._ - - - In his cool hall, with haggard eyes, - The Roman noble lay; - He drove abroad, in furious guise, - Along the Appian way. - - He made a feast, drank fierce and fast, - And crown’d his hair with flowers-- - No easier nor no quicker pass’d - The impracticable hours. - - The brooding East with awe beheld - Her impious younger world. - The Roman tempest swell’d and swell’d, - And on her head was hurled. - - The East bow’d low before the blast - In patient, deep disdain; - She let the legions thunder past, - And plunged in thought again. - - MATTHEW ARNOLD. - - - - -GENSERIC - - - Genseric, King of the Vandals, who, having laid waste seven lands, - From Tripolis far as Tangier, from the sea to the great desert sands, - Was lord of the Moor and the African,--thirsting anon for new - slaughter, - Sail’d out of Carthage, and sail’d o’er the Mediterranean water; - Plunder’d Palermo, seiz’d Sicily, sack’d the Lucanian coast, - And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” - Then there came to the Vandal a Ghost - From the Shadowy Land that lies hid and unknown in the Darkness Below. - And answered, “To Rome!” - Said the King to the Ghost, “And whose envoy art thou? - Whence com’st thou? and name me his name that hath sent thee: and say - what is thine.” - “From far: and His name that hath sent me is God,” the Ghost answered, - “and mine - Was Hannibal once, ere thou wast: and the name that I now have is - Fate. - But arise, and be swift, and return. For God waits, and the moment is - late.” - And, “I go,” said the Vandal. And went. When at last to the gates he - was come, - Loud he knock’d with his fierce iron fist. And full drowsily answer’d - him Rome. - “Who is it that knocketh so loud? Get thee hence. Let me be. For ’tis - late.” - “Thou art wanted,” cried Genseric. “Open! His name that hath sent me - is Fate, - And mine, who knock late, Retribution.” - Rome gave him her glorious things; - The keys she had conquer’d from kingdoms: the crowns she had wrested - from kings: - And Genseric bore them away into Carthage, avenged thus on Rome, - And paused, and said, laughing, “Where next?” - And again the Ghost answer’d him, “Home! - For now God doth need thee no longer.” - “Where leadest thou me by the hand?” - Cried the King to the Ghost. And the Ghost answer’d, “Into the Shadowy - Land.” - - OWEN MEREDITH. - - - - -KUBLA KHAN - - - In Xanadu did Kubla Khan - A stately pleasure-dome decree: - Where Alph, the sacred river, ran - Through caverns measureless to man - Down to a sunless sea. - So twice five miles of fertile ground - With walls and towers were girdled round: - And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills - Where blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree; - And here were forests ancient as the hills, - Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. - But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted - Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! - A savage place! as holy and enchanted - As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted - By woman wailing for her demon-lover! - And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, - As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, - A mighty fountain momently was forced; - Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst - Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, - Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: - And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever - It flung up momently the sacred river. - Five miles meandering with a mazy motion - Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, - Then reached the caverns measureless to man, - And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: - And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far - Ancestral voices prophesying war! - The shadow of the dome of pleasure - Floated midway on the waves; - Where was heard the mingled measure - From the fountain and the caves. - It was a miracle of rare device, - A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! - - A damsel with a dulcimer - In a vision once I saw: - It was an Abyssinian maid, - And on her dulcimer she play’d, - Singing of Mount Abora. - Could I revive within me - Her symphony and song, - To such a deep delight ’twould win me - That with music loud and long, - I would build that dome in air, - That sunny dome! those caves of ice! - And all who heard should see them there, - And all should cry, Beware! Beware! - His flashing eyes, his floating hair! - Weave a circle round him thrice, - And close your eyes with holy dread, - For he on honey-dew hath fed, - And drunk the milk of Paradise. - - SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. - - - - -SOMETHING TO REMEMBER - - - Ah, did you once see Shelley plain, - And did he stop and speak to you, - And did you speak to him again? - How strange it seems, and new! - - But you were living before that. - And also you are living after, - And the memory I started at-- - My starting moves your laughter! - - I crossed a moor, with a name of its own - And a certain use in the world, no doubt, - Yet a hand’s-breadth of it shines alone - ’Mid the blank miles round about: - - For there I picked up on the heather - And there I put inside my breast - A moulted feather, an eagle-feather! - Well, I forget the rest. - - ROBERT