POETIC GEMS
Poetic Gems
FROM
SHAKESPERE TILL THE PRESENT DAY
SELECTED BY
B. S. BERRINGTON, B. A.
R i R u tr : c A CONV. WIICHNS
â¢â¢ â¢Â«
n p n.
The Hague
HAAGSCHE BOEKHANDEL- EN UITGEVERS-MAATSCHAPPIJ 1899
TYP. ZUID-HOLL. BOEK- EN HANDELSDRUKKERIJ.
INDEX.
A.
Page.
Addison, Joseph. 1672â1719.
Cato's speech over the corpse of his son.....57
Gate's soliloquy on immortality........58
Ai.ford, Henry. 1S10 â1S71.
Peace..................41^.
Arnold, Edwin. Born 1S32.
The voices of the wind...........446
A dead man's message...........44S
Arnold, Matthew. Born 1S22.
Iseult of Brittany, after Tristan's death.....435
B.
Bailey, Thomas Haynes. 1797â1839.
Isle of beauty fare thee well.........173
Hark! the convent bells are ringing......174
Bailley, Joanna. 1762â1S51.
The Chough and Crow...........1S5
Baruauld, Letitia. 1743â1825.
To the Lark...............145
Life..................147
index.
Bayley, F. W. N. Page.
Chelsea pensioners reading the gazette of the Battle
of Waterloo..............343
Bowles, Caroline (Mrs Southey)
To a dying infant.............20S
Beattie, James. 1735â1S03.
The hermit......... ......9,:
Morning melodies.............95
Bennet, W. C.
Baby's shoes...............451)
Browning, E. B. Died 1S61.
The cry of the children...........334
Browning, Robert.
How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix 340
Buchanan, Robert. Bom 1841.
Liz..................451
Burns, Robert. 1759â1796.
Bannockburn...............122
To a Mountain daisy............123
Highland Mary..............125
One fond kiss and then we sever.......127
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots on the approach of spring.................12S
Byron. 17SSâ1824.
Fare thee well..............233
Maid of Athens, ere we part.........235
The destruction of Sennacherib........236
When we two parted............237
My native land â Good night........23S
index. ill
Page.
Napoleon's farewell.............241
Know ye the land.............242
Zuleika.................243
Death of Zuleika.............244
Ancient and Modern Greece.........246
The night before the battle of Waterloo.....248
The ocean................251
Song of the Corsars............253
The parting of Conrad and Medora.......254
The dying boys on the raft..........256
Rome.................257
c.
Campbell, Thomas. 1777â1844.
Hohenlinden...............163
The soldier's dream............164
The Mothers...............165
Ye Mariners of England...........167
Exile of Erin...............168
Lord Ullin's Daughter............170
Chatterton. 1752â1770.
Resignation...............97
A Dirge................98
Clare, John. 1793â1864.
Home yearnings..............18S
Cook, Eliza. Born 1818.
The old Arm-Chair.............43S
The Churchyard stile............439
index.
Page.
Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 1772â1832.
Alienated friendship............221
Christabel and the Lady Geraldine.......222
The ancient Mariner............225
Sleep and a breeze (from the same).......226
Love..................âS
Collins, William. 1720â1756.
Ode..................96
Cowper, William. 1720â1756.
On the receipt of his mother's picture......106
Alexander Selkirk.............no
The rose................112
Morning walk in winter (From the Task).....113
Boadicea................115
Craebe, George. 1754â1832.
Time's changes..............117
The dying sailor..............119
Croly, Rev. George. 1780â1S60.
Domestic love..............19°
Jacob's dream...............19°
Cunningham, Allan. 17S4â1842.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea........1S1
Sabbath Morning.............182
The Morning...............183
D.
Darwin, Erasmus. 1731â1802.
Eliza..................87
Diedin, Thomas. 1771â1841.
All's well................176
iv
index. v
Page.
Drydex. 1636â1700.
Alexander's feast. . ...........41
Veni Creator...............4S
Dufferin, Lady.
The Lament of the Irish Emigrant ...... 432
E.
Elliot, Ebenezer. 1781 â 1S49.
Love strong in death............192
G.
Goldsmith, Oliver. 1728â1774.
Extracts from the traveller..........64
The French depicted............67
Edwin and Angelina............6S
The deserted village............74-
Gray, Thomas. 1716â1771.
Elegy written in a country churchyard......82
H.
Hemans, Felicia. 1793â1835.
The Vandois Wife.............151
The pilgrim fathers.............154
Casablanca...............155
The Graves of a household..........157
The homes of England...........15S
To a departed spirit............160
The child's first grief............161
Herbert, G. 1593â1632.
Sweet day so cool.............24
INDEX.
rage.
IIervey, T. K. 1804â1S59.
A lament................34S
Adieu, adieu, our dream of love........350
Hogg, James. 1770â1835.
The Skylark...............177
Hood, Thomas. 1798 â1S45.
The Bridge of Sighs............290
The song of the shirt............294
I remember, I remember..........297
The dream of Eugene Aram.........29S
Howitt, William. 1796â1879.
Midsummer's musings............462
Hunt, Leigh. 1784â1S59.
Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel.......287
The glove and the lions...........288
J.
Jameson, Mrs. 1796â1860.
Take me. Mother Earth...........351
Johnson, Samuel. 1709â17S4.
Charles XII...............80
Cardinal Wolsey..............81
Jonson, Ben. 1573â1637.
Drink to me only with thine eyes.......19
K.
Keats, John. 1796â1820.
The all-pervading influence of Beauty......319
A Picture................320
To a Nightingale.............322
vi
'1
INDEX. vir
Page.
Kent, Charles. Bom 1S23.
The dying Bride-groom...........456
Kingsley, Rev. Charles. 1819â1875.
The sands of Dee.............393
Three fishers...............394
L.
Lamk, Charles. 1775â1834.
The old familiar faces............'7^
Hester . . . . â ....................'79
Lovelace, Richard. 1618â165S.
To Alathea from prison...........25
Lover, Samuel. 1797â1868.
The Angel's Whisper............186
Oh, come to the West...........187
Lytton, B. 1805â1873.
The Blind Flower Girl's song.........42S
Absent yet present.............43°
M,
Macaulay, Thomas B. 1800â1S59.
The keeping of the bridge..........326
Henry of Navarre.............33°
Mackay, Charles.
Tubal Cain...............395
Far, far upon the sea............397
Fall, oh! fall...............39S
Inkermann................399
Little, but great.............404
index.
Page.
Massey, Gerald. Born 1S2S.
Hope on, hope ever............467
A Glympse of Auld Lang Syne........46S
Miller, Thomas. 1S0Sâ1874.
The desolate hall.............409
Milton, John. 160Sâ1674.
Ode on the Nativity............27
L'Allegro...........'.....35
Satan's soliloquises over his fall........40
Mitfokd, Mary Russell. 17S9â1S55.
Cunigunda's Vow.............473
Montgomery, James. 1771â1S54.
Home.................130
A field flower...............131
Moore, Thomas. 1779â1852.
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow . . 259
Go where glory waits thee..........259
Love's young dream............261
Sound the loud timbrel...........262
The harp that once through Tara's halls.....263
The minstrel boy.............264
'Tis the last Rose of Summer.........264
Bendemeer's stream.............265
Oh! breathe not his name..........266
The veiled Prophet of Khorassan........266
Morris, William. Bom 1834.
The Eve of Crecy.............415
viii
index. ix
N.
Page.
Norton, Hon. Mrs. iSoSâ1877.
Song of the Peasant Wife..........442
o.
OriE, Amelia. 1769 â1S53.
Impress of the Creator...........194
Go, youth, beloved............195
O'Shangnessy, Arthur. 1844â1SS1.
The fountain of Tears............464
P.
Percy, Thomas. 1728â1S11.
The Friar of orders gray...........101
Pope, Alxander. 1688â1744.
Eloisa to Abelard.............50
The dying Christian to his soul........53
Extracts from the essay on man........54
Procter, Adelaide A. 1S35â1S64.
The old year's Blessing...........196
The Message...............19S
Procter, B. W. 1788â1S74.
The return of the Admiral..........424
King Death...............426
INDEX.
R.
Page.
Rogers, Samuel. , 1773â1S55.
Ginevra.................133
The Old Home.....,........136
Rossetti, D. G. 1828â18S1.
The blessed Damozel............41S
Scott, Sir Walter. 1771â1S32.
Lady Heron's Song...............273
Where shall the lover rest?...........275
Soldier, rest!................276
Hail to the chief...............277
The heath this night must be my bed.......279
Allen â A Dale...............280
The Harper................281
The last minstrel...............282
The love of Country.............283
Scotland..................284
The death of Marmion.............285
s.
Shakespere, William. 1564â1616.
Brutus justifies himself for the murder of C;csar . . 1
Enter Antony and others, with Cresar's body ... z
Antony's funeral oration over the dead body of C:esar 2
The seven ages of man......................6
Mercy..................................7
Wolsey's soliloquy after his fall................7
Wolsey's parting charge to Cromwell............8
Hamlet's soliloquy on the future state..............9
x
index. xi
Page.
The fear of death..........................10
Romeo at the window of Juliet................11
Juliet reveals her love for Romeo................12
Henry the Fourth on sleep....................14
Sonnet..................................15
Cleopatra................................17
A Tender Thought..........................18
Life but a shadow..........................iS
Shelley, P. B. 1792â1822.
To the Sensitive Plant...........307
To a Skylark...............311
The cloud.................815
Sheridan, R. B. 1751â1816.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed.......144
Shirley, James. 1596â1666.
Death's final Conquest...........20
Smith, Alexander. 1830â1867.
Green old age..............413
Smollet, Tobias. 1721â1771.
The tears of Scotland............90
Southey, Mrs.
To a dying infant.............20S
Southey, Robert. 1774â1S43.
The Battle of Blenheim...........200
Mary the maid of the Inn..........202
INDliX.
Page.
Impulses................206
Love's irnraortality . . . ,..........207
Swinburne, a. C. Bom 1837.
Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon........444
T.
Tennyson, Alfred. 1809â1892.
The dying Year..............371
Lady Clara Vere de Vere..........372
The May Queen..............373
New-Year's eve..............375
Conclusion................377
The death of the old Year..........380
The Lord of Burleigh............382
Come not, when I am dead.........385
Break, break, break............386
The Charge of the Light Brigade........386
Hero to Leander.............388
Edward Gray...............390
Vivien's Song...............391
The bugle Song..............392
Thompson, James. 1700â1748.
A summer dawn..............59
Rule Britannia..............60
The sorrows of life.............62
w.
Watts, A. A. 1789â1864.
The death of the first-born..........352
xii
index. xiii
Page.
White, H. K. 17S5â1S06.
Sonnet.................139
Solitude.................139
Despondency...............140
To the herb Rosemary...........141
Childhood................142
Wilson, John. 1785â1S54.
Night at sea...............406
Wither, G. 15SSâ1667.
Shall I, wasting in despair..........21
Wolfe, Charles. 1791â1S23.
The burial of Sir John Moore.........148
If I had thought thou could'st have died.....149
Wordsworth, W. 1770â1850.
We are seven...............213
Lucy Gray.................216
A true woman..............218
To the Cuckoo..............219
Wotton, Sir Henry. 1568â1639.
The character of a happy life.........23
AMERICAN POETS. A.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey. Born about 1835. Died December 1863........
536
index.
B. Page.
Bryant, William Cullen. 1794â1878.
The Close of Autumn............497
An Indian Story..............498
Oh, Mother of a mighty Race.........501
c.
Clark, Willis G.
A Remembrance..............540
E.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 1S03â1882.
Good-bye, proud World!..........491
The humble Bee..............492
Dirge..................494
H.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell. Bom 1809.
The Voiceless...............531
L'inconnue................532
L.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth.
The reaper and the flowers..........356
A Psalm of Life..............357
Resignation...............359
The village blacksmith...........361
Victor Galbraith..............363
Excelsior................365
The Wreck of the Hesperus.........366
Lowell, James Russel. Born 1819.
The Changeling..............514
The Sower................516
xiv
INDEX.
Page.
To the Dandelion.............518
Rosaline.................520
The Heritage...............525
She came and went............527
M.
Morris, George P.....â 1S64.
Woodman, spare that Tree..........529
P.
Poe, Edgar Allan. 1809â1849.
Annabel Lee...............4S3
The Raven................484
s.
Sargent, Epes.
The days that are past...........533
Sigourney, Lydia Huntly. 1791â1865.
The early Blue-bird.............4S9
w.
Whitman, Walt. Born about 1835.
For the death of Lincoln..........5 38
Whittier, John Greenleaf. Born 1S09.
Maud Mtlller...............504
Telling the bees..............509
Barbara Fritchie..............511
Wilde, Richard Henry.
My life is like the Summer Rose........535
xv
index.
HUMOROUS PIECES.
Page.
Sk John Wolcot (Peter Pindar). 1738â1S19.
The Pilgrims and the Peas..........543
George Coleman, The Younger. 1762 â1S36.
The New-Castle Apothecary..........546
Lodgings for single gentlemen.........549
cowper.
Diverting History of John Gilpin........551
Smith.
The Baby's Debut.............561
Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition. . . 567
Hood.
A parental ode to my son, aged, three years and five
months................5^4
Goldsmith.
The Haunch of Venison...........570
Thackeray.
The King of Brentford's Testament.......575
John Hay.
The Enchanted Shirt............588
W. Gilbert.
The Perils of Invisibility...........585
Theodore Hook.
Puns..................574.
xvi
WILLIAM SHAKESPER E. 1564â1616.
Brutus justifies himself for the murder of Caesar.
Romans, countrymen, and lovers! hear me for my cause; and be silent that ye may hear; believe me for mine honour; and have respect to mine honour, that ye may believe: censure me in your wisdom; and awake your senses that you may the better judge.
If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Csesar's, to him I say, that Brutus' love to Ccesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand, why Brutus rose against Qesar, this is my answer, â not that I loved Ccesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
Had you rather Ccesar were living, and die all slaves; than that Ccesar were dead, to live all free men?
As Ccesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honour him; but, as he was ambitious, I slew him: there is tears, for his love; joy, for his fortune; honour, for his valour; and death, for his ambition. Who is here so base, that would be a bondman?
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
If any, speak; for him have I offended. Who is here so rude, that would not be a Roman? If any, speak; for him have I offended.
Who is here so vile, that will not love his country?
If any, speak; for him have I offended. I pause for a reply.
Cit. None, Brutus, none (several speaking at once).
Brutus. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Ccesar, than you should do to Brutus.
Enter Antony and others, with Caesar's body.
Here comes his body mourned by Mark Antony; who though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth; as which of you shall not? With this I depart. That as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself when it shall please my country to need my death.
Antony's funeral oration over the dead body of Caesar.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
The evil that men do, lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Qesar.
Ihe noble Brutus hath told you Caesar was ambitious;
If it were so, it was a grievous fault;
And grievously hath Cassar answered it.
Here under leave of Brutus, and the rest.
2
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
(For Brutus is an honourable man;
So are they all, all honourable men;)
Come I to speak in Ca-'sar's funeral.
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Brutus says he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
He hath brought many captives home to Rome,
Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill:
Did this in Ctesar seem ambitious?
When that the poor have cried, Gcsar hath wept
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And Brutus is an honourable man.
You all did see that on the Lupercal,
I thrice presented him a Kingly crown,
Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition:
Yet Brutus says, he was ambitious;
And, sure, he is an honourable man.
I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke.
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did love him once, not without cause:
What cause witholds you then to mourn for him ?
O judgment, thou art fled to brutish beasts,
And men have lost their reason! Bear with me;
My heart is in the coffin there with Oesar,
And I must pause till it come back to me.
But yesterday, the word of Ccesar might
Have stood against the world; now lies he there,
And none so poor to do him reverence.
O masters, if I were disposed to stir
Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage.
3
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
I should do Brutus wrong, and Cassius wrong,
Who, you all know, are honourable men:
I will not do them wrong; I rather choose
To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you,
Than I will wrong such honourable men.
But here's a parchment, with the seal of Caesar,
I found it in his closet, 'tis his will:
Let but the commons hear this testament,
(Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read)
And they would go and kiss dead Qesar's wounds,
And dip their napkins in his sacred blood;
Yea, beg a hair ot him for memory.
And, dying, mention it within their wills.
Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy.
Unto their issue.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time Ccesar ever put it on;
'T was on a summer's evening in his tent;
That day he overcame the Nervii: â
Look! in this place, ran Cassius dagger through: See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
Though this the well-beloved Brutus stabbed;
And as he plucked his cursed steel away,
Mark how the blood of Qesar followed it; As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knocked or no;
For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel:
Judge, o ye Gods, how dearly Cresar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all:
4
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE. 5
For when the noble Ccesar saw him stab,
Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms.
Quite vanquished him; then burst his mighty heart;
And, in his mantle muffling up his face,
Even at the base of Pompey's statue.
Which all the while ran blood, great Ccesar fell.
O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!
Then I, and you, and all of us fell down.
Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us.
O, now you weep; and, I perceive, you feel
The dint of pity: these are gracious drops.
Kind souls, what, weep you, when you but behold
Our Ceesar's vesture wounded? Look you here.
Here is himself, marred as you see with traitors.
Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up
To such a sudden flood of mutiny.
They that have done this deed, are honourable;
What private griefs they have, alas, I know not.
That made them do it; they are wise and honourable,
And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you.
I come not, frL nds, to steal away your hearts;
I am no orator as Brutus is:
But as you know me all, a plain, blunt man.
That love my friend; and that they know full well
That gave me public leave to speak of him.
For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth.
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,
To stir men's blood: I only speak right on;
I tell you that, which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Ccesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths.
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
And bid them speak for me; but were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Ccesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
The seven ages of man.
All the world's a stage.
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances.
And one man in his time plays many parts. His acts being seven ages. At first the infant. Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail. Unwillingly to school. And then the lover.
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier;
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard. Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel. Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice In fair round belly, with good capon lined.
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacle on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
WILLIAM SHAKESl'ERE.
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of £.11,
That ends this strange eventful history.
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Mercy.
The quality of mercy is not strain'd;
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.
Upon the place beneath. It is twice bless'd;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.
'T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The thronèd monarch better than his crown.
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power.
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway, â
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings.
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest Gods,
When mercy seasons justice.
Wolsey's soliloquy after his fall.
Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness, This is the state of man; to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms
WILLIAM SHAKESI'ERE.
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a ripening, â nips his root, And then he falls as I do. I have ventured.
Like little wanton boys that swim on quot;bladders. This many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth; my high blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new open'd: O how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes and their ruin.
More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
Never to hope again.
Wolsey's parting charge to Cromwell.
Thus far hear me, Cromwell;
And â when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, â say, I taught thee Say, Wolsey, â that once trod the ways of glory. And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in; A sure and safe one, though thy master missed it.
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
Mark but my fall, and that, that ruined me.
Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aims't at, be thy country's.
Thy God's, and truth's. Then if thou falls't, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed marytr! Serve the king,
And, â pr'ythee, lead me in:
There take an inventory of all I have.
To the last penny: 't is the king's: my robe.
And my integrity to heaven, is all
I dare now call my own. O Cromwell, Cromwell,
Had I but served my God with half the zeal
I served my king, he would not in mine age
Have left me naked to mine enemies.
Hamlet's soliloquy on the future state.
To be, or not to be, â that is the question: â
Whether 't is nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune;
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles.
And, by opposing, end them? â to die, to sleep, â
No more; and, by a sleep, to say we end
The heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, â 't is a consummation
9
WILLIAM SHAKES I'ERE.
Devoutly to be wished. To die; â to sleep; â
To sleep! perchance to dream; ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause; there's the respect
That makes the calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely.
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes.
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear.
To grunt and sweat under a weary life;
But that the dread of something after death, â
The undiscovered country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns, â puzzles the will;
And makes us rather bear those ills we have.
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought;
And enterprises of great pith and moment.
With this regard, their currents turn awry.
And lose the name of action.
The fear of death.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot;
WILLIAM SHAKESI'ERE.
This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick ribb'd ice;
To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those, that lawless and incertain thoughts Imagine howling! 't is too horrible! The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment Can lay on nature, is a paradise To what we fear of death.
Romeo at the window of Juliet.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound. â
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun! â
Arise fair sun and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief.
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious:
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off. â
It is my lady; O, it is my love:
0 that she knew she were! â
She speaks, yet she says nothing; what of that? Her eye discourses, I will answer it. â
1 am too bold, 't is not to me she speaks:
12 WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business do intreat her eyes jf
To twinkle in their spheres till they return:
What if her eyes were there, they in her head:
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eye in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright,
That birds would sing, and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand.
That I might touch that cheek!
Juliet reveals her love for Romeo.
Thou knows't the mask of night is on my face; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek, For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form, fain, fain, deny What I have spoke: but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me ? I know thou wilt say, ay: And I will take thy word; yet if thou swears't, Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou think'st I am too quickly won, I'll frown and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond; And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light. But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true
william shakespere.
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overhearcTst, ere I was' 'ware,
My true love's passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love.
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
Romeo. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops.
Juliet. O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon. That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
Romeo. What shall I swear by?
Juliet. Do not swear at all.
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry.
And I'll believe thee.
Romeo. If my heart's dear love â
Juliet. Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;
Too like the lightning which doth cease to be Ere one can say, it lightens. Sweet good night!
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night! good night! a sweet repose and rest.
Come to thy heart, as that within my breast.
Romeo. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
13
william shakespere.
Juliet. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
Romeo. The exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.
Juliet. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it: And yet I would it were to give again.
Romeo. Wouldst thou with draw it? For what purpose, lo\
Juliet. But to be frank, and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have:
My bounty is as boundless as the sea.
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
Henry the Fourth on sleep.
How many thousand of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, o gentle sleep.
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee.
And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber;
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great.
Under the canopies of costly state.
And lull'd with sounds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull God! why liest thou with the vile.
In loathsome beds, and leav'st, the kingly couch,
A watch-case, or a common larum-bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast.
14
WILLIA:I SHAKES 1'ERE.
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge.
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top.
Curling their monstrous heads and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the slippery clouds.
That with the hurly, death itself awakes? â
Canst thou, o partial sleep, give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude;
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot.
Deny it to a king? â Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown!
Sonnet.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore.
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before.
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity once in the main of light.
Crawls to maturity, where with being crown'd,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth.
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow;
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall stand.
Raising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
15
WILLIAM SHAKESrERE.
Crabbed age and youth,
Cannot live together;
Youth is full of pleasance,
Age is full of care:
Youth like summer morn,
Age like winter weather;
Youth like summer brave
Age like winter bare.
Youth is full of sport,
Age's breath is short,
Youth is nimble, age is lame: Youth is hot and bold,
Age is weak and cold;
Youth is wild and age is tame.
Age I do abhor thee.
Youth I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young:
Age I do defy thee;
O, sweet shepherd, hie thee. For methinks thou stays't too long.
Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, A shining gloss, that fadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it 'gins to bud, A brittle glass thats' broken presently: A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower. Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
17
Cleopatra.
The barge she sat in, UUe a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that,
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water, which they beat, to follow faster.
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggared all description: she did lie
In her pavilion (cloth of gold of tissue),
O'er-picturing that Venus, where we see
The fancy outwork nature. On each side her
Stood pretty-dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers colored fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid, did
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids,
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes
And made their bends adornings: at the helm
A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower soft hands.
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony
Enthroned i' the market place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too.
And made a gap in nature.
WILLIAM SHAKESPERE.
A Tender Thought.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surley sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell Nay, if you read this line, remember not The hand that writ it; for 1 love you so,
That I in your sweet thought would be forgot If thinking on me then should make you woe. Oh, if (I say) you look upon this verse When I perhaps compounded am with clay Do not so much as my poor name rehearse, But let your love even with my life decay Lest the wise world should look into your moan And mock you with me after I am gone.
Life But a Shadow.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusky death. Out, out biief candle! Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more; it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury. Signifying nothing.
BEN J ON SON. 1573âi637-
Drink to one only with thine eyes.
Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss within the cup,
And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise.
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.
I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honouring thee.
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be;
But thou thereon didst only breathe
And sent'st it back to me.
Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,
Kot of itself but thee.
JAMES SHIRLEY. I59^â1666.
Death's final conquest.
The glories of our birth and state, Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate:
Death lays his icy hand on kings Sceptre and crown Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.
Some men with swords may reap the field And plant with laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield. They tame but one another still;
Early or late.
They stoop to fate.
And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives! Creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow;
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now,
See where the Victor, victim bleeds! All heads must come To the cold tomb.
Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.
G. WITHER. 1588â1667.
Shall I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman's fair? Or make pale my cheeks with care 'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the ilow'ry meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Should my heart be grieved or pined 'Cause I see a woman kind? Or a well-disposed nature Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder than Turtle-dove or pelican.
If she be not so to me.
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtue move Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deservings known,
Make me quite forget my own? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of best If she be not such to me.
What care I how good she be?
I
G. WITHER.
'Cause her fortune seems too high Shall I play the fool and die? Those that bear a noble mind, Where they want of riches find, Think what with them they would That without them dare to woo; And unless that mind I see.
What care I how great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve: If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me.
What care I for whom she be?
SIR HENRY WOTTON. 1568â1639.
The character of a happy life.
How happy is he born and taught That serveth not another's will,
Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his master are.
Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the word by care Of public fame or public breath.
Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice hath ever understood; How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good.
Who hath his life from rumours freed. Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed. Nor ruin make oppressors great.
Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains t'ae harmless day With a religious book or friend.
This man is freed from servile hands. Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.
GEORGE HERBERT. I632-
Sweet day so cool.
Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky,
Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night. For thou must die.
Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave. Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye.
Thy root is ever in its grave.
And thou must die.
Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie. My music shows you have your closes, And all must die.
Only a sweet and virtuous soul.
Like seasoned timber, never gives; But when the whole world turns to coal, Then chiefly lives.
RICHARD LOVELACE. 1618â1658.
To Althea from prison.
When love with unconfinèd wings Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates;
When 1 lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye.
The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty.
When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound, Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep. When healths and draughts are free. Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty.
When linnet-like confinèd, I With shriller throat shall sing The sweetness, mercy, majesty, And glories of my king:
RICHARD LOVELACE.
When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, â Enlarged winds that curl the flood Know no such liberty.
Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage:
If I have freedom in my love, â And in my soul am free, â
Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty.
JOHN MILTON. 1608â1674.
Ode on the nativity.
It was the winter wild,
While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature, in awe of him,
Had doffed her gaudy trim,
With her great Master so to sympathise:
It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air.
To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame,
Pollute with sinful blame.
The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities.
But he, her fears to cease.
Sent down the meek eyed Peace; She crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere.
JOHN MILTON.
His ready harbinger,
With turtle wing the amourous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand,
She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around:
The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hookèd chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood;
The trumpet spoke not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye,
As if they surely knew their sov'reign Lord was by.
But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth begun:
The winds, with wonder whist,
Smoothly the waters kiss'd.
Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars, with deep amaze,
Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,
Bending one way their precious influence;
And will not take their flight For all the morning light,
Or Lucifer had often warn'd them thence;
But in their glimmering orbs did glow,
Until their Lord himself bespake and bid them go.
JOHN MILTON*.
And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room,
The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,
And hid his head for shame As his inferior tlame The new enlightened world no more should need; He saw a greater sun appear
Than his bright throne or burning axle-tree, could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn Or ere the point of dawn.
Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;
Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below;
Perhaps their loves or else their sheep,
Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet.
As never was by mortal fingers strook,
Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise.
As all their souls in blissful rapture took:
The air, such pleasure loathe to lose,
V\ ith thousand eclioes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such sound.
Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the airy region thrilling,
Xow was almost won,
29
30 JOHN MILTON.
To think her part was clone,
And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone
Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light,
That with long beams the shame fac'd night array'd The helmed cherubim And sworded seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd. Harping in loud and solemn quire.
With unexpressive notes, :o heaven's new-born heir.
Such music, as 'tis said.
Before was never made.
But when of old the sons of morning sung.
While the Creator great His constellations set.
And the well-balanced world on hinges hung. And cast the dark foundations deep.
And bid the weltering waves their oozy channels keep.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres,
Once bless our human ears,
If ye have power to touch our senses so;
And let your silver chime Move in melodious time;
And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow, And, with your ninefold harmony.
Make up full concert to the angelic symphony.
31
For if such, holy song Enwrap our fancy long,
Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity Will sicken soon and die.
And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;
And Hell itself will pass away,
And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men,
Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,
Mercy will sit between,
Thron'd in celestial sheen ,
With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering; And heaven, as at some festival.
Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest Fate says no.
This must not yet be so.
The babe yet lies in smiling infancy.
That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss.
So both himself and us to glorify:
Yet first to these y chain'd in sleep,
The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.
With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang.
While the red fire and smouldring clouds out brake; The aged earth aghast.
JOHN MILTON.
With terror of that blast,
Shall from the surface to the centre shake;
When at the world's last session,
The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our bliss,
Full and perfect is,
But now begins; for from this happy day.
The old dragon underground,
In straiter limits bound.
Not half so far lasts his usurped sway;
And, wroth to see his kingdom fail.
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb.
No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.
Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine.
With hollow shriek the sleep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er,
And the resounding shore,
A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;
From haunted spring and dale,
Edg'd with poplar pale,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent;
With flower inwoven tresses torn,
The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
JOHN MILTON.
In consecrated earth,
And on the holy hearth,
The Lars and Lemurs mourn with midnight plaint. In urns and altars round A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint,
And the chill marble seems to sweat,
While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat.
Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim With that twice battered God of Palestine;
And mooned Ashtaroth Heaven's queen and mother both,
Now sits not girt with taper's holy shrine;
The Libyac Hammon shrinks his horn ;
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch, fled,
Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king?
In dismal dance about the furnace blue:
The brutish Gods of Nile as fast,
Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.
Nor is Osiris seen In Mephian grove or green,
Trampling the unshowered grass with loudings loud; Nor can he be at rest
33
3
JOHN MILTOX.
Within liis sacred chest,
Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
In vain with timbrell'd anthems dark The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipp'd ark.
He feels from Judahs' land The dreaded infant's hand,
The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;
Nor all the Gods beside Longer dare abide,
Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine:
Our babe, to show his Godhead true Can in his swaddling bands control the damned creed.
So, when the sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,
Pillows his chin upon an orient wave.
The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail.
Each fetter'd ghost slips to his several grave;
And the yellow-shirted fays
Fly after the night steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest;
Time is, our tedious song should here have ending Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fixed her polish'd car.
Her sleeping Lord with hand maid lamp attending; And all about the courtly stable Bright harness'd angels sit in order service able.
34
JOHN MILTON.
L'Allegro.
Hence loathed melancholy,
Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born.
In Stygian cave forlorn,
'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sighs unholy, Find out some uncouth cell,
Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night raven sings;
There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But come thou Goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclep'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore:
Or whether (as some sages sing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,
Zephyr, with Aurora, playing.
As lie met her once a maying.
There on beds of vi'lets blue.
And fresh-blown roses washed in dew.
Filled her with thee a daughter fair.
So buxom, blithe, and debonair.
Haste thee, nymph and bring with thee
Jest and joyful Jollity,
Quips, and cranks, and wanton smiles,
Nods and becks and wreathed smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek
35
JOHN MILTON.
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides; Come and trip it as ye go On the light fantastic toe,
And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain-nymph sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth admit me of thy crew.
