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diff --git a/old/67522-0.txt b/old/67522-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 55abd21..0000000 --- a/old/67522-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6303 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Rainbow gold; poems old and new -selected for boys and girls, by Sara Teasdale - -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 -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Rainbow gold; poems old and new selected for boys and girls - -Illustrator: Dugald Walker - -Compiler: Sara Teasdale - -Release Date: February 28, 2022 [eBook #67522] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was - produced from images generously made available by The - Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW GOLD; POEMS OLD AND -NEW SELECTED FOR BOYS AND GIRLS *** - - - - - - RAINBOW GOLD - - [Illustration] - - - - - [Illustration] - - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO · DALLAS - ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO - - MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED - LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA - MELBOURNE - - THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. - TORONTO - - [Illustration] - - - - - RAINBOW GOLD - - POEMS OLD AND NEW - SELECTED FOR BOYS AND GIRLS - - BY SARA TEASDALE - - WITH ILLUSTRATIONS - - BY DUGALD WALKER - - [Illustration] - - - NEW YORK - THE MACMILLAN COMPANY - 1922 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - Printed in the United States of America - - - COPYRIGHT, 1922, - BY THE MACMILLAN CO. - - Set up and published September, 1922 - - - CONDÉ NAST PRESS GREENWICH, CONN. - - - - - TO THE BEAUTIFUL MEMORY - OF MY FATHER - JOHN WARREN TEASDALE - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - - - PREFATORY NOTE - - -Every anthologist must adopt some plan for making selections. Mine has -been very simple. I have made a small collection of poems that would -have pleased the child I used to be and the boy who was my playmate. -Above all things I have striven to keep the book small, for the big -books of poetry on our shelves were always left to themselves. It was -the little books that became our intimate companions. - -To make a selection for boys and girls from the countless riches of -lyric poetry in our language, and to reduce that selection to the -contents of so small a book as this one, is a grave task. It involves -the exclusion on the grounds of mere lack of space, of so much that one -loves. I should have liked to make a book of this size containing only -Elizabethan songs and early English ballads, another entirely devoted to -Georgian and Victorian poets, a third to living writers, and a fourth to -child-rhymes, parodies, nonsense verses and the like. If the grown-up -reader regrets omissions, I beg him to be sympathetic toward the -compiler, who has been a prey to those same regrets constantly during -the year in which she has been at work on the book. Alas that a volume -cannot have the advantages of being both a big book and a little one at -the same time! - -In selecting the poems for the girl and boy who used to be, I have tried -always to read with their eyes. I have been guided from first to last by -their enjoyment or their boredom. The poems that they loved best had -highly accented rhythms, and took them into “a land of clear colors and -stories.” They enjoyed certain sad poems as much as merry ones, but -meditative, moralistic and gloomy poems were never read but once, if -they were read at all. And I am glad to say that poems full of -sentimentality fared no better. I have brought together much that has -been written since they were children, and boys and girls of to-day will -find among these poems many of the most enjoyable things in the book. To -mention only one recent poet that they would have loved, Walter de la -Mare, is to realize how much a child has missed who does not possess his -inimitable “Peacock Pie.” - -A child’s enjoyment, as I said above, is what I have striven for in this -collection. We who have seen how poetry has come to our rescue with its -delight, its healing, and its new courage in times of stress and sorrow, -know that it is an inestimable possession. We cannot come to the -knowledge of it too early. If we can have a clear personal realization -while we are children, that we love poetry, no amount of well-meaning -but sometimes tactless and uninspired teaching of it in schools and -colleges can shake us in the knowledge of that love. I remember that the -first poem I was condemned to learn by heart in school was “The -Builders” by Longfellow. I say condemned, but it was not as a -punishment. Every child in the class had to learn it. It is one of the -poems that I am sure the poet himself would never have given to a child -to learn, beginning, as grown-up readers will remember: - -“All are Architects of Fate - Working in these walls of Time.” - -After committing the nine stanzas of this poem to memory, it took me a -long time to grow willing to read the stirring things that the same poet -has written, poems as interesting as this one is humdrum. - -But education is better managed now than then. Teachers and parents -alike have come to feel that the love of poetry in general is more to be -desired for children than the knowledge of certain “well known” poems, -no matter how good, or even how great, these poems may be. Besides a -more tactfully managed education in the schools, there are children’s -rooms in the public libraries. I have wished many times during the -months spent in making this book, when visits to these rooms were an -inspiration, that I might have browsed among the low shelves long ago in -childhood, and talked with the same delightful librarians. I should like -to express my thanks to these librarians, who have been so kind in -various ways. I want especially to thank Annie Carroll Moore, -Supervisor of Work with Children in the New York Public Library, who -knows the heart of a child from long travelling on “The Roads to -Childhood.” - -In closing I shall quote briefly from the introduction by Andrew Lang to -his anthology for children, “The Blue Poetry Book,” for he speaks my own -thoughts better than I can express them: “It does not appear to the -Editor that poems about children, or especially intended for children, -are those which a child likes best. A child’s imaginative life is spent -in the unknown future, and in the romantic past.... The poems written -for and about children rather appeal to the old, whose own childhood is -now to them a distant fairy world, as the man’s life is to the child.... -We make a mistake when we ‘write down’ to children; still more do we err -when we tell a child not to read this or that because he cannot -understand it. He understands far more than we give him credit for, but -nothing that can harm him. The half-understanding of it, too, the sense -of a margin beyond, as in a wood full of unknown glades and birds and -flowers unfamiliar, is a great part of a child’s pleasure in reading.... -The child does not want everything to be explained. In the unexplained -is great pleasure.” - -A number of my friends have been kind in giving me the names of poems -that they liked best when they were children. The small compass of the -book has made it impossible to use all of the poems suggested in this -way, but it has been a pleasure to include as many of them as I could. I -want to acknowledge very gratefully my indebtedness for counsel and -suggestions to John Gould Fletcher, Vachel Lindsay, Amy Lowell, Jessie -B. Rittenhouse, Louis Untermeyer, Jean Untermeyer, John Hall Wheelock -and Marguerite Wilkinson. - - SARA TEASDALE - -_New York City, 1922_ - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - - - -ACKNOWLEDGMENTS - - -Thanks are due the following publishers for permission to include the -poems enumerated below: - - To Messrs. Constable & Co., for “Berries,” “Jim Jay,” and “Off the - Ground,” by Walter de la Mare. - - To Messrs. Doubleday, Page & Co., for “A Prayer,” by Edwin Markham, - and “O Captain! My Captain,” by Walt Whitman. - - To Messrs. Harper & Brothers for “When the Hounds of Spring,” by - Algernon Charles Swinburne. - - To Messrs. Henry Holt & Co., for “Good Hours,” by Robert Frost; and - “Berries,” “Jim Jay” and “Off the Ground” from “Peacock Pie,” by - Walter de la Mare. - - To Messrs. Houghton Mifflin Co., by whose permission and by special - arrangement with whom the following poems are included: “Fable,” by - Ralph Waldo Emerson; “The Fountain,” by James Russell Lowell; “My - Lost Youth,” and “The Skeleton in Armor,” by Henry Wadsworth - Longfellow; and “A Song for My Mother,” by Anna Hempstead Branch. - - To Mr. Alfred Knopf for “Nature’s Friend,” by William H. Davies. - - To Messrs. Little, Brown & Co., for “The Snow,” by Emily Dickinson. - - To The Macmillan Co., for “The Fairies,” and “The Lepracaun,” by - William Allingham; “The Forsaken Merman,” by Matthew Arnold; “The - Pied Piper of Hamelin,” and “Song: The Year’s at the Spring,” by - Robert Browning; “The Terrible Robber Men,” by Padraic Colum; “Moon - Folly,” by Fannie Stearns Gifford; “Time, You Old Gipsy Man,” by - Ralph Hodgson; “Sea Fever,” by John Masefield; “A Christmas - Carol,” by Christina Rossetti; “The Song of Wandering Aengus,” by - William Butler Yeats; and “The Ghosts of the Buffaloes,” by Vachel - Lindsay. - - To Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for “The Fairies,” and “The Lepracaun,” - by William Allingham; “The Forsaken Merman,” by Matthew Arnold; and - “A Christmas Carol,” by Christina Rossetti. - - To The Poetry Bookshop for “Star-Talk,” by Robert Graves. - - To Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons for “Song of the Chattahoochee,” - by Sidney Lanier from “Poems of Sidney Lanier”; copyright 1884, - 1891, 1918 by Mary D. Lanier, by permission of the publishers; and - “Escape at Bedtime,” and “Romance,” by Robert Louis Stevenson. - - To Messrs. Frederick A. Stokes Co., for “Tree-Toad,” by Hilda - Conkling; and “A Song of Sherwood,” by Alfred Noyes, from his - Collected Poems, Volume I. - -To the living poets who have generously allowed their poems to appear in -this book, the compiler expresses grateful thanks. - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - - - -CONTENTS - - PAGE - -KUBLA KHAN _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 19 - -MEG MERRILIES _John Keats_ 22 - -BERRIES _Walter de la Mare_ 24 - -ROMANCE _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 28 - -HYMN OF PAN _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 29 - -WRITTEN IN MARCH _William Wordsworth_ 31 - -“WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING” _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 32 - -SONG _Robert Browning_ 36 - -“UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE” _William Shakespeare_ 37 - -TO VIOLETS _Robert Herrick_ 38 - -ON MAY MORNING _John Milton_ 39 - -THE LEPRACAUN _William Allingham_ 40 - -HUNTING SONG _Sir Walter Scott_ 44 - -THE LADY OF SHALOTT _Alfred Tennyson_ 46 - -HYMN TO DIANA _Ben Jonson_ 59 - -THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS _William Butler Yeats_ 60 - -THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE _Christopher Marlowe_ 62 - -ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER _Author Unknown_ 64 - -A SEA SONG _Allan Cunningham_ 72 - -EPITAPH ON A HARE _William Cowper_ 73 - -THE PILGRIM _John Bunyan_ 76 - -LULLABY FOR TITANIA _William Shakespeare_ 78 - -ISRAFEL _Edgar Allan Poe_ 82 - -JAFFÁR _Leigh Hunt_ 87 - -A SONG OF SHERWOOD _Alfred Noyes_ 89 - -THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB _Lord Byron_ 92 - -IVRY _Thomas Babington Macaulay_ 94 - -THE TIGER _William Blake_ 98 - -THE TERRIBLE ROBBER MEN _Padraic Colum_ 100 - -SIR PATRICK SPENS _Author Unknown_ 101 - -“BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND” _William Shakespeare_ 108 - -THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN _Robert Browning_ 109 - -“TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN” _Ralph Hodgson_ 124 - -THE SOLITARY REAPER _William Wordsworth_ 128 - -MY LOST YOUTH _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 130 - -BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC _Julia Ward Howe_ 133 - -GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU _Sir Walter Scott_ 135 - -THE MINSTREL-BOY _Thomas Moore_ 137 - -BANNOCKBURN _Robert Burns_ 138 - -FABLE _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 140 - -GOOD HOURS _Robert Frost_ 141 - -WINTER _William Shakespeare_ 142 - -A CHANTED CALENDAR _Sydney Dobell_ 143 - -THE CLOUD _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 145 - -BUGLE SONG _Alfred Tennyson_ 151 - -THE FORSAKEN MERMAN _Matthew Arnold_ 152 - -NURSE’S SONG _William Blake_ 158 - -TO A MOUSE _Robert Burns_ 159 - -THE FAIRIES _William Allingham_ 162 - -LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI _John Keats_ 168 - -SPRING _Thomas Nashe_ 175 - -“I WANDERED LONELY” _William Wordsworth_ 176 - -THE GAY GOS-HAWK _Author Unknown_ 178 - -AN OLD SONG OF FAIRIES _Author Unknown_ 186 - -MOON FOLLY _Fannie Stearns Gifford_ 189 - -STAR-TALK _Robert Graves_ 193 - -JIM JAY _Walter de la Mare_ 197 - -THE GHOSTS OF THE BUFFALOES _Vachel Lindsay_ 199 - -A CHRISTMAS CAROL _Christina Rossetti_ 203 - -ESCAPE AT BEDTIME _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 205 - -SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE _Sidney Lanier_ 206 - -SEA FEVER _John Masefield_ 211 - -O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! _Walt Whitman_ 212 - -THE SNOW _Emily Dickinson_ 214 - -A SONG FOR MY MOTHER _Anna Hempstead Branch_ 215 - -THE FOUNTAIN _James Russell Lowell_ 217 - -NATURE’S FRIEND _William H. Davies_ 221 - -TREE-TOAD _Hilda Conkling_ 223 - -AN ANCIENT CHRISTMAS CAROL _Author Unknown_ 225 - -AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL _Author Unknown_ 226 - -KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF -CANTERBURY _Author Unknown_ 228 - -THE SANDS OF DEE _Charles Kingsley_ 234 - -SISTER, AWAKE! _Author Unknown_ 236 - -THE SKELETON IN ARMOR _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 237 - -BY BENDEMEER’S STREAM _Thomas Moore_ 244 - -A PRAYER _Edwin Markham_ 245 - -YOUNG LOCHINVAR _Sir Walter Scott_ 246 - -OFF THE GROUND _Walter de la Mare_ 249 - -AULD DADDY DARKNESS _James Ferguson_ 256 - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - -[Illustration] - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - -KUBLA KHAN _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ Frontispiece - -“WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING” _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ 33 - -THE LADY OF SHALOTT _Alfred Tennyson_ 51 - -HYMN TO DIANA _Ben Jonson_ 58 - -ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER _Author Unknown_ 69 - -LULLABY FOR TITANIA _William Shakespeare_ 79 - -ISRAFEL _Edgar Allan Poe_ 83 - -SIR PATRICK SPENS _Author Unknown_ 105 - -“TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN” _Ralph Hodgson_ 125 - -THE CLOUD _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 147 - -THE FAIRIES _William Allingham_ 165 - -LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI _John Keats_ 169 - -SPRING _Thomas Nashe_ 174 - -MOON FOLLY _Fannie Stearns Gifford_ 191 - -STAR-TALK _Robert Graves_ 195 - -SEA FEVER _John Masefield_ 210 - -THE FOUNTAIN _James Russell Lowell_ 219 - -OFF THE GROUND _Walter de la Mare_ 251 - -[Illustration] - - - - KUBLA KHAN - - _A Vision in a Dream_ - - - 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 oh! 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 reach’d 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 played, - 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_ - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - - - MEG MERRILIES - - - Old Meg she was a Gipsy, - And liv’d upon the Moors: - Her bed it was the brown heath turf, - And her house was out of doors. - - Her apples were swart blackberries, - Her currants pods o’ broom; - Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, - Her book a churchyard tomb. - - Her Brothers were the craggy hills, - Her Sisters larchen trees-- - Alone with her great family - She liv’d as she did please. - - No breakfast had she many a morn, - No dinner many a noon, - And ’stead of supper she would stare - Full hard against the Moon. - - But every morn of woodbine fresh - She made her garlanding, - And every night the dark glen Yew - She wove, and she would sing. - - And with her fingers old and brown - She plaited Mats o’ Rushes, - And gave them to the Cottagers - She met among the Bushes. - - Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen - And tall as Amazon: - An old red blanket cloak she wore; - A chip hat had she on. - God rest her aged bones somewhere-- - She died full long agone!