BROWNING. - - - - -RING OUT, WILD BELLS - - - Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, - The flying cloud, the frosty light: - The year is dying in the night; - Ring out wild bells, and let him die. - - Ring out the old, ring in the new, - Ring, happy bells, across the snow: - The year is going, let him go; - Ring out the false, ring in the true. - - Ring out the grief that saps the mind, - For those that here we see no more; - Ring out the feud of rich and poor, - Ring in redress to all mankind. - - Ring out a slowly dying cause, - And ancient forms of party strife; - Ring in the nobler modes of life, - With sweeter manners, purer laws. - - Ring out the want, the care, the sin, - The faithless coldness of the times; - Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, - But ring the fuller minstrel in. - - Ring out false pride in place and blood, - The civic slander and the spite; - Ring in the love of truth and right, - Ring in the common love of good. - - Ring out old shapes of foul disease; - Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; - Ring out the thousand wars of old, - Ring in the thousand years of peace. - - Ring in the valiant man and free, - The larger heart, the kindlier hand; - Ring out the darkness of the land, - Ring in the Christ that is to be. - - ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. - - - - -INDEX OF AUTHORS - - - PAGE - - Anonymous 28, 30, 34, 36 - - Arnold, Matthew 65, 115 - - Beddoes, Thomas Lovell 83 - - Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 84 - - Browning, Robert 19, 20, 54, 103, 120 - - Burns, Robert 113 - - Byron, Lord 39, 43 - - Campbell, Thomas 21 - - Clough, Arthur Hugh 57 - - Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 118 - - Collins, William 52 - - Crashaw, Richard 102 - - Herrick, Robert 1 - - Hovey, Richard 27 - - Howe, Julia Ward 47 - - Hunt, Leigh 77 - - Ingelow, Jean 92 - - Jonson, Ben 18 - - Keats, John 7 - - Kingsley, Charles 31, 78 - - Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth 22, 24, 26, 72 - - Lovelace, Richard 48 - - Meredith, Owen 116 - - Miller, Joaquin 56 - - Roberts, Theodore 37 - - Scott, Sir Walter 49, 53, 79, 104 - - Shakespeare, William 30, 101 - - Shelley, Percy Bysshe 9, 13 - - Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 2, 58, 114, 121 - - Thornbury, G. W. 105 - - Wolfe, Charles 50 - - Wordsworth, William 4, 100 - - - - -INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - - PAGE - - A lofty ship from Salcombe came 34 - - Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) 77 - - Ah, did you once see Shelley plain 120 - - Ah! what pleasant visions haunt me 22 - - “All honour to him who shall win the prize” 56 - - Angels, thy old friends, there shall greet thee 102 - - At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears 100 - - Ay, Oliver! I was but seven, and he was eleven 92 - - Come, dear children, let us away 65 - - Full fathom five thy father lies 30 - - Genseric, King of the Vandals, who, having laid waste - seven lands 116 - - “Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled” 72 - - Hail to thee, blithe spirit 13 - - Here’s the tender coming 30 - - How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 52 - - I am fever’d with the sunset 27 - - I come from haunts of coot and hern 2 - - I’d like now, yet had haply been afraid 103 - - If there were dreams to sell 83 - - In his cool hall, with haggard eyes 115 - - In the pleasant orchard closes 84 - - In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 118 - - It was roses, roses, all the way 54 - - Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord 47 - - Nobly, nobly Cape St Vincent to the North-west died away 20 - - Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 50 - - Oh England is a pleasant place for them that’s rich and - high 31 - - O for the voice of that wild horn 49 - - O Mary, go and call the cattle home 78 - - O, my love is like a red, red rose 113 - - O my true love’s a smuggler and sails upon the sea 36 - - O, to be in England 19 - - O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being 9 - - O young Lochinvar is come out of the West 79 - - Often I think of the beautiful town 26 - - On either side the river lie 58 - - Over meadows purple-flowered 105 - - Queen and huntress, chaste and fair 18 - - Ring out wild bells to the wild sky 121 - - Say not the struggle nought availeth 57 - - Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness 7 - - Simon Danz has come home again 24 - - Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er 53 - - Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 48 - - Tell me where is Fancy bred 101 - - The isles of Greece! the isles of Greece! 43 - - The splendour falls on castle walls 114 - - There was a sound of revelry by night 39 - - There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream 4 - - Thunder of riotous hoofs over the quaking sod 37 - - ’Twas in the good ship _Rover_ 28 - - Waken, lords and ladies gay 104 - - Ye have been fresh and green 1 - - Ye Mariners of England 21 - - -CAMBRIDGE: PRINTED BY JOHN CLAY, M.A. AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS. - - - - -Books on English Language and Literature published by the Cambridge -University Press - - -ENGLISH LANGUAGE - - =English Grammar:= Descriptive and Historical. 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