To live with her, and live with thee. In unreproved pleasures free:
To hear the lark begin his flight. And single startle the dull night.
From his watch-tower in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine:
While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin. And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly, struts his dames before: Of list'ning how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumb'ring morn. From the side of some hoar hill. Through the high wood echoing shrill: Some time walking not unseen By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green gt; Right against the eastern gate.
Where the great sun begins his state.
36
JOHN MILTON.
Rob'd in flames, and amber light,
The clouds in thousand liv'ries dight;
While the ploughman, near at hand,
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land.
And the milk-maid singeth blithe,
And the mower whets his sycthe,
And ev'ry shepherd tells his tale
Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures,
Russet lawns, and fallows gray.
Where the nibbling flocks do stray;
Mountains on whose barren breast
The laboring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with daisies pied;
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide:
Tow'rs and battlements it sees
Bosom'd high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies.
The cynosure of neighb'ring eyes.
Hard by a cottage-chimney smokes.
From betwixt two aged oaks.
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met.
Are at their sav'ry dinner set
Of herbs and other country messes.
Which the neat-hand Phyllis dresses:
And then in haste her bower she leaves.
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves:
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead,
Sometimes, with secure delight.
The upland meadows will invite.
37
JOHN MILTON.
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocund rebecks sound
To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the chequer'd shade;
And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holiday.
Till the livelong daylight fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.
With stories told of many a feat.
How fairy Mab the junkets ate;
She was pinched, and pull'd, she said.
And he by friar's lantern led;
Tells how the diedging goblet sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set.
When in one night ere glimpse of morn,
His shad'wy flail had thresh'd the corn.
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubber fiend.
And stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And, cropful out of doors he flings.
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whisp'ring winds soon lull'd asleep.
Tow'red cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men.
Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of peace high triumphs hold.
With st3re of ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize
Of wit or arms, while both contend
3»
JOHN MILTON.
To win her grace whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robes, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry.
With masque and antique pageantry.
Such sights as youthful poets dream, On summer eves, by haunted stream.
Then to the well-trod stage anon. Or sweetest Shakespere, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood notes wild. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs.
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the melting soul may pierce. In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out,
With wanton heed, and giddy cunning. The melting voice through mazes running. Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony;
That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden slumber on a bed Of heap'd Elysian flow'rs, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half regain'd Eurydice These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.
JOHN MILTON.
Satan soliloquises over his fall.
(From Paradise Lost.)
O Thou, that, with surpassing glory crown'd, Look'st from thy sole dominion like the God Of this new world: at whose sight all the stars Hide their diminish'd heads; to thee I call But with no friendly voice; and add thy name,
0 Sun! to tell thee how I hate thy beams,
That bring to my remembrance from what state
1 fell; how glorious once above thy sphere,
'1 ill pride and worse ambition threw me down Warring in heaven against heaven's matchless king Ah, wherefore! He deserved no such return From me, whom he created what I was In that bright emmence, and with his good Upbraided none; nor was his service hard.
What could be less than to afford him praise The easiest recompence, and pay him thanks. How due! Yet all his good proved ill in me. And wrought but malice; lifted up so high I'sdained subjection, and thought one step higher Would set me highest, and in a moment quit The debt immense of endless gratitude. So burthensome still paying, still to owe;
Forgetful what from him I still received, And understood not that a grateful mind By owing owes not, but still pays, at once Indebted and discharged; what burden then? O, had his powerful destiny ordain'd
JOHN MILTON.
Me some inferior angei, I had stood
Then happy; no unbounded hope had raised
Ambition! Yet why not? Some other power
As great might have aspired, and me, though mean.
Drawn to his part; but other powers as great
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.
Had'st thou the same free will and power to stand?
Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse.
But heaven's free love dealt equally to all?
Be then his love accursed, since, love or hate
To me alike, it deals eternal woe.
Nay, censed be thou; since against his thy will
Chose freely what it now so justly rues.
Me miserable! which way shall I fly
Infinite wrath and infinite despair?
Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;
And in the lowest deep, a lower deep.
Still threatening to devour me, opens wide,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.
O, then, at last relent: is there no place
Left for repentance, none for pardon left?
None left but by submission; and that word
Disdain forbids me and my dread of shame
Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced
quot;With other promises and other vaunts
Than to submit, boasting I could subdue
The Omnipotent. Ay me! they little know
How dearly I abide that boast so vain.
Under what torments inwardly I groan,
While they adore me on the throne of hell.
41
JOHN MILTON.
With diadem and sceptre high advanced,
The lower still I fall, only supreme
In misery: such joy ambition finds.
But say I could repent, and could obtain.
By act of grace, my former state; how soon
Would height recal high thoughts, how soon unsay
What feign'd submission swore? Ease would recant
Vows made in pain, as violent and void.
For never can true reconcilement grow,
Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep;
Which would but lead me to a worse relapse
And heavier fall: so should I purchase dear
Short intermission bought with double smart.
This knows my Punisher; therefore as far
From granting he, as I from begging peace:
All hope excluded thus, behold, instead
Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight.
Mankind, created and for him this world.
So farewell hope; and with hope, farewell fear;
Farewell remorse! all good to me is lost;
Evil, be thou my good; by, thee at least
Divided empire with heaven's King I hold.
By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;
As man ere long, and this new world shall know.
42
D R Y D E N. 1636â1700.
Alexander's Feast.
'Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son:
Aloft in awful state The god-like hero sat On his imperial throne:
His valieant peers were placed around;
Their brows with roses and with myrtle bound, (So should desert in arms be crown'd): The lovely Thai's, by his side.
Sate, like a blooming Eastern bride.
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!
None but the brave,
None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.
Timotheus, placed on high Amid the tuneful quire,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre: The trembling notes ascend the sky.
DRYDEN.
And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
(Such is the power of mighty Love!)
A dragon's fiery form belied the god ,
Sublime on radiant spheres he rode,
When he to fair Olypia press'd.
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound A present deity! they shout around:
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound:
With ravish'd ears The monarch hears.
Assumes the god.
Affects to nod.
And seems to shake the spheres.
The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sang:
Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young:
The jolly god in triumph comes;
Sound the trumpets, beat the drums;
Flush'd with a purple grace,
He shows his honest face;
Now give the hautboys breath; he comes! he comes! Bacchus ever fair and young,
Drinking joys did first ordain;
Bacchus1 blessings are a treasure.
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure:
Rich the treasure.
Sweet the pleasure;
Sweet is pleasure after pain.
44
DRYDEN.
Soothed with the sound, the king grew vain;
Fought all his battles o'er again;
And thrice he routed all his foes and thrice he slew the slain. The master saw the madness rise;
His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes;
And, while he heaven and earth defied,
Changed his hand and checked his pride.
He chose a mournful Muse Soft pity to infuse:
He sung Darius great and good,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate.
And weltering in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need.
By those his former bounty fed On the bare earth exposed he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
With downeast look the joyless victor sate.
Revolving in his alter'd soul.
The various turns of chance below;
And now and then a sigh he stole,
And tears began to flow.
The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree:
'T was but a kindred sound to move.
For pity melts the mind to love.
Softly sweet in Lydian measures.
Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures.
War, he sung, is toil and trouble;
45
DRYDEX.
Honour but an empty bubble:
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying;
If the world he worth thy winning.
Think, O think it worth enjoying!
Lovely Thai's sits beside thee,
Take the good the gods provide thee!
The many rend the skies with loud applause; So love was crown'd, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain.
Gazed on the fair,
Who caused his care.
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again :
And length, with love and wine at once oppress'd The vanquish'd victor sank upon her breast.
Now strike the golden lyre again:
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain.
Break his bands of sleep asunder.
And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid sound
Has raised up his head!
As awaked from the dead.
And amazed, he stares around.
Revenge! revenge! Timotheus cries.
See the Furies arise;
See the snakes that they rear.
How they hiss in their hair.
And the sparkles that flash from their eyes!
Behold a ghastly band.
46
DRYDEN.
Each a torch in his hand!
Those are Greecian Ghosts, that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain:
Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew!
Behold how they toss their torches on high, How they point to the Persian abodes, And glittering temples of their hostile gods! The princes applaud with a furious joy;
And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy; Thais led the way,
To light him to his prey And, like another Helen, fired another Troy.
Thus long ago,
Ere heaving bellows learn'd to blow.
While organs yet were mute;
Timotheus to his breathing flute
And sounding lyre,
Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire. And last divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal frame;
The sweet enthusiast, from her sacred store, Enlarged the former narrow bounds.
And added length to solemn sounds,
quot;With Nature's mother â wit and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize.
Or both divide the crown;
He raised a mortal to the skies.
She drew an angel down.
47
DRYDEN.
Veni Creator.
Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit every pious mind;
Come, pour Thy joys on human kind;
From sin and sorrow set us free And make thy temples worthy Thee.
O source of uncreated light,
The Father's promised Paraclete!
Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire.
Our hearts with heavenly love inspire;
Come, and Thy sacred unction bring. To sanctify us while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sevenfold energy!
Thou strength of this Almighty hand.
Whose power does heaven and earth command;
Proceeding Spirit, our defence.
Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense,
And crown'st Thy gifts with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts:
But oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control.
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown.
Then lay Thine hand and hold them down.
48
DRVDEN.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And place, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way.
Make us eternal truths receive. And practise all that we believe:
Give us Thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by Thee.
Immortal honour, endless fame.
Attend the Almighty Father's name! The Saviour Son be glorified ,
Who for lost man's redemption died ! And equal adoration be.
Eternal Paraclete, to Thee!
49
4
ALEXANDER POPE. 1Ã88â1744-
Eloïsa to Abelard.
In these deep solitudes and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns.
What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love! From Abelard it came, And Eloïsa yet must kiss the name.
Dear fatal name! rest ever unrevealed.
Nor pass these lips in holy silence sealed:
Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. Where mixed with God's, his loved idea lies: O, write it not, my hand â the name appears Already written, wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Eloïsa weeps and prays.
Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys; Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains:
Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagged with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-eyed virgins keep.
ALEXANDER POPE.
And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep!
Though cold like you, unmoved and silent grown,
I have not yet forgot myself to stone.
All is not heaven's while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor prayers nor fasts it stubborn pulse restrain,
Nor tears for ages taught to flow in vain.
Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose.
That well-known name awakens all my woes.
Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear!
Still breathed in sighs, still ushered with a tear.
I tremble too where'er my own I find.
Some dire misfortune follows close behind.
Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow.
Led through a sad variety of woe:
Now warm in love, now with'ring in my bloom.
Lost in a convent's solitary gloom!
There stern religion quenched th'unwilling flame,
There died the best of passions, love and fame.
Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join
Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine.
Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away;
And is my Abelard less kind thou they?
Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare.
Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r;
No happier task these faded eyes pursue;
To read and weep is all they now can do.
Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief;
Ah, more than share it, give me all thy grief.
Heaven first taught letters for some wretch's aid,
Some banished lover, or some captive maid;
2 ALEXANDER 1'OPE.
They live they speak, they breathe what love inspires,
Warm from the soul, and faithful to its lires,
The virgin's wish without her fears impart.
Excuse the blush and pour out all her heart.
Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul.
And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole.
Thou knowest how guiltless first I met thy flame
When loves approached me under friendship's name;
My fancy formed thee of angelic kind.
Some emanation of th'all beauteous mind.
Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry ray.
Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day.
Guiltless I gazed; heav'n listened while you sung;
And truths divine came mended from that tongue.
From lips like those, what precept failed to move?
Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love:
Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran
Nor wished an angel whom I loved a man.
Dim and remote the joys of saints I see;
Nor envy them that heav'n I lose for thee.
May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame!
Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclele's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; Then sadly say, with mutual pity moved, âOh, may we never love as these have loved!quot;
ALEXANDER POPE.
From the full choir when loud hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice,
Amid that scene, if some relenting eye.
Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from heav'n. One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n. And sure, if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine.
Condemned whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more;
Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender story tell! The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint them who shall feel them most.
The Dying Christian to His Soul.
Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying. Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease fond nature, cease thy strife. And let me languish into life.
Hark! they whisper: angels say, âSister spirit, come away.quot;
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight. Drowns my spirits, draws my breath? Tell me, my soul, can this be death?
53
ALEXANDER POPE.
The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears With sounds seraphic ring:
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly! Oh grave! Where is thy victory? Oh, death! Where is thy sting?
Extracts from the Essay on Man.
Heav'n from all creatures hides the book of fate.
All but the page prescribed, their present state:
From brutes what men from men what spirits know:
Or who could suffer being here below?
The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day.
Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ?
Pleased to the last, he crops the flow'ry food.
And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
Oh, blindness to the future! Kindly giv'n.
That each may fill the circle marked by heav'n :
Who sees with equal eye as God of all,
A hero perish or a sparrow fall.
Atoms of system into ruin hurled.
And now a bubble burst and now a world.
Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore.
What future bliss, He gives not thee to know.
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now
Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest;
The soul, uneasy and confined from home.
54
ALEXAXDER POPE.
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, or hears Him in the wind; His soul, proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
Yet simple nature to his hope has giv'n,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heav'n; Some safer world in depths of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold. No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire,
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Behold the child, by Nature's kindly law.
Pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw;
Some livelier play-thing gives his youth delight, A little louder, but as empty quite:
Scarfs, garters, gold, amuse his riper stage. And beads and prayer-books are the toys of age; Pleased with this bauble still, as that before;
'Till tired he sleeps, and life's poor play is o'er. Meanwhile opinion gilds with varying rays Those painted clouds that beautify our days; Each want of happiness by hope supplied. And each vacuity of sense by pride:
These build as fast as knowledge can destroy; In folly's cup still laughs the bubble, joy;
ALEXANDER POPE.
One prospect lost, another still we gain; And not a vanity is given in vain,
Even mean self-love becomes by force divine. The scale to measure others' wants by thine See! and confess, one comfort still must rise, Tis this, though man's a fool, yet God is wise.
JOSEPH ADDISON. 1672â1719.
Cato's speech over the corpse of his son.
Welcome, my son! here lay him down, my friends, Full in my sight, that I may view at leisure The bloody corse, and count these glorious wounds. How beautiful is death when earned by virtue! Who would not be that youth? What pity is it That we can die but once to serve our country! Why sits this sadness on your brows, my friends? I should have blushed if Cato's house had stood Secure and flourished in a civil war.
Fortius, behold thy brother, and remember Thy life is not thine own when Rome demands it.
Alas, my friends,
Why mourn you thus? let not a private loss Afflict your hearts. 'Tis Rome requires our tears. The mistress of the world, the seat of empire, The nurse of heroes, the delight of Gods;
That humbled the proud tyrants of the earth.
And set the nations free, Rome is no more.
O liberty! O virtue! O my country!
Whate'er the Roman virtue has subdued.
The sun's whole course, the day and year, are Caesar's.
JOSEPH ADDISOX.
For him the self-devoted Decii died,
The Fabii fell, and the great Scipios conquered:
Even Pompey fought for Caesar. Oh! my friends,
How is the toil of fate the work of ages.
The Roman empire fallen! O curst ambition!
Fallen into Caesar's hands! our great forefathers
Had left him naught to conquer but his country.
Cato's soliloquy on immortality.
It must be so Plato, thou reasons't well â
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire.
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror
Of falling into nought? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'Tis the Divinity, that stirs within us;
'Tis Heaven itself that points out a hereafter.
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass!
The wide, th'unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a power above us,
(And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works) He must delight in virtue;
And that which He delights in must be happy.
But when or where? â¢â⢠This world was made for Caesar.
5«
JAMES THOMPSON. 1700â1748.
A Summer Dawn.
(From the Seasons.)
And soon, observant of approaching day,
The meek-ey'd morn appears, mother of dews,
At first faint gleaming in the dappled east;
Till far o'er ether spreads the widening glow.
And from before the lustre of her face,
White break the clouds away. â With quicken'd step
Brown Night retires. Young Day pours in apace.
And opens all the lawny prospect wide.
The dripping rocks, the mountain's misty top
Swell on the sight, and brighten with the dawn.
Blue through the dusk, the smoky currents shine:
And from the bladed field the fearful hare
Limps awkward; while along the forest glade
The wild deer trip, and often turning gaze
At early passenger. Music awakes,
The native voice of undissembled joy:
And thick around the woodland hymns arise.
Roused by the cock, the soon-clad shepherd leaves
His mossy cottage, where with peace he dwells
And from the crowded fold in order drives
JAMES THOMPSON.
His flock, to taste the verdure of the morn. Falsely luxurious, will not man awake, And springing from the bed of sloth, The cool, the fragrant, and the silent hour, To meditation due and sacred song!
But yonder comes the powerful King of Day,
Rejoicing in the east. The lessening cloud.
The kindling azure, and the mountain's brow
Illumed with fluid gold, his near approach
Betoken glad. Lo! now apparent all,
Aslant the dew-bright earth and colour'd air,
He looks in boundless majesty abroad;
And sheds the shining day, that burnish'd plays
On rocks, and hills, and towers and wandering streams.
High-gleaming from afar. Prime cheerer, Light I
Of all material beings first, and best!
Efflux divine! Natures resplendent robe!
Without whose vesting beauty all were wrapt
In unessential gloom; and thou, oh Sun!
Soul of surrounding worlds, in whom best seen
Shines out thy maker! May I sing of thee?
Rule Britannia.
When Britain first at Heaven's command. Arose from out the azure main.
This was the charter of the land. And guardian angels sang the strain:
Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves: Britons never will he slaves.
JAMES THOMPSON.
The nations not so blest as thee,
Must in their turn, to tyrants fall;
Whilst thou shall flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all:
Rule Britannia, etc.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise.
More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak:
Rule Britannia, etc.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame; All their attempt to hurl thee down Will but arouse thy gen'rous flame, And work their woe but thy renown:
Rule Britannia, etc.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore encircle thine:
Rule Britannia, etc.
The muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest isle! With matchless beauty crowned And manly hearts to guard the fair:
Rule Britannia, etc.
6l
JAMES THOMPSON.
The Sorrows of life.
All! little think the gay, licentious, proud.
Whom pleasure, pow'r, and affluence surround!
They, who their thoughtless hours in giddy mirth.
And wanton, often cruel riot waste;
Ah! little think they, while they dance along.
How many feel, this very moment, death,
And all the sad variety of pain:
How many sink in the devouring flood,
A more devouring flame; how many bleed.
By shameful variance betwixt man and man;
How many pine in want, and dungeon glooms;
Shut from the common air and common use
Of their own limbs: how many drink the cup
Of baleful grief or eat the bitter bread
Of misery; sore pierced by wintry winds,
How many shrink into the sordid hut
Of cheerless poverty: how many shake
With all the fiercer tortures of the mind.
Unbounded passion, madness, guilt, remorse.
Whence, tumbling headlong from the height of life.
They furnish matter for the tragic muse:
Ev'n in the vale, where wisdom loves to dwell.
With friendship, peace and contemplation join'd,
How many, rack'd with honest passions, droop
In deep, retired distress: how many stand
Around the death-bed of their dearest friends
And point the parting anguish. â Thought fond man
Of these, and all the thousand nameless ills
That one incessant struggle render life.
JAMES THOMPSON.
One scene of toil, of suff'ring, and of fate, Vice in his high career would stand appall'd. And heedless rambling impulse learn to think The conscious heart of charity would warm, And her wide wish benevolence dilate; The social tear would rise, the social sigh; And into dear perfection, gradual bliss, Refiring still, the social passions work.
O L I V E R G O L D S MI T H. 1728â1774.
Extracts from the Traveller.
Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow Or by the lazy Scheld, or wandering Po; Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor Against the houseless stranger shuts the door; Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary, waste expanding to the skies:
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see, My heart, untravelled, fondly turns to thee:
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain. And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.
Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend. And round his dwelling guardian saints attend; Bless'd be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil and trim their evening fire: Bless'd that abode, where want and pain repair. And every stranger finds a ready chair;
Bless'd be those feasts with simple plenty crown'd. Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale;
Or press the bashful stranger, to his food. And learn the luxury of doing good.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent and care;
Impell'd with steps unceasing to pursue Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view:
That like the circle bounding earth and skies Allures from far, yet, as I follow. Hies:
My fortune leads to traverse realms alone And find no spot of all the world my own.
Even now where Alpine solitudes ascend,
I sit me down a pensive hour to spend:
And, placed on high, above the storm's career Look downward where a hundred realms appear;
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.
When thus creation's charms around combine,
Amidst the store should thankless pride repine?
Say should the philosophic mind disdain
That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ?
Let school taught pride dissemble all it can,
The little things are great to little man:
And wiser he, whose sympathetic mind
Exults in all the good of all mankind.
Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendour crown'd;
Ye fields where summer spreads profusion round;
Ye lakes whose vessels catch the busy gale
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me, your tributary stores combine;
Creation's heir, the world, the world is mine!
65
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
----s
As some lone miser, visiting bis store,
Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er:
Hoards after hoards his raptures fill
Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still;
Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,
Pleased with each good that heaven to man supplies
Yet oft a sigb prevails, and sorrows fall.
To see the board of human bliss so small;
And oft I wish, amidst the scene, to find
Some spot to real happiness consign'd.
Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest;
May gather bliss to see my fellows bless'd.
But where to find that happiest spot below. Who can direct, when all pretend to know? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own;
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, panting at the line.
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare or stems the tepid wave And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam. His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare. And estimate the blessings which they share. Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind:
As different good, by art or nature given, To different nations makes their blessings even.
66
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 67
The French depicted.
(From the same.)
To kinder skies, where gentler manners reign.
I turn; and France displays her bright domain. Gay sprightly land of mirth and social ease Pleased with thyself, whom all the world can please, How often have I led thy sporting choir,
With tuneless pipe, beside the murmuring Loire, Where shading elms along the margin grew. And freshen'd from the wave the zephyr Hew; And haply, though my harsh touch faltering still. But mock'd all tune, and marr'd the dancer's skill, Yet would the village praise my wondrous power. And dance forgetful of the noon-tide hour.
Alike all ages. Dames of ancient days Have led their children through the mirthful maze And the gay grandsire skill'd in gestie lore, Has frisk'd beneath the burden of three-score.
So blest a life these thoughtless realms display.
Thus idly busy rolls their world away:
Theirs are those arts that mind to mind endear. For honour forms the social temper here,
Honour, that praise which real merit gains.
Or even imaginary worth obtains,
Here passes current; paid from hand to hand, It shifts in splendid traffic round the land:
From courts to camps, to cottages it strays And all are taught an avarice of praise;
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
They please, are pleased, they give to get esteem, Till, seeming blest, they grow to what they seem.
But while this softer art their bliss supplies.
It gives their follies also room to rise:
For praise too dearly loved, or warmly sought.
Enfeebles all internal strength of thought;
And the weak soul, within itself unblest.
Leans for all pleasure on another's breast.
Hence ostentation here, with tawdry art.
Pants for the vulgar praise which fools impart;
Here vanity assumes her pert grimace
And trims her rob of frieze with copper lace;
Her beggar pride defrauds her daily cheer.
To boast one splendid bouquet once a year.
The mind still turns where shifting fashion draws,
Tsor weighs the solid worth of self-applause.
Edwin and Angelina.
quot;Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,
And guide my lonely way. To where you taper cheers the vale With hospitable ray.
quot;For here forlorn and lost I tread. With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, unmeasurably spread. Seem lengthening as I go.quot;
68
OLIVER GOLDSMITIF.
quot;Forbear, my son,quot; the hermit cries, quot;To tempt the dangerous gloom;
For yonder faithless phantom flies To lure thee to thy doom.
quot;Here to the houseless child of want My door is open still;
And though my portion is but scant I give it with good will.
quot;Then turn to-night and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows;
My rushy couch and frugal fare My blessing and repose.
quot;No flocks that range the valley free To slaughter I condemn;
Taught by that power that pities me I learn to pity them.
quot;But from the mountain's grassy side A guiltless feast I bring;
A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, And water from the spring.
quot; Then, pilgrim , turn , thy cares forego, All earth-born cares are wrong;
Man wants but little here below. Nor wants that little long.
Soft as the dew from heaven descends. His gentle accents fell;
69
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
The modest stranger lowly bends And follows to the cell.
Far in a wilderness obscure The lonely mansion lay;
A refuge to the neighbouring poor, And strangers led astray.
No stores beneath its humble thatch Required a master's care;
The wicket, opening with a latch, Received the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire To take their evening rest,
The hermit trimmed his little fire And cheer'd his pensive guest:
And spread his vegetable store, And gaily press'd and smiled;
And skill'd in legendary lore. The lingering hours beguiled.
Around, in sympathetic mirth. Its tricks the kitten tries;
The cricket chirrups in the hearth The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart To cheer the stranger's woe.
For grief was heavy at his heart And tears began to flow.
7°
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answering care opprest:
quot;And whence, unhappy youth,quot; he cried, quot;The sorrows of thy breast?
quot;From better habitations spurn'd.
Reluctant dost thou rove?
Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd. Or unregarded love?
quot;Alas! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling, and decay;
And those who prize the paltry things,
More trifling still than they.
quot;And what is friendship but a name, A charm that lulls to sleep:
A shade that follows wealth or fame. But leaves the wretch to weep?
quot;And love is still an emptier sound. The modern fair ones' jest;
On earth unseen or only found To warm the turtle's nest.
quot;For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush, And spurn the sex,quot; he said:
But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betrayed.
Surprised he sees new beauties rise.
Swift mantling to the view;
71
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Like colours o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast. Alternate spread alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest A maid in all her charms.
And, quot;ah forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlornquot; she cried;
quot;Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside.
quot;But let a maid thy pity share.
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, and finds despair Companion of her way.
quot;My father lived beside the Tyne A wealthy lord was he;
And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me.
quot;To win me from his tender arms Unnumber'd suitors came.
Who praised me for imputed charms And felt, or feign'd a tlame.
quot;Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talked of love.
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
quot;In humble, simplest habit clad. No wealth nor power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all lie had, But these were all to me.
quot;The blossom opening to the day, The dews of heaven refined.
Could nought of purity display, To emulate his mind.
âThe dew, the blossom on the tree. With charms inconstant shine;
Their charms were his but, woe is me, Their constancy was mine!
quot;For still I tried each fickle art. Importunate and vain;
And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain.
quot;Till quite dejected with my scorn. He left me to my pride;
And sought a solitude forlorn,
In secret, -where he died.
quot;But mine the sorrow, mine the fault, And well my life shall pay;
I'll seek the solitude he sought And stretch me where he lay.
quot;And there forlorn despairing, hid I'll lay me down and die;
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
quot;T was so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I.
quot;Forbid it, heaven!quot;' the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast;
The wond'ring fair one tnrn'd to chide â 'T was Edwin's self that prest.
quot;Turn Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, Restored to love and thee 1
quot;Thus let me hold thee to my heart. And every care resign:
And shall we never never part.
My life â my all that's mine?
quot;Xo, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true;
The sigh that rends thy constant heart. Shall break thy Edwin's too.quot;
The Deserted Village.
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,
Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain, Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid And parting summer's ling'ring blooms delay'd;
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease.
74
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Seats of my youth, when every sport could please;
How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,
Where humble happiness endear'd each scene;
How often have I paus'd on every charm,
The shelter'd cot the cultivated farm,
The never failing brook, the busy mill,
The decent church that topt the neighb'ring hill,
The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,
For talking age and whisp'ring lovers made!
How often have I blest the coming day,
When toil remitting lent its turn to play,
And all the village train , from labour free,
Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree.
While many a pastime circled in the shade.
The young contending as the old survey'd;
And many a gambol frolick'd oe'r the ground
And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;
And still as each repeated pleasure tired,
Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired.
The dancing pair that simply sought renown,
By holding out, to tire each other down;
The swain, mistrustless of his smutted face
With secret laughter titter'd round the place;
The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love.
The matron's glance that would those looks reprove â
These were thy charms, sweet village! Sports like these,
With sweet succession , taught ev'n toil to please;
These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed.
These were thy charms â but all these charms are iled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn.
75
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
Thy sports are lied, and all thy charms withdrawn;
Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,
And desolation saddens all thy green;
One only master grasps the whole domain ,
And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain;
No more thy grassy brook reflects the day,
But, chok'd with sedges, works its weedy way;
Along thy glades, a solitary guest.
The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest;
Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies.
And tires their echoes with unvary'd cries.
Sunk are thy bowers in shapless ruin all.
And the long grass o'ertops the mould'ring wall;
And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,
Far, far away thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to liast'ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates, and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride.
When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.
Here, as I take my solitary rounds,
Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruin'd grounds. And many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew. Remembrance wakes with all her busy train ,
Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
76
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
]n all my wand'rinijs round this world of care, In all my griefs â and God has giv'n my share â I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the llame from wasting by repose:
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still.
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill. Around my fire an evening group to draw And tell of all I felt and all 1 saw;
And as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return â and die at home at last.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled And still where many a garden flower grows wild There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose The village preacher's modest mansion rose.
A man he was to all the country dear.
And passing rich with forty pounds a year;
Remote from towns he ran his goodly race.
Nor e'er had chang'd nor wish'd to change his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power.
By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour;
Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,
More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train He chid their wand'rings, but relieved their pain ; The long remember'd beggar was his guest.
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
77
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay.
Sat by his fire and talk'd the night away;
Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done.
Shoulder'd his crutch and show'd how fields were won.
Pleased with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride.
And even his failings lean'd to virtue's side;
But in his duty prompt at every call.
He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all; And as a bird each fond endearment tries.
To tempt its new Hedged offspring to the skies; He tried each art, reproved his dull delay.
Allured to brighter worlds and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid. And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd The rev'rend champion stood. At his control,
Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;
Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise. And his last falt'ring accents whisper'd praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace.
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway. And fools who came to scoff, remained to pray. The service past, around the pious man.
7*
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
With ready zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Even children followed, with endearing wile.
And plucked his gown, to share the goodman's smile
His ready smile a parent's warmth exprest,
Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distrest;
To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,
But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.
And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid.
Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;
Unfit in these degenerate times of shame,
To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;
Dear, charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;
Thou source of all my bliss, and all my wo,
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so: Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel.
Thou, nurse of every virtue, fare thee well.
79
SAMUEL JOHNSON. 1709â1784.
Charles Xil.
On what foundation stands the warrior's pride,
How just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide;
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
Xo dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O'er love, o'er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquer'd lord of pleasure and of pain;
Xo joys to him pacific sceptres yield,
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their pow'rs combine.
And one capitulate and one resign;
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain
quot;Think nothing gain'dquot; he cries, quot;till nought remain;
On Moscow's wall till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky.quot;
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait;
Stern famine guards the solitary coast.
And winter barricades the realms of frost:
He conies, not want and cold his course delay
Hide, blushing glory, hide Pultowa's day:
The vanquish'd hero leaves his broken bands.
And shows his miseries in distant lands;
Candemn'd a needy supplicant to wait;
While ladies interpose, and slaves debate.
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
But did not chance at length her error mend? Did no subverted empire mark his end?
Or hostile millions press him to the ground? His fall was destin'd to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand;
He left the name at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale.
Cardinal Wolsey.
In full blown dignity see Wolsey stand.
Law in his voice and fortune in his hand:
To him the church, the realm, their pow'r consign Through him the rags of regal bounty shine.
Still to new heights his restless wishes tow'r,
Claim leads to claim, and pow'r advances pow'r; Till conquest unresisted ceas'd to please.