--_John Keats_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - BERRIES - - - There was an old woman - Went blackberry picking - Along the hedges - From Weep to Wicking. - Half a pottle-- - No more she had got, - When out steps a Fairy - From her green grot; - And says, “Well, Jill, - Would ’ee pick ’ee mo?” - And Jill, she curtseys, - And looks just so. - “Be off,” says the Fairy, - “As quick as you can, - Over the meadows - To the little green lane, - That dips to the hayfields - Of Farmer Grimes: - I’ve berried those hedges - A score of times; - Bushel on bushel - I’ll promise ’ee, Jill, - This side of supper - If ’ee pick with a will.” - She glints very bright, - And speaks her fair; - Then lo, and behold! - She has faded in air. - - Be sure old Goodie - She trots betimes - Over the meadows - To Farmer Grimes. - And never was queen - With jewellery rich - As those same hedges - From twig to ditch; - Like Dutchmen’s coffers, - Fruit, thorn, and flower-- - They shone like William - And Mary’s bower. - And be sure Old Goodie - Went back to Weep, - So tired with her basket - She scarce could creep. - When she comes in the dusk - To her cottage door, - There’s Towser wagging - As never before, - To see his Missus - So glad to be - Come from her fruit-picking - Back to he. - - [Illustration] - - And soon as next morning - Dawn was grey, - The pot on the hob - Was simmering away; - And all in a stew - And a hugger-mugger - Towser and Jill - A-boiling of sugar, - And the dark clear fruit - That from Faërie came, - For syrup and jelly - And blackberry jam. - - Twelve jolly gallipots - Jill put by; - And one little teeny one, - One inch high; - And that she’s hidden - A good thumb deep, - Half way over - From Wicking to Weep. - - _Walter de la Mare_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - ROMANCE - - - I will make you brooches and toys for your delight - Of bird-song at morning and star-shine at night. - I will make a palace fit for you and me, - Of green days in forests and blue days at sea. - - I will make my kitchen, and you shall keep your room, - Where white flows the river and bright blows the broom, - And you shall wash your linen and keep your body white - In rainfall at morning and dewfall at night. - - And this shall be for music when no one else is near - The fine song for singing, the rare song to hear! - That only I remember, that only you admire, - Of the broad road that stretches and the roadside fire. - - _Robert Louis Stevenson_ - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - - - HYMN OF PAN - - - From the forests and highlands - We come, we come; - From the river-girt islands, - Where loud waves are dumb, - Listening to my sweet pipings. - The wind in the reeds and the rushes, - The bees on the bells of thyme, - The birds on the myrtle bushes, - The cicale above in the lime, - And the lizards below in the grass, - Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was, - Listening to my sweet pipings. - - Liquid Penëus was flowing, - And all dark Tempe lay - In Pelion’s shadow outgrowing - The light of the dying day, - Speeded by my sweet pipings. - The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns, - And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, - To the edge of the moist river-lawns, - And the brink of the dewy caves, - And all that did then attend and follow, - Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, - With envy of my sweet pipings. - - I sang of the dancing Stars, - I sang of the daedal Earth, - And of Heaven, and the giant wars, - And Love, and Death, and Birth. - And then I changed my pipings-- - Singing how down the vale of Maenalus - I pursued a maiden, and clasped a reed: - Gods and men, we are all deluded thus; - It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed. - All wept--as I think both ye now would, - If envy or age had not frozen your blood, - At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. - - _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - WRITTEN IN 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 ploughboy 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_ - - - - - “WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING” - - - When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, - The mother of months in meadow or plain - Fills the shadows and windy places - With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; - And the brown bright nightingale amorous - Is half assuaged for Itylus, - For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces, - The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. - - Come with bows bent and with emptying of quivers, - Maiden most perfect, lady of light, - With a noise of winds and many rivers, - With a clamor of waters, and with might; - Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, - Over the splendor and speed of thy feet; - For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, - Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. - - Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, - Fold our hands round her knees, and cling? - O that man’s heart were as fire and could spring to her, - Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! - For the stars and the winds are unto her - As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; - For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, - And the southwest-wind and the west-wind sing. - - [Illustration] - - - For winter’s rains and ruins are over, - And all the season of snows and sins; - The days dividing lover and lover, - The light that loses, the night that wins; - And time remembered is grief forgotten, - And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, - And in green underwood and cover - Blossom by blossom the spring begins.... - - _Algernon Charles Swinburne_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - SONG - - - The year’s at the spring, - And day’s at the morn; - Morning’s at seven; - The hill-side’s dew-pearled; - The lark’s on the wing; - The snail’s on the thorn; - God’s in His Heaven-- - All’s right with the world! - - _Robert Browning_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - “UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE” - - - Under the greenwood tree, - Who loves to lie with me, - And turn 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 i’ the sun, - Seeking the food he eats, - And pleased with what he gets, - Come hither, come hither, come hither: - Here shall he see - No enemy - But winter and rough weather. - - _William Shakespeare_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - TO VIOLETS - - - Welcome, maids of honor, - You do bring - In the Spring, - And wait upon her. - She has virgins many, - Fresh and fair; - Yet you are - More sweet than any. - - You’re the maiden posies, - And, so graced, - To be placed - ’Fore damask roses. - Yet, though thus respected, - By and by - Ye do lie, - Poor girls, neglected. - - _Robert Herrick_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - ON MAY MORNING - - - Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger, - Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her - The flow’ry May, who from her green lap throws - The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. - Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire - Mirth and youth and warm desire! - Woods and groves are of thy dressing, - Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. - Thus we salute thee with our early song, - And welcome thee, and wish thee long. - - _John Milton_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE LEPRACAUN OR FAIRY SHOEMAKER - - [Illustration] - - - Little Cowboy, what have you heard, - Up on the lonely rath’s green mound? - Only the plaintive yellow bird - Sighing in sultry fields around, - Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!-- - Only the grasshopper and the bee?-- - “Tip-tap, rip-rap, - Tick-a-tack-too! - Scarlet leather, sewn together, - This will make a shoe. - Left, right, pull it tight; - Summer days are warm; - Underground in winter, - Laughing at the storm!” - Lay your ear close to the hill. - Do you not catch the tiny clamour, - Busy click of elfin hammer, - Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill - As he merrily plies his trade? - He’s a span - And a quarter in height. - Get him in sight, hold him tight, - And you’re a made - Man! - - [Illustration] - - You watch your cattle the summer day, - Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay; - How would you like to roll in your carriage, - Look for a duchess’s daughter in marriage? - Seize the Shoemaker--then you may! - “Big boots a-hunting, - Sandals in the hall, - White for a wedding-feast, - Pink for a ball. - This way, that way, - So we make a shoe; - Getting rich every stitch, - Tick-tack-too!” - Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks - This keen miser-fairy hath, - Hid in mountains, woods and rocks, - Ruin and round-tow’r, cave and rath, - And where the cormorants build; - From time of old - Guarded by him; - Each of them fill’d - Full to the brim - With gold! - - [Illustration] - - I caught him at work one day, myself, - In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows,-- - A wrinkled, wizen’d, and bearded Elf, - Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, - Silver buckles to his hose, - Leather apron--shoe in his lap-- - “Rip-rap, tip-tap, - Tack-tack-too! - (A grasshopper on my cap! - Away the moth flew!) - Buskins for a fairy prince, - Brogues for his son,-- - Pay me well, pay me well, - When the job is done!” - The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt. - I stared at him; he stared at me; - ‘Servant, Sir!’ ‘Humph!’ says he, - And pull’d a snuff-box out. - He took a long pinch, look’d better pleased, - The queer little Lepracaun; - Offer’d the box with a whimsical grace,-- - Pouf! he flung the dust in my face, - And, while I sneezed, - Was gone! - - _William Allingham_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - HUNTING SONG - - - Waken, lords and ladies gay! - On the mountain dawns the day; - All the jolly chase is here, - With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear! - Hounds are in their couples yelling, - Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling; - 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 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 fray’d; - 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE LADY OF SHALOTT - - [Illustration] - - - PART 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-veiled, - Slide the heavy barges trailed - By slow horses; and unhailed - The shallop flitteth silken-sailed - Skimming down to Camelot: - But who hath seen her wave her hand? - Or at the casement seen her stand? - Or is she known in all the land, - The Lady of Shalott? - - Only reapers, reaping early - In among the bearded barley, - Hear a song that echoes cheerly - From the river winding clearly, - Down to towered Camelot: - And by the moon the reaper weary, - Piling sheaves in uplands airy, - Listening, whispers “’Tis the fairy - Lady of Shalott.” - - [Illustration] - - - PART II - - There she weaves by night and day - A magic web with colors gay. - She has heard a whisper say, - A curse is on her if she stay - To look down to Camelot. - She knows not what the curse may be, - And so she weaveth steadily, - And little other care hath she, - The Lady of Shalott. - - And moving through a mirror clear - That hangs before her all the year, - Shadows of the world appear. - There she sees the highway near - Winding down to Camelot: - There the river eddy whirls, - And there the surly village-churls, - And the red cloaks of market-girls, - Pass onward from Shalott. - - Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, - An abbot on an ambling pad, - Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, - Or long-haired page in crimson clad, - Goes by to towered Camelot; - And sometimes 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. - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - PART III - - A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, - He rode between the barley-sheaves, - The sun came dazzling through the leaves - And flamed upon the brazen greaves - Of bold Sir Lancelot. - A red-cross knight for ever kneeled - To a lady in his shield, - That sparkled on the yellow field, - Beside remote Shalott. - - The gemmy bridle glittered free, - Like to some branch of stars we see - Hung in the golden Galaxy. - The bridle bells rang merrily - As he rode down to Camelot; - And from his blazoned baldric slung - - [Illustration] - - A mighty silver bugle hung, - And as he rode his armor rung, - Beside remote Shalott. - - All in the blue unclouded weather - Thick-jeweled shone the saddle-leather, - The helmet and the helmet-feather - Burned like one burning flame together, - As he rode down to Camelot; - As often through the purple night, - Below the starry clusters bright, - Some bearded meteor, trailing light, - Moves over still Shalott. - - His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; - On burnished hooves his war-horse trode; - From underneath his helmet flowed - His coal-black curls as on he rode, - As he rode down to Camelot. - From the bank and from the river - He flashed into the crystal mirror, - “Tirra lirra,” by the river - Sang Sir Lancelot. - - She left the web, she left the loom, - She made three paces through the room, - She saw the water-lily bloom, - She saw the helmet and the plume, - She looked down to Camelot. - Out flew the web and floated wide; - The mirror cracked from side to side; - “The curse is come upon me!” cried - The Lady of Shalott. - - [Illustration] - - - PART IV - - In the stormy east-wind straining, - The pale yellow woods were waning, - The broad stream in his banks complaining, - Heavily the low sky raining - Over towered Camelot; - Down she came and found a boat - Beneath a willow left afloat, - And round about the prow she wrote - _The Lady of Shalott_. - - And down the river’s dim expanse-- - Like some bold seër in a trance, - Seeing all his own mischance-- - With a glassy countenance - Did she look to Camelot. - And at the closing of the day - She loosed the chain, and down she lay; - The broad stream bore her far away, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Lying, robed in snowy white - That loosely flew to left and right-- - The leaves upon her falling light-- - Through the noises of the night - She floated down to Camelot: - And as the boat-head wound along - The willowy hills and fields among, - They heard her singing her last song, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Heard a carol, mournful, holy, - Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, - Till her blood was frozen slowly, - And her eyes were darkened wholly, - Turned to towered Camelot; - For ere she reached upon the tide - The first house by the water-side, - Singing in her song she died, - The Lady of Shalott. - - Under tower and balcony, - By garden-wall and gallery, - A gleaming shape she floated by, - Dead-pale between the houses high, - Silent into Camelot. - Out upon the wharfs they came, - Knight and burgher, lord and dame, - And round the prow they read her name, - _The Lady of Shalott_. - - Who is this? and what is here? - And in the lighted palace near - Died the sound of royal cheer; - And they crossed themselves for fear, - All the knights at Camelot: - But Lancelot mused a little space; - He said, “She has a lovely face; - God in His mercy lend her grace, - The Lady of Shalott.” - - _Alfred Tennyson_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - HYMN TO DIANA - - - Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, - Now the sun is laid to sleep, - Seated in thy silver chair, - State in wonted manner keep: - Hesperus entreats thy light, - Goddess excellently bright. - - Earth, let not thy envious shade - Dare itself to interpose; - Cynthia’s shining orb was made - Heav’n to clear, when day did close: - Bless us then with wishéd 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_ - - - - - THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS - - - I went out to the hazel wood, - Because a fire was in my head, - And cut and peeled a hazel wand, - And hooked a berry to a thread; - And when white moths were on the wing, - And moth-like stars were flickering out, - I dropped the berry in a stream - And caught a little silver trout. - - When I had laid it on the floor - I went to blow the fire a-flame, - But something rustled on the floor, - And some one called me by my name: - It had become a glimmering girl - With apple blossom in her hair - Who called me by my name and ran - And faded through the brightening air. - - Though I am old with wandering - Through hollow lands and hilly lands, - I will find out where she has gone, - And kiss her lips and take her hands; - And walk among long dappled grass, - And pluck till time and times are done, - The silver apples of the moon, - The golden apples of the sun. - - _William Butler Yeats_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE - - - Come live with me and be my love, - And we will all the pleasures prove - That hills and vallies, dales and fields, - And woods or steepy mountain yields. - - And we will sit upon the rocks, - Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks - By shallow rivers to whose falls - Melodious birds sing madrigals. - - And I will make thee beds of roses - And a thousand fragrant posies, - A cap of flowers, and a kirtle - Embroider’d all with leaves of myrtle. - - A gown made of the finest wool, - Which from our pretty lambs we pull, - Fair-linèd slippers for the cold, - With buckles of the purest gold. - - A belt of straw and ivy-buds - With coral clasps and amber studs, - An’ if these pleasures may thee move, - Come live with me, and be my love. - - Thy silver dishes for thy meat - As precious as the gods do eat, - Shall on an ivory table be - Prepar’d each day for thee and me. - - The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing - For thy delight each May-morning: - If these delights thy mind may move, - Then live with me, and be my love. - - _Christopher Marlowe_ - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - - - ROBIN HOOD AND THE BUTCHER - - - Come, all you brave gallants, and listen a while, - With hey down, down, an a down, - That are in the bowers within; - For of Robin Hood, that archer good, - A song I intend for to sing. - - Upon a time it chancëd so - Bold Robin in forrest did spy - A jolly butcher, with a bonny fine mare, - With his flesh to the market did hye. - - ‘Good morrow, good fellow,’ said jolly Robin, - ‘What food hast? tell unto me; - And thy trade to me tell, and where thou dost dwell, - For I like well thy company.’ - - The butcher he answered jolly Robin: - ‘No matter where I dwell; - For a butcher I am, and to Notingham - I am going, my flesh to sell.’ - - ‘What is the price of thy flesh?’ said jolly Robin, - ‘Come tell it soon unto me; - And the price of thy mare, be she never so dear, - For a butcher fain would I be.’ - - ‘The price of my flesh,’ the butcher repli’d, - ‘I soon will tell unto thee; - With my bonny mare, and they are not dear, - Four mark thou must give unto me.’ - - ‘Four mark I will give thee,’ saith jolly Robin, - ‘Four mark it shall be thy fee; - Thy mony come count, and let me mount, - For a butcher I fain would be.’ - - Now Robin he is to Notingham gone, - His butcher’s trade for to begin; - With good intent, to the sheriff he went, - And there he took up his inn. - - When other butchers they opened their meat, - Bold Robin he then begun; - But how for to sell he knew not well, - For a butcher he was but young. - - When other butchers no meat could sell, - Robin got both gold and fee; - For he sold more meat for one peny - Than others could do for three. - - But when he sold his meat so fast, - No butcher by him could thrive; - For he sold more meat for one peny - Than others could do for five. - - Which made the butchers of Notingham - To study as they did stand, - Saying, surely he was some prodigal, - That had sold his father’s land. - - The butchers they stepped to jolly Robin, - Acquainted with him for to be; - ‘Come, brother,’ one said, ‘we be all of one trade, - Come, will you go dine with me?’ - - ‘Accurst of his heart,’ said jolly Robin, - ‘That a butcher doth deny; - I will go with you my brethren true, - And as fast as I can hie.’ - - But when to the sheriff’s house they came, - To dinner they hied apace, - And Robin he the man must be - Before them all to say grace. - - ‘Pray God bless us all,’ said jolly Robin, - ‘And our meat within this place; - A cup of sack so good will nourish our blood, - And so I do end my grace. - - ‘Come fill us more wine,’ said jolly Robin, - ‘Let us merry be while we do stay; - For wine and good cheer, be it never so dear, - I vow I the reckning will pay. - - ‘Come, brothers, be merry,’ said jolly Robin, - ‘Let us drink, and never give ore; - For the shot I will pay, ere I go my way, - If it cost me five pounds and more.’ - - ‘This is a mad blade,’ the butchers then said; - Saies the sheriff, ‘He is some prodigal, - That some land has sold, for silver and gold, - And now he doth mean to spend all. - - ‘Hast thou any horn-beasts,’ the sheriff repli’d, - ‘Good fellow, to sell unto me?’ - ‘Yes, that I have, good Master Sheriff, - I have hundreds two or three. - - ‘And a hundred aker of good free land, - If you please it to see; - And I’le make you as good assurance of it - As ever my father made me.’ - - The sheriff he saddled a good palfrey, - With three hundred pound in gold, - And away he went with bold Robin Hood, - His horned beasts to behold. - - Away then the sheriff and Robin did ride, - To the forrest of merry Sherwood; - Then the sheriff did say, ‘God bless us this day - From a man they call Robin Hood!’ - - But when that a little further they came, - Bold Robin he chanced to spy - A hundred head of good red deer, - Come tripping the sheriff full nigh. - - ‘How like you my hornd beasts, good Master Sheriff? - They be fat and fair for to see:’ - ‘I tell thee, good fellow, I would I were gone, - For I like not thy company.’ - - Then Robin he set his horn to his mouth, - And blew but blasts three; - Then quickly anon there came Little John, - And all his company. - - ‘What is your will?’ then said little John, - ‘Good master come tell it to me;’ - ‘I have brought hither the sheriff of Notingham, - This day to dine with thee.’ - - ‘He is welcome to me,’ then said Little John, - ‘I hope he will honestly pay; - I know he has gold, if it be but well told, - Will serve us to drink a whole day.’ - - [Illustration] - - - Then Robin took his mantle from his back, - And laid it upon the ground, - And out of the sheriffe’s portmantle - He told three hundred pound. - - The Robin he brought him thorow the wood, - And set him on his dapple gray: - ‘O have me commended to your wife at home;’ - So Robin went laughing away. - - _Author Unknown_ - - - - - A SEA SONG - - - A wet sheet and a flowing sea, - A wind that follows fast, - And fills the white and rustling sail, - And bends the gallant mast; - And bends the gallant mast, my boys, - While, like the eagle free, - Away the good ship flies, and leaves - Old England on the lee. - - O for a soft and gentle wind! - I heard a fair one cry; - But give to me the snoring breeze - And white waves heaving high; - And white waves heaving high, my boys, - The good ship tight and free-- - The world of waters is our home, - And merry men are we. - - There’s tempest in yon hornèd moon, - And lightning in yon cloud; - And hark the music, mariners! - The wind is piping loud; - The wind is piping loud, my boys, - The lightning flashes free-- - While the hollow oak our palace is, - Our heritage the sea. - - _Allan Cunningham_ - - - - - EPITAPH ON A HARE - - - Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue, - Nor swifter greyhound follow, - Whose foot ne’er tainted morning dew, - Nor ear heard huntsman’s hallo; - - Old Tiney, surliest of his kind, - Who, nursed with tender care, - And to domestic bounds confined, - Was still a wild Jack-hare. - - Though duly from my hand he took - His pittance every night, - He did it with a jealous look, - And, when he could, would bite. - - His diet was of wheaten bread, - And milk, and oats, and straw; - Thistles, or lettuces instead, - With sand to scour his maw. - - On twigs of hawthorn he regaled, - On pippins’ russet peel; - And, when his juicy salads failed, - Sliced carrot pleased him well. - - A Turkey carpet was his lawn, - Whereon he loved to bound, - To skip and gambol like a fawn, - And swing his rump around. - - His frisking was at evening hours, - For then he lost his fear; - But most before approaching showers, - Or when a storm drew near. - - [Illustration] - - Eight years and five round-rolling moons - He thus saw steal away, - Dozing out all his idle noons, - And every night at play. - - I kept him for his humor’s sake, - For he would oft beguile - My heart of thoughts that made it ache, - And force me to a smile. - - But now, beneath this walnut-shade - He finds his long, last home, - And waits, in snug concealment laid, - Till gentler Puss shall come. - - He, still more agèd, feels the shocks - From which no care can save, - And, partner once of Tiney’s box, - Must soon partake his grave. - - _William Cowper_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE PILGRIM - - From “THE PILGRIM’S PROGRESS” - - - Who would true valor see, - Let him come hither! - One here will constant be, - Come wind, come weather; - There’s no discouragement - Shall make him once relent - His first-avowed intent - To be a Pilgrim. - - Whoso beset him round - With dismal stories, - Do but themselves confound; - His strength the more is. - No lion can him fright; - He’ll with a giant fight; - But he will have a right - To be a Pilgrim. - - Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend, - Can daunt his spirit; - He knows he at the end - Shall Life inherit:-- - Then, fancies, fly away; - He’ll not fear what men say; - He’ll labor night and day, - To be a Pilgrim. - - _John Bunyan_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - LULLABY FOR TITANIA - - - _First Fairy_ - - You spotted snakes with double tongue, - Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; - Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong; - Come not near our fairy queen. - - _Chorus_ - - 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. - - _Second Fairy_ - - Weaving spiders, come not here; - Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence; - Beetles black, approach not near; - Worm, nor snail, do no offence. - - _Chorus_ - - Philomel with melody - Sing in our sweet lullaby; - - [Illustration] - - Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! - Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, - Come our lovely lady nigh! - So good-night, with lullaby. - - _William Shakespeare_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - ISRAFEL - -And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has -the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.--_Koran._ - - - In Heaven a spirit doth dwell - Whose heart-strings are a lute; - None sing so wildly well - As the Angel Israfel, - And the giddy stars (so legends tell), - Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell - Of his voice, all mute. - - Tottering above - In her highest noon, - The enamoured moon - Blushes with love, - While, to listen, the red levin - (With the rapid Pleiads, even, - Which were seven) - Pauses in Heaven. - - And they say (the starry choir - And the other listening things) - That Israfeli’s fire - Is owing to that lyre - By which he sits and sings, - The trembling living wire - Of those unusual strings. - - [Illustration] - - - But the skies that angel trod, - Where deep thoughts are a duty, - Where Love’s a grown-up God, - Where the Houri glances are - Imbued with all the beauty - Which we worship in a star. - - Therefore thou art not wrong, - Israfeli, who despisest - An unimpassioned song; - To thee the laurels belong, - Best bard, because the wisest: - Merrily live, and long! - - The ecstasies above - With thy burning measures suit: - Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, - With the fervor of thy lute: - Well may the stars be mute! - - Yes, Heaven is thine; but this - Is a world of sweets and sours; - Our flowers are merely--flowers, - And the shadow of thy perfect bliss - Is the sunshine of ours. - - If I could dwell - Where Israfel - Hath dwelt, and he where I, - He might not sing so wildly well - A mortal melody, - While a bolder note than this might swell - From my lyre within the sky. - - _Edgar Allan Poe_ - - - - - JAFFÁR - - - Jaffár, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, - The poor man’s hope, the friend without a peer, - Jaffár was dead, slain by a doom unjust; - And guilty Hàroun, sullen with mistrust - Of what the good, and e’en the bad, might say, - Ordained that no man living from that day - Should dare to speak his name on pain of death. - All Araby and Persia held their breath; - All but the brave Mondeer: he, proud to show - How far for love a grateful soul could go, - And facing death for very scorn and grief - (For his great heart wanted a great relief), - Stood forth in Bagdad daily, in the square - Where once had stood a happy house, and there - Harangued the tremblers at the scimitar - On all they owed to the divine Jaffár. - - “Bring me this man,” the caliph cried. The man - Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began - To bind his arms. “Welcome, brave cords,” cried he; - “From bonds far worse Jaffár delivered me; - From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; - Made a man’s eyes friends with delicious tears; - Restored me, loved me, put me on a par - With his great self. How can I pay Jaffár?” - - Hàroun, who felt that on a soul like this - The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss - Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate - Might smile upon another half as great. - He said, “Let worth grow frenzied if it will; - The caliph’s judgment shall be master still. - Go: and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, - The richest in the Tartar’s diadem, - And hold the giver as thou deemest fit!” - - “Gifts!” cried the friend; he took, and holding it - High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, - Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffár!” - - _Leigh Hunt_ - - - - - A SONG OF SHERWOOD - - - Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake? - Gray and ghostly shadows are gliding through the brake; - Shadows of the dappled deer, dreaming of the morn, - Dreaming of a shadowy man that winds a shadowy horn. - - Robin Hood is here again: all his merry thieves - Hear a ghostly bugle-note shivering through the leaves, - Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, - In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. - - Merry, merry England has kissed the lips of June: - All the wings of fairyland were here beneath the moon; - Like a flight of rose-leaves fluttering in a mist - Of opal and ruby and pearl and amethyst. - - Merry, merry England is waking as of old, - With eyes of blither hazel and hair of brighter gold: - For Robin Hood is here again beneath the bursting spray - In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. - - Love is in the greenwood building him a house - Of wild rose and hawthorn and honeysuckle boughs: - Love is in the greenwood: dawn is in the skies; - And Marian is waiting with a glory in her eyes. - - Hark! The dazzled laverock climbs the golden steep: - Marian is waiting: is Robin Hood asleep? - Round the fairy grass-rings frolic elf and fay, - In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. - - Oberon, Oberon, rake away the gold, - Rake away the red leaves, roll away the mould, - Rake away the gold leaves, roll away the red, - And wake Will Scarlett from his leafy forest bed. - - Friar Tuck and Little John are riding down together - With quarter-staff and drinking-can and gray goose-feather; - The dead are coming back again; the years are rolled away - In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. - - Softly over Sherwood the south wind blows; - All the heart of England hid in every rose - Hears across the greenwood the sunny whisper leap, - Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep? - - Hark, the voice of England wakes him as of old - And, shattering the silence with a cry of brighter gold, - Bugles in the greenwood echo from the steep, - _Sherwood in the red dawn, is Robin Hood asleep?_ - - Where the deer are gliding down the shadowy glen - All across the glades of fern he calls his merry men; - Doublets of the Lincoln green glancing through the May - In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day; - Calls them and they answer: from aisles of oak and ash - Rings the _Follow! Follow!_ and the boughs begin to crash; - The ferns begin to flutter and the flowers begin to fly; - And through the crimson dawning the robber band goes by. - - _Robin! Robin! Robin!_ All his merry thieves - Answer as the bugle-note shivers through the leaves: - Calling as he used to call, faint and far away, - In Sherwood, in Sherwood, about the break of day. - - _Alfred Noyes_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB - - (710 B.C.) - - - The Assyrian came down like the 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 withered 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 nostrils 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_ - - - - - IVRY - - (March 14, 1590) - - - Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! - And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! - Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, - Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! - And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, - Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. - As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy; - For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. - Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war. - Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry and Henry of Navarre. - - Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, - We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; - With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, - And Appenzel’s stout infantry and Egmont’s Flemish spears. - There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; - And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; - And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine’s empurpled flood, - And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; - And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, - To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. - - The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor dressed; - And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. - He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; - He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. - Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, - Down all our line, a deafening shout: “God save our Lord the King!” - “And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, - For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, - Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, - And be your oriflamme today the helmet of Navarre.” - - Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, - Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. - The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André’s plain, - With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. - Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, - Charge for the golden lilies,--upon them with the lance! - A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, - A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; - And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, - Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. - - Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein; - D’Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish count is slain. - Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; - The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. - And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, - “Remember Saint Bartholomew!” was passed from man to man. - But out spake gentle Henry, “No Frenchman is my foe: - Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.” - Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, - As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre?... - - Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne; - Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. - Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, - That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen’s souls. - Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; - Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; - For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, - And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. - Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; - And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! - - _Thomas Babington Macaulay_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE TIGER - - - Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, - In the forests of the night, - What immortal hand or eye - Could frame thy fearful symmetry? - - In what distant deeps or skies - Burnt the fire of thine eyes? - On what wings dare he aspire? - What the hand dare seize the fire? - - And what shoulder, and what art, - Could twist the sinews of thy heart? - And when thy heart began to beat, - What dread hand and what dread feet? - - What the hammer? what the chain? - In what furnace was thy brain? - What the anvil? What dread grasp - Dare its deadly terrors clasp? - - When the stars threw down their spears, - And watered heaven with their tears, - Did He smile His work to see? - Did He who made the Lamb, make thee? - - Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, - In the forests of the night, - What immortal hand or eye - Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? - - _William Blake_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE TERRIBLE ROBBER MEN - - - O! I wish the sun was bright in the sky, - And the fox was back in his den, O! - For always I’m hearing the passing by - Of the terrible robber men, O! - The terrible robber men. - - O! what does the fox carry over the rye - When it’s bright in the morn again, O! - And what is it making the lonesome cry - With the terrible robber men, O! - The terrible robber men. - - O! I wish the sun was bright in the sky, - And the fox was back in his den, O! - For always I’m hearing the passing by - Of the terrible robber men, O! - The terrible robber men. - - _Padraic Colum_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - SIR PATRICK SPENS - - - The king sits in Dunfermline toun, - Drinking the blude-red wine: - ‘O whare will I get a skeely skipper - To sail this new ship of mine?’ - - O up and spake an eldern knight, - Sat at the king’s right knee-- - ‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor - That ever sailed the sea.’ - - Our king has written a braid letter, - And sealed it with his hand, - And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, - Was walking on the strand. - - ‘To Noroway, to Noroway, - To Noroway o’er the faem; - The king’s daughter of Noroway, - ’Tis thou maun bring her hame.’ - - The first word that Sir Patrick read, - Sae loud loud laughed he; - The neist word that Sir Patrick read, - The tear blinded his e’e. - - ‘O wha is this has done this deed, - And tauld the king o’ me, - To send us out, at this time of the year, - To sail upon the sea?’ - - ‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, - Our ship must sail the faem; - The king’s daughter of Noroway, - ’Tis we must fetch her hame.’ - - They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, - Wi’ a’ the speed they may; - And they hae landed in Noroway - Upon a Wedensday. - - They hadna been a week, a week - In Noroway but twae, - When that the lords o’ Noroway - Began aloud to say: - - ‘Ye Scottishmen spend a’ our king’s gowd, - And a’ our queenis fee.’ - ‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! - Fu’ loud I hear ye lie! - - ‘For I hae brought as much white monie - As gane my men and me-- - And I hae brought a half-fou’ o’ gude red gowd - Out o’er the sea wi’ me. - - ‘Make ready, make ready, my merry men a’! - Our gude ship sails the morn.’ - ‘Now ever alake, my master dear, - I fear a deadly storm! - - ‘I saw the new moon, late yestreen, - Wi’ the auld moon in her arm; - And if we gang to sea, master, - I fear we’ll come to harm.’ - - They hadna sail’d a league, a league, - A league but barely three, - When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, - And gurly grew the sea. - - The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap, - It was sic a deadly storm; - And the waves cam’ o’er the broken ship - Till a’ her sides were torn. - - ‘O where will I get a gude sailor, - To take my helm in hand, - Till I get up to the tall top-mast; - To see if I can spy land?’ - - ‘O here am I, a sailor gude, - To take the helm in hand, - Till ye get up to the tall top-mast: - But I fear you’ll ne’er spy land.’ - - He hadna gane a step, a step, - A step but barely ane, - When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, - And the salt sea it came in. - - ‘Gae, fetch a web o’ the silken claith, - Another o’ the twine, - And wap them into our ship’s side, - And letna the sea come in.’ - - They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith, - Another o’ the twine, - And they wapped them round that gude ship’s side, - But still the sea came in. - - O laith laith were our gude Scots lords - To wet their cork-heeled shoon! - But lang ere a’ the play was play’d - They wat their hats aboon. - - And mony was the feather-bed - That floated on the faem, - And mony was the gude lord’s son - That never mair came hame. - - The ladyes wrang their fingers white-- - The maidens tore their hair; - - [Illustration] - - A’ for the sake of their true loves-- - For them they’ll see na mair. - - O lang lang may the ladyes sit, - Wi’ their fans into their hand, - Before they see Sir Patrick Spens - Come sailing to the strand! - - And lang lang may the maidens sit, - Wi’ the goud kaims in their hair, - A’ waiting for their ain dear loves-- - For them they’ll see na mair. - - O forty miles off Aberdour, - ’Tis fifty fathoms deep, - And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, - Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet. - - _Author Unknown_ - - - - - “BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND” - - - Blow, blow, thou winter wind, - Thou are not so unkind - As man’s ingratitude; - Thy tooth is not so keen, - Because thou art not seen, - Although thy breath be rude. - Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly; - Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; - Then, heigh-ho! the holly! - This life is most jolly! - - Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, - Thou dost not bite so nigh - As benefits forgot: - Though thou the waters warp, - Thy sting is not so sharp - As friend remembered not. - Heigh-ho! sing heigh-ho! unto the green holly - Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly; - Then, heigh-ho, the holly! - This life is most jolly! - - _William Shakespeare_ - - - - - THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN - - (A Child’s Story) - - [Illustration] - - - I - - Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, - By famous Hanover city; - The river Weser, deep and wide, - Washes its wall on the southern side; - A pleasanter spot you never spied; - But, when begins my ditty, - Almost five hundred years ago, - To see the townsfolk suffer so - From vermin was a pity. - - - II - - Rats! - They fought the dogs and killed the cats - And bit the babies in the cradles, - And ate the cheeses out of the vats, - And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles, - Split open the kegs of salted sprats, - Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, - And even spoiled the women’s chats - By drowning their speaking - With shrieking and squeaking - In fifty different sharps and flats. - - - III - - At last the people in a body - To the Town Hall came flocking: - “’Tis clear,” cried they, “our Mayor’s a noddy; - And as for our Corporation,--shocking - To think we buy gowns lined with ermine - For dolts that can’t or won’t determine - What’s best to rid us of our vermin! - You hope, because you’re old and obese, - To find in the furry civic robe ease? - Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking, - To find the remedy we’re lacking, - Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!” - At this the Mayor and Corporation - Quaked with a mighty consternation. - - - IV - - An hour they sat in council,-- - At length the Mayor broke silence: - “For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell; - I wish I were a mile hence! - It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain,-- - I’m sure my poor head aches again, - I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain. - Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!” - Just as he said this, what should hap - At the chamber-door but a gentle tap? - “Bless us,” cried the Mayor, “what’s that?” - (With the Corporation as he sat, - Looking little though wondrous fat; - Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister - Than a too-long-opened oyster, - Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous - For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) - “Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? - Anything like the sound of a rat - Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!” - - - V - - “Come in!” the Mayor cried, looking bigger: - And in did come the strangest figure! - His queer long coat from heel to head - Was half of yellow and half of red, - And he himself was tall and thin, - With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, - And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, - No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, - But lips where smiles went out and in; - There was no guessing his kith and kin: - And nobody could enough admire - The tall man and his quaint attire. - Quoth one: “It’s as my great-grandsire, - Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s tone, - Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!” - - - VI - - He advanced to the council-table: - And, “Please your honors,” said he, “I’m able, - By means of a secret charm to draw - All creatures living beneath the sun, - That creep or swim or fly or run, - After me so as you never saw! - And I chiefly use my charm - On creatures that do people harm, - The mole and toad and newt and viper; - And people call me the Pied Piper.” - (And here they noticed round his neck - A scarf of red and yellow stripe, - To match with his coat of the self-same check, - And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe; - And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying - As if impatient to be playing - Upon this pipe as low it dangled - Over his vesture so old-fangled.) - “Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am, - In Tartary I freed the Cham, - Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats; - I eased in Asia the Nizam - Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats; - And as for what your brain bewilders,-- - If I can rid your town of rats, - Will you give me a thousand guilders?” - “One? fifty thousand!” was the exclamation - Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. - - [Illustration] - - - VII - - Into the street the Piper stepped, - Smiling first a little smile, - As if he knew what magic slept - In his quiet pipe the while; - Then, like a musical adept, - To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, - And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, - Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; - And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, - You heard as if an army muttered; - And the muttering grew to a grumbling; - And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; - And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. - Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, - Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, - Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, - Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, - Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; - Families by tens and dozens, - Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,-- - Followed the Piper for their lives. - From street to street he piped advancing, - And step for step they followed dancing, - Until they came to the river Weser, - Wherein all plunged and perished! - --Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, - Swam across and lived to carry - (As he, the manuscript he cherished) - To Rat-land home his commentary, - Which was: “At the first shrill notes of the pipe, - I heard the sound as of scraping tripe, - And putting apples, wondrous ripe, - Into a cider-press’s gripe,-- - And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, - And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, - And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, - And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; - And it seemed as if a voice - (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery - Is breathed) called out ‘Oh rats, rejoice! - The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! - So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, - Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’ - And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, - Already staved, like a great sun shone - Glorious scarce an inch before me, - Just as methought it said, ‘Come, bore me!’-- - I found the Weser rolling o’er me.” - - [Illustration] - - - VIII - - You should have heard the Hamelin people - Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; - “Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles! - Poke out the nests and block up the holes! - Consult with carpenters and builders, - And leave in our town not even a trace - Of the rats!”--when suddenly, up the face - Of the Piper perked in the market-place, - With a “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!” - - - IX - - A thousand guilders! the Mayor looked blue; - So did the Corporation too. - For council-dinners made rare havoc - With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; - And half the money would replenish - Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. - To pay this sum to a wandering fellow - With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! - “Beside,” quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, - “Our business was done at the river’s brink; - We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, - And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. - So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink - From the duty of giving you something to drink, - And a matter of money to put in your poke; - But as for the guilders, what we spoke - Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. - Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; - A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!” - - - X - - The Piper’s face fell, and he cried, - “No trifling! I can’t wait! beside, - I’ve promised to visit by dinner time - Bagdat, and accept the prime - Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in, - For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, - Of a nest of scorpions no survivor; - With him I proved no bargain-driver; - With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! - And folks who put me in a passion - May find me pipe after another fashion.” - - [Illustration] - - - XI - - “How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I brook - Being worse treated than a Cook? - Insulted by a lazy ribald - With idle pipe and vesture piebald? - You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, - Blow your pipe there till you burst!” - - [Illustration] - - - XII - - Once more he stepped into the street; - And to his lips again - Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; - And ere he blew three notes (such sweet - Soft notes as jet musician’s cunning - Never gave the enraptured air) - There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling - Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; - Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, - Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering; - And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, - Out came the children running: - All the little boys and girls, - With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, - And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, - Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after - The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. - - - XIII - - The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood - As if they were changed into blocks of wood, - Unable to move a step, or cry - To the children merrily skipping by,-- - And could only follow with the eye - That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back. - But how the Mayor was on the rack, - And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, - As the Piper turned from the High Street - To where the Weser rolled its waters - Right in the way of their sons and daughters! - However, he turned from south to west, - And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, - And after him the children pressed; - Great was the joy in every breast. - “He never can cross that mighty top! - He’s forced to let the piping drop, - And we shall see our children stop!” - When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, - A wondrous portal opened wide, - As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; - And the Piper advanced and the children followed; - And when all were in, to the very last, - The door in the mountain-side shut fast. - Did I say, all? No! One was lame, - And could not dance the whole of the way; - And in after years, if you would blame - His sadness, he was used to say,-- - “It’s dull in our town since my playmates left! - I can’t forget that I am bereft - Of all the pleasant sights they see, - Which the Piper also promised me; - For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, - Joining the town and just at hand, - Where waters gushed, and fruit-trees grew, - And flowers put forth a fairer hue, - And everything was strange and new; - The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, - And their dogs outran our fallow deer, - And honey-bees had lost their stings, - And horses were born with eagles’ wings; - And just as I became assured - My lame foot would be speedily cured, - The music stopped and I stood still, - And found myself outside the hill, - Left alone against my will, - To go now limping as before, - And never hear of that country more!” - - - XIV - - Alas, alas for Hamelin! - There came into many a burgher’s pate - A text which says that heaven’s gate - Opes to the rich at as easy rate - As the needle’s eye takes a camel in! - The Mayor sent East, West, North and South, - To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, - Wherever it was men’s lot to find him, - Silver and gold to his heart’s content, - If he’d only return the way he went, - And bring the children behind him. - But when they saw ’twas a lost endeavor, - And piper and dancers were gone forever, - They made a decree that lawyers never - Should think their records dated duly - If, after the day of the month and year, - These words did not as well appear, - “And so long after what happened here - On the Twenty-second of July, - Thirteen hundred and seventy-six:” - And the better in memory to fix - The place of the children’s last retreat, - They called it, the Pied Piper Street-- - Where any one playing on pipe or tabor - Was sure for the future to lose his labor. - Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern - To shock with mirth a street so solemn; - But opposite the place of the cavern - They wrote the story on a column, - And on the great church-window painted - The same, to make the world acquainted - How their children were stolen away, - And there it stands to this very day. - And I must not omit to say - That in Transylvania there’s a tribe - Of alien people who ascribe - The outlandish ways and dress - On which their neighbors lay such stress, - To their fathers and mothers having risen - Out of some subterraneous prison - Into which they were trepanned - Long time ago in a mighty band - Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, - But how or why, they don’t understand. - - - XV - - So, Willy, let me and you be wipers - Of scores out with all men--especially pipers! - And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, - If we’ve promised them aught, let us keep our promise! - - _Robert Browning_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - “TIME, YOU OLD GIPSY MAN” - - - Time, you old gipsy man, - Will you not stay, - Put up your caravan - Just for one day? - - All things I’ll give you - Will you be my guest, - Bells for your jennet - Of silver the best, - Goldsmiths shall beat you - A great golden ring, - Peacocks shall bow to you, - Little boys sing, - Oh, and sweet girls will - Festoon you with may. - Time, you old gipsy, - Why hasten away? - - Last week in Babylon, - Last night in Rome, - Morning, and in the crush - Under Paul’s dome; - Under Paul’s dial - You tighten your rein-- - Only a moment, - And off once again; - - [Illustration] - - - Off to some city - Now blind in the womb, - Off to another - Ere that’s in the tomb. - - Time, you old gipsy man, - Will you not stay, - Put up your caravan - Just for one day? - - _Ralph Hodgson_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SOLITARY REAPER - - - Behold her, single in the field, - Yon solitary Highland Lass! - Reaping and singing by herself; - Stop here, or gently pass! - Alone she cuts and binds the grain, - And sings a melancholy strain; - O listen! for the Vale profound - Is overflowing with the sound. - - No Nightingale did ever chaunt - More welcome notes to weary bands - Of travellers in some shady haunt, - Among Arabian sands: - A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard - In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, - Breaking the silence of the seas - Among the farthest Hebrides. - - Will no one tell me what she sings?-- - Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow - For old, unhappy, far-off things, - And battles long ago: - Or is it some more humble lay, - Familiar matter of to-day? - Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, - That has been, and may be again? - - Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang - As if her song could have no ending; - I saw her singing at her work, - And o’er the sickle bending;-- - I listened, motionless and still; - And, as I mounted up the hill - The music in my heart I bore, - Long after it was heard no more. - - _William Wordsworth_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - MY LOST YOUTH - - - 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 - 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 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.” - - I remember the bulwarks by the shore, - And the fort upon the hill; - The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, - The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, - And the bugle wild and shrill. - And the music of that old song - Throbs in my memory still: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” - - I remember the sea-fight far away, - How it thundered o’er the tide! - And the dead captains, as they lay - In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay - Where they in battle died. - And the sound of that mournful song - Goes through me with a thrill: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” - - I can see the breezy dome of groves, - The shadows of Deering’s Woods; - And the friendships old and the early loves - Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves - In quiet neighborhoods. - And the verse of that sweet old song, - It flutters and murmurs still: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” - - I remember the gleams and glooms that dart - Across the school-boy’s brain; - The song and the silence in the heart, - That in part are prophecies, and in part - Are longings wild and vain. - And the voice of that fitful song - Sings on, and is never still: - “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, - And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”... - - _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - BATTLE-HYMN OF THE 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 fateful lighting 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. - - I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: - “As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; - Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, - Since God 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: - Oh, 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - GATHERING SONG OF DONALD DHU - - - Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, - Pibroch of Donuil, - Wake thy wild voice anew, - Summon Clan Conuil. - Come away, come away, - Hark to the summons! - Come in your war-array, - Gentles and commons. - - Come from deep glen, and - From mountain so rocky, - The war-pipe and pennon - Are at Inverlochy. - Come every hill-plaid, and - True heart that wears one, - Come every steel blade, and - Strong hand that bears one. - - Leave untended the herd, - The flock without shelter; - Leave the corpse uninterr’d, - The bride at the altar; - Leave the deer, leave the steer, - Leave nets and barges: - Come with your fighting gear, - Broadswords and targes. - - Come as the winds come, when - Forests are rended; - Come as the waves come, when - Navies are stranded: - Faster come, faster come, - Faster and faster, - Chief, vassal, page and groom, - Tenant and master. - - Fast they come, fast they come; - See how they gather! - Wide waves the eagle plume - Blended with heather. - Cast your plaids, draw your blades, - Forward each man set! - Pibroch of Donuil Dhu - Knell for the onset! - - _Sir Walter Scott_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE MINSTREL-BOY - - - The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, - In the ranks of death you’ll find him; - His father’s sword he has girded on, - And his wild harp slung behind him.-- - ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior-bard, - ‘Though all the world betrays thee, - _One_ sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, - _One_ faithful harp shall praise thee!’ - - The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman’s chain - Could not bring his proud soul under; - The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, - For he tore its chords asunder; - And said, ‘No chains shall sully thee, - Thou soul of love and bravery! - Thy songs were made for the brave and free, - They shall never sound in slavery!’ - - _Thomas Moore_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - BANNOCKBURN - - (_Robert Bruce’s Address to His Army_) - - - Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, - Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; - Welcome to your gory bed, - Or to glorious victorie. - - Now’s the day, and now’s the hour; - See the front o’ battle lower; - See approach proud Edward’s power-- - Edward! chains and slaverie! - - Wha will be a traitor knave? - Wha can fill a coward’s grave? - Wha sae base as be a slave? - Traitor! coward! turn and flee! - - Wha for Scotland’s King and law - Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, - Free-man stand, or free-man fa’? - Caledonian! on wi’ me! - - By oppression’s woes and pains! - By your sons in servile chains! - We will drain our dearest veins, - But they shall--they _shall_ be free! - - Lay the proud usurpers low! - Tyrants fall in every foe! - Liberty’s in every blow! - Forward! let us do, or die! - - _Robert Burns_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - FABLE - - - The mountain and the squirrel - Had a quarrel, - And the former called the latter “Little Prig;” - Bun replied, - “You are doubtless very big; - But all sorts of things and weather - Must be taken in together, - To make up a year - And a sphere. - And I think it no disgrace - To occupy my place. - If I’m not so large as you, - You are not so small as I, - And not half so spry. - - I’ll not deny you make - A very pretty squirrel track; - Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; - If I cannot carry forests on my back, - Neither can you crack a nut.” - - _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - GOOD HOURS - - - I had for my winter evening walk-- - No one at all with whom to talk, - But I had the cottages in a row - Up to their shining eyes in snow. - - And I thought I had the folk within: - I had the sound of a violin; - I had a glimpse through curtain laces - Of youthful forms and youthful faces. - - I had such company outward bound. - I went till there were no cottages found. - I turned and repented, but coming back - I saw no window but that was black. - - Over the snow my creaking feet - Disturbed the slumbering village street - Like profanation, by your leave, - At ten o’clock of a winter eve. - - _Robert Frost_ - - - - - WINTER - - - When icicles hang by the wall, - And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, - And Tom bears logs into the hall, - And milk comes frozen home in pail, - When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, - Then nightly sings the staring owl, - Tuwhoo! - Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! - While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. - - When all around the wind doth blow, - And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, - And birds sit brooding in the snow, - And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, - When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, - Then nightly sings the staring owl - Tuwhoo! - Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note! - While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. - - _William Shakespeare_ - - - - - A CHANTED CALENDAR - - - 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 looked 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 rolled by - Wanders to and fro - So tottered she, - Dishevelled in the wind. - - Then came the daisies, - On the first of May - Like a bannered 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 rolled 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE CLOUD - - - I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers - From the seas and the streams; - I bear light shade for the leaves when laid - In their noonday dreams. - From my wings are shaken the dews that waken - The sweet buds every one, - When rocked to rest on their mother’s breast - As she dances about the sun. - I wield the flail of the lashing hail, - And whiten the green plains under; - And then again I dissolve it in rain, - And laugh as I pass in thunder. - - I sift the snow on the mountains below, - And their great pines groan aghast; - And all the night ’tis my pillow white, - While I sleep in the arms of the blast. - Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers - Lightning my pilot sits; - In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, - It struggles and howls at fits. - - Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, - This pilot is guiding me, - Lured by the love of the Genii that move - In the depths of the purple sea; - Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, - Over the lakes and the plains, - Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, - The Spirit he loves remains; - And I all the while bask in heaven’s blue smile, - Whilst he is dissolving in rains. - - The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, - And his burning plumes outspread, - Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, - When the morning star shines dead, - As on the jag of a mountain-crag, - Which an earthquake rocks and swings, - An eagle alit one moment may sit - In the light of its golden wings. - And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, - Its ardors of rest and of love, - And the crimson pall of eve may fall - From the depth of heaven above, - With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, - As still as a brooding dove. - - That orbèd maiden with white fire laden, - Whom mortals call the Moon, - Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor, - By the midnight breezes strewn; - - [Illustration] - - And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, - Which only the angels hear, - May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof, - The Stars peep behind her and peer. - And I laugh to see them whirl and flee - Like a swarm of golden bees, - When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, - Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, - Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, - Are each paved with the moon and these. - - I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone, - And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl; - The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, - When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. - From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, - Over a torrent sea, - Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; - The mountains its columns be. - The triumphal arch through which I march, - With hurricane, fire and snow, - When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, - Is the million-colored bow; - The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, - While the moist Earth was laughing below. - - I am the daughter of Earth and Water, - And the nursling of the Sky: - I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; - I change, but I cannot die. - For after the rain, when with never a stain - The pavilion of heaven is bare, - And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams - Build up the blue dome of air, - I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, - And out of the caverns of rain, - Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, - I arise and unbuild it again. - - _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - BUGLE SONG - - - The splendor 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 - 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 Tennyson_ - - - - - 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-walled town, - And the little gray 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 the far-off bell. - She sighed, she looked up through the clear green sea; - She said: “I must go, for my kinsfolk pray - In the little gray 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? - - [Illustration] - - 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 gray 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 climbed 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 blessed 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 starred with broom, - And high rocks throw mildly - On the blanched 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 hillside-- - 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - NURSE’S SONG - - - When the voices of children are heard on the green - And laughing is heard on the hill, - My heart is at rest within my breast, - And everything else is still. - - “Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, - And the dews of night arise; - Come, come, leave off play, and let us away - Till the morning appears in the skies.” - - “No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, - And we cannot go to sleep; - Besides in the sky the little birds fly, - And the hills are all covered with sheep.” - - “Well, well, go and play till the light fades away, - And then go home to bed.” - The little ones leaped and shouted and laughed; - And all the hills echoèd. - - _William Blake_ - - - - - TO A MOUSE - - (_On Turning Up Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785_) - - - Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, - O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! - Thou need na start awa’ sae hasty, - Wi’ bickering brattle! - I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, - Wi’ murd’ring pattle! - - I’m truly sorry man’s dominion - Has broken Nature’s social union, - An’ justifies that ill opinion, - Which makes thee startle - At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, - An’ fellow-mortal! - - I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; - What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! - A daimen icker in a thrave - ’S a sma’ request; - I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the lave, - And never miss’t! - - Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! - Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’! - An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, - O’ foggage green! - An’ bleak December’s wind ensuin’, - Baith snell an’ keen! - - Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste, - An’ weary winter comin’ fast, - An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, - Thou thought to dwell,-- - Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed - Out through thy cell. - - That wee bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble - Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! - Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy trouble, - But house or hald, - To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, - An cranreuch cauld! - - But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, - In proving foresight may be vain: - The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men, - Gang aft a-gley, - An’ lea’e us naught but grief an’ pain, - For promised joy! - - Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me! - The present only toucheth thee: - But, och! I backward cast my e’e - On prospects drear! - An’ forward, though I canna see, - I guess an’ fear! - - _Robert Burns_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE FAIRIES - - [Illustration] - - - 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 gray - 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 lake, - On a bed of flag-leaves, - Watching till she wake. - - By the craggy hill-side, - Through the mosses bare, - They have planted thorn-trees - For pleasure here and there. - If any man so daring - As dig them 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; - - [Illustration] - - Wee