And rights submitted left him none to seize. At length his sov'reign frowns â the train of state Mark the keen glance, and watch the sign to hate. Where'er he turns he meets a stranger's eye, His suppliants scorn him, and his followers fly; At once is lost the pride of awful state.
The golden canopy, the gluttering plate,
The regal palace, the luxurious board,
The liveried army, and the menial lord.
With age, with cares, with maladies oppressed, He seeks the refuge of monastic rest.
Grief aids disease, remember'd folly stings,
And his last sighs reproach the faith of kings.
THOMAS GRAY. 1716â1771.
Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day. The lowing herds wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his wear)' way. And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as wand'ring near her secret bow'r.
Molest her ancient solitary reign.
Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a mould'ring heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense breathing morn, The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed
THOMAS GRAY.
The cocks shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shah burn , Or busy house-wife ply her ev'ning care No children run to lisp their sire's return Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r.
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike th'inevitable hour,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you, ye proud impute to these the fault, If mem'ry o'er their tombs no trophies raise.
Where through the long drawn aisle, and fretted vault The pealing anthem swell the note of praise.
Can storied urn, or animated bust,
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
â¢Or flatt'ry sooth the dull cold ear of death?
THOMAS GRAY.
Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or wak'd to ecstasy the living lyre.
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll;
Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of their soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a How'r is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest.
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.
Th'applause of list'ning senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise.
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes.
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;
The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame.
84
THOMAS GRAY.
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame.
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray Along the cool sequester'd pale of life They kept the noiseless tenour of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth ryhmes and shapeless sculpture deck'd Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their names, their years spelt by th'unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb fogetfulness a prey This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, ling'ring look behind?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires;
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee who, mindful of th'unhonoured dead.
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;
If chance, by lonely contemplation led.
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate.
THOMAS GRAY.
llap'ly some hoary-headed swain may say,
quot;Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn.
Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.
There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore npon the brook that babbles by.
Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,
Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful, wan like one forlorn.
Or craz'd with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.
quot;One morn I miss'd him on th'accustom'd hill,
Along the I'cath, and near his fav'rite tree;
Another came, nor yet beside the rill,
Xor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;
quot;The next, with dirges due in sad array,
Slow through the church-way path, we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou can'st read) the lay, Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.quot;
ERASMUS DAR W I N. 1731â1S02.
Eliza.
Now stood Eliza on the wood-crown'd height O'er Jlinden's plains spectatress of the fight;
Sought with bold eye amid the bloody strife Her dearer self the partner of her life.
From hill to hill the rushing host pursued And view'd his banner or believed she view'd.
Pleased with the distant roar, with quicker tread Fast by his hand one lisping boy she led;
And one fair girl amid the loud alarm Slept on her kerchief, cradled on her arm:
While round her brows bright beams of honour dart And love's warm Eddies circle round her heart.
â Xear and more near the intrepid beauty press'd Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest.
Heard the exulting shout. â quot;They run! â they run!quot; quot;He's safe!quot; she cried, quot;he's safe! the battle's won!quot;
â A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some Fury wings it and some Demon guides,)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck, Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck:
The red stream issuing from her azure veins.
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
KRASMUS DARWIN.
quot;Ah me!quot; she cried, and sinking on the ground, Kiss'd her dear babes regardless of the wound: quot;Oh cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn,
Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my love's return!quot; â Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far. The angel. Pity, shuns the walks of war; â quot;Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age! On me, on me,quot; she cried, quot;exhaust your rage!quot;
Then with weak arms, her weeping babes caress'd. And sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest.
From tent to tent the impatient warrior flies,
Fear in his heart and frenzy m his eyes:
Eliza's name along the camp he calls,
Eliza echoes through the canvas walls;
Quick through the murmuring gloom his footsteps tread.
O'er groaning heaps, the dying and the dead.
Vault o'er the plain â and in the tangled wood, â
Lo! dead Eliza â weltering in her blood!
Soon hears his listening son the welcome sounds,
With open arms and sparkling eyes he bounds,
quot;Speak low,quot; he cries, and gives his little hand,
quot;Mama's asleep upon the dew cold sand;
Alas! we both with cold and hunger quake â
Why do you weep? Mamma will soon awake.quot;
âquot;She'll wake no more!quot; the hopeless mourner cried.
Upturn'd his eyes, and clasp'd his hands and sigh'd;
Stretch'd on the ground, awhile entranced he lay.
And press'd warm kisses on the lifeless clay;
And then up he sprang with wild convulsive start.
And all the father kindled in his heart;
8S
ERASMUS DARWIN.
quot;Oh heaven!quot; he cried, quot;my first rash vow forgive! These bind to earth, for these I pray to live.quot;
Round his chill babes he wrapp'd his crimson vest, And clasp'd them sobbing, to his aching breast.
89
TOBIAS S M O L L E T. 1721â1771.
The Tears of Scotland.
Mourn, hap'less Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy sons, for valour long renown'd Lie slaughter'd on their native ground; Thyquot; hospitable roofs no more Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie. The monuments of cruelty.
The wretched owner sees afar His all become the prey of war;
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wantqn flocks: Thy ravisb'd virgins shriek in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain.
What boots it then, in every clime Through the wide speaking waste of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze!
TOBIAS SMOLLET.
Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell. By civil rage and rancour fell.
The rural pipe and merry lay No more shall cheer the happy day: No social scenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night: No strains but those of sorrow flow, And nought be heard but sounds of woe, While the pale phantoms of the slain Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.
lt;3 baneful cause! oh, fatal morn! Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their father stood, The parent shed his children's blood. Vet when the rage of battle ceased, The victor's soul was not appeased: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames and murd'ring steel!
The pious mother, doom'd to death, Forsaken wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whistles round her head. Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food and friend She views the shades of night descend; And stretch'd beneath th'inclement skies, Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.
9'
TOBIAS SMOLLET.
While the warm blood bedews my veins And unimpair'd remembrance reigns, Resentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breast shall beat; And, spite of her insulting foe. My sympathising verse shall flow: quot;Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.quot;
JAMES BEAT TIE.
i8o3-
The Hermit.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove;
When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill, And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove; 'T was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar.
While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; No more with himself, or with nature at war. He thought as a sage though he felt as a man.
quot;Ah! why thus abandon'd to darkness and woe? Why lone Philomela, that languishing fall?
For spring shall return and a lover bestow. And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthral.
But, if pity inspire thee renew the sad lay;
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn. O soothe him, whose pleasures like thine pass away: Full quickly they pass, but they never return.
quot;Now gliding renote, on the verge of the sky. The moon half distinguish'd her crescent displays; But lately I mark'd when majestic on high She shone and the planets were lost in her blaze.
JAMES BEATTIE.
Roll on then fair orb, and with gladness pursue The path that conducts thee to splendour again :
But man's faded glory what change shall renew?
Ah, fool! to exalt in a glory so vain!
'quot;Tis night and the landscape is lovely no more;
1 mourn; but ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; For morn is approaching, your charms to restore.
Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with deed: Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;
Kind nature the embryo blossom will save;
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave?
quot;'Twas thus, by the light of false science betray'd.
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.
My thoughts want to roam, from shade onward to shade, Destruction before me, and sorrow behind,
'O pity great Father of light', then I cried.
Thy creature that fain would not wander from Thee; Lo, humbled in dust, 1 relinquish my pride:
From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free!
quot;And darkness and doubt are now flying away;
No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn:
So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray.
The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.
See Truth Love and Mercy, in triumph descending,
And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom!
On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending.
And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
JAMES BEATTIE.
Morning Melodies.
But who the melodies of morn can tell:
The wild brook babbling down the mountain side,
The lowing herd; the sheepfold's simple bell;
The pipe of early shepherd dim descried
In the lone valley; echoing far and wide
The clamorous horn along the cliffs above;
The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide;
The hum of bees and linnet's lay of love,
And the full choir that wakes the universal grove.
The cottage curs at early pilgrims bark;
Crown'd with her pail the tripping milk-maid sings; The whistling ploughman stalks afield; and hark! Down the rough slope, the ponderous wagon rings; Thro' rustling corn the hare astonish'd springs;
Slow tolls the village clock the drowsy hour; The partridge bursts away on whirring wings;
Deep mourns the turtle in sequester'd bower. And shrill lark carols clear from her aerial tower.
95
W I L LI A M C O L L, I N S. 1720â1756.
Ode.
How sleep the brave, who sink to rest. By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring with dewy lingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung. By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair To dwell a weeping hermit there.
CHAT T E R T O N. 1752â1770-
Resignation.
O God, whose thunder shakes the sky , Whose eye this atom globe surveys, To Thee, my only rock I fly,
Thy mercy in Thy justice praise.
The mystic mazes of Thy will. The shadows of celestial light.
Are past the powers of human skill But what the Eternal acts is right.
O teach me in the trying hour When anguish swells the dewy tear. To still my sorrows, own Thy power. Thy goodness love. Thy justice fear.
If in this bosom aught but Thee, Encroaching sought a boundless sway. Omniscience could the danger see, And mercy look the cause away.
Then, why my soul, dost thou complain, Why drooping, seek the dark recess ?
CHATTERTON.
Shake off the melancholy chain,
For God created all to bless.
But, ah! my breast is human still; The rising sigh, the falling tear. My languid vitals feeble rill.
The sickness of my soul declare.
But yet, with fortitude resign'd, I'll thank the infliction of the blow, Forbid the sigh, compose my mind. Nor let the gush of misery flow.
The gloomy mantle of the night.
Which on my sinking spirit steals,
Will vanish at the morning light.
Which God, my East, my Sun, reveals.
A Dirge.
Oh! Sing unto my roundelay. Oh! drop the briny tear with me. Dance no more at holiday,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead.
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Black his hair as the winter night White his skin as the summer snow.
98
Red his face as the morning light Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Hark ! the raven flaps his wings In the briared dell below:
Hark! the death owl loud doth sing 7quot;o the night mares as they go: My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high, Whiter is my true love's shroud, Whiter than the evening cloud: My love is dead.
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Here upon my true love's grave Shall the barren flowers be laid. Not one holy Saint to save All the coldness of a maid.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
With my hand I'll bind the briars Round his holy course to gre;
CHATTERTON.
Elfin fairy, light your fires Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed All under the willow-tree.
Come with acorn-cup and thorn ,
Drain my heart's blood all away:
Life and all its good I scorn.
Dance by night or feast by day. My love is dead.
Gone to his dear.h-bed And under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die; I come! my true love waits. â Thus the damsel spake and died.
CO
THOMAS PERCY. 172Sâ1S11.
The Friar of orders gray.
It was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads :
And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.
quot;Now Christ thee save thou reverend friar. I pray thee tell to me,
If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see.quot;
quot;And how should I know your true love From many another one?quot;
quot;Oh by his cockle hat and staff And by his sandal shoon.
quot;But chiefly by his face and mien,
That were so fair to view;
His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyes of lovely blue.quot;
quot;O lady, he is dead and gone!
Lady, he's dead and gone!
THOMAS PERCY.
And at liis head a green-grass turf, And at his heels a stone.
quot;Within these holy cloisters long. He languish'd and he died Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride.
quot;They bore him barefaced on his bier. Six proper youths and tall.
And many a tear hedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall.quot;
quot;And art thou dead, thou gentle youth? And art thou dead and gone;
And didst thou die for love of mer Break, cruel heart of stone.
quot;Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so. Some ghostly comfort seek;
Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, Xor tears bedew thy cheek.quot;
Oh, do not, do not, holy friar. My sorrow now reprove;
For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love.
quot;And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll ever weep and sigh;
For thee I only wish'd to live For thee I wish to die?
THOMAS PERCY.
quot;Weep no more, lady, weep no more. Thy sorrow is in vain For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower Will ne'er make grow again.
quot;Our joys as winged dreams do fly, Why then should sorrow last?
Since grief but aggravates thy loss Grieve not for what is past.quot;
quot;Oh, say not so, thou holy friar,
I pray thee say not so;
For since my true-love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow.
quot; And will he never come again ?
Will he ne'er come again ?
Ah! no, he is dead and laid in his grave , For ever to remain.
quot;His cheek was redder than the rose; The comeliest youth was he;
But he is dead and laid in his grave:
Alas, and woe is me!quot;
Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever;
One foot on sea and one on land,
To one thing constant never.
quot;Hadst than been fond, he had been false. And left thee sad and heavy ;
104 THOMAS PERCY.
For young men ever were fickle found,
Since summer trees were leafy.quot;
quot;Now say not so, thou holy friar,
I pray thee say not so;
My love he had the truest heart,
Oh, he was ever true!
quot;And art thou dead thou much-lov'd youth. And didst thou die for me?
Then farewell home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be.
quot;But first upon my true love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay,
And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf That wraps his breathless clay.quot;
quot;Yet stay, fair lady, rest awhile Beneath this cloister wall;
See through the hawthorn blows cold the wind And drizzly rain doth fall.quot;
quot;Oh stay me not thou holy friar;
Oh, stay me not, I pray;
No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my guilt away.quot;
quot; Yet stay fair lady, turn again,
And dry those pearly tears;
For see beneath this gown of gray Thy own true love appears.quot;
THOMAS PERCY.
quot;Here, forced by grief and hopeless love. These holy weeds I sought,
And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.
quot;But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet pass'd away.
Might I still hope to win thy love No longer would I stay.quot;
quot; Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth. We never more will part.quot;
105
W I L L I A M CO W P E R. 1731â1S00.
On the receipt of his mother's picture.
O that those lips had language! life has pass'd With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine â thy own sweet smiles I see The same, that oft in childhood solac'd me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, quot; Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away 1quot; The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can, immortalize.
The art that bafiles Time's tyrannic claim To quench) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
0 welcome guest, though unexpected here! Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Aifectionate, a mother lost so long.
1 will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own: And, while that face renews my filial grief.
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
WILLIAM COWPER.
My mother? when I leam'd that thou was dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ?
Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorr'wing son
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss â
Ah that maternal smile! it answers. â Yes
I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial day,
1 saw the hearse, that bore thee slow away.
And turning from my nurs'ry window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such? â It was. â Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peacefull shore.
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens griev'd themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of a quick return.
What ardently I wish'd, I long believ'd.
And disappointed still, was still deceiv'd,
But expectation ev'ry day beguil'd,
Dupe of to-morrow, even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
'Jill all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learn'd at last submission to my lot.
But, though I less deplor'd thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more. Children not thine have trod my nurs'ry floor; And where the gard'ner Robin day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd
107
WILLIAM COWPER.
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet cap.
'Tis now become a history little known.
That once we call'd the past'ral house our own.
Short liv'd possession! but the record fair,
That mem'ry keeps of all thy kindness there.
Still outlives many a storm , that has effac'd
A thousand other themes, less deeply trac'd.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home.
The biscuit, or confectionary plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd;
All this and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall,
Ne'er roughen'd by those cataracts and breaks,
That humour interpos'd too often makes;
All this still legible in mem'ry's page.
And still to be so till my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to say
Such honors to thee as my numbers may;
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere,
Not scorn'd in heav'n, though little noticed here.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When playing with thy vesture's tissued flow'rs The violet, the pink, and jessamine,
I prick'd them into paper with a pin,
And thou wast happier than myselt the while.
Would softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile. Could those few pleasant days again appear
WILLIAM COWPEK.
Might one wish bring them, should I wish them here?
I would not trust my heart; the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. â
But no â- what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much.
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast
(The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed)
Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods that show.
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay;
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
quot;Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest.
Always from port withheld, always distressed, â
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed
Sails ripp'd, seams op'ning wide and compass lost,
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosp'rous course.
Yet O the thought, that 'hou art safe, and he!
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not, that I deduce my birth
From loins enthron'd, and rulers of the earth.
But higher for my proud pretensions rise â
The son of parents pass'd into the skies.
WILLIAM (JOWI'ER.
And now, farewell â Time unrevok'd has run His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done, By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seem to have liv'd my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free. And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft â Thyself remov'd, thy pow'r to soothe me left.
Alexander Selkirk.
I am monarch of all I survey.
My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
0 solititude, where are thy charms That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms Than reign in this horrible place.
1 am out of humanity's reach;
I must finish my journey alone;
Never hear the sweet music of speech â I start at the sound of my own. The beasts that roam over the plain My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with men, Their tameness is shocking to me.
I IO
WILLIAM COWPER.
Society, friendship and love,
Divinely bestow'd upon man,
O had I the wings of a dove.
How soon would I taste you again! My sorrows I then might assuage In the ways of religion and truth;
Might learn from the wisdom of age, And be cheer'd by the sallies of youth.
Religion! what treasure untold Resides in that heavenly word!
More precious than silver and gold,
Or all that this earth can afford.
But the sound of the church going bell These valleys and rocks never heard â Never sigh'd at the sound of a knell, Or smiled when a Sabbath appear'd.
Ye winds that have made me your sport, Convey to this desolate shore Some cordial endearing report Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends, do they now and then send A wish or a thought after me?
O tell me I yet have a friend.
Though a friend I am never to see.
How fleet is a glance of the mind! Compared with the speed of its flight. The tempest itself lays behind,
And the swift winged arrows of light.
WILLIAM COWPER.
When I think of my own native land, In a moment I seem to be there; But alas! recollection at hand Soon hurries me back to despair.
But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest; The beast is laid down in his lair; Even here is a season of rest,
And I to my cabin repair.
There's mercy in every place; And mercy, encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace, And reconciles man to his lot.
The Rose.
The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower. Which Mary to Anna convey'd;
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all lill'd and the leaves were all wet. And it seem'd, to a fanciful view.
To weep for the buds it had left with regret.
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd. And swinging it rudely, too rudely alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.
WILLIAM COWPER.
And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose had I shaken it less Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.
Morning Walk in Winter.
(From the Task.)
Forth goes the woodman, leaving unconcerned The cheerful haunts of men, to wield the axe. And drive the wedge, in yonder forest drear;
From morn to eve his solitary task.
Shaggy and lean, and shrewd, with pointed ears, And tail cropp'd short, half lurcher and half cur, His dog attends him. Close behind his heel Now creeps he slow; and now with many a frisk Wide scampering snatches up the drifted snow With ivory teeth or ploughs it with his snout;
Then shakes his powder'd coat, and barks for joy. Heedless of all his pranks, the sturdy churl Moves right toward the mark; nor stops for aught, But now and then, with pressure of his thumb , To adjust the fragrant charge of a short tube That fumes beneath his nose. The trailing cloud
WILLIAM COWl'EK.
Streams far behind him, scenting, all the air.
Now from the roost, or from the neighbouring pale.
Where diligent to catch the first faint gleam
Of smiling day, they gossip'd side by side.
Come trooping at the housewife's well known call.
The father'd tribes domestic. Half on wing
And half on foot, they brush the fleecy flood.
Conscious and fearful of too deep a plunge.
The sparrows peep, and quit the sheltering eaves.
To seize the fair occasion; well they eye
The scatter'd grain, and thievishly resolved
To escape the impending famine, often scared
As oft return, a pert voracious kind.
Clean riddance quickly made, one only care
Remains to each, the search of sunny nook.
Or shed impervious to the blast. Resignquot;d
To sad necessity, ths cock foregoes
His wonted strut; and, wading at their head
With well consider'd step seems to resent
His alter'd gait and stateliness retrench'd.
How find the myriads, that in summer cheer
The hills and valleys with their ceaseless songs.
Due sustinence or where subsist they now?
Earth yields them nought; th'imprison'd worm is safe
Beneath the frozen clod; all seeds of herbs
Lie covered close; and berry-bearing thorns.
That feed the thrush (whatever some suppose)
Afford the smaller minstrels no supply.
The long protracted rigour of the year
Thins all their numerous flocks.
WILLIAM COWI'ER.
Boadicea.
When the British warrior queen. Bleeding from the Roman rods.
Sought, with an indignant mien. Counsel of her country's gods;
Sage beneath a spreading oak Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke Full of rage, and full of grief:
Princess, if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish 'write that word In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish hopless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome for empire far renown'd Tramples or. a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground â Hark! the Gaul is at her gates I
Other Romans shall arise.
Heedless of a soldiers name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize Harmony the path to fame.
â WILLIAM COWPER.
Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings Shall a wider world command.
Regions Caesar never knew, Thy posterity shall sway;
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.
Such the bards prophetic words, Pregnant with celestral fire.
Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre.
She with all a monarch's pride.
Felt them in her bosom glow:
Rush'd to battle fought and died; Dying hurl'd them at the foe.
Ruffians, pitiless as proud.
Heaven awards the vengeance due ^ Empire is on us bestow'd.
Shame and ruin wait for you.
GEORGE GR ABBE. 1754â1832.
Time's Changes.
quot;Come, lead me, lassie, to the shade, Where willows grow beside the brook; For well I know the sound it made When dashing o'er the stony rill It murmured to St. Osyth's mill.quot;
The lass replied, quot;The trees are lied, They've cut the brook a straighter bed No shades the present lords allow, The miller only murmurs now. The waters now his mill forsake And form a pool they call a lake.quot;
quot;Then lassie, lead thy grandsire on, And to the holy water bring;
A cup is fastened to the stone.
And I would taste the healing spring. That soon its rocky cist forsakes. And green its mossy passage makes.quot;
quot;The holy spring is turned aside, The arch is gone, the stream is dried;
GEORGE CRABBE.
The plough has levelled all around. And here is now no holy ground.quot;
quot;Then lass, thy grandsire's footsteps guide To Bulmer's tree, the giant oak,
Whose boughs the keeper's cottage hide, And part the church-way lane o'erlook. A boy, I climbed the topmast bough, And I would feel its shadow now.
quot;Or lassie, lead me to the west.
Where grew the elm trees thick and tall. Where rooks unnumbered build their nest -Deliberate birds and prudent all;
Their notes indeed are harsh and rude, But they're a social multitude.quot;
quot;The rooks are shot, the trees are felled, And nest and nursery all expelled;
With better fate, the giant tree. Old Bulmer's oak is gone to sea. The church-way walk is now no more, And men must other ways explore:
Though this indeed promotion gains. For this the park's new wall contains; And here, I fear, wc shall not meet A shade, although, perchance, a seat.quot;
quot; Oh, then, my lassie, lead the way To Comfort's Home, the ancient inn:
That something holds, if we can pay â Old David is our living kin;
GEORGE CRAEEE.
A servant once, he still preserves His name, and in his office serves.quot;
quot;Alas, that mine should be the fate Old David's sorrows to relate!
But they were brief: not long before He died, Ms office was no more;
The kennel stands upon the ground,
With something of the former sound.'quot;
quot;Oh, then,quot; the grieving man replied. quot;No further, lassie, let me stray;
Here's nothing left of ancient pride.
Of what was grand of what was gay;
But all is changed, is lost, is sold â
All, all that's left is chilling cold;
I seek for comfort here in vain,
Then lead me to my cot again!quot;
The Dying Sailor.
He call'd his friend, and prefaced with a sigh
A lover's message, quot;Thomas, I must die:
Would I could see my Sally, and could rest
My throbbing temples on her faithful breast.
And gazing, go â if not, this trifle take.
And say, till death I wore it for her sake;
Ves! I must die â blow on sweet breeze, blow on!
Give me one look before my life be gone,
Oh! give me that, and let me not despair.
One last fond look â and now repeat the prayer.quot;
119
GEORGE CKA11UE.
He had his wish, had more; I will not paint The lover's meeting: she beheld him faint, â
With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew;
He tried to smile, and, half succeeding said,
quot;Yes! I must die; and hope for ever fled.
Still long she nursed him, tender thoughts meantime. Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away;
With him she pray'd, to him his Bible read Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head; She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer; Apart she sigh'd, alone she shed the tear;
Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave.
One day he lighter seem'd and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot;
They spoke with cheerfulness and seemed to think Yet said not so â Perhaps he will not sink;quot; A sudden brightness in his look appear'd,
A sudden vigour in his voice was heard; â
She had been reading in the book of prayer.
And led him forth and placed him in his chair; Lively he seem'd, and spake of all he knew. The friendly many, and the favourite few;
Nor one that day did he to mind recall.
But she has treasur'd, and she loves them all;
When in her way she meets them, they appear
GEORGE CEAÃBE.
I
Peculiar people, death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she prest, And fondly whisper'd Thou must go to rest;quot; quot;I go,quot; he said; but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! Then gazed affrighten'd; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past!
ROBERT BURNS.
1759âÃV'JÃ.
Bannockburn.
Scots, 1 wliae - hae 3 wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, 4 wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed.
Or to victory!
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front 5 o'battle lower:
See approach proud Edward's pow'r â Chains and slavery!
0 Wha will be a trailor knave ?
Wha would fill a coward's grave?
Wha ' sae base as be a slave ?
Let him turn and llee.
Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free man stand, or free man 8fa'?
Let him on wi' me.
â who, 2 have, â¢'with, 4 whom, 5 of, 6 who, 'so, 8 fall.
ROEKRT «URNS.
By oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! He will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do or die!
To a Mountain Daisy.
1 Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I - maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.
Alas! its no thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending thee' mang the dewy 4 weet!
Wi' spreckl'd breast,
When upward springing, blythe, to greet The purpling east.
Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Upon thy early humble birth;
1 little, 2 must, 3 dust, ^rain, wetness.
124
Yet cheerfully thou 1 glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth Thy tender form.
The Haunting llow'rs our gardens yield,
High sheltering woods and 2 wa's maun shield But, thou, beneath the random 3 bield
O'clod or stane,
Adorns the 4 histre stibble field,
Unseen alane.
There, in thy scanty mantle clad.
Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed.
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd
And guileless trust.
Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid Low 1' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple bard.
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!
Unskilful he to note the card
'peeped, 2 walls, 3 shelter, 4 dry, barren.
ROBERT BURNS.
Of prudent lore.
Till billows rage and gales blow hard And whelm him o'er.
Such fate to suffering worth is given , Who long with wants and woes has striven. By human pride or cunning driv'n
To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but heav'n, He ruin'd sink!
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the daisy's fate. That fate is thine â no distant date;
Stern ruin's ploughshare drives, elate
Full on thy bloom,
Till crush'd beneath the furrows weight. Shall be thy doom.
Highland Mary.
Ye banks and ' braes and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery
Green be your woods and fair your flowers
Your waters never - drumlie!
There 3 simmer first unfalds her robes.
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
'hillocks, -muddip, 3 summer.
ROBERT IJURNS.
How sweetly bloomed the gay green 1 birk, How rich the hawthorn's blossom, As underneath their fragrant shade, I clasped her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings.
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace
Our parting, was - fu' tender;
And pledging aft to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early!
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay
That wraps my Highland Mary.
Oh, pale, pale now those rosy lips I aft hae kissed so fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glaflce That dwelt on me sae kindly; And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.
126
1
birch, tree, 2 full, loved.
RO-IERT BURNS.
One fond kiss and then we sever.
One fond kiss, and then we sever!
One farewell, and then for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warrings sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him * While the star of Hope she leaves him? Me no cheerful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy.
Nothing could resist my Nancy:
But to see her was to love her;
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loved so kindly.
Had we never loved so blindly,
Never met or never parted,
We* had ne'er been broken hearted.
Fare thee well thou first and fairest!
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest! Thine be ever}- joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love and pleasure!
One fond Kiss, and then we sever!
One farewell, alas, for ever!
Deep, in heart wrung tears I'll pledge thee.
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
I 28
Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots, on the Approach of Spring.
Now nature hangs her mantle green
On every blooming tree,
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out o'er the grassy lea:
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies;
But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.
Now 1 lav'rocks wake the merry morn
Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r.
Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi'many a note.
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
\Vi' care nor thrall opprest.
Now blooms the lily by the bank. The primrose down the 2 brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen And milk-white is the 3 slae;
The meanest hind in fair Scotland May rove their sweets amany;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison Strang.
1
skylark, - hillock, 3 sloe.
129
I was the Queen of bonnie France Where happy I hae been ;
Fu* lightly rase I in the morn As blythe lay down at 1 e'en:
And I'm the Sovereign of Scotland, And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,
And never ending care.
My son ! my son! may kinder stars
Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign.
That ne'er would blink on mine!
God keep thee - frae thy mother's 3 faes,
Or turn their hearts to thee:
And when thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!
Oh! soon to me, may summer suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!
And in the house o' death
Let winter round me rave;
And the next flowers that deck the spring
Bloom on my peaceful grave.
evening, - from, foes.
9
J AMES MO N T G O M E R Y. 1771â1854.
Home.
There is a land, of every land the pride,
Beloved by heaven o'er all the world beside; Where brighter suns dispense serener light, And milder moons emparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valour, truth. Time-tutored age and love-exalted youth: The wandering mariner, whose eye explores The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores, Views not a realm so bountiful and fair, Xor breathes the spirit of a purer air;
In every climate the magnet of his soul.
Touched by remembrance trembles to that pole; For in this land of heavens peculiar grace, The heritage of nature's noblest race.
There is a spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside. His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride. While in his softened looks benignly blend The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend; Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life! In the clear heaven of her delightful eye An angel-guard of loves and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet. And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
Where shall that land, that spot of earth be found Art thou a man? â a patriot? â look around: O, thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam, That land thy country, and that spot thy Home.
A Field Flower.
There is a flower, a little flower,
With silver crest and golden eye,
That welcomes every changing hour. And weathers every sky.
The prouder beauties of the field In gay but quick succession shine, â Race after race their honours yield,
They flourish and decline
But this small flower to nature dear. While moons and stars their courses run Wreathes the whole circle of the year, Companion of the sun.
It smiles upon the lap of May, To sultry August spreads its charms. Lights pale October on his way, And twines December's arms.
JAMES MONTGOMERY.
The purple heath and golden broom On moory mountains catch the gale, O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume, The violet in the vale;
But this bold flow'ret climbs the hill Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill,
Peeps down the fox's den.
Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed. And blooms on consecrated ground In honour of the dead.
The lambkin crops its crimson gem, The wild bee murmurs on its breast The blue-fly bends its pensive stem Light o'er the skylarks nest,
'Tis Flora's page. In every place, In every season, fresh and fair.
It opens with perennial grace And blossoms everywhere
On waste and woodland, rock and plain Its humble buds unheeded rise;
The rose has but a summer reign â The Daisy never dies.
SAMUEL ROGERS. I773âIS5S-
Ginevra.
If ever you should come to Modena,
(Where among other relics you may see Tassoni's bucket â but 'tis not the true one)
Stop at a palace near the Reggio-gate,
Dwelt in of old by one of the Orsini.
Its noble gardens, terrace above terrace,
And rich in fountains, statues, cypresses,
Will long detain you â but before you go,
Enter the house â forget it not I pray you â And look awhile upon a picture there.
'Tis of a lady in her earliest youth,
The last of that illustrious family;
He, who observes it â ere he passes on,
Gazes his fill, and comes and comes again,
That he may call it up, when far away.
She sits, inclining forward as to speak.
Her lips half open, and her finger up,
As though she said quot;Beware!quot;quot; her vest of gold Broidered with flowers and clasped from head to foot.
SAMUEL ROGERS.
An emerald stone in every golden clasp;
And on her brow, fairer than alabaster, A coronet of pearls.
But then her face.
So lovely, yet so arch, so full of mirth, The overflowings of an innocent heart â It haunts me still, though many a year has fled. Like some wild melody!
Alone it hangs Over a mouldering heirloom, its companion , An oaken-chest, half eaten by the worm. But richly carved by Anto;iy of Trent With scripture stories from the Life of Christ
She was an only child â her name Ginevra, The joy, the pride of an indulgent father; And in her fifteenth year became a bride, Marrying an only son, Francesco Doris, Her playmate from her birth, and her first love.
Just as she looks there in her bridal dress, She was all gentleness, all gaiety.
Her pranks the favorite theme of every tongue. But now the day was come, the day, the hour; Xow frowning, smiling for the hundreth time. The nurse, that ancient lady, preached decorum And in the lustre of her youth, she gave Her hand with her heart in it, to Francesco.
Great was the joy; but at the nuptual feast. When all sat down, the bride was wanting.
134
'35
Nor was she to lie found! her father cried 'quot;Tis but to make a trial of our love!quot;
And filled his glass to all, but his hand shook, And soon from guest to guest, the panic spread. 'Twas but that instant she had left Francesco, Laughing and looking back and flying still, Her ivory tooth imprinted on his finger.
But now, alas, she was not to be found.
Nor from that hour could any thing be guessed, But that she was not.
Weary of his life,
Francesco Hew to Venice, and, embarking,
Flung it away in battle with the Turk.quot;
Orsini lived â and long might you have seen An old man wandering as in quest of something. Something he could not find â he knew not what. When he was gone, the house remained awhile Silent and tenantless â then went to strangers
Full fifty years were past and all forgotten ,
When on an idle day, a day of search
'Mid the old lumber in the gallery.
That mouldering chest was noticed; and 'twas said
By one as young, as thoughtless as Ginevra.
quot;Why not remove it from its lurking-place?quot;
'Twas done as soon as said: but on the way
It burst, it fell; and, lo, a skeleton,
With here and there a pearl, an emerald stone,
A golden clasp, clasping a shred of gold.
All else had perished â save a wedding ring,
SAMUEL ROGERS.
And a small seal, her mother's legacy,
Engraven with a name, the name of both quot;Ginevraquot;.
There, then had she found a grave!
Within that chest had she concealed herself.
Fluttering with joy, the happiest of the happy;
When a spring-lock, that lay in ambush there. Fastened her down for ever!
The Old Home.
(From Pleasures of Memory.)
'1 wilight's soft dews steal o'er the village green
With magic tints to harmonise the scene;
Stilled is the hum that through the hamlet broke.
When round the ruins of their ancient oak
rlhe peasants flocked to hear the minstrel play.
And games and carols closed the busy day.
Her wheel at rest, the motion thrills no more
With treasured tales and legendaiy lore.
All, all are lied; nor mirth nor music (lows
To chase the dreams of innocent repose.
All, all are fled; yet still I linger here:
What secret charms this silent spot endear!
Mark yon old Mansion frowning through the trees.
Whose hollow turret woos the whistling breeze.
That casement arched with ivy's brownest shade
First to these eyes the light of heaven conveyed.
The mouldering gate-way shows the grass-grown court
136
SAMUEL ROGERS.
Once the calm scene of many a simple sport;
When nature pleased, for life itself was new,
And the heart promised what the fancy drew.
See through the fractured pediment revealed.
Where moss inlays the rudely-sculptured shield,
The martins old hereditary nest.
Long may the ruin spare its hallowed guest!
As jars the hinge what sullen echoes call!
Oh haste! unfold the hospitable hall!
That hall, where once in antiquated state.
The chair of justice held the grave debate.
Now stained with dews, with cobwebs darkly hung.
Oft has its roof with peals of rapture rung;
When round yon ample board in due degree
We sweetened every meal with social glee:
The heart's light laugh pursued the circling jest.
And all was sunshine in each little breast.
'T was here we chased the slipper by the sound
And turned the blindfold hero round and round:
'T was here, at eve we formed our fairy ring.
And Fancy fluttered on her wildest wing:
Giants and genii claimed each wondering ear
And orphan sorrows drew the ready tear;
Oft with the Babes we wandered in the wood
Or viewed the forest feats of Robin Hood;
Oft, fancy led, at midnight's fearful hour.
With startling steps, we scaled the lonely tower.
O'er infant innocence to hang and weep
Murdered by ruffian hands when smiling in its sleep.
Ye household deities! whose guardian eye
Mark'd each pure thought, ere registered on high;
SAMUEL ROGERS.
Still, still ye walk the consecrated ground,
And breathe the soul of Inspiration round
As o'er the dusky furniture I bend,
Each chair awakes the feelings of a friend.
The storied arras, source of fond delight,
With old achievement charms the 'wildered sight;
And still with heraldy's rich hues imprest,
On the dim window glows the pictured crest.
The screen unfolds its many coloured chart.
The clock still points its moral to the heart.
That faithful monitor 't was heaven to hear.
When soft it spoke a promised pleasure near:
And has its sober hand, its simple chime,
Forgot to trace the feathered feet of time?
That massive beam, with curious carvings wrought,
Whence the caged linnet soothed my pensive thought;
Those muskets cased with venerable rust;
Those once loved-forms, still breathing through their dust,
Still from the frame, in mould gigantic cast.
Starting to life â all whisper of the past.
8
HENRY K I R K PI WHITE. 1785â1806.
Sonnet.
Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild. Where, far from cities, I may spend my days, And, by the beauties of the scene, beguiled. May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways. While on the rock I mark the browsing goat, List to the mountain torrent's distant noise. Or the hoarse bittern's solitary note,
I shall not want the world's delusive joys: But with my little scrip, my book, my lyre. Shall think my lot complete, nor covet more; And when, with time, shall wane the vital fire, I'll raise my pillow on the desert shore.
And lay me down to rest, where the wild wave â¢Shall make sweet music o'er my lonely grave.
Solitude.
It is not that my lot is low.
That bids this silent tear to dow; It is not grief that bids me moan. It is that I am all alone.
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
In woods and glens I love to roam, When the tired hedger hies him home; Or by the woodland pool to rest When pale the star looks on its breast.
Yet when the silent evening sighs,
With hallowed airs and symphonies, My spirit takes another tone,
And sighs that it is all alone.
The autumn leaf is sere and dead, It floats npon the water's bed;
I would not be a leaf, to die.
Without recording sorrow's sigh:
The woods and winds with sudden wai Tell all the same unvaried tale;
I've none to smile when I am free. And when I sigh, to sigh with me.
Yet in my dreams a form I view.
That thinks on me and loves me too; I start and when the vision's flown, I weep that I am all alone.
Despondency.
Yes, 'twill be over soon â This sickly dream Of life will vanish from my feverish brain; And death, my wearied spirit will redeem From this wild region of unvaried pain.
140
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
Yon brook will glide as softly as before, â Yon landscape smile, â yon golden harvest grow, Yon sprightly lark on mounting wing will soar, When Henry's name is heard no more below. 1 sigh when all my youthful friends caress.
They laugh in health and future evils brave;
Them shall a wife and smiling children bless; When I am mouldering in my silent grave.
God of the just, â Thou gavest the bitter cup, I bow to thy behest, and drink it up.
To the herb Rosemary.
Sweet scented flower! who'rt wont to bloom
On January's front severe.
And o'er the wintry desert drear
To waft thy waste perfume!
Come, thou shalt form my nose-gay now,
And 1 will bind thee round my brow;
And as 1 twine the mournful wreath,
I'll weave a melancholy song:
And sweet the strain shall be and long.
The melody of death.
Come, funeral flower! who lov'st to dwell With the pale corpse in lonely tomb And throw across the desert gloom,
A sweet decaying smell.
Come, press my lips and lie with me Beneath the lowly alder tree,
142 HENRY KIKKE WHITE.
And we will sleep a, pleasant sleep And not a care shall dare intrude,
To break the marble solitude So peaceful and so deep.
And hark! the wind-god as he Hies,
Moans hollow in the forest trees,
And sailing on the gusty breeze,
Mysterious music 'dies.
Sweet flower! that requiem wild is mine,
It warns me to the lonely shrine,
The cold turf altar of the dead;
My grave shall be in yen lone spot,
Where as I lie, by all forgot,
A dying fragance thou wilt o'er my ashes shed.
Childhood.
Pictured in memory's mellowing glass how sweet Our infant days, our infant joys to greet:
To roam in fancy in each cherished scene. The village churchyard and the village green. The woodland walk remote, the greenwood glade, The mossy seat beneath the hawthorn's shade. The white-washed cottage, where the wood-bine grew And all the favorite haunts our childhood knew! How sweet, while all the evil shuns the gaze To view the unclouded skies of former days!
Beloved age of innocence and smiles.
When each winged hour some new delight beguiles,
HEN'RY KIKKE WHITE.
When the gay heart, to life's sweet day spring true Still finds some insect pleasure to pursue.
Blest childhood, hail! thee simply will I sing. And from myself the artless picture bring;
These long-lost scenes to me the past restore,
Each humble friend, each pleasure now no more. And every stump familiar to my sight Recalls some fond idea of delight.
This shrubby knoll was once my favourite seat;
Here did I love at evening to retreat,
And muse alone, till in the vault of night,
Hesper, aspiring, show'd his golden light.
Here once again, remote from human noise,
I sit me down to think of former joys;
Pause on each scene, each treasured scene once more,
And once again each infant walk explore.
While as each grove and lawn I recognise,
My melted soul suffuses in my eyes!
143
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 1751â1S16.
Had I A Heart For Falsehood Framed.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed
I ne'er could injure you;
For though your tongue no promise claimed,
Your charms would make me true.
To you no soul shall bear deceit,
Xo stranger offer wrong;
But friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And lovers in the young.
For when they learn that you have blessed
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part;
Then lady dread not here deceit
Xor fear to suffer wrong.
For friends in all the aged you'll meet
And lovers in the young.
LET IT I A BARBAULD. 1743â1S25.
Mount, child of morning, mount and sing And gaily beat thy fluttering wing, And sound thy shrill alarms;
Bathed in the fountains of the dew. Thy sense is keen, thy joys are new; The wide world opens to thy view-And spreads its earliest charms.
Far showered around, the hill, the plain,
Catch the glad impulse of thy strain,
And fling their veil aside:
While warm with hope and rapturous joy
Thy thrilling lay rings cheerily.
Love swells its notes, and liberty.
And youth's exulting pride.
Thy little bosom knows no ill.
No gloomy thought, no wayward will: 'Tis sunshine all, and ease.
Like thy own plumes along the sky, Thy tranquil days glide smoothly by; No track behind them as they fly Proclaims departed peace.
LETITIA UARTJAULD.
'Twas thus my earliest hopes aspired,
'Twas thus with youthful ardour fired, I vainly sought to soar;
To snatch from fate the dazzling prize Beyond the beam of vulgar eyes.
â Alas! th'unbidden sigh will rise:
Those days shall dawn no more.
How glorious rose life's morning star! In bright procession round her car, How danced the heavenly train.
Truth beckoned from her radiant throne And Fame held high her starry crown,
While Hope and love looked smiling down. Nor bade my toils be vain.
Too soon the fond illusion passed; â Too gain, too bright, too pure to last. It melted from my gaze.
And narrowing with each coming year.
Life's onward path grew dark and drear, While pride forbade, the starting tear Would fall o'er happier days.
Still o'er my soul, though changed and dead,
One lingering, doubtful beam is shed.
One ray not yet withdrawn.
And still that twilight soft and dear,
That tells of friends and former cheer.
Half makes me fain to linger here.
Half hope a second dawn.
LETITIA BARDAULD. I47
Sing on! Sing on! What heart so cold,
When such a tale of joy is told.
But needs must sympathise?
As from some cherub of the sky,
I hail thy morning melody.
â Oh could I mount with thee on high
And share thy ecstasies!
Life.
Life 1 we've been long together Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;
Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear;
Then steal away, give little warning,
Choose thine own time.
Say not quot;Good Nightquot;, but in some brighter clime Bid me â Good Morning quot;.
CHARLES WOLFE. 1791â1823.
The Burial of Sir John Moore.
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note.
As his corse to the rampart we hurried;
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning;
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him,
But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said.
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed. And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
CHARLES WOLFE.
That tlie foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away or the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, â
But little he'll reek, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half our heavy task was done.
When the clock struck the hour for retiring;
And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone â But we left him alone in his glory.
If I had thought thou oould'st have died.
If I had thought thou could'st have died,
I might not weep for thee:
But I forgot when by thy side.
That thou couldst mortal be;
It never through my mind had past.
The time would e'er be o'er.
When I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more.
And still upon that face I look,
And think 't will smile again,
149
150 CHARLES WOLFE.
And still the thought I will not brook That I must look in vain;
But, when I speak, thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid,
And now I feel, as well I may.
Sweet Mary thou art dead.
If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art, All cold, and all serene,
I still might press thy silent heart. And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave, â And I am now alone.
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking too, of thee.
Vet there was round thee such a dawn,
Of light ne'er seen before.
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.
FELICIA HE MANS. 1793âlS35-
The Vandois Wife.
Thy voice is in mine ear, beloved!
Thy look is in my heart,
Thy bosom is my resting-place,
And yet I must depart.
Earth on my soul is strong, too strong
Too precious is its chain,
All woven of thy love, dear friend.
Yet vain â though mighty vain;
Thou see'st mine eye grow dim, beloved!
Thou see'st my life-blood flow, â
Bow to the chastener silently,
And calmy let me go!
A little while between our hearts
The shadowy gulf must lie.
Yet have we for their communing
Still, still Eternity!
Alas! thy tears are on my cheek. My spirit they detain;
I know that from thine agony It wrung that burning rain.
FELICIA HEMAXS.
But, kindest, weep not, make the pang. The bitter conflict, less â
Oh! sad it is, and yet ajoy.
To feel thy love's excess!
But calm thee! Let the thought of death A solemn peace restore!
The voiee that must be silent soon Would speak to thee once more.
That thou mayst bear its blessings on Through years of after life â
A token of consoling love.
Even from this hour of strife.
1 bless thee for the noble heart. The tender and the true.
Where mine hath found the happiest rest That e'er fond woman knew;
I bless thee faithful friend and guide. For my own, my treasured share,
In the mournful secrets of thy soul. In thy sorrow, in thy prayer.
I bless thee for kind looks and words Showered on my path like dew.
For all the love in those deep eyes, A gladness ever new!
To the voice which ne'er to mine replied But in kindly tones of cheer;
For every spring of happiness My soul hath tasted here.
FEL [CIA HEMANS.
I bless thee for the last rich boon
Won from affection tried,
The right to gaze on death with thee
To perish by thy side!
And yet more for the glorious hope
Even to these moments given â
Did not thy spirit ever lift
The trust of mine to heaven!
Now, be thou strong! Oh, knew we not Our path must lead to this?
A shadow and a trembling still Were mingled with our bliss!
We plighted our young hearts when storm Were dark upon the sky,
Tn full deep knowledge of their task. To suffer and to die!
Be strong! I leave the living voice Of this, my martyred blood.
With the thousand echoes of the hills, With the torrents foaming flood, â A spirit' midst the caves to dwell,
A token on the air.
To rouse the valiant from repose. The fainting from despair.
Hear it, and bear thou on my love! Ay, joyously endure!
Our mountains must be altars yet. Inviolate and pure;
FELICIA HEMANS.
There must our God be worshipp'd still With the worship of the free:
Farewell! â there's but one pang in death One only â leaving thee !
The Pilgrim Fathers.
The breaking waves dash'd high On a stern and rock-bound coast;
And the woods against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches toss'd;
And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New England shore
Xot as the conqueror comes.
They, the true-hearted came; â
Xot with the roll of the Stirling drums And the trumpet that sings of fame; â
Xot as the flying come,
In silence and in fear; â
They shook the depths of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amidst the storm they sang;
Till the stars heard and the sea;
And the sounding isles of the dim woods ran
To the anthem of the free.
FELICIA HEMANS.
The ocean-eagle soar d From liis nest, by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd: Such was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hair Amidst the pilgrim band:
Why had they come to wither there.
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye.
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus afar!
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas? the spoils of war? Xo â 't was a faith's pure shrine.
Yes, call that holy ground, â
Which first their brave feet trod!
They have left unstain'd what there they found Freedom to worship God!
Casablanca.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had lied;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
FELICIA HEM A NS.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames roll'd on â he would not go. Without his father's word;
That father faint in death below.
His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud â quot;Say, father, say If yet my task is done?quot;
He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
quot;Speak, father!quot; once again he cried,
clt; If I may yet be gone!quot;
And but the booming shots replied.
And fast the flames roll'd on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath.
And in his waving hair;
And look'd from that lone post of death, In still yet brave despair:
And shouted but once more aloud,
ceMy father, must I stay?quot;
While o'er him fast through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild.
They caught the flag on high,
FELICIA HEMANS.
And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound â The boy â oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew'd the seas!
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part â
But the noblest thing that perished there. Was that young faithful heart.
The graves of a household.
They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee,
Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent by night O'er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight. Where are those dreamers now?
One midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone seas hath one.
He lies where pearls lie deep,
FELICIA IIEMANS.
He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his lone bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain ;
He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain,
And one â o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded midst Italian flowers.
The last of that bright band.
And, parted thus, they rest who played Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent kneel They that with smiles lit up the hall. And cheered with song the hearth, â
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh earth!
The Homes of England.
The stately homes of England,
How beautiful they stand,
Amidst their' tall ancestral trees.
O'er all the pleasant land!
The deer across their green sward bound
Through shade and sunny gleam,
And the swan glides past them with the sound
Of some rejoicing stream.
FELICIA IIEMANS.
The merry homes of England â
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in their ruddy light!
There woman's voice flows forth in song,
Or childhood's tale is told;
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old.
The blessed homes of England,
How softly on their bowers,
Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bells' chime Floats through their woods at morn. All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England
By thousands on her plains.
They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,
And round the hamlet fanes.
Through glowing orchard forth they peep
Each from its nook of leaves,
And fearless there the lowly sleep
As the bird beneath their' eaves
The free fair homes of England,
Long, long in hut and hall.
May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall.
FELICIA HEMANS.
And green for ever be the groves And bright the flowery sod,
Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God.
To a departed spirit.
From the bright stars, or from the viewless air, Or from some world unreached by human thought. Spirit, sweet spirit! if thy home be there,
And if thy visions with the past be fraught.
Answer me, answer me!
Have we not communed here, of life and death?
Have we not said that love, such love as ours. Was not to perish as a rose's breath.
To melt away like song from festal bowers?
Answer oh! answer me!
Thine eye's last light was mine â the soul that shone Intensely, mournfully, through gathering haze; Did thou bear with thee, to the shore unknown, Nought of what lived in that long earnest gaze?
Hear, hear, and answer me!
Thy voice â its low, soft, fervent farewell tone. Thrilled through the tempest of the parting strife Like a faint breeze â oh, from that music flown Send back one sound, if love's be quenchless life! But once, oh! answer me!
FELICIA HEMANS.
In the still noontide, in the sunsets' hush,
In the dead hour of night, when thought grows deep; When the hearts' phantoms from the darkness rush, Fearfully beautiful, to strive with sleep;
Spirit! then answer me
By the remembrance of our blended prayer;
By all our tears whose mingling made them sweet; By our last hope, the victor o'er despair,
Speak! â if our souls in deathless yearnings meet, Answer me! Answer me!
The grave is silent â and the far â off sky.
And the deep midnight: silent all, and love!
Oh! if thy buried love make no reply,
What voice has earth? â Hear, pity, speak! mine own! Answer me! answer me!
The Child's first grief.
quot;Oh! call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee â Where is my brother gone?
quot;The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight â
Oh! call my brother back!
11
FELICIA HKMANS.
quot;The flowers run wild â the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load â
Oh ! call him back to me!quot;
quot;He could not hear thy voice fair child, He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth thou'lt no more see.
A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go â thou must play alone, my boyl Thy brother is in heaven! quot;
quot;And has he left his birds and flowers, And must I call in vain ?
And, through the long, long summer hours Will he not come again?
quot;And by the brook, and in the glade.
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me play'd.
Would I had loved him more!quot;
T H O M A S CAMPBELL. 1777â1844.
Hohenlinden.
On Linden when the sun was low, AU bloodless lay the untrodden snow. And dark as winter was the How Of Iser rolling rapidly.
But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast arrayed.
Each horseman drew his bat.'e blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven Then rushed the steed to battle driven. And louder than the bolts of Heaven Far flashed the red artillery.
But redder yet the light shall glow On Linden's hills of stained snow.
164 THOMAS CAMPBELL.
And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.
' Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun, Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave. And charge with all thy chivalry.
Few, few shall part where many meet; The snow shall be their winding â sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.
The Soldier's Dream.
Our bugles sang truce â for the night â cloud had lowered And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered. The weary to sleep and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw.
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw.
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 165
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;
'T was autumn â and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march when my bosom was young;
I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me, a thousand times o'er And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
Stay, stay with us â rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war â broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn , And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
J
A
The Mothor.
(from The Pleasures of Hope.)
Lo! at the couch where infant beauty sleeps Her silent watch the mournful mother keeps; She while the lovely babe unconscious lies,
Smiles on her slumbering child with pensive eyes. And weaves a song of melancholy joy â
quot;Sleep, image of thy father, sleep, my boy:
â
166 THOMAS CAMPBELL.
No lingering hour of sorrow shall be thine;
Xo sigh that rends thy father's heart and mine Bright as his manly sire the son shall be In form and soul; but, ah! more blest than he Thy fame, thy worth, thy filial, at last Shall soothe this aching heart for all the past â-With many a smile, my solitude repay,
And chase the world's ungenerous scorn away.
quot;And say, when summoned from the world and thee
I lay my head beneath the willow tree.
Wilt thou, sweet mourner! at my stone appear,
And soothe my parted spirit lingering near?
Oh wilt thou come, at evening hour, to shed
The tears of memory o'er my narrow bed;
With aching temples on thy hand reclined.
Muse on the last farewell I leave behind,
Breathe a deep sigh to winds that murmur low,
And think on all my love and all my woe?quot;
So speaks affection, ere the infant eye
Can look regard, or brighten in reply.
But when the cherub lip hath learnt to claim
A mother's ear by that endearing name;
Soon as the playful innocent can prove
A tear of pity, or a smile of love,
Or cons his murmuring task beneath her care,
Or lisps, with holy look, his evening prayer.
Or gazing mutely pensive, sits to hear
The mournful ballad warbled in his ear;
How fondly looks admiring hope the while.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
At every artless tear and every smile 1 How glows the joyous parent to descry A guileless bosom, true to sympathy 1
Ye Mariners of England.
Ye mariners of England,
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand year
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe;
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long.
And the stormy winds do blow!
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave ;
For the deck it was their field of fame
And ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow.
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long ,
And the stormy winds do blow!
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
Her march is o'er the mountain wave, Her home is on the deep,
With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore.
When the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long. And the stormy winds do blow!
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn.
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return:
Then, then ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name.
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Exile of Erin.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 169
Sad is my fate I said the heart-broken stranger,
The wild deer and wolf to a couvert can flee;
But I have no refuge from famine and danger
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again in the green sunny bowers,
Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!
Erin my country, though sad and forsaken.
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken,
And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace â where no perils can chase me?
Never again, shall my brothers embrace me?
They died to defend me or live to deplore!
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?
Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure.
Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure?
Tears like the rain-drop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty, they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollection suppressing One dying wish my lone bosom can draw;
Erin, an exile, bequeaths thee his blessing!
Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!
O
Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields â sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing alone with devotion Erin Mavournin! Erin go bragh!
Lord Ullin's Daugther.
A chieftain to the highlands bound, Cries, quot;Boatman do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry.quot;
quot;Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?quot;
quot; Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
quot;And fast before her father's men Three day's we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen. My blood would stain the heather.
quot;His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover.
Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?quot;
Out spoke the hardy island wight, quot;I'll go, my chief â I'm ready: â It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady:
THOMAS CAMP15ELL.
quot;And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white I'll row you o'er the ferry.quot;
By this the storm grew loud apace, The water wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind.
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men.
Their trampling sounded nearer.
quot;Oh! haste thee, haste!quot; the lady cries, quot;Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies.
But not an angry father.quot;
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her, â
When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her
And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing;
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing
For sore dismayed through storm and shade. Mis child he did discover;
THOMAS CAMPDKLL.
One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.
a Come back! come back!quot; he cried in grief,
etAcross this stormy water;
And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! â oh! my daughter!quot;
'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing;
The waters wild, went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.
172
H A Y N E S 1797â1839.
T H O M A S
Isle of Beauty Fare Thee Well.
Shades of ev'ning close not o'er us, Leave our lonely baric awhile;
Morn , alas! will not restore us Vonder dim and distant isle.
Still my fancy can discover Sunny spots where friends may dwell, Darker shadows round us hover â
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!
Tis the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light;
Who will fill our vacant places? Who will sing our songs to night? Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper bell.
Like a voice from those who love us. Breathing fondly, Fare thee well!
When the waves are round me breaking, As I pace the deck alone.
BAILEY.
THOMAS HAYNES BAILY.
And my eye is vainly seeking Some green leaf to rest upon;
When on that dear land I ponder, Where my old companions dwell, Absence makes the heart grow fonder Isle of Beauty, Fare thee well I
Hark! The Convent-Bells are Ringing.
Hark! the convent-bells are ringing, And the nuns are sweetly singing; Holy Virgin, hear our prayer!
See the novice comes to sever Every worldly tie for ever;
Take oh! take her to your care!
Still radiant gems are shining Her jet-black lock's entwining; And her robes around her flowing With many tints are glowing.
But all earthly rays are dim.
Splendours brighter Now invite her.
While thus we chant our Vesper-hymn
Now the lovely maid is kneeling,
With uplifted eyes appealing;
Holy Virgin hear our prayer!
See the abbess, bending o'er her. Breathes the sacred vow before her; Take, oh! take her to your care I
THOMAS HAYNES BAILY.
Her form no more possesses Those dark luxuriant tresses. The solemn words are spoken,
Each earthly tie is broken,
And all earthly joys are' dim. Splendours brighter Now invite her,
While thus we chant our Vesper-hymn
T H O M A S D I B D I N. 1771â1841.
All's Well.
Deserted by the waning moon,
When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon On tower, or fort, or tented ground. The sentry walks his lonely round; And should a footstep haply stray Where caution marks the guarded way: quot;Who goes there? Stranger, quickly tellquot;. quot;A friendquot; â quot;The wordquot;. quot;Good night quot;All's wellquot;.
Or sailing on the midnight deep.
When weary messmates soundly sleep. The careful watch patrols the deck. To guard the ship from foes or wreck: And while his thoughts oft homeward veer Some friendly voice salutes his ear â quot;What cheer? brother, quickly tell''. quot;Abovequot; â quot;Belowquot;. quot;Good night;quot; quot;All's well.quot;
JAMES HOGG. (The Ettrick Shepherd.) 1770â1S35.
The Skylark.
Bird of the wilderness,
Blythesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place â O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing.
Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and mountain sheen, O'er moor and mountains green. O'er the red streamer that heralds the day. Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away I
Then, when the gloaming comes. Low in the heather blooms.
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling place â-O to abide in the desert with thee!
CHARLES LAMB. 1775âlS34-
The Old Familiar Faces.
1 have liad playmates, I have had companions,
In my days of childhood, in my joyful schooldays, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
1 have been laughing, I have been carousing Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I loved a love once, fairest among women;
Closed are the doors on me, I must not see her â All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;
Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly; â
Left him to muse on the old familiar faces.
Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood; Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces.
Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling. So might we talk of the old familiar faces.
CHARLES LAMB.
How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed;
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.
Hester.
When maidens such as Hester die. Their place ye may not well supply. Though ye among a thousand try ' With vain endeavour.
A month or more has she been dead, Yet cannot I by force be lead To think upon the wormy bed And her together.
A springy motion in her gait,
A rising step did indicate Of pride and joy no common rate That Hushed her spiiit â
I know not by what name beside I shall it call: â if 'twas not pride, It was a joy to that allied She did inherit.
Her parents held the Quaker rule, Which doth the human feeling cool; But she was trained in nature's school Nature had blessed her.
179
CHARLES LAMB.
A waking eye, a prying mind, A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind Ye could not Hester.
My sprightly neighbour, gone before To that unknown and silent shore, Shall we not meet as heretofore, Some summer morning.
When from thy cheerful eyes a ray Hath struck a bliss upon the day, A bliss that would not go away A sweet forewarning?
A L L A N CUNNINGH A M. 17S4â1842.
A Wet Sheet And A Flowing Sea.
A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the quot;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.
Oh! for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snorting breeze, And white waves heaving high; And white waves heaving high my boy
The good ship tight and free â The world of waters is our home. And merry men are we.
There's tempest in yon homed moon,
And lightning in yon cloud: And hark the music, mariners! The wind is piping loud;
A I. LA N CU XX ING HA M.
The wind is piping loud, my boys.
The lightning flashing free.
While the hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea.
Sabbath Morning.
Dear is the hallow'd morn to me.
When village bells awake the day;
And by their sacred minstrelsy Call me from earthly cares away.
And dear to me the winged hour,
Spent in Thy hallow'd courts, O Lord! To feel devotion's soothing power, And catch the manna of Thy word.
And dear to me the loud Amen,
Which echoes through the blest abode. Which swells and sinks, and swells again. Dies on the walls, but lives to God.
And dear the rustic harmony,
Sung with the pomp of village art;
That holy, heavenly melody.
The music of a thankful heart.
In secret I have often prayed.
And still the anxious tear would fall; But on thy sacred altar laid,
The fire descends and dries them all.
A LI, A X C L' N N INGHAM.
Oft when the world, with iron hands, Has bound me in its six-days chain,
This burst them, like the strong man's bands, And lets my spirit loose again.
Then dear to me the sabbath morn; The village bells, the shepherd's voice;
These oft have found my heart forlorn, And always bid that heart rejoice.
The Morning.
Oh, come! for the lily
Is white on the lea.
Oh, come! for the wood-doves
Are paired on the tree;
The lark sings with dew
On her wings and her feet;
The thrush pours his ditty
Loud , varied, and sweet;
So, come where the twin hares
Mid fragrance have been,
And with flowers I will weave thee
A crown like a queen.
Oh, come, hark the throstle
Invites you alond,
And wild comes the plover's cry
Down from the cloud;
The stream lifts its voice.
ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
And yon daisy's begun To part its red lips And drink dew in the sun; The sky laughs in light,
Karth rejoices in green; So come, and I'll crown thee With flowers like a queen.
Oh, haste! hark, the shepherd Hath wakened his pipe, And let out his lambs Where the black berry's ripe: The bright sun is tasting The dew on the thyme, Von glad maiden's lilting An old bridal rhyme.
There's joy in the heaven And gladness on earth â So come to the sunshine And mix in the mirth.
JOAN N A B A I L L I E. 1762â1S51.
The Chough And Crow.
The chough and crow to roost are gone ⢠The owl sits on the tree â
The hushed winds wail with feeble moan Like infant charity.
The wild fire dances o'er the fen â The red star sheds its ray;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men,
It is our op'ning day.
Both child and nurse are fast asleep, And clos'd is every flower;
And winking tapers faintly peep,
High from my lady's bower.
Bewilder'd hind with shorten'd ken,
Shrink on their murky way;
Uprouse ye then, my merry men,
It is our op'ning day.
Nor board, nor gamer own we now, Nor roof, nor latched door.
Nor kind mate bound by holy vow To bless a good man's store.
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den
And night is grown our day:
Uprouse ye then, my merry men,
It is our op'ning day.