folk, good folk, - Trooping all together; - Green jacket, red cap, - And white owl’s feather. - - _William Allingham_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI - - - O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, - Alone and palely loitering? - The sedge has withered from the lake, - And no birds sing. - - O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms - So haggard and so woe-begone? - The squirrel’s granary is full, - And the harvest’s done. - - I see a lily on thy brow - With anguish moist and fever-dew, - And on thy cheeks a fading rose - Fast withereth too. - - I met a lady in the meads, - Full beautiful--a faery’s child, - Her hair was long, her foot was light, - And her eyes were wild. - - I made a garland for her head, - And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; - She looked at me as she did love, - And made sweet moan. - - I set her on my pacing steed - And nothing else saw all day long, - - [Illustration] - - For sideways would she bend, and sing - A faery’s song. - - She found me roots of relish sweet, - And honey wild and manna-dew, - And sure in language strange she said, - “I love thee true.” - - She took me to her elfin grot, - And there she wept and sighed full sore; - And there I shut her wild, wild eyes - With kisses four. - - And there she lullèd me asleep, - And there I dreamed--Ah! woe betide! - The latest dream I ever dreamed - On the cold hill’s side. - - I saw pale kings and princes too, - Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: - They cried--“La belle dame sans merci - Hath thee in thrall!” - - I saw their starved lips in the gloam - With horrid warning gapèd wide, - And I awoke and found me here - On the cold hill’s side. - - And this is why I sojourn here - Alone and palely loitering, - Though the sedge is withered from the lake, - And no birds sing. - - _John Keats_ - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - - - SPRING - - - Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king; - Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring, - Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, - Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! - - The palm and may make country houses gay, - Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, - And we hear aye, birds tune this merry lay, - Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! - - The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, - Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit, - In every street, these tunes our ears do greet, - Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! - Spring! the sweet Spring! - - _Thomas Nashe_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - ‘I WANDERED LONELY’ - - - I wandered 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 stretched 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 - Out-did 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE GAY GOS-HAWK - - - “O well is me, my gay gos-hawk, - That you can speak and flee; - For you can carry a love-letter - To my true love frae me.” - - “O how can I carry a letter to her, - Or how should I her know? - I bear a tongue ne’er wi’ her spak’, - And eyes that ne’er her saw.” - - “The white o’ my love’s skin is white - As down o’ dove or maw; - The red o’ my love’s cheek is red - As blood that’s spilt on snaw. - - “When ye come to the castle, - Light on the tree of ash, - And sit ye there, and sing our loves - As she comes frae the mass. - - “Four and twenty fair ladies - Will to the mass repair; - And weel may ye my lady ken, - The fairest lady there.” - - When the gos-hawk flew to that castle, - He lighted on the ash; - And there he sat and sang their loves - As she came frae the mass. - - “Stay where ye be, my maidens a’, - And sip red wine anon, - Till I go to my west window - And hear a birdie’s moan.” - - She’s gane unto her west window, - The bolt she fainly drew; - And unto that lady’s white, white neck - The bird a letter threw. - - [Illustration] - - “Ye’re bidden to send your love a send, - For he has sent you twa; - And tell him where he may see you soon, - Or he cannot live ava.” - - “I send him the ring from my finger, - The garland off my hair, - I send him the heart that’s in my breast; - What would my love have mair? - And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, - Ye’ll bid him wait for me there.” - - She hied her to her father dear - As fast as gang could she: - “I’m sick at the heart, my father dear; - An asking grant you me!” - “Ask ye na for that Scottish lord, - For him ye’ll never see!” - - “An asking, an asking, dear father!” she says, - “An asking grant you me; - That if I die in fair England, - In Scotland ye’ll bury me. - - “At the first kirk o’ fair Scotland, - Ye cause the bells be rung; - At the second kirk o’ fair Scotland, - Ye cause the mass be sung; - - “At the third kirk o’ fair Scotland, - Ye deal gold for my sake; - At the fourth kirk o’ fair Scotland, - O there ye’ll bury me at! - - “This is all my asking, father, - I pray ye grant it me!” - “Your asking is but small,” he said; - “Weel granted it shall be. - But why do ye talk o’ suchlike things? - For ye arena going to dee.” - - The lady’s gane to her chamber, - And a moanfu’ woman was she, - As gin she had ta’en a sudden brash, - And were about to dee. - - The lady’s gane to her chamber - As fast as she could fare; - And she has drunk a sleepy draught, - She mixed wi’ mickle care. - - She’s fallen into a heavy trance, - And pale and cold was she; - She seemed to be as surely dead - As any corpse could be. - - Out and spak’ an auld witch-wife, - At the fireside sat she: - “Gin she has killed herself for love, - I wot it weel may be: - - “But drap the het lead on her cheek, - And drap it on her chin. - And drap it on her bosom white, - And she’ll maybe speak again. - ’Tis much that a young lady will do - To her true love to win.” - - They drapped the het lead on her cheek, - They drapped it on her chin, - They drapped it on her bosom white, - But she spake none again. - - [Illustration] - - Her brothers they went to a room, - To make to her a bier; - The boards were a’ o’ cedar wood, - The edges o’ silver clear. - - Her sisters they went to a room, - To make to her a sark; - The cloth was a’ o’ the satin fine, - And the stitching silken-wark. - - “Now well is me, my gay gos-hawk, - That ye can speak and flee! - Come show me any love-tokens - That ye have brought to me.” - - “She sends ye her ring frae her finger white, - The garland frae her hair; - She sends ye the heart within her breast; - And what would ye have mair? - And at the fourth kirk o’ fair Scotland, - She bids ye wait for her there.” - - “Come hither, all my merry young men! - And drink the good red wine; - For we must on towards fair England - To free my love frae pine.” - - The funeral came into fair Scotland, - And they gart the bells be rung; - And when it came to the second kirk, - They gart the mass be sung. - - And when it came to the third kirk, - They dealt gold for her sake; - And when it came to the fourth kirk, - Her love was waiting thereat. - - At the fourth kirk in fair Scotland - Stood spearmen in a row; - And up and started her ain true love, - The chieftain over them a’. - - “Set down, set down the bier,” he says, - “Till I look upon the dead; - The last time that I saw her face, - Its color was warm and red.” - - He stripped the sheet from off her face - A little below the chin; - The lady then she opened her eyes, - And lookèd full on him. - - “O give me a shive o’ your bread, love, - O give me a cup o’ your wine! - Long have I fasted for your sake, - And now I fain would dine. - - “Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, - Gae hame and blow the horn! - And ye may say that ye sought my skaith, - And that I hae gi’en ye the scorn. - - “I cam’ na here to bonny Scotland - To lie down in the clay; - But I cam’ here to bonny Scotland, - To wear the silks sae gay! - - “I cam’ na here to bonny Scotland, - Amang the dead to rest; - But I cam’ here to bonny Scotland - To the man that I lo’e best!” - - _Author Unknown_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - AN OLD SONG OF FAIRIES - - - Come, follow, follow me, - You, fairy elves that be: - Which circle on the greene, - Come, follow Mab your queene. - Hand in hand let’s dance around, - For this place is fairye ground. - - When mortals are at rest, - And snoring in their nest: - Unheard, and unespy’d, - Through key-holes we do glide; - Over tables, stools, and shelves, - We trip it with our fairy elves. - - And, if the house be foul - With platter, dish, or bowl, - Up stairs we nimbly creep, - And find the sluts asleep: - There we pinch their armes and thighes; - None escapes, nor none espies. - - But if the house be swept, - And from uncleanness kept, - We praise the household maid, - And duely she is paid: - For we use before we goe - To drop a tester in her shoe. - - Upon a mushroomes head - Our table-cloth we spread; - A grain of rye, or wheat, - Is manchet, which we eat; - Pearly drops of dew we drink - In acorn cups fill’d to the brink. - - The brains of nightingales, - With unctuous fat of snailes, - Between two cockles stew’d, - Is meat that’s easily chew’d; - Tailes of wormes, and marrow of mice, - Do make a dish, that’s wonderous nice. - - The grashopper, gnat, and fly, - Serve for our minstrelsie; - Grace said, we dance a while, - And so the time beguile: - And if the moon doth hide her head, - The gloe-worm lights us home to bed. - - On tops of dewie grasse - So nimbly do we passe, - The young and tender stalk - Ne’er bends when we do walk: - Yet in the morning may be seen - Where we the night before have been. - - _Author Unknown_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - MOON FOLLY - - (_The Song of Conn the Fool_) - - - I will go up the mountain after the Moon: - She is caught in a dead fir-tree. - Like a great pale apple of silver and pearl, - Like a great pale apple is she. - - I will leap and will catch her with quick cold hands - And carry her home in my sack. - I will set her down safe on the oaken bench - That stands at the chimney-back. - - And then I will sit by the fire all night, - And sit by the fire all day. - I will gnaw at the Moon to my heart’s delight - Till I gnaw her slowly away. - - And while I grow mad with the Moon’s cold taste - The World will beat at my door, - Crying “Come out!” and crying “Make haste, - And give us the Moon once more!” - - But I shall not answer them ever at all. - I shall laugh, as I count and hide - The great black beautiful Seeds of the Moon - In a flower-pot deep and wide. - - Then I shall lie down and go fast asleep, - Drunken with flame and aswoon. - But the seeds will sprout and the seeds will leap, - The subtle swift seeds of the Moon. - - And some day, all of the World that cries - And beats at my door shall see - A thousand moon-leaves spring from my thatch - On a wonderful white Moon-tree! - - Then each shall have Moons to his heart’s desire: - Apples of silver and pearl; - Apples of orange and copper fire - Setting his five wits aswirl! - - And then they will thank me, who mock me now, - “Wanting the Moon is he,”-- - Oh, I’m off to the mountain after the Moon, - Ere she falls from the dead fir-tree! - - _Fannie Stearns Gifford_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - STAR-TALK - - - “Are you awake, Gemelli, - This frosty night?” - “We’ll be awake till reveillé, - Which is Sunrise,” say the Gemelli, - “It’s no good trying to go to sleep: - If there’s wine to be got we’ll drink it deep, - But sleep is gone for to-night - But sleep is gone for to-night.” - - “Are you cold, too, poor Pleiads, - This frosty night?” - “Yes, and so are the Hyads: - See us cuddle and hug,” say the Pleiads, - “All six in a ring: it keeps us warm: - We huddle together like birds in a storm: - It’s bitter weather to-night, - It’s bitter weather to-night.” - - “What do you hunt, Orion, - This starry night?” - “The Ram, the Bull and the Lion, - And the Great Bear,” says Orion, - “With my starry quiver and beautiful belt - I am trying to find a good thick pelt - To warm my shoulders to-night, - To warm my shoulders to-night.” - - “Did you hear that, Great She-bear, - This frosty night?” - “Yes, he’s talking of stripping me bare - Of my own big fur,” says the She-bear, - “I’m afraid of the man and his terrible arrow: - The thought of it chills my bones to the marrow, - And the frost so cruel to-night! - And the frost so cruel to-night!” - - “How is your trade, Aquarius, - This frosty night?” - “Complaints is many and various - And my feet are cold,” says Aquarius, - “There’s Venus objects to Dolphin-scales, - And Mars to Crab-spawn found in my pails, - And the pump has frozen to-night, - And the pump has frozen to-night.” - - _Robert Graves_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - JIM JAY - - - Do diddle di do, - Poor Jim Jay - Got stuck fast - In Yesterday. - Squinting he was, - On cross-legs bent, - Never heeding - The wind was spent. - Round veered the weathercock, - The sun drew in-- - And stuck was Jim - Like a rusty pin.... - We pulled and we pulled - From seven till twelve, - Jim, too frightened - To help himself. - But all in vain. - The clock struck one, - And there was Jim - A little bit gone. - At half-past five - You scarce could see - A glimpse of his flapping - Handkerchee. - And when came noon, - And we climbed sky-high, - Jim was a speck - Slip-slipping by. - Come tomorrow, - The neighbours say, - He’ll be past crying for; - Poor Jim Jay. - - _Walter de la Mare_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE GHOSTS OF THE BUFFALOES - - - Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry, - The windows were shaking, there was thunder on high, - The floor was a-tremble, the door was a-jar, - White fires, crimson fires, shone from afar. - I rushed to the door yard. The city was gone. - My home was a hut without orchard or lawn. - It was mud-smear and logs near a whispering stream, - Nothing else built by man could I see in my dream.... - Then ... - Ghost-kings came headlong, row upon row, - Gods of the Indians, torches aglow. - - They mounted the bear and the elk and the deer, - And eagles gigantic, aged and sere, - They rode long-horn cattle, they cried “A-la-la.” - They lifted the knife, the bow, and the spear, - They lifted ghost-torches from dead fires below, - The midnight made grand with the cry “A-la-la.” - The midnight made grand with a red-god charge, - A red-god show, - A red-god show, - “A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.” - - With bodies like bronze, and terrible eyes - Came the rank and the file, with catamount cries, - Gibbering, yipping, with hollow-skull clacks, - Riding white bronchos with skeleton backs, - Scalp-hunters, beaded and spangled and bad, - Naked and lustful and foaming and mad, - Flashing primeval demoniac scorn, - Blood-thirst and pomp amid darkness reborn, - Power and glory that sleep in the grass - While the winds and the snows and the great rains pass. - They crossed the gray river, thousands abreast, - They rode in infinite lines to the west, - Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, - Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, - The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, - And on past those far golden splendors they whirled. - They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep. - And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep. - - And the wind crept by - Alone, unkempt, unsatisfied, - The wind cried and cried-- - Muttered of massacres long past, - Buffaloes in shambles vast... - An owl said: “Hark, what is a-wing?” - I heard a cricket carolling, - I heard a cricket carolling, - I heard a cricket carolling. - - Then... - Snuffing the lightning that crashed from on high - Rose royal old buffaloes, row upon row. - The lords of the prairie came galloping by. - And I cried in my heart “A-la-la, a-la-la, - A red-god show, - A red-god show, - A-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la, a-la-la.” - - Buffaloes, buffaloes, thousands abreast, - A scourge and amazement, they swept to the west. - With black bobbing noses, with red rolling tongues, - Coughing forth steam from their leather-wrapped lungs, - Cows with their calves, bulls big and vain, - Goring the laggards, shaking the mane, - Stamping flint feet, flashing moon eyes, - Pompous and owlish, shaggy and wise. - Like sea-cliffs and caves resounded their ranks - With shoulders like waves, and undulant flanks. - Tide upon tide of strange fury and foam, - Spirits and wraiths, the blue was their home, - The sky was their goal where the star-flags are furled, - And on past those far golden splendors they whirled. - They burned to dim meteors, lost in the deep, - And I turned in dazed wonder, thinking of sleep. - - I heard a cricket’s cymbals play, - A scarecrow lightly flapped his rags, - And a pan that hung by his shoulder rang, - Rattled and thumped in a listless way, - And now the wind in the chimney sang, - The wind in the chimney, - The wind in the chimney, - The wind in the chimney, - Seemed to say:-- - “Dream, boy, dream, - If you anywise can. - To dream is the work - Of beast or man. - Life is the west-going dream-storm’s breath, - Life is a dream, the sigh of the skies, - The breath of the stars, that nod on their pillows - With their golden hair mussed over their eyes.” - The locust played on his musical wing, - Sang to his mate of love’s delight. - I heard the whippoorwill’s soft fret. - I heard a cricket carolling, - I heard a cricket carolling, - I heard a cricket say: “Good-night, good-night, - Good-night, good-night, ... good-night.” - - _Vachel Lindsay_ - - - - - A CHRISTMAS CAROL - - - In the bleak mid-winter - Frosty wind made moan, - Earth stood hard as iron, - Water like a stone; - Snow had fallen, snow on snow, - Snow on snow, - In the bleak mid-winter - Long ago. - - Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him - Nor earth sustain; - Heaven and earth shall flee away - When He comes to reign: - In the bleak mid-winter - A stable-place sufficed - The Lord God Almighty - Jesus Christ. - - Enough for Him, whom cherubim - Worship night and day, - A breastful of milk - And a mangerful of hay; - Enough for Him, whom angels - Fall down before, - The ox and ass and camel - Which adore. - - Angels and archangels - May have gathered there, - Cherubim and