SAMUEL LOVER. 1797â1S68.
The Angel's Whisper.
A baby was sleeping, its mother was weeping,
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea;
And the tempest was swelling round the fisherman's dwelling,
And she cried, quot;Dermot, darling, oh! come back to me.quot;
Her beads while she numbered, the baby still slumbered And smiled in her face as she bended the knee. quot;Oh! blessed be that warning, my child, thy sleep adorning. For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.
quot;And while they are keeping bright watch o'er thy sleeping. Oh, pray to them softly, my baby, with me;
And say thou wouldst rather they'd watch o'er thy father. For I know that the angels are whispering with thee.quot;
The dawn of the morming saw Dermot returning.
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to see;
And closely caressing her child with a blessing.
Said, quot;I knew that the angels were whispering with thee.quot;
SAMUEL LOVER.
Oh, Come To The West.
Oh, come to the West, love, oh come there with me, 'T is a sweet land of verdure that springs from the sea; Where fair Plenty smiles from her emerald throne. Oh, come to the West, and I'll make thee my own. I'll guard thee, I'll tend thee, I'll love thee the best, And you'll say there's no land like the land of the West.
The South has its roses and bright suns of blue,
But ours are more sweet with Love's own changeful hue; Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best, Oh, what is the South to the beautiful West?
Then, come to the West and the rose on thy mouth Will be sweeter to me than the tlow'rs of the South.
The Nortli has its snow towers of dazzling array,
All sparkling with gems in the ne'er settingday
There the storm-king may dwell in the halls he loves best,
But the soft breathing Zephyr he plays in the West.
Then come there with me, where no cold wind doth blow.
And thy neck will seem fairer to me than the snow.
The sun in the gorgeous Sast chaseth the night.
When he riseth refreshed in his glory and might; But where does he go when he seeks sweet his rest? Oh, doth he not haste to the beautiful West?
Then come there with me 'tis the land T love best, 'T is the land of my sires; 'tis my own darling West.
IS?
JOHN CLARE. 1793âlSÃ4-
Home Yearnings.
Oh for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung! â The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young.
The heart asleep without a pain â When shall I know that sleep again?
When shall I be as I have been
Upon my mother's breast â
Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green
To woo to perfect rest â
Love in the meadow, field and glen.
And in my native wilds again?
The sheep within the fallow field. The herd upon the green,
The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn till e'en. Oh, for the pasture, field and fen! When shall I see such rest again?
JOHN CLARE.
1 love the weeds along the fen,
More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours.
Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free.
The crows upon the swelling hills.
The cows upon the lea,
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills.
Are ever dear to me:
Because sweet freedom is their mate,
While I am love and desolate.
I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me;
I loved the song which Nature sung , Endearing liberty;
I loved the wood, the vale, the stream. For there my boyhood used to dream.
There even toil itself was play ;
'Twas pleasure e'en to weep,
'Twas joy to think of dreams by day
The beautiful of sleep.
When shall I see the wood and plain.
And dream those happy dreams again?
I
Rev. GEORGE CROLY. 1780â1860.
Domestic Love.
O! love of loves! to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key.
Thine are the joyous hours of winters even When the babes cling around their father's knee; And thine the voice, that, on the midnight sea. Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home, Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see.
Spirit 1 I've built a shrine; and thou hast come And on its altar closed â for ever closed thy plume.
Jacob's Dream.
The sun was sinking on the mountain zone
That guards thy vales of beauty, Palestine!
And lovely from the desert rose the moon,
Yet lingering on the horizon's purple line.
Like a pure spirit o'er its earthly shrine.
Up Padan-Aram's height, abrupt and bare,
A pilgrim toiled, and oft on day's decline
Looked pale, and paused for eve's delicious air.
The summit gained, he knelt and breathed his evening prayi
REV. GEORGE CROLY. IQI
He spread his cloak and slumbered â darkness fell Upon the twilight hills; a sudden sound Of silver trumpets o'er him seemed to swell;
Clouds, heavy with the tempest, gathered round. Yet was the whirlwind in its cavern bound,
Still deeper rolled the darkness from on high. Gigantic volume upon volume wound,
Above, a pillar shooting to the sky,
Below, a mighty sea that spread incessantly.
Voices are heard, a choir of golden strings. Low winds whose breath is loaded with the rose; Then chariot wheels â the nearer rush of wings; Pale lightning round the dark pavilion glows. It thunders â the resplendent gates unclose;
Far as the eye can glance, on height o'er height. Rise fiery waving wings, and star-crowned brows. Millions on millions brighter and more bright.
Till all is lost in one supreme unmingled light.
But, two beside the sleeping pilgrim stand.
Like cherub kings, with lifted mighty plume.
Fixed, sunbright eyes, and looks of high command: They tell the pilgrim of his glorious doom,
Father of countless myriads that shall come. Sweeping the land like billows of the sea,
Bright as the stars of heaven from twilight's gloom, Till He is given, whom angels long to see. And Israel's splendid line is crowned with Deity.
EBENEZER E L L I O T. 1781â1849.
Love Strong in Death.
AVe watch'd him, while the moonlight.
Beneath the shadow'd hill,
Seem'd dreaming of good angels.
And all the woods were still,
The brother of two sisters
Drew painfully his breath:
A strange fear had come o'er him,
For love was strong in death.
The fire of fatal fever
Burn'd darkly on his cheek,
And often to his mother
He spoke, or tried to speak:
quot;I felt as if from slumber
I never could awake:
Oh, mother, give me something
To cherish for your sake!
A cold, dead weight is on me â
A heavy weight like lead:
My hands and feet seem sinking
Quite through my little bed:
I am so tired, so weary â
EBENEZER ELLIOT.
With weariness I ache:
Oh mother give me something, To cherish for your sake.
Some little token give me Which I may kiss in sleep â To make me feel I'm near you, And bless you though I weep. My sisters say I'm better â But then, their heads they shake: Oh, mother, give me something To cheiish for your sake! Why can't I see the poplar The moonlit stream and hill Where Fanny says, good angels Dream when the woods are still? Why can't I see you, mother? I surely am awake:
Oh, haste! and give me something To cherish for your sake!quot; His little bosom heaves not; The fire hath left his cheek: The fine chord â is it broken? The strong chord â could it break Ah, yes! the loving spirit Hath wing'd his flight away; A mother and two sisters Look down on lifeless clay.
AMELIA O PIE. 1769â1853.
Impress of The Creator.
There's not a leaf within the bower, There's not a bird upon the tree,
There's not a dew-drop on the flower, But bears the impress. Lord, of Thee.
Thy hand the varied leaf designed, And gave the bird its thrilling tone; Thy power the dewdrop's tints combined, Till like a diamond's blaze they shone.
Yes, dewdrops, leaves, and buds, and all, The smallest, like the greatest, things, â The sea's vast space, the earth's wide ball. Alike proclaim Thee King of Kings.
But man alone to bounteous Heaven Thanksgiving's conscious strains can raise; To favoured man alone 'tis given To join the angelic choir in praise.
AMELIA OPIE.
Go, Youth, Beloved.
Go, youth beloved, in distant glades New friends, new hopes, new joys find. Yet sometimes deign 'midst fairer maids. To think on her thou leavst behind. Thy love, thy fate, dear youth, to share. Must never be my happy lot,
But thou mayst grant this humble prayer. Forget me not, forget me not!
Vet should the thought of my distress Too painful to thy feelings be,
Heed not the wish I now express. Nor ever deign to think on me;
But, oh, if grief thy steps attend. If want, if sickness be thy lot,
And thou require a soothing friend; i'orget me not, forget me not!
A L) E L A IDE A. P R O C T E R. 1835â1864.
The Old Year's Blessing.
I am fading from you.
But one draweth near,
Called the Angel Guardian Of the coming year.
If my gifts and graces Coldly you forget,
Let the New Year's Angel Bless and croun them yet; For we work together.
He and I are one, â
Let him end and perfect All 1 leave undone.
I brought good desires, Though as yet but seeds, â Let the New Year make them Blossom into deeds.
I brought joy to brighten Many happy days, â
Let the New Year's Angel Turn it into praise.
If I gave joy, sickness, If I brought you care.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
Let him make one patience And the other prayer,
Where I brought you sorrow. Through his care at length It may rise triumphant Into future strength. If I brought you plenty All wealth's boundless charms. Shall not the New Angel Turn them into alms?
I gave health and leisure,
Skill to dream and plan, â Let him make them nobler Work for God and man: If I broke your idols.
Showed you they were dust. Let him turn the knowledge Into heavenly trust. If I brought temptation, Let sin die away Into boundles pity For all hearts that stray. If your list of errors Dark and long appears, Let this new-born monarch Melt them into tears.
May you hold this angel Dearer than the last, â So I bless his future.
While he crowns my past!
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
The Message.
I had a message to send her,
To her whom my soul loves best; But I had my task to finish,
And she had gone to rest:
To rest in the far bright Heaven â Oh! so far away from here!
It was vain to speak to my darling. For I knew she could not hear.
1 had a message to send her, So tender, and true, and sweet, I longed for an angel to hear it, And lay it down at her feet.
I placed it one summer's evening On a little white cloud's breast;
But it faded in golden splendour. And died in the crimson west.
I gave it the lark next morning. And I watched it soar and soar; But its pinious grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more. I cried in my passionate longing. Has the earth no angel friend, Who will carry my love the message My heart desires to send?
Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so dear.
ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.
That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear.
It rose in harmonious hushing Of mingled voices and strings.
And I tenderly laid my message On music's outspread wings.
And I heard it float farther and farther, In sound more perfect than speech. Farther than sight can follow,
Farther than soul can reach.
And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate; So my heart is no longer restless.
And I am content to wait.
|
ROBERT 177 |
SOU T H E Y. 1S43. |
The Battle of Blenheim.
It was a summer evening,
Old Kasper's work was done;
And he before his cottage door
Was siting in the sun,
And by him sported on the green
His little grand child Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
Roll something large and round,
That he beside the rivulet.
In playing there, had found;
He come to ask what he had found.
That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kasper took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head.
And with a natural sigh ,
'Tis some poor fellow's skull, said he,
Who fell in the great victory.
ROBERT SOUTHFA'.
I find them in the garden, for There's many here about,
And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men, said he,
Were slain in the great victory.
Now tells us what 'twas all about, Young Peterkin, he cries.
And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes:
Now tell us all about the war And what they kill'd each other for.
It was the English, Kaspar cried.
That put the French to rout But what they kill'd each other for I could not well make out.
But every body said, quoth he,
That 't was a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground.
And he was forced to fly:
So with his wife and child he fled.
Nor had he where to lay his head.
With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide.
And many a childling mother then. And new-born infant died.
20I
ROBERT SOüTHEY.
But things like that, you know, must be At ever}- famous victor)'.
They say it was a shocking sight,
After the field was won,
For many thousand bodies here
Lay rotting in the sun;
But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.
Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won And our good Prince Eugene. â Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!
Said little Wilhelmine. â
Xay â nay â my little girl, quoth he, It was a famous victor}-.
And every body praised the Duke Who such a fight did win. â
But what good came of it at last?
Quoth little Peterkin. â
Why, that I cannot tell, said he.
But :t was a famous victory.
Mary, The Maid of The Inn.
Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fix'd eyes â Seem a heart over charged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.
202
ROBERT SOUTHEY. 20
No pity she looks for, no alms does she seek;
Xor for raiment nor food doth she care:
Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom half bare, and her cheek
Hath the hue of a mortal despair.
Vet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day Poor Mary, the maniac hath been;
The traveller remembers who journey'd this way, Xo damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay.
As Mary the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved; and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life;
But Richard was idle, and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary, and say That she was too good for his wife.
'Twas in Antumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And smoking in silence with tranquil delight They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
quot;Tis pleasant, cried onequot; seated by the fire-side, To hear the wind whistle without.
ROr.ERT SOrTIIEY.
quot;What a night for the abbey,quot; his comrade replied, quot;Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried Who should wander the ruins about.
quot;I myself like a school-boy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear.
For this wind might awaken the dead! quot;
quot;I'll wager a dinnerquot; the other one cried,
quot;That Mary will venture there now.quot;
quot;Then wager and lose,quot; with a sneer, he replied, quot;I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow.quot;
quot;Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?quot; His companion exclaimed with a smile;
quot;I shall win â for I know she will venture there now, And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle.
With fearless good humour did Mary comply.
And her way to the abbey she bent;
The night was dark and the wind was high.
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky. She shiver'd with cold as she went.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;
Through the gate-way she entered, she felt not afraid. Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
204
ROBERT SOUTIIEY. 205
All around her was silent, save where the rude blast llowl'd dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-covered fragments she fearlessly pass'd, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last Where the elder tree grew in the aisle.
Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough;
When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear. She paused, and she listen'd all eager to hear.
And her heart panted fearfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head.
She listen'd â nought else could she hear;
The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread.
For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a wide column half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there;
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear. And between them a corpse did they bear.
Then Mary could feel her heart-blood curdle cold:
Again the rough wind hurried by, â
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd, â
She felt and expected to die.
quot;Curse the hat!quot; he exclaims: quot;Nay, come on till we hide
The dead bodyquot; his comrade replies.
She beholds them in safety pass on by her side.
ROliEKT SOUTIIEY.
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied And fast through the abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door, She gazed in her terror around,
Then her linbs could support her faint burthen no more: And exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor,
Unable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,
For a momert the hat met her view;
Her eyes from that object convulsively start.
Forâ oh God! What cold horror then thrilled through her heart
Where the name of her Richard she knew.
Where the old abbey stands, on the common hard by.
His gibbet is now to be seen;
His irons you still from the road may espy;
The traveller beholds them and thinks with a sigh
Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Impulses.
Moments there are in life, alas! how few.
When casting cold prudential doubts aside,
We take a generous impulse for our guide,
And following promptly what the heart thinks best.
Commit to Providence the rest.
Sure that no after reckoning will arise
Of shame or sorrow, for the heart is wise.
And happy they who thus in faith obey
2o6
ROBERT SOÃTIIEV.
Their better nature: err they sometimes may, And some sad thoughts lie heavy in the breast, Such as, by Hope deceived, are left behind; But like a shadow, these will pass away From the pure sunshine of the peaceful mind.
Love's Immortality.
They sin who tell us Love can die!
With life all other passions fly;
All others are but vanity.
In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell;
Earthly these passions, as of earth.
They perish where they have their birth;
But Love is indistructible.
Its holy flame for ever burnetii.
From heaven it came, to heaven returneth: For oft on earth a troubled guest.
At times deceived, at times oppressed. It here is tried and purified.
And hath in heaven its perfect rest. It soweth here with toil and care.
But the Harvest-time of Love is there. Oh! when a mother meets on high The babe she lost in infancy.
Hath she not then, for pains and fears, The day of woe, the anxious night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears An over payment of delight?
207
CAROLINE BO W LES. (Mrs SOUTHEY.)
To A Dying Infant.
Sleep, little baby, sleep!
Xot in thy cradle bed,
Xot on thy mother's breast Henceforth shall be thy rest, But with the quiet dead!
Ves! with the quiet dead,
Baby, thy rest shall be! Oh, many a weary wight,
Weary of life and light,
Would fain lie down with thee.
Flee, little tender nursling!
Flee to thy grassy nest;
There the first flowers shall blow,quot; The first pure flake of snow Shall fall upon thy breast.
Peace! peace! the little bosom Labours with shortening breath : Peace! peace! that tremulous sigh Speaks his departure nigh!
Those are the damps of death.
CAROLINE BOWLES. (MRS SOUTIIEV.)
I've seen thee in thy beauty, A thing all health and glee; But never then wert thou So beautiful as now,
Baby, thou seems't to me!
Thine upturn'd eyes glazed over Like harebells wet with dew; Already veiled and hid By the convulsed lid,
Their pupils darkly blue.
Thy little mouth half open â Thy soft lip quivering.
As if like summer air.
Ruffling the rose-leaves there, Thy soul was fluttering.
Mount up immortal essence!
Young spirit, haste, depart! â And is this death? dread thing! If such thy visiting.
How beautiful thou art!
Oh! I could gaze for ever Upon thy waxen face; So passionless, so pure!
The little shrine was sure, An angel's dwelling place.
Thou weepest, childless mother! Aye weepâ'twill ease thine heart;
CAROLINE BOWLES. (.MRS SOUTHEY.)
He was thy first-born son, Thy first, thine only one, 'Tis hard from him to part.
'Tis hard to lay thy darling Deep in the damp, cold earth, His empty crib to see, His silent nursery.
Once gladsome with his mirth.
To meet again in slumber. His small mouth's rosy kiss; Then, waken'd with a start. By thine own throbbing heart. His twining arms to miss!
To feel (half conscious why) A dull, heart-sinking weight, Till memory on the soul Flashes the painful whole, That thou art desolate!
And then, to lie and weep. And think the livelong night (Feeding thine own distress With accurate greediness) Of every past delight;
Of all his winning ways. His pretty, playful smiles. His joy at sight of thee, His tricks, his mimicry. And all his little wiles.
2 IO
CAROLINE BOWLES. (MRS SOUTHEY.)
Oh! these are recollections Round mothers' hearts that cling, â That mingle with the tears And smiles of after years,
With oft awakening.
But thou wilt then, fond mother! In after years look back,
(Time brings such wondrous easing) With sadness not unpleasing. E'en on this gloomy track.
Thou'lt say, quot;my first-born blessing. It almost broke my heart.
When thou wert forced to go! And yet for thee, I know,
'T was better to depart.
quot;God took thee in his mercy, A lamb, untask'd, untried, He fought the fight for thee. He won the victory And thou art sanctified!
I look around, and see The evil ways of men;
And oh! beloved child!
I'm more than reconciled To thy departure then.
quot;The little arms that clasp'd me The innocent lips that press'd â
211
CAROLINE BOWLES. (MRS SOUTHEY.)
Would they have been as pure Till now, as when of yore I lull'd thee on my breast?
quot;Now like a dew-drop shrined Within a crystal stone Thou'rt safe in heaven, my dove I Safe with the Source of Love, The everlasting One.
And when the hour arrives,
From flesh that sets me free. Thy spirit may await,
The first at Heaven's gate! To meet and welcome me ! quot;
W I L L I A M A\' O R D S W O R T H. 1770â1850.
We Are Seven.
A simple child That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb.
What should it know of death ?
I met a little cottage girl; ^
She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair, â Her beauty made me glad.
quot;Sisters and brothers, little maid. How many may you be?quot;
quot;How many? Seven in all,quot; she said And wondering looked at me.
quot;And where are they? I pray you tell.quot; She answered quot;Seven are we;
214 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
And two of 113 at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
quot;Two of us in the church yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother,quot;
quot;You say that two at Conway dwell.
And two are gone to sea.
Yet they are seven! â I pray you tell,
Sweet maid, how this may be !quot;
Then did the little maid reply,
quot;Seven girls and boys are we;
Two of us in the churchyard lie,
Beneath the churchyard tree.:'
quot;You run about, my little maid.
Your limbs they are alive?
If two are in the church yard laid,
Then ye are only five.quot;
quot;Their graves are green, they may be seen.quot; The little maid replied,
quot;Twelve steps or more, from my mother's door, And they are side by side.
quot;My stockings there I often knit.
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit â
I sit and sing to them.
AVI LI. JA M WORDSWORTH.
quot;And often after sunset, sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer.
And eat my supper there.
quot;The first that died, was little Jane,
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.
quot; So in the churchyard she was laid;
And all the Summer dry.
Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.
quot;And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide.
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side.quot;
quot;How many, are you then,quot; said I,
quot; If they two are in heaven ?quot;
The little maiden did reply;
quot;Oh Master! we are seven.quot;
quot;But they are dead: those two are dead I Their spirits are in heaven!quot;
'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said,quot; nay, we are seven!quot;
215
WILI.IAM WORDSWORTH.
Lucy Gray.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when 1 crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day. The solitary child.
Xo mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, â The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
quot;To-night will be a stormy night â You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child to light Your mother through the snow.quot;
quot;That, father, will I gladly do! 'Tis scarcely afternoon â
The minster clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon.quot;
At this the father raised his hook And snapped a fagot band;
He plied his work; â and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
2l6
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow.
That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down:
And many a hill did Lucy climb ; But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night,
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from the door.
And turning homeward, now they cried, quot; In heaven we all shall meet!quot;
â When in the snow, the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall:
And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same;
Wil.I.I AM WORDSWORTH.
They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!
â Vet some maintain that to this day She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along. And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
A True Woman.
She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight; A lovely apparition, sen t To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,
Like twilight's too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn. A dancing shape, an image gay. To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
i8
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman too !
Her household motions li^lit and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A creature not too, bright or good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles.
Praise, blame, loves, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death;
The reason firm the temperate will,
Endurance foresight, strength and skill; A perfect woman nobly planned.
To warn, to comfort and command;
And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel light.
To The Cuckoo.
0 blithe new comer! I have heard,
1 hear thee and rejoice.
O cuckoo! shall I call thee bird.
Or but a wandering voice?
While I am lying on the grass , Thy two-fold shout I hear.
WIT,T.I AM WORDSWORTH.
From hill to hill it seems to pass. At once far-off and near.
Though babbling only, to the vale, Of sunshine and of flowers,
Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours.
Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring Even yet thou art to me No bird; but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery.
The same who in rny school-boy days I listened to; that cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen.
And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again.
O blessed bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial fairy place.
That is fit home for thee.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 17/2âlS32-
Alienated Friendship.
( Christahel.)
Alas! they had been friends in youth; But wliispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline.
Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother; They parted ne'er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining â They stood aloof, the scars remaining. Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between; â But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. Shall wholly do away, I ween, The marks of that which once hath been.
SAMl EL TAV F.OR COLERIDGE.
Christabel And The Lady Geraldine.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'T is a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well.
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low. And naught was green upon the oak. But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree. And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly.
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is, she cannot tell â
On the other side it seems to be.
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak-tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
222
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek â
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan ,
Hanging so light and hanging so high,
On the topmast twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white.
That shadowy in the moonlight shone: The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were, And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she â
Beautiful exceedingly.
quot;Mary, mother save me now!
{Said Christabel) quot; And who art thou ? quot; The lady strange made answer meet.
And her voice was faint and sweet: â
quot;Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:quot;
â Stretch forth thy hand and have no fear!quot;
223
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
Said Christabel, quot;How earnest thou here?quot;
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet: â
quot;My sire is of a noble line.
And my name is Geraldine:
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright.
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind.
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white
And once we crossed the shade of night,
As sure as Heaven shad rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one the tallest of the five.
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman scarce alive.
Some muttered words his comrade spoke:
He placed me underneath the oak!
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell â
I thought I heard, some minutes past.
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she)
And help a wretched maid to 1^.''
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand And comforted fair Geraldine:
224
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE,
quot;O well, bright dame! May you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall.quot;'
The Ancient Mariner.
( Extracts.)
Alone, alone, all, all alone.
Alone on a wide, wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.
The many men so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie;
And a thousand, thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea. And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.
226 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
I closed my eyes and kept them closed,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky.
Lay like a load on my weary eye.
And the dead were at my feet.
The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reck did they:
The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away.
Sleep And A Breeze.
(From the Same.)
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven,
That slid into my soul.
The silly buckets on the deck.
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I woke, it rained.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light â almost I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.
And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and free they were hurried about!
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.
And the coming wind did war more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side;
Like waters shot from some high crag. The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.
The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan.
227
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Xor spake nor moved their eyes:
It had been strange, even in a dream To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steered, the ship moved on,
Yet never a breeze upblew;
The mariners all' 'gan work the ropes.
Where they were wont to do:
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools â
We were a ghastly crew.
Love.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
The moon shine stealing o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope my joy. My own dear Genevieve!
She leaned against the armed man; The statue of the armed knight:
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene'er I sing, The songs that make her grieve.
I played a soft and doleful air I sang an old and moving story â An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary.
She listened with a flitting blush.
With downcast eyes and modest grace: For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woed The lady of the land.
I told her how he pined; and ah! The deep, the low the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush.
With downcast eyes and modest grace: And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face.
229
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Xor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once. In green and sunny glade.
There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a fiend,
This miserable knight!
And that unknowing what he did. He leaped amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land;
And how she wept and clasped his knees, And how she tended him in vain â And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that she nursed him in a cave: And how his madness went away.
When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay.
His dying words â but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
230
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve â The music and the doleful tale.
That rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng;
And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream 1 heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved, she stept aside; As conscious of my look she stept Then suddenly, with timorous eye. She fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace. And bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly 'twas a bashfol art.
That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart.
231
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
232
I calmed her fears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride!
GEORGE GORDON LORD BVRON. i788â1S24.
Fare Thee Well.
Fare thee well! and if for ever Still for ever, fare thee well;
Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee, Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee â Though it smile upoir the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?
GEORGE GORDON LORD 15VRON.
Vet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench , believe not Hearts can thus be torn away;
Still thine own its life retaineth â
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat: And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou woiild solace gather,
When our child's first accents How,
Wilt thou teach her to say quot;Father Iquot; Though his care she must forgo ?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee, Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy hart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest. All my madness none can know;
2 34
GEORGE GORDON LORD TiYROX.
All my hopes, where 'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee â by thee forsaken ,
Even my soul forsakes me now :
But tis done â all words are idle â Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well I â thus disunited , Tom from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die.
Maid of Athens, ere we part.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go,
Swjj (zov ayxxu
By those tresjses unconfined,
Woled by each Aegean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks blooming tinge;
236 GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
By those wild eyes like the roe,
[zov (rees ayoittcs
By that lip 1 long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well;
By loves alternate joy and woe,
Swjf [lov (jccq ccyoixü
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I lly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can 1 cease to lave thee? No!
swjf [jlov cxs xyoc-xu
The destruction of Sennacherib.
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 stilt!
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
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 Gentil, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
When we two parted.
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years.
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow â It felt like the warning Of what 1 feel now.
237
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
232
I calmed her fears; and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride!
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON. 1788â1824.
Fare Thee Well.
Fare thee well! and if for ever Still for ever, fare thee well;
Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
Would that breast were bared before thee. Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover 'Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee â Though it smile upon* the blow.
Even its praises must offend thee,
Founded on another's woe.
Though my many faults defaced me,
Could no other arm be found.
Than the one which once embraced me, To inflict a cureless wound?
GEORGE GORDON' LORD 15VRON.
Vet, oh yet, thyself deceive not:
Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench , believe not Hearts can thus be torn away;
Still thine own its life retaineth â
Still must mine, though bleeding, beat: And the undying thought which paineth Is that we no more may meet.
These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widow'd bed.
And when thou woiild solace gather,
When our child's first accents flow,
Wilt thou teacli her to say quot;Father Iquot; Though his care she must forgo ?
When her little hands shall press thee,
When her lip to thine is press'd ,
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
Think of him thy love had bless'd!
Should her lineaments resemble Those thou never more mayst see,
Then thy hart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me.
All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know;
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
All my hopes, where 'er thou goest, Wither, yet with thee they go.
Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee â by thee forsaken ,
Even my soul forsakes me now ;
But tis done â all words are idle â Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will.
Fare thee well! â thus disunited ,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted. More than this I scarce can die.
Maid of Athens, ere we part.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast , Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go,
Swij pov (rx? ccyxzaj
By those tresses unconfined,
Woled by each Aegean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks blooming tinge;
GEORGE GORDON LORD UVRON.
By those wild eyes like the roe,
swj/ izov ecks ocyaxs)
By that lip 1 long to taste;
By that zone-encircled waist;
By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well;
By loves alternate joy and woe,
samp;ltf [lov lt;70,$ xyxttu
Maid of Athens! I am gone:
Think of me, sweet! when alone.
Though I fly to Istambol,
Athens holds my heart and soul:
Can 1 cease to love thee? No!
Swjj [jlov a-zz xyoi~u
The destruction of Sennacherib.
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!
236
GEORGE GORDON I.ORD BYRON.
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 Gentil, unsmote by the sword. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
When we two parted.
When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow â It felt like the warning Of what 1 feel now.
237
GEORGE GORDON LORD BVRON.
Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.
They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me â Who wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: â
Long, long shall I rue thee. Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met â
In silence I grieve.
That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee,
After long years.
How should I greet thee? â With silence and tears.
My native land â Good night.
( Childc J la ro Id.)
lt;cAdieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
238
GEORGE GORDON LORD BVRON.
You sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight:
Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land â Good Night
quot;A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies.
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall.
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall
My dog howls at the gate.
quot; Come hither, hither, my little page , Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along.''
quot;Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love.
And have no friend, save thee alone.
But thee â and One above.
239
GEORGE GORDON LORD I5VRON.
Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.
They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me â Who wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee. Who knew thee too well: â
Long, long shall I rue thee. Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met â
In silence I grieve.
That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee,
After long years.
How should I greet thee ? â With silence and tears.
My native land â Good night.
( Childe Harold.)
lt;eAdieu, adieu! my native shore Fades o'er the waters blue; The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
238
GEORGE GORDON LORD KVRO.N.
You sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native Land â- Good Night.
quot;A few short hours, and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall.
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall
My dog howls at the gate.
quot;Come hither, hither, my little page. Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage. Or tremble at the gale?
But dash the tear drop from thine eye; Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly More merrily along.''
quot;Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind:
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save thee alone,
But thee â â and One above.
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
quot;My father blessed me fervently,
Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh Till I come back again.quot; â
quot;Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
My own would not be dry.
quot;Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman Why dost thou look so pale?
Or dost thou dread a French foeman ? Or shiver at the gale?quot; â
quot;Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife Will blanch a faithful cheek.
quot;My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall. Along the bordering lake.
And when they on their father call,
quot;What answer shall she make?quot; â quot;Enough, enough, my yeoman good Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood.
Will laugh to flee away.
'' For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife of paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes We late saw streaming o'er
GEORGE GORDON LORD LYRON.
For pleasures past I do not grieve,
Nor perils gathering near;
My greatest grief is that I leave Nothing that claims a tear.
quot;And now I'm in the world alone,
Upon the wide, wide sea:
But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,
Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again He'd tear me where he stands.
quot;With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go Athwart the foaming brine;
Nor care 'what land thou bear'st me to, So not again to mine Welcome, welcome, ye dark-blue waves! And when you fail my sight!
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves I My native Land â Good-Night.
Napoleon's Farewell.
(From the French.)
Farewell to the land, where the gloom of my glory Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name â She abandons me now â but the page of her story The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
241
16
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
I have warred with a world which vanquished me only When the meteor of conquest allured me too lar;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely, The last single Captive to millions in war.
Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crowned me, I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,â
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee, Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh 1 for the veteran hearts that were wasted In strife with the storm, when their battles were won â
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted, Had still soared with eyes fixed on victory's sun!
Farewell to thee, France! â but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then â
The violet still grows in the depths of thy valleys;
Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again â
Vet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround us
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice â
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!
Know ye the land.
(The Bride of Abides.)
Know ye the land where the cypress and mirtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime.
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle. Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?
242
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine,
Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine;
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed with perfume.
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gul in her bloom?
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit.
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute,
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,
And the purple of Ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit, of man, is divine?
'Tis the clime of the east; 'tis the land of the sun â
Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done?
Oh! wild as the accents of lover's farewell
Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.
Zuieika.
Fair, as the first that fell of womankind.
When on that dread yet lovely serpent smiling. Whose image then was stamped upon her mind â But once beguiled â and ever more beguiling; Dazzling, as that, oh! too transcendent vision To Sorrow's phantom â peopled slumber given, When heart meets heart again in dreams Elysian And paints the lost on Earth revived in Heaven; Soft, as the memory of buried love;
Pure as the prayer which Childhood wafts above; Was she â the daughter of that rude old chief. Who met the maid with tears â but not of grief.
243
i;eorce corixin lord byron.
Who hath not proved how feebly words essay To fix one spark of Beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sight Faints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess The mightâthe majesty of Loveliness?
Such was Zulelka â such around her shone The nameless charms unmarked by her alone; The light of love, the purity of grace.
The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole â And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul.
Death of Zuleika.
By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! And woman's eye is wet â man's cheek is pale;
Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,
Thy destined lord is come too late:
He sees not â ne'er shall see â thy face !
Can he not hear The Wul â wulleh warn his distant ear? Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate. The silent slaves with folded arms that wait. Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale.
Tell him thy tale!
Thou didst not view thy Selim fall!
That fearful moment when he left the cave Thy heart grew chill:
244
GEORGE GORDON I.ORD BYRON. 2
He was thy hope â thy joy â thy love â thine all â And that last thought on him thou couldst not save,
sufficed to kill;
Burst forth in one wild cry â and all was still.
Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave! Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst!
That grief â though deep â though fatal â was thy first Thrice happy! ne'er to feel nor fear the force Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse! And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies! The worm that will not sleep â and never dies;
Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,
That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light. That wings around, and tears the quivering heart! Ah! wherefore not consume it â and depart!
Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief!
Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head.
Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs doth spread;
By that same hand Abdallah â Selim â bled.
Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief:
Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed, She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,
Thy Daughter's dead.
Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam,
The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream.
What quenched its ray' â the blood that thou hast shed Hark! to the hurried question of despair:
clt;Where is my child?quot; â an Echo answers â quot;Where?quot;
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
Ancient and modern Greece.
He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,
The first day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers)
And marked the mild angelic air.
The rapture of repose that's there.
The fixed yet tender traits that streak
The languor of the placid cheek,
And â but for that sad shrouded eye.
That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill changeless brow.
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appals the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone.
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour.
He still might doubt the tyrants power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by deatli revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair.
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness of death.
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom.
246
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expressions last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away!
Spark of that flame, perchane of heavenly birth.
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished earth!
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was freedom's home, or Glory's grave!
Shrine of the mighty! can it be That this is all remains of thee?
Approach, thou craven crouching slave:
Say, is not this Thermopylae?
These waters blue that round you lave.
Oh servile offspring of the free â
Pronounce what sea, what shore is this?
The gulf, the rock of Salamis!
These scenes, their story not unknown ,
Arise, and make again your own;
Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of the former fires;
And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame:
For freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding Sire to Sen,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Bear witness, Greece, thy living page.
GEORGE GORDON LORD r.VRON.
Attest it many a deathless age!
While kings, in dusky darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid. Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land! There points thy muse to strangers eye The graves of those that cannot die!
The Night before the battle of Waterloo.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriagebell.
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?âNo; 'twas but the wind Or the cart rattling o'er the stony street;
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet â
But hark! â that heavy sound breaks in once more. As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
248
249
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm, arm , it is â it isâ the cannon's opening roar!
Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; lie did hear That sound the first amidst the festival.
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier. And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell: He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting fell.
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro. And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes.
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed. The mustering squadron, and the clattering car.
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed. And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on pea! afar;
And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ;
250 GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
While thronged the citizens with terror dumb , Or whispering, with white lips â quot;The foe! They come!
[come
And wild and high the quot;Cameron's gatheringquot; rose,
The warânote of Lochiel, which Albyn's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes: â
How in the noon of night that pibroch hills
Savage and shrill! But with the breath that fills
1 heir mountain pipe, so fill the mountaineers
^ ith the fierce native daring which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years.
And Lvan's, Donald's, fame rings in each clansman's ears!
And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves.
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass.
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves.
Over the unreturning brave, âalas!
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valour, rolling on the foe.
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon beheld them full of lusty life.
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay.
The midnight brought the signal â sound of strife.
The morn the marshalling in arms, â the day
Battle's magnificently â stern â array!
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent
The earth is covered thick with other clay.
GEORGE GORDON' LORD BYRON.
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, â friend, foe, â in one red burial blent!
The Ocean.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean â roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin â his control Stops with the shore; â upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own When, for a moment, like a drop of rain.
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths, â thy fields
Are not a spoil for him , â thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise.
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where hap'ly lies
His pretty hope in some near port or bay.
And dashest him again to earth: â there let him lay.
The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake And monarchs tremble in their capitals.
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make Their clay crcator the vain title take
251
GEORGE GORDON LORD KYROX.
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war;
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy Hake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.
The shores are empires, changed in all save thee â Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they Thy waters washed them power while they were free, And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The strange, slave, or savage; their decay.
Has dried up realms to deserts: â not so thou; â Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play â
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow â
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time.
Calm or convulsed â in breeze, or gale, or storm,
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime
Dark-heaving; â boundless, endless, and sublime â
The image of Eternity â the throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thine slime
The monsters of the deep are made: each zone
Obeys thee: thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And I have loved thee. Ocean I and my joy Of youthful sports was on thine breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers, they to me,
Were a delight, and if the freshening sea Made them a terrorâ'twas a pleasing fear.
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
For I was as it were a child of thee,
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane â as 1 do here.
Song of the Corsairs.
O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea, Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free, Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limits to their sway â Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.
Ours the wild life in tumult still to range From toil to rest, and joy in every change.
Oh, who can tell? not thou, luxurious slave!
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave; Not thou, vain lord of wantonness and ease!
Whose slumber soothes not â pleasure cannot please Oh! who can tell save he whose heart hath tried, And danced in triumph o'er the waters wide. The exulting sense â the pulse's maddening play, That thrills the wanderer of that trackless way?
That for itself can woo the approaching fight, And turn what some deem danger to delight;
That seeks what cravens shun with more than zeal. And where the feebler faint â can only feel â Feelâto the rising bosom's inmost core.
Its hope awaken and its spirit soar?
No dread of death â if with us die our foes â
Save that it seems even duller than repose:
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYRON.
Come when it will â we snatch the life of life â When lost-âwhat recks it â by disease or strife? Let him who crawls enamoured of decay,
Cling to his couch, and sicken years away;
Heave his thick breath, and shake his palsied head; Ours â the fresh turf, and not the feverisli bed. While gasp by gasp he falters forth his soul,
Ours with one pang â one bound â escapes control. His corse may boast its urn and narrow cave, And they who loathed his life may gild his grave: Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed. When Ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead. For us, even banquets fond regrets supply In the red cup that crowns our memory;
And the brief epitaph in danger's day,
When those who win at length divide the prey. And cry. Remembrance saddening o'er each brow. How had the brave who fell exulted now!
The parting of Conrad and Medora.
She rose â she sprung â she clung to his embrace. Till his heart heaved beneath her hidden face. He dared not raise to his that deep blue eye, Which downcast drooped in tearless agony. Her long fair hair lay floating o'er his arms.
In all the wildness of dishevelled charms;
Scarce beat that bosom where his image dwelt So full â- that feeling seemed almost unfelt!
Hark, peals the thunder of the signal gun!
GEORGE GORDON LORD BYROX.
It told 'twas sunset â and he cursed that sun.
Again â again â that form he madly pressed,
Which mutely clasped, imploringly caressed! And tottering to the couch his bride he bore, One moment gazed â as if to gaze no more;
Felt â that for him earth held but her alone,
Kissed her cold forehead â turned â is Conrad gone?
quot;And is he gone?quot; â on sudden solitude
How oft that fearful question will intrude 1
quot;'Twas but an instant past â and here he stoodl
And nowquot; â without the portal's porch she rushed.
And then at length her tears in freedom gushed;
Big, â bright â and fast, unknown to her they fell;
But still her lips refused to send â ccFarewellquot;
For in that wordâ that fatal word â howe'er
We promise â hope â believe â there breathes despair.
O'er every feature of that still pale face,
Had sorrow fixed what time can ne'er erase:
The tender blue of that large loving eye
Grew frozen with its gaze on vacancy,
Till â oh, how far it caught a glimpse of him
And then it flowed â and phrensied seemed to swim,
Through those long, dark, and glistening lashes dewed
With drops of sadness oft to be renewed.
quot;He's gone!quot; â against her heart that hand is driven,
Convulsed and quick â then gently raised to heaven:
She looked and saw the heaving of the main;
The white sail set â she dared not look again;
But turned with sickening soul within the gate â
quot;It is no dream â and I am desolate!quot;
255
GEORGE GORDON LORD BVROX.
The dying boys on the raft.
There were two fathers in this ghastly crew,
And with them, their two sons, of whom the one
Was more robust and hardy to the view.
But he died early; and when he was gone,
His nearest messmate told his sire, who threw
One glance at him, and said, quot;Heaven's will be done?
I can do nothing,quot; and he saw him thrown
Into the deep without a tear or groan.
The other father had a weaklier child,
Of a soft cheek, and aspect delicate;
But the boy bore up long, and with a mild
And patient spirit held aloof his fate;
Little he said, and now and then he smiled,
As if to win a heart from off the weight.
He saw increasing on his father's heart.
With the deep deadly thought that they must part.
And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised His eyes from off his face, but wiped the foam From his pale lips, and ever on him gazed.
And when the wished-for shower at length was come, And the boy's eyes, which the dull film half glazed, Brightened, and for a moment seemed to roam. He squeezed from out a rag some drops of rain Into his dying child's mouth â but in vain.
The boy expired â the father held the clay And looked upon it long, and when at last
256
GEORGE 30RD0N LORD BYRON.
Death left no doubt, and the dead burden lay Stiff on his heart, and pulse and hope were past, He watched it wistfully till away 'Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sank down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering.
Rome.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul 1 The orphans of the heart must turn to thee Lone mother of dead empires! and control In their shut breasts their petty misery.
What are our woes and sufferance? come and see The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your wav O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, ye!
Whose agonies are evils of a day â
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay.
The Niobe of nations! there she stands,
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe.
An empty urn within her withered hands.
Whose holy dust was scattered long ago.
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now;
The very sepulchres lie tenantless
Of their heroic dwellers. Dost thou flow,
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness?
Rise with thy yellow waves, and mantle her distress!
257
7
GEORGE GORDON LORD 15YRON.
The Goth, the Christian, Time, War, Flood and Fire,
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride:
She saw her glories star by star expire.
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride,
Where the car climbed the Capitol; far and wide
Temple and tower went down nor left a site;
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void,
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light.
And say, quot;Here was, or isquot;, where all is doubly night?
The double night of ages, and of her.
Nights' daughter, ignorance, hath wrapt, and wrap All round us; but we feel our way to err:
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map. And Knowledge spreads them on her ample lap;
But Rome is as the desert, where we steer Stumbling o?er recollections; now we clap Our hands and cry quot;Eureka!quot; it is clear â
When but some false mirage of ruin rises near.
Alas! the lofty city! and alas.
The trebly hundred triumphs! and the day
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass.
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame away.
Alas, for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay
And Livy's pictured page! But these shall be
Her resurrection; all beside â decay â
Alas, for Earth! for never shall we see
That brightness in her eye she bore when Rome was free!
25S
T H O M A S 1779â
As A Beam O'er The Face Of The Waters May Glow.
As a beam o'er the face of the waters may glow,
While the tide runs in darkness and coldness below. So the cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile. Though the cold heart to ruin, runs darkly the while.
One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws In bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes, To which life nothing darker, or brighter can bring, For which joy has no balm and aflliction to sting:
Oh! this thought in the midst of enjoyment will stay, Like a dead lealless branch in the summer's bright ray, The beams of the warm sun play round it in vain , It may smile in his light, but it blooms not again.
Go where glory waits thee.
Go where glory waits thee, But while fame elates thee. Oh! still remember me.
When the praise thou meetcst
MOOR E 1S52.
THOMAS MOORE.
To thine ear is sweetest, Oh! then remember me.
Other arms may press thee, Dearer friends caress thee, All the joys that bless thee Sweeter far may be;
But when friends are nearest. And when joys are dearest. Oh! then remember me.
When at eve thou rovest By the star thou lovest. Oh! then remember me.
Oft as summer closes,
When thine eye reposes On its lingering roses.
Once so loved by thee.
Think of her who wove them Her who made thee love them Oh! then remember me.
When, around thee dying. Autumn leaves are lying. Oh! then remember me. And, at night, when gazing On the gay hearth blazing. Oh! still remember me.
Then, should music, stealing All the soul of feeling.
To thy heart appealing.
Draw one tear from thee;
200
THOMAS MOORE.
Then let memory bring thee Strains I used to sing thee, â Oh! then remember me.
Love's young dream.
Oh! the days are gone, when Beauty bright
My heart's chain wove;
When my dream of life from morn till night Was love, still love.
New hope may bloom,
And days may come Of milder, calmer beam,
But there's nothing half so sweet in life
As love's young dream:
Xo there's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream.
Though the bard to purer fame may soar.
When wild youth's past;
Though he wins the wise, who frowned before. To smile at last;
He'll never meet A joy so sweet.
In all his noon of fame;
As when first he sung to woman's ear
His soul-felt flame.
And, at every close, she blushed to hear The one loved name.
201
THOMAS MOORE.
No, â that hallowed form is ne'er forgot
Which first love traced;
Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste.
'Twas odour fled As soon as shed;
'Twas morning's winged dream; 'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again On lifes dull stream.
Sound the loud timbrel.
I.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed â his people are free.
Sing â for the pride of the tyrant is broken,
His chariots, and horsemen, all splendid and brave.
How vain was their boasting! â the Lord hath but spoken,
And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave.
Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah lias triumphed â his people are free.
II.
Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord,
His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword! â Vi'ho shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride?
202
THOMAS MOORE.
For the Lord hath looked out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea!
Jehovah has triumphed â his people are free.
The harp that once through Tara's halls.
The harp that once through Tara's halls,
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er.
And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night.
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.
263
264 THOMAS MOORE.
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. â quot; Land of song!quot; said the warrior bard, quot;Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!quot;
The Minstrel fell! â but the foeman's chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,
For he tore its cords asunder;
And said, quot;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!quot;
'lis the last rose of Summer.
'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone; No flower of her kindred.
No rosebud is nigh.
To reflect back her blushes. To give sigh for sigh.
THOMAS MOORE.
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem ;
Since the lovely are sleeping.
Go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay, And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
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 â is the nightingale singing there yet ?
Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
265
THOMAS MOORE.
Xo, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave, But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone. And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone,
Thus memory draws from delight, e'er 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!
Oh! breathe not his name.
Oh! breathe not his name, let it sleep in the shade, Vi'here cold and unhonoured his relics are laid; Sad, silent, and dark be the tears that we shed,
As the night-dew that falls on the grass o'er his head.
But the night-dew that falls, though in silence it weeps. Shall brighten with verdure the grave where he sleeps; And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
The veiled Prophet of Khorassan.
(From La I la Rookh.)
The song is hushed, the laughing nymphs are flown. And he is left, musing of bliss, alone;
Alone? â no, not alone â that heavy sigh.
That sob of grief, which broke from someone nigh â
266
THOMAS MOORE.
Whose could it be? â alas! is misery found Here, even here, on this enchanted ground? He turns, and sees a female form, close veiled. Leaning, as if both heart and strength had failed. Against a pillar near; â not glittering o'er With gems and wreaths, such as the others wore, But in that deep-blue melancholy dress Bokhara's maidens wear in mindfulness Of friends or kindred dead or far away; â And such as Zelica had on that day He left her â when, with heait too full to speak He took away her last warm tears upon his cheek. A strange emotion stirs within him, â more Than mere compassion ever waked before; Unconsciously he opes his arms, while she Springs forward, as with life's last energy. But, swooning in that one convulsive bound. Sinks, ere she reach, his arms, upon the ground; 'Tis she herself! â 'tis Zelica he sees!
But ah so pale, so changed â none but a lover Could in that wreck of beauty's shrine discover The once-adored divinity â even he Stood for some moments mute, and doubtingly Put back the ringlets from her brow, and gazed Upon those lids where once such lustre blazed, Ere he could think she was indeed his own. Own darling maid, whom he so long had known In joy and sorrow beautiful in both;
Who, even when grief was heaviest â when loth He left her for the wars â in that worst hour Sat in her sorrow like the sweet night-flower.
267
6S THOMAS MOORE.
When darkness brings its weeping glories out, And spreads its sighs like frankincense about.
quot;Look up my Zelica â one moment show Those gentle eyes to me, that I may know Thy life, thy loveliness is not all gone,
But there, at least, shines as it ever shone.
Come, look upon thy Azim â one dear glance.
Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance Hath brought thee here, oh 'twas a blessed one! There â my loved lips â they move â that kiss hath Like the first shoot of life in every vein.
And now I clasp her, mine all mine again.
Oh the delight â now, in this very hour.
When, had the whole rich world been in my power, I should have singled out thee, only thee.
From the whole world's collected treasury â
To have thee here â to hang thus fondly o'er My own, best, purest Zelica once more!quot;
It was indeed the touch of those fond lips Upon their eyes that chased their short eclipse. And, gradual as the snow, at Heaven's breath,
Melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath. Her lids unclosed, and the bright eyes were seen Gazing on his â not, as they late had been,
Quick, restless, wild, but mournfully serene;
As if to lie, even for that traced minute.
So near his heart, had consolation in it;
And thus to wake in his beloved caress Took from her soul one half its wretchedness.
269
But, when she heard him call her good and pure, Oh! 'twas too much â too dreadful to endure!
Shuddering she broke away from his embrace,
And, hiding with both hands her guilty face.
Said, in a tone whose anguish would have risen A heart of very marble, quot;Purel oh Heaven!quot;
That tone â those looks so changed â the withering blight
That sin and sorrow leave where'er they light;
The dead despondency of those sunk eyes.
Where once, had he thus met her by surprise.,
He would have seen himself, too happy boy,
Reflected in a thousand lights of joy;
And then the place, â that bright, unholy place
Where vice lay hid between each winning grace
And charm of luxury, as the viper weaves
Its wily covering of sweet balsam leaves,â
All struck upon his heart, sudden and cold
As death itself; â it needs not to be told â
No, no â he sees it all, plain as the brand
Of burning shame can mark â whate'er the hand
That could from Heaven and him such brightness sever
'Tis done â to Heaven and him she's lost for ever!
It was a dreadful moment; not the tears.
The lingering, lasting misery of years
Could match that minute's anguish â all the worst
Of sorrow's elements in that dark burst
Broke o'er his soul, and, with one crash of fate.
Laid the whole hopes of his life desolate.
quot; Oh! curse me notquot;, she cried, as wild he tossed
THOMAS MUORF..
His desperate hand tow'rds Heavenâquot;though I am lost
Think not that guilt, that falsehood made me fall,
No, no â 'twas grief, 'twas madness did it all!
Nay, doubt me not â though all thy love hath ceased â
I know it hath â yet, yet believe, at least.
That every spark of reason's light must be
Quenched in this brain ere I could stray from thee.
They told me thou wert dead â why, Azim, why
Did we not, both of us, that instant die
When we were parted ? oh! couldst thou but know
With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence â o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain.
And memory, like a drop that, night and day.
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away.
Didst thou but know how pale I sat at home.
My eyes still turned the way thou wert to come.
And, all the long, long night of hope and fear.
Thy voice and step still sounding in my ear â
Oh God! thou wouldst not wonder that, at last.
When every hope was all at once o'ercast.
When I heard frightful voices round me say
Azim is dead! â this wretched brain gave way.
And I became a wreck, at random driven.
Without one glimpse of reason or of Heaven â
All wild â and even this quenchless love within
Turned to foul fires to light me into sin! â
Thou pitiest me â I knew thou wouldst â that sky
Hath nought beneath it half so lorn as I.
The fiend who lured me hither â hist! come near,
Or thou too, thou art lost, if he should hear â
270
THOMAS MOORE.
Told me such things â oh! with such devilish art,
As would have ruined even a holier heart â
Of thee, and of that ever-radiant sphere.
Where blessed at length, if I but served him here.
I should for ever live in thy dear sight,
And drink from those pure eyes eternal light.
Think, think how lost, how maddened I must be.
To hope that guilt could lead to God or thee!
Thou weep'st for me â do weep â oh that I durst
Kiss off that tear! but no â these lips are curst,
They must not touch thee; one divine caress,
One blessed moment of forgetfulness
I've had between those arms, and that shall lie.
Shrined in my soul's deep memory till I die:
The last of joy's last relics here below,
The one sweet drop, in all this waste of woe,
My heart has treasured from affection's spring.
To soothe and cool its deadly withering!
But thou yes, thou must go â for ever go;
This place is not for theeâfor thee! oh no:
Did I but tell thee half, thy tortured brain
Would burn like mine, and mine go wild again!
Enough, that Guilt reigns hereâthat hearts, once good.
Now tainted, chilled, and broken, are his food.â
Enough, that we are parted â that there rolls
A flood of headlong fate between our souls.
Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee
As hell from heaven, to all eternity!quot;
quot;Zelica, Zelica!quot; the youth exclaimed.
In all the tortures of a mind inflamed
271
THOMAS MOORE.
Almost to madness â quot;by that Sacred Heaven
Where yet, if prayers can move, thou'lt be forgiven,
As thou art here â here, in this writhing heart,
All sinful, wild, and ruined as thou art I
By the remembrance of our once pure love.
Which like a churchyard light still burns above
The grave of our lost souls â which guilt in thee
Cannot extinguish, nor despair in me!
I do conjure, implore thee to fly hence â
If thou hast yet one spark of innocence.
Fly with me from this placeâquot; quot;With thee! oh bliss!
'Tis worth whole years of torment to hear this.
What! take the lost one with thee? â let her rove
By thy dear side, as in those days of love,
When we were both so happy, both so pure â
Too heavenly dream! if there's on earth a cure
For the sunk heart, 'tis this â day after day
To be the blest companion of thy way;
To hear thy angel eloquence â to see
Those virtuous eyes for ever turned on me;
And, in their light re-chastened silently.
Like the stained web that whitens in the sun,
Grow pure by being purely shone upon!
And thou wilt pray for me â I know thou wilt â
Come heaviest o'er the heart, thou'lt lift thine eyes.
And plead for me with Heaven, till I can dare
To fix my own weak, sinful glances there;
Till the good angels, when they see me cling
For ever near thee, pale and sorrowing.
Shall for thy sake pronounce my soul forgiven.
And bid thee take thy weeping slave to Heaven!
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 1771â1S32.
Lady Heron's Song.
O, Young Locliinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.
So faithfull in love, and so dauntless in war.
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone.
He swam for the Eske river where ford there was none
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war.
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall.
Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), quot;O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal young Lochinvar?''
18
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
quot;I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; â
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide â 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.quot;
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup She looked down to blush, she looked up to sigh.
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft band, ere her mother could bar, â quot;Now tread we a measure!quot; said young Lochinvar.
So stately his from, 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 bridegoom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens, quot;whispered,quot; 'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.quot;
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear.
When the reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung.
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
quot;She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,quot; quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting' mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and thy ran: There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
274
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
But the 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?
Where shall the lover rest?
Where shall the lover rest,
Whom the fates sever
From his true maiden's breast,
Parted for ever?
Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow.
Where early violets die,
Under the willow.
There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,
Scarce are boughs waving;
There, thy rest shalt thou take,
Parted for ever.
Never again to wake.
Never, O never.
Where shall the traitor rest.
He, the deceiver.
Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,
Borne down by the flying.
2 75
SIK WALTER SCOTT.
Where mingles war's rattle,
With groans of the dying.
Her wings shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted; His warm blood the wolf shall lap,
Ere life be parted,
Shame and dishonour sit
By his grave ever;
Blessing shall hallow it, â
Never, O never.
Soldier, rest!
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that know's not breaking! Dream of battled fields no more.
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall.
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing Fairy streams of music fall.
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er ,
Dream of fighting fields no more;
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking. Morn of toil, nor night of waking
No rude sound shall reach thine ear. Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibrock summon here
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping, Yet the lark's shrill fife may come,
At the daybreak from the fallow,
And the bittern sound his drum.
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here.
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing. Shouting clans or squadron's stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not with the rising sun Bugles here shall sound reveille.
Sleep! the deer is in his den ;
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying;
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen.
How thy gallant steed lay dying Huntsman , rest I thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun ,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
Hail to the chief.
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances! Honoured and blessed be the evergreen pine Long may the tree in his banner that glance Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew.
SIR WALÃKK SCOTT.
Earth lend it sap anew;
Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen ,
quot;Roderick Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!quot;
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind lias stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock.
Proof to the tempest's shock,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
Menteith and liraedalbane, then.
Echo his praise agen,
quot;Roderick Vich Alpine dhu, hoi ieroe!quot;
Proudly our pibrock has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied:
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Lock-Lomond lie dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid,
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they haer agen,
quot;Roderich Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!quot;
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green pine!
O! that the rosebud that graces yon islands.
278
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 279
Were wreatlied in a garland around him to twine 1 O that some seedling gem Worthy some noble stem,
Honoured and blessed in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen ,
quot;Roderick Vich Alpine dhu, ho! iero! quot;
The heath this night must be my bed.
(The Lady of the Lake.)
The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread.
Far, far from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid. My couch may be my bloody plaid. My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; I dare not think upon thy vow,
And all it promise me Mary. No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe. His heart must be like bended bow. His foot like arrow free, Mary.
sir walter scott.
A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close,
Mow sweet the linnet sing repose
To my young bride and me, Mary!
Allen-A-Dale.
Allen-A-Dale has no faggot for burning,
AllenA-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-A-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, \et Allen-A-Dale has red gold for the winning.
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-A-Dale.
The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride.
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale. Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-A-Dale!
Allen-A-Dale was ne'er belted a knight.
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bri
Allen-A-Dale is no baron or lord.
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail.
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-A-Dale.
28o
SIR WALTER SCOTT. 2Sl
Allen-A-Dale to his wooing is come;
The mother, she asked of his household and home: quot;Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,quot; quoth bold Allen, quot;shows galanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale. And with all its bright spangles!quot; said Allen-A-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a lovetale,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-A-Dale!
The Harper.
Summer eve is gone and passed, Summer dew is falling fast; I have wandered all the day. Do not bid me farther stray! Gentle hearts of gentle kin,
Take the wandering harper in!
Bid no: me, in battle-field, Buckler lift, or broadsword wield! All my strength and all my art Is to touch the gentle heart.
With the wizard notes that ring From the peaceful minstrel-string.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
I have song of war for knight, I.ay of love for lady bright,
Fairy tale to lull the heir.
Goblin grim the maids to scare; Dark the night, and long till day, Do not bid me farther stray!
Rokeby's lords of martial fame, I can count them name by name; Legends of their line there be. Known to few, but known to me If you honour Rokeby's kin,
Take the wandering harper in!
Rokeby's lords had fair regard For the harp, and for the bard; Baron's race throve never well, Where the curse of minstrel fell; If you love that noble kin,
Take the weary harper in!
The last minstrel.
(Lay of the last Minstrel.)
The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses grey. Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Sir. WALTER SCOTT.
Was carried by an orphan boy:
The last of all the Bards was he.
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed,
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne.
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer, courted and caressed,
High placed in hall, a welcome guest.
He poured, to lord and lady gay.
The unpremeditated lay:
Old times were changed, old manners gone;
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor.
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear,
The harp a King had loved to hear.
The love of Country.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned.
From wandering on a foreign strand?
sir walter scott.
A time will come with feeling fraught!
For, if I fall in battle fought,
Thy hapless lover's dying thought
Shall lie a thought on thee, Mary.
And if returned from conquered foes. How blithely will the evening close,
How sweet the linnet sing repose
To my young bride and me, Mary!
Allen-A-Dale.
Allen-A-Dale has no faggot for burning,
Allen-A-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-A-Dale has no (leece for the spinning, Yet Allen-A-Dale has red gold for the winning.
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-A-Dale.
The baron of Ravensworth prances in pride.
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. The mere for his net, and the land for his game. The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale. Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-A-Dale!
Allen-A-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as brig
Allen-A-Dale is no baron or lord.
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail.
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-A-Dale.
28o
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Allen-A-Dale to his wooing is come;
The mother, she asked of his household and home; quot;Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill My hall,quot; quoth bold Allen, quot;shows galanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale And with all its bright spangles!quot; said Allen-A-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye. And she fled to the forest to hear a lovetale.
And the youth it was told by was Allen-A-Dale !
The Harper.
Summer eve is gone and passed. Summer dew is falling fast; I have wandered all the day. Do not bid me farther stray! Gentle hearts of gentle kin,
Take the wandering harper in I
Bid not me, in battle-field. Buckler lift, or broadsword wield! All my strength and all my art Is to touch the gentle heart.
With the wizard notes that ring From the peaceful minstrel-string.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
I have song of war for knight, Lay of love for lady bright,
Fairy tale to lull the heir,
Goblin grim the maids to scare; Dark the night, and long till day. Do not bid me farther stray!
Rokeby's lords of martial fame, I can count them name by name; Legends of their line there be, Known to few, but known to me If you honour Rokeby's kin,
Take the wandering harper in!
Rokeby's lords had fair regard For the harp, and for the bard; Karon's race throve never well, Where the curse of minstrel fell; If you love that noble kin,
Take the weary harper in!
The last minstrel.
(Lay of the last Minstrel.)
The way was long, the wind was cold. The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses grey. Seemed to have known a better day; The harp, his sole remaining joy,
282
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Was carried by an orphan boy:
The last of all the Bards was he.
Who sung of Border chivalry;
For, well-a-day! their date was fled,
His tuneful brethren all were dead;
And he, neglected and oppressed.
Wished to be with them, and at rest.
No more, on prancing palfrey borne.
He carolled, light as lark at morn;
No longer, courted and caressed.
High placed in hall, a welcome guest.
He poured, to lord and lady gay,
The unpremeditated lay;
Old times were changed, old manners gone
A stranger filled the Stuarts' throne
The bigots of the iron time
Had called his harmless art a crime.
A wandering harper, scorned and poor.
He begged his bread from door to door;
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear.
The harp a King had loved to hear.
The love of Country.
Breathes there the man with soul so dead. Who never to himself hath said.
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned As home his footsteps he hath turned,
From wandering on a foreign strand?
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
If sucli there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell!
High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim: Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self.
Living, shall forfeit fair renown. And doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung. Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung.
Scotland.
O Caledonia stern and wild.
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires, what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band
That knits me to thy rugged strand?
Still, as I view each well known scene.
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft
Sole friends thy woods and streams were
And thus I love them better still.
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Although it chill my witherd cheek; Still lay my head by Teviot stone, Though there, forgotten and alone. The bard may draw his parting groan.
The death of Marmion.
With fruitless labour, Clara bound.
And strove to staunch the gushing wound:
The Monk, with unavailing cares.
Exhausted all the Church's prayers;
Ever, he said, that, close and near,
A lady's voice was in his ear.
And that the priest he could not hear,
For that she ever sung,
quot;In the lost battle, borne down by the flying.
Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!quot; So the notes rung
quot;Avoid thee. Fiend!âwith cruel hand Shake not the dying sinner's sand! â
Oh look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine;
Oh think on faith and bliss I â
By many a deathbed I have been,
And many a sinner's parting seen,
But never aught like this.quot;
The war, that for space did fail.
Now trebly thundering swelled the gale. And â Stanley! was the cry; â
285
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
A light on Marmion's visage spread And fired his glazing eye:
With dying hand, above his head He shook the fragment of his blade, And shouted quot;Victory!
Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanley, on!quot; Where the last words of Marmion.
LEIGH HUNT. 17S4â1S59.
Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold: â
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
quot;What writest thou?quot; â¢â The vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, quot;The names of those who love the Lord.quot; quot;And is mine onerquot; said Abou. quot;Nay, not so,quot; Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, âI pray thee, then.
Write me as one that loves his fellowmen.quot;
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night. It came again with a great wakening light. And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
LEIGH HUNT.
The Glove and the Lions.
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day, as his lions strove, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches round, the ladies by their side. And 'mongst them Count de Lorge, with one he hoped to
[make his bride;
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show. Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, and wind went
[with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled one on another. Till all the pit, with sand and mane, was in a thund'rous smother, The bloody foam above the bars came whizzing through the air; Said Francis then, quot;Good gentlemen, we're better here than
[there!quot;
De Lorge's love o'erheard the king, a beauteous dame.
With smiling lips, and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed
[the same;
She thought, quot; The Count, my lover, is as brave as brave can be; He surely would do despejate things to show his love of me! King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the chance is wondrous fine; I'll drop my glove to prove his love; great glory will be mine! quot;
She dropped her glove to prove his love; then looked on him
and smiled;
He bowed; and in a moment leaped among the lions wild;
LEIGH HUNT. 2S9
The leap was quick; return was quick; he soon regained his
place;
Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face! quot;In truth!quot; cried Francis, quot;rightly done!quot; and he rose Irom
where he sat;
quot;No love,quot; quoth he, quot;but vanity, sets love a task like that!quot;
â .'hrf
Ml
'dm 1
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i-'® â ,1:4;
19
THOMAS HOOD. 179Sâ1845.
The Bridge of Sighs.
One more unfortunate, Wear}- of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly.
Lift her with care; Fashioned so slenderly. Young and so fair.
Look at her garments Clinging like cerements Whilst the wave constantly Drips from her clothing; Take her up instantly. Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully; Think of her mournfully; Gently and humanly; Not of the stains of her;
THOMAS HOOD.
AU that remains of her Now is pure womanly.
Make 110 deep scrutiny Into her mutiny Rash and undutiful;
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers. One of Eve's family,
Wipe those poor lips of hers Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses , Escaped from her comb. Her fair auburn tresses; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home? Who was her father? Who was her mother? Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one Still, or a nearer one Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun 1
291
THOMAS HOOD.
Oh! it was pitiful,
Xear a whole city full,
Home had she none
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly.
Feelings had changed;
Love, by harsh evidence Thrown from its eminence Even God's providence Seeming estranged.
When the lamps quiver So far in the river,
AVith many a light From many a casement.
From garret to basement. She stood, with amazement. Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March Made her tremble and shiver, But not the dark arch Or the black flowing river. Mad from life's history.
Glad to death's mystery.
Swift to be hurled Anywhere! anywhere Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly
292
THOMAS HOOD.
The rough river ran;
Over the brink of it. Picture it â think of it, Dissolute man!
Lave in it â drink of it Then if you can.
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care. Fashioned so slenderly, Young, and so fair.
Ere her limbs frigidly Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly Smooth and compose them; And her eyes, close them, Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring Through muddy impurity. As when with the daring. Last look of despairing. Fixed on futurity.
Perishing gloomily.
Spurned by contumely. Bold inhumanity,
Burning insanity.
Into her rest;
Cross her hands humbly.
293
THOMAS HOOD.
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness, Her evil behaviour. And leaving, with meekness. Her sins to her Saviour.
The Song of the Shirt.
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags Plying her needle and thread â
Stitch â stitch â stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the quot;Song of the Shirt!quot;
quot; Work â work â work!
While the cock is crowing aloof;
And work â work â work
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's O I to be a slave
Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save
If this is Christian work!
quot; Work â work â work Till the brain begins to swim
THOMAS HOOD.
Work â work â work Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band â
Band, and gusset, and seam.
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!
quot;Oh! men with sisters dear!
O! men with mothers and wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creature's lives!
Stitch â stitch â stitch,
In poverty, hunger, and dirt.
Sewing at once with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
quot;But why do I talk of Death!
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape.
It seems so like my own â
It seems so like my own.
Because of the fasts I keep;
Oil God! that bread should be so dear;
And flesh and blood so cheap I
quot;Work â work â work!
My labour never flags;
And what are its wages? A bed of straw,
A crust of bread â and rags.
That shattered roof, â and this naked floor,â
A table, â a broken chair,â
29s
THOMAS HOOD.
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there.
quot;Work â work â work !
From weary chime to chime,
W ork â work â work
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam.
Seam, and gusset, and band.
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed
As well as the weary hand.
quot; Work â work â work.
In the dull December light,
And work â work, work.
When the weather is warm and bright â
While underneath the eaves
The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the Spring.
quot;Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet â
With the sky above my head.
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal.
quot;Oh! but for one short hour!
A respite however brief!
THOMAS HOOD.
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!
With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags.
Plying her needle and thread â
Stitch â stitch â stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch.
Would that its tone could reach the Rich
She sang this quot;Song of the Shirt.
I Remember, I Remember.
I remember, I remember. The house where I was born. The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day. But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away.
I remember, I remember. The roses, red and white.
298 THOMAS HOOD.
The violets, and the lily-cups Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set, The laburnum on his birthday,
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember.
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!
I remember, I remember.
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy.
The Dream of Eugene Aram.
'Twas in the prime of summer time
An evening calm and cool. And four and twenty happy boys
THOMAS HOOD.
Came bounding out of school:
There were some that ran, and some that leapt Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouched by sin;
To a leval mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in.
Pleasantly shone the shining sun Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about. And shouted as they ran,
Turned to mirth all things of earth.
As only boyhood can;
But the usher sat remote from all,
A melancholy man.
His hat was off, his vest apart.
To catch heaven's blessed breeze;
For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease:
So he leaned his head on his hands, and read The book upon his knees.
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er.
Nor ever glanced aside,
For the peace of his soul he read that book In the golden even-tide.
Much study had made him very lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
THOMAS HOOD.
At last he shut the ponderous tome, â
With a fast and fervent grasp He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp: ccO God! could I so close my mind, And clasp it with a clasp!quot;
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took, â Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook, â And lo! he saw a little boy
That poured upon a book.
quot;My gentle lad, what is 't you read â
Romance or fairy fable?
Or is it some historic page
Of kings and crowns unstable?quot; The young boy gave an upward glance: quot;It is 'The Death of Abel'.quot;
The Usher took six hasty strides.
As smit with sudden pain, â Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again; And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;
And, long since then, of bloody men.
Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen.
3oo
THOMAS HOOD.
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;
And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod, â
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod;
And unknown facts of guilty acts
Are seen in dreams from God!
He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, â
With crimson clouds before their eyes. And flames about their brain;
For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain!
quot;And wellquot;, quoth he, quot;I know for truth Their pangs must be extreme,â
Woe, woe, unutterable woe,â
Who spill life's sacred stream.
For why? Methought last night 1 wrought A murder â in a dream.
quot; One that had never done me wrong â A feeble man and old;
I led him to a lonely field, â
The moon shone clear and cold;
Xow here, said I, this man shall die. And I will have his gold.
THOMAS HOOD.
quot;Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone.
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, And then the deed was done;
There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone!
quot;Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone, That could not do me ill;
And yet I feared him all the more. For lying there so still;
There was a manhood in his look That murder could not kill!
quot;And lo! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame;
Ten thousand, thousand ghastly eyes Were looking down in blame.
I took the dead man by the hand. And called upon his name!
quot;O God! it made me quake to see Such sence within the slain!
But when I touched the lifeless clay. The blood gushed out amain
For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain.
quot;My head was like an ardent coal, My heart as solid ice;
My wretched, wretched soul, I knew.
302
THOMAS HOOD.
Was at the Devil's price:
A dozen times I groaned; â the dead, Had never groaned but twice!
And now, from forth the frowning sky;
From the heaven's topmost height, I heard a voice â the awful voice
Of the blood-avenging sprite: â
'Thou guilty man! take up thy dead. And hide it from my sight!
quot;I took the dreary body up.
And cast it in a stream, â A sluggish water, black as ink.
The depth was so extreme. â My gentle boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream.
Down went the corse with a hollow plunge.
And vanished in the pool;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands,
And washed my forehead cool, And sat among the urchins young That evening in the school.
quot;Ã Heaven! to think of their white souls,
And mine so black and grim!
I could not share in childish prayer,
Nor join in Evening Hymn:
Like a devil of the pit I seemed 'Mid holy Cherubim.
303
THOMAS HOOD.
quot;And peace went with them, one and all, And each calm pillow spread;
Bat Guilt was my grim chamberlain That lighted me to bed.
And drew my midnight curtains round With fingers bloody red!
quot;All night I lay in agony,
In anguish dark and deep;
My fevered eyes I dared not close, But stared aghast at Sleep;
For Sin had rendered unto her
The keys of Hell to keep!
quot;All night I lay in agony !
From weary chime to chime,
With one besetting horrid hint.
That racked me all the time;
A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime.
quot;One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave.
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave,â
Still urging me to go and see
The Dead Man in his grave.
quot;Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky.
And sought the black accursed pool
304
THOMAS HOOigt;
With a wild misgiving eye:
And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry!
quot;Merrily rose the lark, and shook The dewdrop from its wing;
But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing;
For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.
quot;With breathless speed, like a soul in chase, I took him up and ran;
There was no time to dig a grave Before the day began:
In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves I hid the murdered man.
quot;And all that day I read in school.
But my thought was other where.
As soon as the midday task was done.
In secret I was there:
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves. And still the corse was bare!
quot;Then down I cast me on my face.
And first began to weep,
For I knew my secret then was one That earth refused to keep,
Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep.
305
20
THOMAS HOOD.
quot;So wills the fierce avenging sprite,
Till blood for blood atones'
Ay, though he's buried in a cave.
And trodden down with stones.
And years have rotted off his flesh. The world shall see his bones I
quot; O God! that horrid , horrid dream Besets me now awake!
Again â again, with dizzy brain, The human life I take;
And my red right hand grows raging hot. Like Cranmer's at the stake.
quot;And still no peace for the restless clay Will wave or mould allow;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, â It stands before me now!quot;
The fearful boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kissed,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist;
And Eugene Aram walked between.
With gyves upon his wrist.
306
BY SS HE SHELLY. 1792â1822.
To the Sensitive Plant.
A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,
And the young winds fed it with silver dew. And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.
And the spring arose on the garden fair.
And the Spirit of Love fell everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderniss.
Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet wan' As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet.
Arose from the ground with warm rain wet. And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sen From the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all.
PERCY
TERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
Who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess, Til! they die of their own dear loveliness.
And the maid-like lily of the vale,
Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale. That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavillions of tender green;
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue. Which flung from its bells sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft and intense.
It was felt with an odour within the sense;
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addrest. Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare;
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through the clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows;
And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime.
And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was prankt, under boughs of embowering blossom,. With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue.
309
Broad waterlilies lay tremendously,
And starry river-buds glimmered by;
And around them the soft stream did glide and dance
With a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss,
Which led through the garden along and across,
Some open at once to the sun and the breeze,
Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees.
Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells,
A fair as the fabulous asphodels.
And flowerets which drooping as day drooped too.
Fell into pavillions, white, purple, and blue.
To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew.
And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infant's awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it);
When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them. As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem,
Shone smiling to heaven, and every one Shared joy in die light of the gentle sun;
For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed,
Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear, Wrapped and fdled by their mutual atmosphere.
But the Sensitive Plant, which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
Received more than all, it loved more than ever,
Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver â
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower;
Radiance and odour are not its dower;
It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full,
It desires what it has not, the beautiful!
The light winds, which from unsustaining wings Shed the music of many murmurings;
The beams which dart from many a star Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar;
The plumed insects, swift and free.
Like golden boats on a sunny sea.
Laden with light and odour, which pass Over the gleam of the living grass;
The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high,
Then wander like spirits among the spheres.
Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears;
The quivering vapours of dim noontide,
Which, like a sea, o'er the warm earth glide,
In which every sound, and odour, and beam.
Move, as reeds in a single stream;
Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear,
Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
And when evening descended from heaven above,
And the earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the day's veil fell from the world of sleep,
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sound;
Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness;
(Only overhead the sweet nightingale
Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail,
And matches of ils elysian chant
Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant).
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Up-gathered into the bosom of rest;
A sweet child weary of its delight,
The feeblest, and yet the favourite,
Cradled within the embrace of night.
To a Skylark.
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditaded art.
3quot;
2 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
Higher still and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
Like a cloud ol fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun.
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run ;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven,
In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.
Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows.
In the white dawn clear.
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud The moon lains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
What thou art we know not; What is most like thee?
PERCY r.YSSHE SHELLY.
From rainbow clouds there flow not Drop so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a poet hidden,
In the light of thought.
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower.
Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew.
Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from a view;
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves.
By warm winds deflowered,
Till the scent it gives Make faint with too much sweet these heavy thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass;
313
PERCY BYSSHE SHEI.I.Y.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorous hymeneal.
Or triumphal chaunt,
Hatched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind?
What ignorance of pain ?
With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee;
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream.
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream ?
We look before and after.
And pine for what is not:
314
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught:
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever could come near.
Better than all measures Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures That in books are found.
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground.
Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know.
Such harmonius madness From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
The Cloud.
I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers.
From the sea and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one.
315
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the dashing 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 hills, 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. While 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.
316
3i7
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 ardours 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 orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece â like floor.
By the midnight breezes strewn;
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.
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLY.
Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,
The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which 1 march
With hurricane, fire, and snow.
When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-coloured bow;
The sphere-fire above its soft colours 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.
JOHN K E A T S. I79Ãâ1S20.
The all-pervading influence of Beauty.
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never Pass into nothingness; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth.
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching; yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake.
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
320 JOHN KliATS.
AU lovely tales tliat we have heard or read; An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
Xor do we merely feel these essences Kor one short hour; no, even as the trees That whisper round a temple, become soon Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon, The passion poesy, glories infinite.
Haunt us till they become a cheering light Unto our souls and bound to us so fast.
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast. They always must be with us or we die.
A Picture.
quot;Places of nestling green for Poets madequot;.â
Story of Rimini.
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill.
The air was cooling, and so very still.
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Pull droopingly, in slanting curve, aside
Their scanty leaved and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new shorn,
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they slept
On the blue fields of heaven; and then there crept
A little noiseless noise among the leaves.
321
Born of the very sigh that silence heave:
For not the faintest motion could be seen
Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
There was wide wand'ring for the greediest eye,
To peer about upon variety;
Far round the horizon's crystal air to skim,
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim;
To picture out the quaint and curious bending
Of a fresh woodland alley, never ending;
Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves.
Guess where the jaunty streams refresh themselves.
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free
As though the fanning wings of Mercury
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted,
And many pleasures to vision started;
So I straightway began to pluck a posy
Of luxuries bright, milky soft, and rosy,
A bush of May flowers with the bees about them; Ah, sure no tasteful nook would be without them! And let a lush laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them Moist, cool, and green; and shade the violets,
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A filbert hedge with wild-brier overtwined,
And clumps of woodbine taking the soft wind Upon their summer thrones; there too should be The frequent chequer of a youngling tree,
That with a score of light green brethren shoots From the quaint mossiness of aged roots;
21
JOHN KEATS.
Round which is heard a spring-head of clear waters Babbling so wildly of its lovely daughters, The spreading bluebells; it may haply mourn That such fair clusters should be rudely torn From their fresh beds, and scattered thoughtlessly By infant hands, left on the path to die.
Open afresh your round of starry folds.
Ye ardent marigolds!
Dry up the moisture from your golden lids. For great Apollo bids
That in these days your praises should be sung On many harps, which he has lately strung; And when again your dewiness he kisses.
Tell him, I have you in my world of blisses; So haply when I rove in some far vale. His mighty voice may come upon the gale.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white. And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
To a Nightingale.
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot. But being too happy in thy happiness â
322
JOIIX KEAÃS.
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep delved earth.
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth;
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade into the forest dim :
Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known.
The weariness, the fever and the fret.
Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last grey hairs.
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs;
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes.
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.
Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
Not charisted by Bachus and his pards.
But on the vieuwless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
JOHN KEATS.
Already with thee! tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Clustered around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light.
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs. But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastora eglantine;
Fast fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine. The murmurous haunt of flies on summers eves.
Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme. To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain.
While thou art pouring forth thou soul abroad In such an ecstasy!
Still would'st thou sing, and I have ears in vain â To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for Death, immortal Bird! No hungry generations tread thee down;
324
JOHN KEATS
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown;
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the Alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell To toll me back from thee to my sole selfl Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! Adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades Past the near meadows, over the still stream.
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music: â do I wake or sleep?
325
|
THOMAS B. 1800 |
M A C A U L A Y. â1859. |
The keeping of the Bridge.
The city of Rome is attacked by Lars Porsena to restore ; Tar quins.
Forthwith up rose the Consul,
Up rose the Fathers all;
In haste they girded up their gowns,
And hied them to the wall.
But the Consul's brow was sad. And the Consul's speech was low.
And darkly looked he to the wall, And darkly to the foe.
quot;Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down;
And if they once may win the bridge. What hope to save the town?quot;
Then out spake Horatius,
The captain of the gate;
quot;To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late;
THOMAS li. MACAULAY.
And how can man die better Than lacing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers And the temples of his gods?
quot;And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast;
And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus,
That wrought the deed of shame?
quot;Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may;
1, with two more to help me,
Will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three;
Now who will stand on either hand. And keep the bridge with me?quot;
Then out spake Spurius Lartius, A Ramnian proud was he:
quot;Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee!quot;
And out spake strong Herminius, Of Titan blood was he;
quot;I will abide at thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.quot;
THOMAS B. MACAULAY.
quot;Horatiusquot; quoth the Consul,
quot;As thou sayest, so let it be.quot; And straight against that great array
Forth went the dauntless three; For Romans in Rome's quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Xor son, nor wife, nor limb, nor life, In the brave days of old.
The three defend the passage to the bridge against all their foes successfully.
But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied;
And now the bridge stands tottering Above the boiling tide.
quot; Come back, come back, Horatius! quot;
I.oud cry the Fathers all;
quot;Back, Lartius, back, Herminius,
Back ere the ruin fall'quot;
Back darted Spurius Lartius,
Herminius darted back.
And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces.
And on the farther shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone,
They would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam.
32S
THOMAS B. MACAULAV.
And like a dam the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream;
And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops,
Was splashed the yellow foam
And like a horse unbroken,
When first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard.
And tossed his tawny mane,
And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free. And whirling down in fierce career
Battlement, and plank, and pier.
Rushed headlong to the sea.
Alone stood brave Horatius,
But constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before.
And the broad flood behind.
quot;Down with him!quot; cried false Sextus,
With a smile on his pale face;
quot;Now yield thee,quot; cried Lars Porsena, quot;Now yield thee to our grace,quot;
Round turned he as not deigning Those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena,
To Sextus nought spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home,
329
THOMAS B. MACAULAY.
And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome:
quot;O Tiber! father Tiber!
To whom the Roman's pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms Take thou in charge this day!quot; So he spake, and Speaking, sheathed
The good sword by his side. And with his harness on his back Plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow
Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in mute surprise. With parted lips and straining eyes. Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges They saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry. And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer.
Henry of Navarre.
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!
33°
THOMAS E. MACAUI.AY.
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 joys, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls
[annoy.
Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance oi war. Hurrah! hurrah! for Irvy, and King 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 â led citizens, and all its rebels 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 armour drest. And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, quot;God save our Lord the
[King!quot;
quot;And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray.
Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war. And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.quot;
331
332 THOMAS B. MACAULAY.
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 now â 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 our! 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, quot;Remember St. Bartholomew,'' was passed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry, quot;No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.quot; 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!
333
Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night! For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the
[slave,
And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre.
ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING. Died in 1S61.
The cry of the children.
Do ye hear the children weeping, O! my brothers, Ere the sorrow comes with years?
They are leaning their young heads against their mothers.
And that cannot stop their tears.
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows.
The young birds are chirping in the nest.
The young fawns are playing with the shadows
The young flowers are blowing toward the west â
But the young, young children, O my brothers,
They are weeping bitterly! â
They are weeping in the playtime of the others,
In the country of the free.
Do you question the young children in the sorrow.
Why their tears are falling so? â
The old man may weep for his to morrow.
Which is lost in Long Ago â
The old tree is leafless in the forest â
The old year is ending in the frost â
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest â
The old hope is hardest to be lost;
But the young, young children, O my brothers.
ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING.
Do you ask them why they stand
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers.
In our happy Fatherland?
They look up with their pale and sunken faces,
And their looks are sad to see,
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses
Down the cheeks of infancy â
quot;Your old earth,quot; they say, quot;are very weak!
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary â
Our grave-rest is very far to seek.
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,
For the outside earth is cold.
And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering. And the graves are for the old.
quot;True,quot; say the children, quot;it may happen
That we die before our time.
Little Alice died last year â the grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her â
Was no room for any work in the close clay:
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her.
Crying, quot;Get up little Alice! it is day.quot;
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries! â
Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her.
For the smile has time for growing in her eyes!
And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in
The shroud, by the kirk-chime!
It is good when it happens,quot; say the children,
quot;That we die before our time.quot;
335
ELIZABETH BARRET BROWNING.
Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as
[best to have! They are binding up their hearts away from breaking.
With a cerement from the grave.
Go out, children, from the mine and from the city â
Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do â
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow â cowslips pretty â Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through! But they answer, quot;Are your cowslips from the meadows Like our weeds anear the mine?
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shadows,
From your pleasures fair and fine!
quot;For ohquot; say the children, quot;we are weary,
And we cannot run or leap â
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely
To drop down in them and sleep.
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping.
The reddest flower would look as pale as snow;
For, all day, we drag our burden tiring
Through the coal â dark under â ground â
Or, all day, we drive the wheels of iron
In the factories, round and round.
quot;For, all day, the wheels are droning, turning,â
Their wind comes in our faces, â
Till our hearts turn, â our heads, with pulses burning, And the walls turn in their places
Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling â Turns the long light that drops adown the wall â
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling â
ELIZABETH 13ARRET BROWNING.
All are turning, all the day, and we with all.â And all day, the iron wheels are droning; And sometimes we could pray,
'O ye wheels', (breaking out in a mad moaning)
'Stop! be silent for to-day!quot;
Ay! be silent! Let them hear each other breathing For a moment, mouth to mouth â
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing
Of their tender human youth!
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion
That they live in you, or under you, O wheels! â
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward,
Grinding life down from its mark;
And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward. Spin on blindly in the dark.
Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers. To look up to him and pray â
So the Blessed One. who blesseth all the others,
Will bless them another day-
They answer, quot;Who is God that He should hear us. While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirred?
When we sob aloud, the human creatures near us Pass by, hearing not or answer not a word.
And we hear not, for the wheels in their resounding Strangers speaking at the door:
Is it likely God, with angels singing round him,
Hears our weeping any more?
quot;Two words, indeed, of praying we remember.
And at midnight's hour of harm.
337
ELIZA15ETII BARRET BROWNING.
*0111- Father', looking upward in the chamber,
We say softly for a charm.
We know no other words, except 4Our Father', And we think that in some pause of angel's song, God may pluck them with the silence sweet to gather, And hold bold within His right hand which is strong. 4Our Father!' If He heard us, He would surely (For they call Him good and mild)
Answer, smiling down the steep world very purely, tCome and rest with me, my child.'
quot;But, no!quot; say the children, weeping faster,
quot;He is speechless as a stone;
And they tell us, of His image is the master
Who commands us to work on.
Go to!quot; say the children,âquot;up in Heaven,
Dark, wheel-like turning clouds are all we find.
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbelieving â
We look up for God, but tears have made us blind.quot;
Do you hear the children weeping and disproving,
O my brothers, what ye preach?
For God's possible is taught by his world's loving â And the children doubt of each. â
And well may the children weep before you!
They are weary ere they run;
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the glory Which is brighter than the sun;
They know the grief of man, without his wisdom; They sink in man's despair, without his calm,â Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm,â
ELI/.Al'.ETH BARRET DROWNING
339
t
Are worn, as if with age, yet unretrievingly The blessing of its memory cannot keep, â
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly:
Let them weep! let them weep I
They look up, with their pale and sunken faces. And their look is dread to see.
For they mind you of their angels in their places,
With eyes turned of Deity; â
quot;How long,quot; they say, quot;how long, O cruel nation.
Will you stand to move the world, on a child's heart,â
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation.
And tread onward to your throne amid the mart?
Our blood splashes upward, O gold-heaper.
And your purple shows your path!
But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence
Than the strong man in his wrath!quot;
ROBERT BROWNING.
How they brought the good news from Ghent to Aix.
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;
I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;
quot; Good speed 1quot; cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew quot;Speed!'' echoed the wall to us galloping through;
Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,
And into the midnight we galloped abreast
Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight;
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.
'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chim So Joris broke silence with quot;Yet there is time!quot;
ROBERT IWOWNING.
At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last,
With resolute shoulders, each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray.
And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; And one eye's black intelligence â ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance I And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.
By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, quot;Stay spur! Your Ross galloped bravely, the fault's not in her.
We'll remember at Aixquot; â for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw her stretched neck and staggering knees. And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank.
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.
So we were left galloping, Joris and I,
Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;
The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,
'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;
Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white.
And quot;Gallopquot; gasped Joris quot;for Aix is in sight.
quot;How they'll greet us!quot; and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and crop over; lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
341
ROBERT BROWNING.
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets rim.
Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all.
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear.
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good. Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.
And all I remember is, friends flocking round
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground.
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine.
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine.
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)
Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghenr.
342
F. W. N. B A Y L E Y.
Chelsea pensioners reading the gazette of the Battle of Waterloo.
The golden gleam of a summer sun Is lighting the elm-decked grove ,
And the leaves of the old trees-every one â Are stirred with a song they love;
For there bloweth a light breeze, whispering true
Of the deeds they are doing at Waterloo.
The Chelsea veteran gathereth there Under the ancient sign;
His meteor sword hath a stain of blood,
And his cheek is warm with wine.
Fame he had wooed as a glorious bride,
When she waved with his white plume, and clung to his side.
His comrades flock to the favorite seat.
And their tale is of days gone by;
But their words â as weak as broken hearts â Are stifled by many a sigh;
For they drink to those true friends who scorned to yield,
And were left behind on the battle-field.
344 F- W- N. EAYI.EY.
But many a brighter say and song Are gladdening all that scene.
And joy comes like a singing bird,
To light the village green;
And groups are gathered 'neath those trees, Round summer flowers â like summer bees!
The soldier, with his mark of war â
The medal on his breast, â
Star of the brave that decks him now.
When his sword is laid to rest;
And the iron sheath is worn away.
That was tenantless on the battle day.
The stripling too, that hath not sinned,
And so can laugh and sing:
Child, whom the world hath not yet touched
Like a serpent, with its sting.
The young in hope â the conscience free. The beautiful in infancy.
And mothers too, whose measured love
Blends all the pure and mild.
And pours itself from one deep fount
On father and on child;
And ancient granddames just as glad. And proud of charms their daughters had!
The young and old â the fair and brave â
Are congregated here;
And they all look out with an anxious gaze
345
Of mingled hope and fear,
As the wearied sailor looks for land,
When the bark speeds on and the gales are bland.
Now gaze again, a lancer comes
With a spur in his courser's side,
That speeds towards th'expecting group
As a lover bounds to his bride;
He bringeth the news, and their hearts beat high â The news of a glorious victor)'.
Father and brother, and bethrothed â
The husband and the sun â
That lancer bold hath a tale to tell
To the friends of ever)' one.
quot;Their swords were bright â their hearts were true They have won the field of Waterloo.
Oh! when the heart is very glad,
It leaps like a little child That is just released from a weary task
With a spirit free and wild,
It fluttereth like a prisoned bird,
When tidings such as these are heard.
A low sound â like a murmured prayer;
Then, a cheer that rends the sky!
A loud huzza â like a people's shout
When a good king passeth by; â
As the roar of waves on an angry main Breaks forth, and then all is mute again.
F- w- N- BAYLEY.
The lancer looks in the veteran's face, And hands him the written scroll;
And the old man reads, with a quiv'ring voice.
The words of that muster-roll.
As they wake a smile or force a sigh From many an anxious stander-by.
If the father's boy be laurel-crowned.
He glories in his name;
If the mother hath lost lier only son,
She little heeds his fame And the lonely girl, whose lover sleeps,
Oroops in her beauty, and only weeps.
But if a few have blighted hopes,
And hearts forlorn and sad.
How many of that mingled' group Doth that great victory glad?
Who bless â for their dear sakes â the day Whom toil and war kept far away?
If parting words â like arrows â fixed In their breasts the barb of pain. Now fancy like a painter draws The welcome home again;
And some who ne'er held cup of bliss. Sup full of happiness from this!
The Highland pipe is pouring out
Its music like a stream;
And the sound of its startling revelry
F. \V. N. IÃAYLEY. ^47
Wakes many from a dream;
And now breaks forth another cry Of overwhelming ecstasy!
The cup is filled, and the wine goes round,
And it foameth to the brim;
And young and old, and grave and gay,
All shout a health to him Who brings these tidings glad and true Then, quot;Wellington and Waterloo!quot;
And those who fought, and those who fell,
And those who bravely died;
And those who bore our banners high,
And battled side by side!
And those whose hearts and swords were true With Wellington and Waterloo!quot;
T. K. HERVEY. 1804â1S59.
A Lament.
She sleeps that still and placid sleep
For which the weary pant in vain, And, where the dews of evening weep,
I may not weep again; â Oh! never more upon her grave Shall I behold the wild flower wave!
They laid her where the sun and moon Look on her tomb with loving eye; And I have heard the breeze of June
Sweep o'er it, â like a sigh; And the wild river's wailing song Grew dirge-like as it stole along.
And I have dreamt in many dreams, Of her who was a dream to me; And talked of her, by summer streams.
In crowds, and o'er the sea,
Till in my soul she was enshrined, A young Egeria of the mind.
T. K. HERVEV.
'Tis years ago! and other eyes
Have flung their beauty o'er my youth And I have hung on other sighs.
And sounds that seemed like truth; And loved the music which they gave Like that which perished in the grave!
And I have left the cold and dead,
To mingle with the living cold: â
There is a weight around my head.
My heart is growing old:
Oh for a refuge and a home With thee, dead Ellen, in thy tomb!
Age sits upon my breast and brain.
My spirit fades before its time;
But they are all thine own again.
Lost partner of their prime!
And thou art dearer in thy shroud Than all the false and selfish crowd.
Rise, gentle vision of the hours
Which go, like birds that come not back! And fling thy pale and funeral flowers
On Memory's wasted track Oh for the wings that made thee blest.
To flee away, and be at rest!
349
T. K. IIERVEY.
Adieu, Adieu, our dream of love.