seraphim - Thronged the air; - But only His mother - In her maiden bliss - Worshipped the Beloved - With a kiss. - - What can I give Him, - Poor as I am? - If I were a shepherd - I would bring a lamb, - If I were a Wise Man - I would do my part,-- - Yet what I can I give Him, - Give my heart. - - _Christina Rossetti_ - - - - - ESCAPE AT BEDTIME - - - The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out - Through the blinds and the windows and bars; - And high overhead and all moving about, - There were thousands of millions of stars. - There ne’er were such thousands of leaves on a tree - Nor of people in church or the Park, - As the crowds of the stars that looked down upon me, - And that glittered and winked in the dark. - - The Dog, and the Plough, and the Hunter, and all, - And the star of the sailor, and Mars, - These shone in the sky, and the pail by the wall - Would be half full of water and stars. - They saw me at last, and they chased me with cries, - And they soon had me packed into bed; - But the glory kept shining and bright in my eyes, - And the stars going round in my head. - - _Robert Louis Stevenson_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE - - - Out of the hills of Habersham, - Down the valleys of Hall, - I hurry amain to reach the plain, - Run the rapid and leap the fall, - Split at the rock and together again, - Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, - And flee from folly on every side - With a lover’s pain to attain the plain - Far from the hills of Habersham, - Far from the valleys of Hall. - - All down the hills of Habersham, - All through the valleys of Hall, - The rushes cried _Abide, abide_, - The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, - The laving laurel turned my tide, - The ferns and the fondling grass said _Stay_, - The dewberry dipped for to work delay, - And the little reeds sighed _Abide, abide, - Here in the hills of Habersham, - Here in the valleys of Hall._ - - High o’er the hills of Habersham, - Veiling the valleys of Hall, - The hickory told me manifold - Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall - Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, - The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, - Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, - Said, _Pass not, so cold, these manifold - Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, - These glades in the valleys of Hall._ - - And oft in the hills of Habersham, - And oft in the valleys of Hall, - The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone - Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, - And many a luminous jewel lone - --Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, - Ruby, garnet and amethyst-- - Made lures with the lights of streaming stone - In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, - In the beds of the valleys of Hall. - - But oh, not the hills of Habersham, - And oh, not the valleys of Hall - Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. - Downward the voices of Duty call-- - Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. - The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, - And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, - And the lordly main from beyond the plain - Calls o’er the hills of Habersham, - Calls through the valleys of Hall. - - _Sidney Lanier_ - - [Illustration] - - [Illustration] - - - - - SEA FEVER - - - I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, - And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; - And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, - And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking. - - I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide - Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; - And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, - And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. - - I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gipsy life, - To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife; - And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, - And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over. - - _John Masefield_ - - - - - “O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!” - - (_In Memory of Abraham Lincoln_) - - - O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, - The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, - The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, - While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; - But O heart! heart! heart! - O the bleeding drops of red! - Where on the deck my Captain lies, - Fallen cold and dead. - - O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; - Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, - For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, - For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; - Here, Captain! dear father! - This arm beneath your head! - It is some dream that on the deck - You’ve fallen cold and dead. - - My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, - My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; - The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, - From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; - Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! - But I, with mournful tread, - Walk the deck my Captain lies, - Fallen cold and dead. - - _Walt Whitman_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SNOW - - - It sifts from leaden sieves, - It powders all the wood, - It fills with alabaster wool - The wrinkles of the road. - - It makes an even face - Of mountain and of plain,-- - Unbroken forehead from the east - Unto the east again. - - It reaches to the fence, - It wraps it, rail by rail, - Till it is lost in fleeces; - It flings a crystal veil - - On stump and stack and stem,-- - The summer’s empty room, - Acres of seams where harvests were, - Recordless, but for them. - - It ruffles wrists of posts, - As ankles of a queen,-- - Then stills its artisans like ghosts, - Denying they have been. - - _Emily Dickinson_ - - - - - A SONG FOR MY MOTHER: HER HANDS - - - My mother’s hands are cool and fair, - They can do anything. - Delicate mercies hide them there - Like flowers in the spring. - - When I was small and could not sleep, - She used to come to me, - And with my cheek upon her hand - How sure my rest would be. - - For everything she ever touched - Of beautiful or fine, - Their memories living in her hands - Would warm that sleep of mine. - - Her hands remember how they played - One time in meadow streams,-- - And all the flickering song and shade - Of water took my dreams. - - Swift through her haunted fingers pass - Memories of garden things;-- - I dipped my face in flowers and grass - And sounds of hidden wings. - - One time she touched the cloud that kissed - Brown pastures bleak and far;-- - I leaned my cheek into a mist - And thought I was a star. - - All this was very long ago - And I am grown; but yet - The hand that lured my slumber so - I never can forget. - - For still when drowsiness comes on - It seems so soft and cool, - Shaped happily beneath my cheek, - Hollow and beautiful. - - _Anna Hempstead Branch_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE FOUNTAIN - - - Into the sunshine, - Full of the light, - Leaping and flashing - From morn till night! - - Into the moonlight, - Whiter than snow, - Waving so flower-like - When the winds blow! - - Into the starlight, - Rushing in spray, - Happy at midnight, - Happy by day! - - Ever in motion, - Blithesome and cheery. - Still climbing heavenward, - Never aweary;-- - - Glad of all weathers, - Still seeming best, - Upward or downward, - Motion thy rest;-- - - Full of a nature - Nothing can tame, - Changed every moment, - Ever the same;-- - - Ceaseless aspiring, - Ceaseless content, - Darkness or sunshine - Thy element;-- - - Glorious fountain! - Let my heart be - Fresh, changeful, constant, - Upward, like thee! - - _James Russell Lowell_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - NATURE’S FRIEND - - - Say what you like, - All things love me! - I pick no flowers-- - That wins the Bee. - - The Summer’s Moths - Think my hand one-- - To touch their wings-- - With Wind and Sun. - - The garden Mouse - Comes near to play; - Indeed, he turns - His eyes away. - - The Wren knows well - I rob no nest: - When I look in, - She still will rest. - - The hedge stops Cows, - Or they would come - After my voice - Right to my home. - - The Horse can tell, - Straight from my lip, - My hand could not - Hold any whip. - - Say what you like, - All things love me! - Horse, Cow, and Mouse, - Bird, Moth and Bee. - - _William H. Davies_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - TREE-TOAD - - - Tree-toad is a small gray person - With a silver voice. - Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow - That sings. - Tree-toad is never seen - Unless a star squeezes through the leaves, - Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch. - How would it be, I wonder, - To sing patiently all night, - Never thinking that people are asleep? - Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees, - The moon, the dew, the other little singers, - Cricket ... toad ... leaf rustling.... - They would listen: - It would be music like weather - That gets into all the corners - Of out-of-doors. - - Every night I see little shadows - I never saw before. - Every night I hear little voices - I never heard before. - When night comes trailing her starry cloak, - I start out for slumberland, - With tree-toads calling along the roadside. - _Good-night_, I say to one, _Good-by_, I say to another, - _I hope to find you on the way - We have traveled before! - I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!_ - - _Hilda Conkling_ - (Six years old) - - [Illustration] - - - - - AN ANCIENT CHRISTMAS CAROL - - - He came all so still - Where His mother was, - As dew in April - That falleth on the grass. - - He came all so still - Where His mother lay, - As dew in April - That falleth on the spray. - - He came all so still - To His mother’s bower, - As dew in April - That falleth on the flower. - - Mother and maiden - Was never none but she! - Well might such a lady - God’s mother be. - - _Author Unknown_ - - - - - [Illustration] - - AN OLD CHRISTMAS CAROL - - - As Joseph was a-waukin’, - He heard an angel sing, - “This night shall be the birthnight - Of Christ our heavenly King. - - “His birth-bed shall be neither - In housen nor in hall, - Nor in the place of paradise, - But in the oxen’s stall. - - “He neither shall be rockèd - In silver nor in gold, - But in the wooden manger - That lieth in the mould. - - “He neither shall be washen - With white wine nor with red, - But with the fair spring water - That on you shall be shed. - - “He neither shall be clothèd - In purple nor in pall, - But in the fair, white linen - That usen babies all.” - - As Joseph was a-waukin’, - Thus did the angel sing, - And Mary’s son at midnight - Was born to be our King. - - Then be you glad, good people, - At this time of the year; - And light you up your candles, - For His star it shineth clear. - - _Author Unknown_ - - - - - KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY - - - An ancient story I’ll tell you anon - Of a notable prince that was called King John; - And he rulèd England with main and with might, - For he did great wrong, and maintained little right. - - And I’ll tell you a story, a story so merry, - Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; - How for his house-keeping and high renown, - They rode post for him to fair London town. - - An hundred men the king did hear say, - The abbot kept in his house every day; - And fifty gold chains without any doubt, - In velvet coats waited the abbot about. - - “How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee, - Thou keepest a far better house than me; - And for thy house-keeping and high renown, - I fear thou work’st treason against my own crown.” - - “My liege,” quo’ the abbot, “I would it were known - I never spend nothing, but what is my own; - And I trust your grace will do me no deere, - For spending of my own true-gotten gear.” - - “Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high, - And now for the same thou needest must die; - For except thou canst answer me questions three, - Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. - - “And first,” quo’ the king, “when I’m in this stead, - With my crown of gold so fair on my head, - Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, - Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth. - - “Secondly, tell me, without any doubt, - How soon I may ride the whole world about; - And at the third question, thou must not shrink, - But tell me here truly what I do think.” - - “O these are hard questions for my shallow wit, - Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet: - But if you will give me but three weeks’ space, - I’ll do my endeavor to answer your grace.” - - “Now three weeks’ space to thee will I give, - And that is the longest time thou hast to live; - For if thou dost not answer my questions three, - Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.” - - [Illustration] - - - Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, - And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford; - But never a doctor there was so wise, - That could with his learning an answer devise. - - Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, - And he met his shepherd a-going to fold: - “How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home; - What news do you bring us from good King John?” - - “Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give, - That I have but three days more to live; - For if I do not answer him questions three, - My head will be smitten from my bodie. - - “The first is to tell him there in that stead, - With his crown of gold so fair on his head, - Among all his liege-men so noble of birth, - To within one penny of what he is worth. - - “The second, to tell him without any doubt, - How soon he may ride this whole world about; - And at the third question I must not shrink, - But tell him there truly what he does think.” - - “Now cheer up, sire abbot, did you never hear yet - That a fool he may learn a wise man wit? - Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, - And I’ll ride to London to answer your quarrel. - - “Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me, - I am like your lordship, as ever may be; - And if you will but lend me your gown, - There is none shall know us at fair London town.” - - “Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, - With sumptuous array most gallant and brave, - With crozier and mitre, and rochet, and cope, - Fit to appear ’fore our Father the Pope.” - - “Now welcome, sire abbot,” the king he did say, - “’Tis well thou’rt come back to keep thy day: - For and if thou canst answer my questions three, - Thy life and thy living both savèd shall be. - - “And first, when thou seest me here in this stead, - With my crown of gold so fair on my head, - Among all my liege-men so noble of birth, - Tell me to one penny what I am worth.” - - “For thirty pence our Saviour was sold - Among the false Jews, as I have been told, - And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, - For I think thou art one penny worser than he.” - - [Illustration] - - - The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, - “I did not think I had been worth so little! - --Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, - How soon I may ride this whole world about.” - - “You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same - Until the next morning he riseth again; - And then your grace need not make any doubt - But in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.” - - The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, - “I did not think it could be done so soon! - --Now from the third question thou must not shrink, - But tell me here truly what I do think.” - - “Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry; - You think I’m the Abbot of Canterbury; - But I’m his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, - That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.” - - The king he laughed and swore by the Mass, - “I’ll make thee lord abbot this day in this place!” - “Now nay, my liege, be not in such speed, - For alack I can neither write nor read.” - - “Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, - For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; - And tell the old abbot when thou comest home, - Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.” - - _Author Unknown_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SANDS OF DEE - - - “O Mary, go and call the cattle home, - And call the cattle home, - And call the cattle home - Across the sands of Dee!” - The western wind was wild and dank with foam, - And all alone went she. - - The western tide crept up along the sand, - And o’er and o’er the sand, - And round and round the sand, - As far as eye could see. - The rolling mist came down and hid the land: - And never home came she. - - “Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- - A tress of golden hair, - A drownèd maiden’s hair - Above the nets at sea? - Was never salmon yet that shone so fair - Among the stakes on Dee.” - - They rowed her in across the rolling foam, - The cruel crawling foam, - The cruel hungry foam, - To her grave beside the sea: - But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home - Across the sands of Dee! - - _Charles Kingsley_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - SISTER, AWAKE! - - (_Old English Song_) - - - Sister, awake! close not your eyes! - The day her light discloses, - And the bright morning doth arise - Out of her bed of roses. - - See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye, - In at our window peeping: - Lo, how he blusheth to espy - Us idle wenches sleeping! - - Therefore awake! make haste, I say, - And let us, without staying, - All in our gowns of green so gay - Into the Park a-maying! - - _Author Unknown_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - THE SKELETON IN ARMOR - - - “Speak! speak! thou fearful guest! - Who, with thy hollow breast - Still in rude armor dressed, - Comest to daunt me! - Wrapped not in Eastern balms, - But with thy fleshless palms - Stretched, as if asking alms, - Why dost thou haunt me?” - - Then, from those cavernous eyes - Pale flashes seemed to rise, - As when the Northern skies - Gleam in December; - And, like the water’s flow - Under December’s snow, - Came a dull voice of woe - From the heart’s chamber. - - “I was a Viking old! - My deeds, though manifold, - No Skald in song has told, - No Saga taught thee! - Take heed, that in thy verse - Thou dost the tale rehearse, - Else dread a dead man’s curse - For this I sought thee. - - “Far in the Northern Land, - By the wild Baltic’s strand, - I with my childish hand, - Tamed the gerfalcon; - And, with my skates fast-bound, - Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, - That the poor whimpering hound - Trembled to walk on. - - “Oft to his frozen lair - Tracked I the grisly bear, - While from my path the hare - Fled like a shadow; - Oft through the forest dark - Followed the were-wolf’s bark, - Until the soaring lark - Sang from the meadow. - - “But when I older grew, - Joining a corsair’s crew, - O’er the dark sea I flew - With the marauders. - Wild was the life we led; - Many the souls that sped, - Many the hearts that bled, - By our stern orders. - - “Many a wassail-bout - Wore the long Winter out; - Often our midnight shout - Set the cocks crowing, - As we the Berserk’s tale - Measured in cups of ale, - Draining the oaken pail, - Filled to o’erflowing. - - “Once as I told in glee - Tales of the stormy sea, - Soft eyes did gaze on me, - Burning yet tender; - And as the white stars shine - On the dark Norway pine, - On that dark heart of mine - Fell their soft splendor. - - “I wooed the blue-eyed maid, - Yielding, yet half afraid, - And in the forest’s shade - Our vows were plighted. - Under its loosened vest - Fluttered her little breast, - Like birds within their nest - By the hawk frighted. - - “Bright in her father’s hall - Shields gleamed upon the wall, - Loud sang the minstrels all, - Chanting his glory; - When of old Hildebrand - I asked his daughter’s hand, - Mute did the minstrels stand - To hear my story. - - “While the brown ale he quaffed, - Loud then the champion laughed, - And as the wind-gusts waft - The sea-foam brightly, - So the loud laugh of scorn, - Out of those lips unshorn, - From the deep drinking-horn - Blew the foam lightly. - - “She was a Prince’s child, - I but a Viking wild, - And though she blushed and smiled, - I was discarded! - Should not the dove so white - Follow the sea-mew’s flight, - Why did they leave that night - Her nest unguarded? - - “Scarce had I put to sea, - Bearing the maid with me, - Fairest of all was she - Among the Norsemen! - When on the white sea-strand, - Waving his armèd hand, - Saw we old Hildebrand, - With twenty horsemen. - - “Then launched they to the blast, - Bent like a reed each mast, - Yet we were gaining fast, - When the wind failed us; - And with a sudden flaw - Came round the gusty Skaw, - So that our foe we saw - Laugh as he hailed us. - - “And as to catch the gale - Round veered the flapping sail, - ‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail, - ‘Death without quarter!’ - Mid-ships with iron keel - Struck we her ribs of steel; - Down her black hulk did reel - Through the black water! - - “As with his wings aslant, - Sails the fierce cormorant, - Seeking some rocky haunt, - With his prey laden,-- - So toward the open main, - Beating to sea again, - Through the wild hurricane, - Bore I the maiden. - - “Three weeks we westward bore, - And when the storm was o’er, - Cloud-like we saw the shore - Stretching to leeward; - There for my lady’s bower - Built I the lofty tower, - Which, to this very hour, - Stands looking seaward. - - “There lived we many years; - Time dried the maiden’s tears; - She had forgot her fears, - She was a mother; - Death closed her mild blue eyes, - Under that tower she lies; - Ne’er shall the sun arise - On such another! - - “Still grew my bosom then, - Still as a stagnant fen! - Hateful to me were men, - The sunlight hateful! - In the vast forest here, - Clad in my warlike gear, - Fell I upon my spear, - Oh, death was grateful! - - “Thus, seamed with many scars, - Bursting these prison bars, - Up to its native stars - My soul ascended! - There from the flowing bowl - Deep drinks the warrior’s soul, - _Skoal!_ to the Northland! _skoal!_” - Thus the tale ended. - - _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - BY BENDEMEER’S STREAM - - - 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 wither’d that hung o’er the wave, - But some blossoms were gather’d while freshly they shone, - And a dew was distill’d 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - A PRAYER - - - Teach me, Father, how to go - Softly as the grasses grow; - Hush my soul to meet the shock - Of the wild world as a rock; - But my spirit, propt with power, - Make as simple as a flower. - Let the dry heart fill its cup, - Like a poppy looking up; - Let life lightly wear her crown, - Like a poppy looking down. - - Teach me, Father, how to be - Kind and patient as a tree. - Joyfully the crickets croon - Under shady oak at noon; - Beetle, on his mission bent, - Tarries in that cooling tent. - Let me, also, cheer a spot, - Hidden field or garden grot-- - Place where passing souls can rest - On the way and be their best. - - _Edwin Markham_ - - - - - YOUNG LOCHINVAR - - - O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West! - Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; - And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none; - He rode all unarm’d, 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 Eske river where ford there was none; - But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, - The bride had consented, the gallant came late; - For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, - Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. - - So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall, - Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;-- - Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword - (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), - ‘O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, - Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’ - - ‘I long woo’d 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 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 whispered, ‘’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; - 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 lea, - 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_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - OFF THE GROUND - - - Three jolly Farmers - Once bet a pound - Each dance the others would - Off the ground. - Out of their coats - They slipped right soon, - And neat and nicesome - Put each his shoon. - One--Two--Three!-- - And away they go, - Not too fast, - And not too slow; - Out from the elm-tree’s - Noonday shadow, - Into the sun - And across the meadow. - Past the schoolroom, - With knees well bent - Fingers a-flicking, - They dancing went. - Up sides and over, - And round and round, - They crossed click-clacking, - The Parish bound, - By Tupman’s meadow - They did their mile, - Tee-to-tum - On a three-barred stile. - Then straight through Whipham, - Downhill to Week, - Footing it lightsome, - But not too quick, - Up fields to Watchet, - And on through Wye, - Till seven fine churches - They’d seen skip by-- - Seven fine churches, - And five old mills, - Farms in the valley, - And sheep on the hills; - Old Man’s Acre - And Dead Man’s Pool - All left behind, - As they danced through Wool. - And Wool gone by, - Like tops that seem - To spin in sleep - They danced in dream: - Withy--Wellover-- - Wassop--Wo-- - Like an old clock - Their heels did go. - A league and a league - And a league they went, - - [Illustration] - - And not one weary, - And not one spent. - And lo, and behold! - Past Willow-cum-Leigh - Stretched with its waters - The great green sea. - Says Farmer Bates, - “I puffs and I blows, - What’s under the water, - Why, no man knows!” - Says Farmer Giles, - “My wind comes weak, - And a good man drownded - Is far to seek.” - But Farmer Turvey, - On twirling toes - Up’s with his gaiters, - And in he goes: - Down where the mermaids - Pluck and play - On their twangling harps - In a sea-green day; - Down where the mermaids, - Finned and fair, - Sleek with their combs - Their yellow hair.... - Bates and Giles-- - On the shingle sat, - Gazing at Turvey’s - Floating hat. - But never a ripple - Nor bubble told - Where he was supping - Off plates of gold. - Never an echo - Rilled through the sea - Of the feasting and dancing - And minstrelsy. - They called--called--called: - Came no reply: - Nought but the ripples’ - Sandy sigh. - Then glum and silent - They sat instead, - Vacantly brooding - On home and bed, - Till both together - Stood up and said:-- - “Us knows not, dreams not, - Where you be, - Turvey, unless - In the deep blue sea; - But excusing silver-- - And it comes most willing-- - Here’s us two paying - Our forty shilling; - For it’s sartin sure, Turvey, - Safe and sound, - You danced us square, Turvey, - Off the ground!” - - _Walter de la Mare_ - - [Illustration] - - - - - AULD DADDY DARKNESS - - - Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, - Black as a blackamoor, blin’ as a mole: - Stir the fire till it lowes, let the bairnie sit, - Auld Daddy Darkness is no wantit yit. - - See him in the corners hidin’ frae the licht, - See him at the window gloomin’ at the nicht; - Turn up the gas licht, close the shutters a’, - An’ Auld Daddy Darkness will flee far awa’. - - Awa’ to hide the birdie within its cosy nest, - Awa’ to lap the wee flooers on their mither’s breast, - Awa’ to loosen Gaffer Toil frae his daily ca’, - For Auld Daddy Darkness is kindly to a’. - - He comes when we’re weary to wean’s frae oor waes, - He comes when the bairnies are getting aff their claes; - To cover them sae cosy, an’ bring bonnie dreams, - So Auld Daddy Darkness is better than he seems. - - Steek yer een, my wee tot, ye’ll see Daddy then; - He’s in below the bed claes, to cuddle ye he’s fain; - Noo nestle to his bosie, sleep and dream yer fill, - Till Wee Davie Daylight comes keekin’ owre the hill. - - _James Ferguson_ - -[Illustration] - - - ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM (1824-1889) - -_The Fairies, 162_ -_The Lepracaun, 40_ - - ARNOLD, MATTHEW (1822-1888) - -_The Forsaken Merman, 152_ - - - BLAKE, WILLIAM (1757-1827) - -_Nurse’s Song, 158_ -_The Tiger, 98_ - - BRANCH, ANNA HEMPSTEAD (18-) - -_A Song for My Mother, 215_ - - BROWNING, ROBERT (1812-1889) - -_The Pied Piper of Hamelin, 109_ -_Song (“The Year’s at the Spring”), 36_ - - BUNYAN, JOHN (1628-1688) - -_The Pilgrim, 76_ - - BURNS, ROBERT (1759-1796) - -_Bannockburn, 138_ -_To a Mouse, 159_ - - BYRON, LORD (1788-1824) - -_The Destruction of Sennacherib, 92_ - - - COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR (1772-1834) - -_Kubla Khan, 19_ - - COLUM, PADRAIC (1881-) - -_The Terrible Robber Men, 100_ - - CONKLING, HILDA (1910-) - -_Tree-Toad, 223_ - - COWPER, WILLIAM (1731-1800) - -_Epitaph on a Hare, 73_ - - CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN (1784-1842) - -_A Sea Song, 72_ - - - DAVIES, WILLIAM H. (1870-) - -_Nature’s Friend, 221_ - - DE LA MARE, WALTER (1873-) - -_Berries, 24_ -_Jim Jay, 197_ -_Off the Ground, 249_ - - DICKINSON, EMILY (1830-1886) - -_The Snow, 214_ - - DOBELL, SYDNEY (1824-1874) - -_A Chanted Calendar, 143_ - - - EMERSON, RALPH WALDO (1803-1882) - -_Fable, 140_ - - - FERGUSON, JAMES (?) - -_Auld Daddy Darkness, 256_ - - FROST, ROBERT (1875-) - -_Good Hours, 141_ - - - GIFFORD, FANNIE STEARNS (1884-) - -_Moon Folly, 189_ - - GRAVES, ROBERT (1895-) - -_Star-Talk, 193_ - - - HERRICK, ROBERT (1591-1674) - -_To Violets, 38_ - - HODGSON, RALPH (about 1879-) - -_“Time, you Old Gipsy Man,” 124_ - - HOWE, JULIA WARD (1819-1910) - -_Battle Hymn of the Republic, 133_ - - HUNT, LEIGH (1784-1859) - -_Jaffár, 87_ - - - JONSON, BEN (1574-1637) - -_Hymn to Diana, 59_ - - - KEATS, JOHN (1795-1821) - -_La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 168_ -_Meg Merrilies, 22_ - - KINGSLEY, CHARLES (1819-1875) - -_The Sands of Dee, 234_ - - - LANIER, SIDNEY (1842-1881) - -_Song of the Chattahoochee, 206_ - - LINDSAY, VACHEL (1879-) - -_The Ghosts of the Buffaloes, 199_ - - LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH (1807-1882) - -_My Lost Youth, 130_ -_The Skeleton in Armor, 237_ - - LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL (1819-1891) - -_The Fountain, 217_ - - - MACAULAY, THOMAS BABINGTON (1800-1859) - -_Ivry, 94_ - - MARKHAM, EDWIN (1852-) - -_A Prayer, 245_ - - MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER (1562-1593) - -_The Shepherd to His Love, 62_ - - MASEFIELD, JOHN (1874-) - -_Sea Fever, 211_ - - MILTON, JOHN (1608-1674) - -_On May Morning, 39_ - - MOORE, THOMAS (1780-1852) - -_By Bendemeer’s Stream, 244_ -_The Minstrel-Boy, 137_ - - - NASHE, THOMAS (1567-1601?) - -_Spring, 175_ - - NOYES, ALFRED (1880-) - -_A Song of Sherwood, 89_ - - - POE, EDGAR ALLAN (1809-1849) - -_Israfel, 82_ - - - ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA (1830-1894) - -_A Christmas Carol, 203_ - - - SCOTT, SIR WALTER (1771-1832) - -_Gathering Song of Donald Dhu, 135_ -_Hunting Song, 44_ -_Young Lochinvar, 246_ - - SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM (1564-1616) - -_“Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind,” 108_ -_Lullaby for Titania, 78_ -_“Under the Greenwood Tree” 37_ -_Winter, 142_ - - SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE (1792-1822) - -_Hymn of Pan, 29_ -_The Cloud, 145_ - - STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS (1850-1894) - -_Escape at Bedtime, 205_ -_Romance, 28_ - - SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES (1837-1909) - -_“When the Hounds of Spring,” 32_ - - - TENNYSON, ALFRED (1809-1892) - -_Bugle Song, 151_ -_The Lady of Shalott, 46_ - - - UNKNOWN - -_An Ancient Christmas Carol, 225_ -_An Old Christmas Carol, 226_ -_An Old Song of Fairies, 186_ -_King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, 228_ -_Robin Hood and the Butcher, 64_ -_Sir Patrick Spens, 101_ -_Sister, Awake! 236_ -_The Gay Gos-Hawk, 178_ - - - WHITMAN, WALT (1819-1892) - -_O Captain! My Captain! 212_ - - WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM (1770-1850) - -_“I Wandered Lonely,” 176_ -_The Solitary Reaper, 128_ -_Written in March, 31_ - - - YEATS, WILLIAM BUTLER (1865-) - -_The Song of Wandering Aengus, 60_ - - - - -INDEX OF FIRST LINES - - -A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 72 - -An ancient story I’ll tell you anon, 228 - -“Are you awake, Gemelli, 193 - -As Joseph was a-waukin’, 226 - -Auld Daddy Darkness creeps frae his hole, 256 - - -Behold her, single in the field, 128 - -Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 108 - - -Come, all you brave gallants, and listen a while, 64 - -Come, dear children, let us away, 152 - -Come, follow, follow me, 186 - -Come live with me and be my love, 62 - - -Do diddle di do, 197 - - -First came the primrose, 143 - -From the forests and highlands, 29 - - -Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick, 109 - -He came all so still, 225 - -Here lies, whom hound did ne’er pursue, 73 - - -I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, 145 - -I had for my winter evening walk, 141 - -I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, 211 - -I wandered lonely as a cloud, 176 - -I went out to the hazel wood, 60 - -I will go up the mountain after the Moon, 189 - -I will make you brooches and toys for your delight, 28 - -In Heaven a spirit doth dwell, 82 - -In the bleak mid-winter, 203 - -In Xanadu did Kubla Khan, 19 - -Into the sunshine, 217 - -It sifts from leaden sieves, 214 - - -Jaffár, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, 87 - - -Last night at black midnight I woke with a cry, 199 - -Little Cowboy, what have you heard, 40 - - -Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord, 133 - -My mother’s hands are cool and fair, 215 - - -Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!, 94 - -Now the bright morning star, day’s harbinger, 39 - - -O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, 212 - -O! I wish the sun was bright in the sky, 100 - -“O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 234 - -“O well is me, my gay gos-hawk, 178 - -O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 168 - -O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!, 246 - -Often I think of the beautiful town, 130 - -Old Meg she was a Gipsy, 22 - -On either side the river lie, 46 - -Out of the hills of Habersham, 206 - - -Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 135 - - -Queen and Huntress, chaste and fair, 59 - - -Say what you like, 221 - -Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 138 - -Sherwood in the twilight, is Robin Hood awake?, 89 - -Sister, awake! close not your eyes!, 236 - -“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!, 237 - -Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king, 175 - - -Teach me, Father, how to go, 245 - -The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, 92 - -The Cock is crowing, 31 - -The king sits in Dunfermline toun, 101 - -The lights from the parlour and kitchen shone out, 205 - -The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 137 - -The mountain and the squirrel, 140 - -The splendor falls on castle walls, 151 - -The year’s at the spring, 36 - -There was an old woman, 24 - -There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream, 244 - -Three jolly Farmers, 249 - -Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, 98 - -Time, you old gipsy man, 124 - -Tree-toad is a small gray person, 223 - - -Under the greenwood tree, 37 - -Up the airy mountain, 162 - - -Waken, lords and ladies gay!, 44 - -Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie, 159 - -Welcome, maids of honor, 38 - -When icicles hang by the wall, 142 - -When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces, 32 - -When the voices of children are heard on the green, 158 - -Who would true valor see, 76 - - -You spotted snakes with double tongue, 78 - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RAINBOW GOLD; POEMS OLD AND NEW -SELECTED FOR BOYS AND GIRLS *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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