Adieu, adieu! â our dream of love
Was far too sweet to linger long;
Such hopes may bloom in bowers above, But here they mock the fond and young
We met in hope, we part in tears!
Yet, oh, 'tis sadly sweet to know That life, in all its future years.
Can reach us with no heavier blow!
Our souls have drunk in early youth
The bitter dregs of earthly ill; Our bosoms, blighted in their truth.
Have learned to suffer and be still!
The hour is come, the spell is past;
Far, far from thee, my only love, Youth's earliest hope, and manhood's last My darkened spirit turns to rove.
Adieu, adieu! oh, dull and dread
Sinks on the ear that parting knell! Hope and the dreams of hope, lie dead, To them and thee â farewell, farewell I
Mrs JAMESON. 1796â1S60.
Take me, Mother Earth.
Take me, Mother Earth, to thy cold breast, And fold me there in everlasting rest!
The long day is o'er:
I'm weary, I would sleep;
But deep, deep,
Never to waken more!
I have had joy and sorrow, I have proved What life could give, have loved and been beloved I am sick, and heartsome,
And weary; let me sleep;
But deep, deep.
Never to waken more!
To thy dark chamber, Mother Earth, I come; Prepare thy dreamless bed in my last home;
Shut down the marble door.
And leave me! Let me sleep:
But deep, deep,
Never to waken more.
ALARIC ALEXANDER WATTS. 17S9â1864.
The Death of the First-born.
My sweet one, ray sweet one, the tears were in my eyes When first I clasped thee to my heart, and heard thy feeble
[cries;
For I thought of all that I had borne as I bent me down
[to kiss
Thy cherry lips and sunny brow, my first-born bud of bliss!
I turned to many a withered hope, to years of grief and pain, And the cruel wrongs of a bitter world flashed o'er my boding
[brain;
I thought of friends, grown worse than cold â of persecuting foes, And I asked of Heaven if ills like these must mar thy youth's
[repose!
I gazed upon thy quiet face, half-blinded by my tears,
Till gleams of bliss, unfelt before, came brightening on my fears; Sweet rays of hope that fairer shone 'mid the clouds of gloom
[that bound tliem. As stars dart down their loveliest light when midnight skies
[are 'round them.
ALAR-C ALEXANDER WATTS.
My sweet one, my sweet one, thy life's brief hour is o'er. And a father's anxious fears for thee can fever me no more! And for the hopes, the sun-bright hopes, that blossomed at
[thy birth,
They, too, have fled, to prove how frail are cherished things
[of earth!
'Tis true that thou wert young; my child; but though brief
[thy span below. To me it was a little age of agony and woe;
For, from thy first faint dawn of life, thy cheek began to fade, And my lips had scarce thy welcome breathed, ere my hopes
[were wrapt in shade.
Oh! the child in its hours of health and bloom, that is dear
[as thou wert then, Grows far more prized, more fondly loved, in sickness and in
[pain I
And thus 'twas thine to prove, dear babe, when every hope
[was lost,
Ten times more precious to my soul, for all that thou hadst cost!
Cradled in thy fair mother's arms, we watched thee day by day. Pale like the second bow of heaven, as gentle waste away; And, sick with dark foreboding fears, we dared not breathe aloud, Sat, hand in hand, in speechless grief, to wait death's coming
[cloud!
It came at length: o'er thy bright blue eye the film was gathering
[fast,
And an awful shade passed o'er thy brow, the deepest and the last:
353
23
ALARIC ALEXANDER WATTS.
In thicker gushes strove thy breath â we raised thy drooping
[head:
A moment more, âthe final pangâ and thou wert with the
[dead!
Thy gentle mother turned away to hide her face from me, And murmured low of Heaven's behests, and bliss attained by
[thee;
She would have chid me that I mourned a doom so blest as thine, Had not her own deep grief burst forth in tears as wild as mine!
We laid thee down in sinless rest, and from thine infant brow Culled one soft lock of radiant hair our only solace now ;
Then placed around thy beauteous corse flowers, not more fair
[and swee. â
Twin rosebuds in thy little hands, and jasmine at thy feet.
Though other offspring still be ours, as fair perchance as thou, With all the beauty of thy cheekquot;, the sunshine of thy brow. They never can replace the bud our early fondness nurst: They may be lovely and beloved, but not like thee, the first!
The first! How many a memory bright that one sweet word
[can bring,
Of hopes that blossomed, drooped, and died, in life's delightful
[spring â
Of fervid feelings passed away â those early seeds of bUss That germinate in hearts unseared by such a world as this!
My sweet one, my sweet one, my fairest and my first!
When I think of what thou mightst have been, my heart is
[like to burst;
354
AI.ARIC ALEXANDER WATTS.
But gleams of gladness through my gloom their soothing radiance
[dart,
And my sighs are hushed, my tears are dried, when I turn
[to what thou art.
Pure as the snowflake ere it falls and takes the strain of earth, With not a taint of mortal life, except thy mortal birth, God bade thee early taste the spring for which so many thirst. And bliss, eternal bliss is thine, my fairest and my first!
353
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
The Reaper and the flowers.
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
quot;Shall I have nought that is fair?quot; saith he; quot;Have nought but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again.quot;
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes. He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
quot;My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,quot; The Reaper said, and smiled;
quot;Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where He was once a child.
quot;They shall all bloom in fields of light. Transplanted by my care.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
And saints, upon their garments white, These sacred blossoms wear.quot;
And the mother gave, in tears and pain.
The flowers she most did love; She knew she should find them all again In the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath;
The Reaper came that day;
'Twas an angel visited the green earth, And took the flowers away.
A Psalm of Life.
What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist.
Tell me not in mournful numbers,
quot;Life is but an empty dream!quot;
For the sold is dead that slumbers.
And tilings are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
quot;Dust thou art, to dust returnest,quot;
Was not spoken of the soul.
357
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave.
Still, like muffled drums are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle Let the dead Past bury its dead I
Act! â act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another.
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us then, be up and doing.
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
35S
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Resignation.
There is no flock, however watched and tended, But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe 'er defended.
But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying. And mournings for the dead;
The hearts of Rachel, for her children crying.
Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions Not from the ground arise.
But oftentimes celestial benedictions Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapours. Amid these earthly damps ;
What seem to us but sad funereal tapers,
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition; This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian.
Whose portal we call death.
She is not dead, â the child of our affection,â But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection, And Christ himself doth rule.
359
HENRY WADS WORTH I.ON'GFELI.OW.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, She lives! whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doing In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing.
Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken The bond which nature gives.
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, May reach her where she lives.
Xot as a child shall we again behold her; For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again behold her;
She will not be a child.
But a fair maiden,in her Father's mansion.
Clothed in celestial grace;
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion Shall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotion And anguish long suppressed.
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, That cannot be at rest,â
We will be patient, and assuage the feeling We may not wholly stay;
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
By silence sanctifying, not concealing, The grief that must have way.
The Village Blacksmith.
Under a spreading chesnut tree The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he.
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long. His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat. He earns whate'er he can.
And looks the whole world in the face. For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night. You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge With measured beat and slow.
Like a sexton ringing the village bell. When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school Look in at the open door:
They love to see the flaming forge,
36i
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the bnrning sparks that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and teach, He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
And at makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother's voice. Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling, â rejoicing, â sorrowing.
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night's repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought!
3Ã2
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
Victor Galbraith.
Under the walls of Montery At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray, These were the words they seemed to say, quot;Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!quot;
Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith,
He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
quot;Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!quot;
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky, He looked at the files of musketry,
Victor Galbraith!
And he said, with a steady voice and eye, quot;Take good aim; I am ready to die!quot;
Thus challenges death Victor Galbraith.
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red, Six leaden balls on their errand sped;
Victor Galbraith Falls on the ground, but he is not dead;
â gt;
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
His name was not stamped on those balls of lead And they only scathe Victor Galbraith.
Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,
Victor Galbraith!
The water he drinks has a bloody stain !
quot; O kill me, and put me out of my pain!quot;
In his agony prayeth Victor Galbraith.
Forth dart once more these tongues of flame, And the bugler has died a death of shame
Victor Galbraith!
His soul has gone back to whence it came, And no one answers to the name.
When the sergeant saith,
quot;Victor Galbraith!quot;
Under the walls of Montery By night a bugle is heard to play,
Victor Galbraith!
Through the mist of the valley damp and gray The sentinels hear the sound, and say,
quot;That is the wraith Of Victor Galbraith!quot;
HENRY V.'ADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 365
Excelsior.
The shades of night were falling fast. As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device, â Excelsior!
His brow was sad; his eye beneath, Flashed like a falchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung.
The accents of that unknown tongue. Excelsior!
In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright; Above, the spectral glaciers shone. And from his lips escaped a groan, Excelsior!
quot;Try not the Pass!quot; the old man said; quot;Dark lowers the tempest overhead. The roaring torrent is deep and wide!quot; And loud that clarion voice replied. Excelsior!
quot;O stay,quot; the maiden said, quot;and rest Thy weary head upon this breast!quot;
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. But still he answered, with a sigh. Excelsior!
366 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
quot;Beware the pine-tree's withered branch! Beware the awful avalanche!quot;
This was the peasant's last Good-night. A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior!
At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint-Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air. Excelsior!
A traveller, by the faithful hound.
Half buried in the snow was found.
Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device. Excelsior!
There in the twilight cold and gray. Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay.
And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star Excelsior!
The Wreck of the Hesperus.
It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughter. To bear him company.
HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW'.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day.
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke now west, now south.
Then up and spake an old sailór,
Had sailed the Spanish Main,
quot;I pray thee put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
quot;Last night, the moon had a golden ring. And to-night no moon we see!quot;
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe. And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the north-east;
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed. Then leaped her cable's length.
quot;Come hither! come hither! my little daughter. And do not tremble so;
367
HENRY WADS WORT 11 LONGFELLOW.
For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow.quot;
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
quot;O father! I hear the church-bells ring O say what may it be?quot;
quot;'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast And he steered for the open sea.
quot;O father! I hear the sound of guns,
O say what may it be?quot;
quot;Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea!quot;
quot;O father! I see a gleaming light,
O say what may it be?quot;
But the father answered never a word, â A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies.
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed That savèd she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave On the Lake of Galilee.
368
9
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 369
And fast through the midnight dark and drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept Towards the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf.
On the rocks and hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves Looked soft as carded wool.
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice.
With the masts went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank, Ho! ho! the breakers roared.
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast.
To see the form of a maiden fair.
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt-sea was frozen to her breast. The salt tears in her eyes;
24
HENRY WADSWORTII LONGFELLOW.
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed, On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this. On the reef of Norman's Woe!
37°
ALFRED TENNYSON. 1S09â1S92.
The Dying Year.
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky. The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night;
Ring out wild bells and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new.
Ring happy bells across the snow, â The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief, that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring in the nobler modes of life. With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times, Ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander, and the spite;
AT.FRED TENNYSON.
Ring in the love of truth and right; Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man, and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land. Ring in the Christ that is to be.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Of me you shall not win renown: Vou thought to break a country heart
For pastime ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls,
You are not one to be desired.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
I know you proud to bear-your name. Vour pride is yet no mate for mine.
Too proud to care from whence I came Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that doats on truer charms.
373
A simple maiden in her flower
Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
Some meeker pupil you must find,
For were you queen of all that is,
I could not stoop to such a mind.
You sought to prove how I could love.
And my disdain is my reply.
The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.
The May Queen.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
There's many a black black eye, they say, but none so bright
[as mine;
There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land they say, So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
I Sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break: But I must gather knots of flowers, and buds and garlands gay, But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
374 ALFRED TEXNYSOX.
He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white, And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
They say he's dying all for love, but that can never be:
They say his heart is breaking, mother â what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad 'ill woo me any summer day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
The honeysuckle round the porch has wov'n its wavy bowers. And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and
[hollows gray.
And I'm to be Queen of o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
The night-winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass. And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day. And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still. And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year: To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen
[o' the May.
New-Years Eve.
If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear,
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year.
It is the last New-year that I shall ever see.
Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.
To-night I saw the sun set: 'he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of
[mind;
And the New-year quot;s coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
Last May we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day; Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse. Till Charles Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
There's not a flower on all the hills; the frost is on the pane; I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again:
375
ALFRED TENNYSON.
I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea,
And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine,
Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill.
When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the waining light, You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark world the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade. And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 forgive me now; You '11 kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
If I can I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-place; Tho' you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Tho' I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say. And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
376
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Good-night, good-night, when I have said good-night forever-
[more,
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Eflie come to see me till my grave be growing green; She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
She'll find my garden-tools upon the granary floor;
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone; to train the rosebush that I set About the parlor-window and the box of mignonette.
Good-night, sweet mother; call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn:
But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year,
So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
Conclusion.
I thought to pass away before, and yet alive I am:
And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here.
O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies. And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise, And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow. And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to go.
It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stav, and vet His will be done!
377
ALFRED TENNYSON.
But still I think it can't be long before I find release; And that good man , the clergyman, has told me words of peace.
O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there!
0 blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head!
A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed.
He taught me all the mercy, for he show'd me all the sin. Nor, tho' my lamp was lighted late, there's one will let me in: Xor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could be. For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me.
1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat, There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet, But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine. And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign.
And in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.
For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear;
I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here;
With all my strength I pray'd for both, and so I felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind.
I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed. And then did something speak to me â 1 know now what
[was said;
For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind. And up the valley came again the music on the wind.
37S
ALFRED TKNXYSOX.
But you were sleeping; and I said, quot;It's not for them; it's mine.quot; And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window bars. Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars.
So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day.
But Effie, you must comfort her, when I am past away.
And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived â I cannot tell â I might have been his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life.
O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine â Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine.
O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is gone The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun â For ever and for ever with those just souls and true â And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ?
For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home â
And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come â To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast â And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.
579
ALFRED TENNYSON.
The Death of the Old Year.
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow. And tread softly and speak low.
For the old year lies a-dying.
Old year, you must not die;
You came to us so readily,
You lived with us so steadily,
Old year, you shall not die.
He lieth still; he doth not move:
He will not see the dawn of day.
He hath no other life above.
He gave me a friend, and a true true â love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go;
So long as you have been with us,
Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.
He frothed his bumpers to the brim:
A jollier year we shall not see;
But tho' his eyes are waxing dim.
And tho' his foes speak ill of him,
He was a friend to me.
Old year you shall not die;
We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you. Old year, if you must die.
3Si
He was full of joke and jest,
But all his merry quips are o'er.
Too see him die across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste,
But he'll be dead before.
Every one for his own.
The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year blithe and bold, my friend. Comes up to take his own.
How hard he breathes! o'er the snow I heard just now the crowing cock.
The shadows flicker to and fro:
The cricket chirps: the light burns low:
'Tis nearly twelve o' clock.
Shake hands, before you die.
Old year, we'll dearly rue for you:
What is it we can do for you?
Speak out before you die.
His face is growing sharp and thin.
Alack! our friend is gone,
Close up his. eyes; tie up his chin:
vStep from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone.
And waitetli at the door.
There's a new foot on the floor, my friend. And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.
ALFRED TEN-NYSOX.
The Lord of Burleigh.
In her ear he whispers gaily,
quot;If my heart by signs can tell,
Maiden, I have watched thee daily, And I think thou lov'st me well.quot;
She replies, in accents fainter,
quot;There is none I love like thee.quot;
He is but a land-scape painter.
And a village maiden she.
He to lips that fondly falter.
Presses his without reproof;
Leads her to the village altar
And they leave her father's roof.
quot;I can make no marriage present; Little can I give my wife.
Love will make our cottage pleasant. And I love thee more than life.quot;
They by parks and lodges going See the lordly castles stand;
Summer woods, about them blowing. Made a murmur in the land.
From deep thought himself he rouses. Says to her that loves him well,
quot;Let us see these handsome houses Where the wealthy nobles dwell.quot;
So she goes by him attended.
Hears him lovingly converse.
Sees whatever fair and splendid
Lay betwixt his home and hers ;
3S2
ALFRED TENNYSON,
Parks with oak and chesnut shady,
Parks and order'd gardens great, Ancient homes of lord and lady,
Built for pleasure and for state.
All he shows her makes him dearer:
Evermore she seems to gaze On that cottage growing nearer,
Where they twain will spend their days O but she will love him truly!
He shall have a cheerful home;
She will order all things duly.
When beneath his roof they come.
Thus her heart rejoices greatly.
Till a gateway she discerns With armorial bearings stately,
And beneath the gate she turns;
Sees a mansion more majestic
Than all those she saw before:
Many a gallant gay domestic
Bows before him at the door.
And they speek in gentle murmur.
When they answer to his call.
While he treads with footstep firmer
Leading on from hall to hall. And while now she wonders blindly.
Nor the meaning can divine.
Proudly turns he round and kindly,
quot;All of this is mine and thine.quot;
Here he lives in state and bounty.
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free.
Not a lord in all the county
3S3
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Is so great a lord as he.
All at once the color flushes
Her sweet face from brow to chin: As it were with shames she blushes,
And her spirit changed within,
Then her countenance all over
Pale again as death did prove ;
But he clasp'd her like a lover,
And he cheered her soul with love. So she strove against her weakness,
Tho' at times her spirit sank:
Shap'd her heart with woman's meekness
To all duties of her rank:
And a gentle consort made he.
And her gentle mind was such That she grew a noble lady,
And the people loved her much. But a trouble weigh'd upon her.
And perplex 'd her, night and morn. With a burden of an honor
Unto which she was not born.
Faint she grew, and ever fainter.
As she murmur'd, quot;O, that he Were once more that landscape-painter.
Which did win my heart from me!quot; So she droop'd and droop'd before him,
Fading slowly from his side:
Three fair children first she bore him,
Then before her time she died. Weeping, weeping late and early,
Walking up and pacing down,
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Deeply mourn'd the Lord of Burleigh, Burleigli-house by Stamford-town. And he came to look upon her,
And he look'd at her and said, quot;Bring the dress and put it on her.
That she wore when she was wed.quot; Then her people, softly treading.
Bore to earth her body, drest In the dress that she was wed in,
That her spirit might have rest.
Come not, when I am dead.
Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head.
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie; Go by, go by.
3S5
25
386 ALFRED TENNYSONquot;.
Break, break, break.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy.
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad.
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand. And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
The Charge of the Light Brigade.
Half a league, half a league Half a league onward.
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred. quot;Forward, the Light Brigade! quot; Charge for the guns!quot; he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
quot;Forward, the Light Brigade!quot; Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had bhmder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die,
Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them.
Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell. Boldly they rode and well.
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air. Sabring the gunners there. Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd; Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not. Not the six hundred.
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunderd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
Hero to Leander.
O go not yet my love!
The night is dark and vast;
The white moon is hid in her heaven above.
And the waves climb high and fast.
O, kiss me, kiss me, once again,
Less thy kiss should be the last;
O kiss me ere we part;
Grow closer to my heart!
My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the O joy! O bliss of blisses!
ALFRED TEXWSOX.
My hearts of hearts art thou.
Come bathe me with thy kisses.
My eyelids and my brow.
Hark how the wild rain hisses,
And the loud sea roars below.
Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs,
So gladly doth it stir;
Thine eye in drops of gladness swims.
I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh;
Thy locks are dripping balm;
Thou shalt not wander hence to-night,
I'll stay thee with my kisses.
To-night the roaring brine
Will rend thy golden tresses;
The ocean with the morrow light
Will be both blue and calm;
And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine.
No Western odors wander
On the black and moaning sea.
And when thou art dead, Leander,
My soul must follow thee!
O go not yet. my love !
Thy voice is sweet and low;
The deep salt wave breaks in above
Those marble steps below.
The turret-stairs are wet
That lead into the sea.
Leander! go not yet.
The pleasant stars have set:
Or I will follow thee!
ALFRED TENNYSON.
Edward Gray.
Sweet Emma Moreland, of yonder town, Met me walking on yonder way, quot;And have you lost your heart?quot; she said; quot;Are you married yet, Edward Gray?quot;
Sweet Emma Moreland spake to me: Bitterly weeping I turned away:
quot;Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.
quot;Ellen Adair she loved me well.
Against her father's and mother's will: To-day I sat an hour and wept By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.
quot;Shy she was, and I thought her cold; Thought her proud, and fled over the sea; Filled I was with folly and spite.
When Ellen Adair was dying for me.
quot;Cruel, cruel, the words I said!
Cruelly came they back to-day:
quot;You're too slight and fickle, 'I said, 'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'
quot;There I put my face in the grass â Whispered, 'Listen to my despair:
I repent me of all I did:
Speak a little, Ellen Adair!quot;
39°
ALFRED TENNYSON.
quot;Then I took a pencil and wrote On the mossy stone as I lay,
4 Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!'
Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree ! But I will love no more, no more.
Till Ellen Adair come back to me.
quot;Bitterly wept I over the stone:
Bitterly weeping I turned away:
There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray.
Vivien's Song.
In love, if love be love, it love be ours. Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers: Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all.
It is the little rift within the lute.
That by and by will make the music mute,
And ever widening slowly silence all.
The little lift within the lover's lute,
Or little pitted speck in garnered fruit.
That rotting inward slowly moulders all.
391
ALFRED TENNYSON.
It is not worth the keeping: let it go: But shall it? answer, darling, answer, no. And trust me not at all, or all in all.
The bugle Song.
The splendour falls on castle walls
And snowy summits, old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hark! how- thin and clear.
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Ellland 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.
Rev. CHARLES KIXGSLEY. 1S19â1S75.
The sands of Dee.
quot;Oh, Mary, go and call the cattle home, And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands of Deequot;.
The western wind was wild and dark 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.
ct0h, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair â A tress of golden hair,
A drowned maiden's hair,
Above the nets at sea?quot;
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes of Dee.
They rowed her in across the rolling foam. The cruel crawling foam,
REV. CHARLES KINGSLEY.
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.
Three Fishers.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
Out into the west as the sun went down ,
Each thought of the woman who loved him best.
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
For men must work, and women must weep,
And there's little to earn, and many to keep,
Though the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down;
They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower,
And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown;
But men must work, and women must weep,
Though storms be sudden, and waters deep.
And the harbour-bar be moaning.
Three corpses lie out in the shining sands.
In the morning gleam, as the tide goes down,
And the women are weeping and wringing their hands,
For those who will never come home to the town.
For men must work, and women must weep.
And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep,
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
394
CHARLES MA CRAY.
Tubal Cain.
Old Tubal Cam was a man of might
In the days when earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear. And he sang â quot;Hurra for my handiwork!
Hurra for the spear and sword!
Hurra for the hand that shall wield them well For he shall be king and lord!quot;
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire. And each one prayed for a long steel blade
As the crown of his desire:
And he made them weapons sharp and strong
Till they shouted loud for glee.
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold ,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they sang â quot;Hurra for Tubal Cain,
CHARLKS MACKAV.
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire,
And hurra for the metal true!quot;
But a sudden change came o'er his heart Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain For the evil he had done;
He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind.
That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said â quot;Alas! that ever I made.
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow man.quot;
And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forebore to smite the ore And his furnace smouldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work.
While the quick flames mounted high.
And he sang â quot;Hurra for my handicraft!quot;
And the red sparks lit the air;
quot;Not alone for the blade was the bright steel mace:quot; And he fashioned the first ploughshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past.
In friendship joined their hands.
396
CHARLES MACKAY.
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands J And sang â quot;Hurra for Tubal Cain!
Our staunch good friend is he;
And for the ploughshare and the plough
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head.
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword!quot;
Far, Far Upon The Sea.
Far, far upon the sea.
The good ship speeding free,
Upon the deck we gather young and old; And view the flapping sail.
Spreading out before the gale.
Full and round without a wrinkle or a fold: Or watch the waves that glide By the stately vessel's side.
And the wild sea-birds that follow through the air. Or we gather in a ring.
And with cheerful voices sing.
Oh! gaily goes the ship when the wind blows fair.
Far, far upon the sea.
With the sunshine on our lee.
We talk of pleasant days when we were young. And remember, though we roam,
397
CHARLES MACKAY.
The sweet melodies of home â
The songs of happy childhood which we sung. And though we quit her shore,
To return to it no more,
Sound the glories that Brittannia yet shall bear: That quot;Britons rule the waves,quot;
quot;And never shall be slaves.quot;
Oli! gaily goes the ship when the wind blows fair.
Far, far upon the sea,
Whate'er our country be.
The thought of it shall cheer us as we go. And Scotland's sons shall join,
In the song of quot;Auld Lang Syne,quot;
With voice by memoiy softened, clear and low. And the men of Erin's Isle,
Battling sorrow with a smile,
Shall sing quot;St. Patricks Morning,quot; void of care; And thus we pass the day.
As we journey on the way; â
Oh! gaily goes the ship when the wind blows fair.
Fall, 0! Fall.
Fall, oh! fall ye words of anger,
Like the leaves when autumn blows, Like the May-blooms in the river.
Like the moonlight on the snows. Fall like seed in barren places.
Fall like rain drops in the sea,â
39S
CHARLES MACKAY.
Idle words, foredoomed to perish, Lost between my love and me!
But, ye words of loving-kindness.
Fall like grateful summer rain, Like the heat on frozen waters,
Like sweet music heard in pain, Like the dew on op'ning roses,
Like the acorn from the tree, Fall, ye accents of affection.
Fruitful to my love and me!
Inkermann.
Sebastopol lay shrouded
In thick November gloom,
And through the midnight silence
The guns had ceased to boom.
The sentinel outworn In watching for the morn From Balaclava's heights Beheld the Russian lights,
In the close-beleagured fortress far adown;
And heard a sound of bells Wafted upwards through the dells.
And a roar of mingling voices and of anthems from the town.
They prayed the God of Justice To aid them in the wrong,
They consecrated Murder
399
CHARLES MACKAY.
With Jubilee and song.
To the slain, the joys of heaven, â
To the living, sin forgiven,
Were the promises divine That were passed along the line.
As they gathered in their myriads ere the dawn;
While their priests in full accord Chanted glory to the Lord,
And blessed the Russian banner and the sword for battle drawn.
Stealthily and darkly,
'Mid the rain and sleet;
No trumpet-call resounding,
Nor-drum's tempestuous beat â But shadow-like and slow,
Came the legions of the foe.
Moving dimly up the steep Lay unconscious of the danger lurking near;
And the soldier breathing hard.
On the cold and sodden sward.
Dreamed of victory and glory, or of home and England dear.
Hark! heard ye not a rumbling On the misty morning air.
Like the rush of rising tempests
When they shake the forest bare? The outposts on the hill Hear it close, and closer still. â
'Tis the ramp of iron heels,
'Tis the crash of cannon-wheels,
And quot;To arms!quot; quot;To arms!quot; quot;To arms!quot; is the cry.
40O
401
'Tis the Russians on our flank !
Up, and arm each British rank!
them, gallant Guardsmen, to conquer or to die.quot;
Then rose the loud alarum
With a hurricane of sound,
And from short uneasy slumber
Sprang each hero from the ground:
Sprang each horseman to his steed.
Ready saddled for his need;
Sprang each soldier to his place.
With a stern, determined face;
rousing drum and bugle echoed far,
And the crack of rifles rung,
And the cannon found a tongue.
As down upon them bursting came the avalanche of war!
Through the cold and foggy darkness
Sped the rocket's fiery breath,
And the light of rapid volleys,
In a haze of Living Death;
But each British Heart that day Throbbed impetuous for the fray And our hosts undaunted stood â
Beating back the raging flood,
That came pouring from the valley like a sea.
Casting havoc on the shore.
With a dull and sudden roar, â The thunder-cloud above it, and the lightning flashing free.
On darkness grew the daylight.
Mid the loud, incessant peal;
And meet
While the
26
402 CHARLES MACKAY.
On the daylight followed noontide,
As they struggled steel to steel!
O ye gallant souls and true!
O ye great immortal few!
On your banner bright unfurled Shone the freedom of the world;
In your keeping lay the safety of the lands;
Lay the splendour of our name;
Lay our glory and our fame;
And ye held and raised them all in your dauntless hearts and hands 1
, For a moment, and one only.
Seemed the Russians to prevail:
O ye brave eight thousand heroes!
Ye shall conquer. They shall fail I They can face you â if they must â
But they fly your bayonet â thrust.
And hark! the ringing cheer That proclaims the French are near.
And is heard above the raging battle din!
Giving courage to the slave, â
A signal and an omen of the victor}' to win!
Break forth, thou storm of battle.
With a new and wild uproar;
Beam out, thou flag of Britain,
With thy sister tricolor!
For fighting side by side.
One in spirit, heart allied â
In the cause of truth combined.
For the freedom of mankind â
CHARLES M.VCKAY.
France and England show the world what may be done; And their star of glory burns,
And the tide of battle turns,
And the beaten Russians fly, and the victory is won!
Thus fourteen thousand freemen ,
Invincible in right,
Defeated seventy thousand
In fierce unequal fight!
Thus Thermopylce of old And its men of Titan mould Were surpassed, at duty's call,
By the Briton and the Gaul;
(May the splendour of their friendship never wane!)
By the men who fighting fell With Cathcart and Lourmel,
Or lived with placid Raglan, avengers of the slain.
And as long as France and England Shall give birth to manlike men,
Their deeds shall be remembered.
Should the battle burst again;
And to actions as sublime Shall inspire each future time!
And when War's alarms shall cease.
And the nations live in peace Safe from Tyranny, its murder and its ban, â
Let us tell with generous pride How our heroes fought and died,
And saved a threatened world on the heights of Inkermann!
403
CHARLES MACKAY.
Little But Great.
A traveller through a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea,
And one took root, and sprouted up, And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time To breathe its early vows.
And Age was pleased, in heats of noon, To bask beneath its boughs.
The doormouse loved its dangling twigs, The birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore!
A little spring had lost its way Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well.
Where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care A ladle at the brink:
He thought not of the deed he did. But judged that toil might drink.
He passed again â and lo! the well, By summers never dried.
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues. And saved a life beside.
A dreamer dropped a random thought 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new, â
CHARLES MACKAY.
A simple fancy of the brain ,
But strong in being true;
It shone upon a genial mind,
And lo! its light became A lamp of light, a beacon-ray,
A monitory flame.
The thought was small â its issue great:
A watch-fire on the hill, â
It sheds its radiance far adown, And cheers the valley still.
A nameless man, amid a crowd
That thronged the daily mart» Let fall a word of Hope and Love,
Unstudied from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath, â
It raised a brother from the dust.
It saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love 1
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first.
But mighty at the last.
405
JOHN WILSON, 1785â1854.
Night At Sea.
It is the midnight hour: â the beauteous Sea,
Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,
While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,
Far down within the watery sky reposes.
As if the Ocean's heart were stirred
With inward life, a sound is heard ,
Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;
quot;Tis partly the billow, and partly the air.
That lies like a garment floating fair
Above the happy Deep.
The sea, I ween, cannot be fanned
By evening freshness from the land.
For the land it is far away.
But God hath willed that the sky-born breeze
In the centre of the loneliest seas
Should ever sport and play.
The might)' moon she sits above.
Encircled with a zone of love,
A zone of dim and tender light
That makes her wakeful eye more bright;
She seems to shine with a sunny ray,
JOHN WILSON.
And the night looks like a mellowed day.
The gracious mistress of the main
Hath now an undisturbed reign ,
And from her silent throne looks down,
As upon children of her own,
On the waves that lend their gentle breast
In gladness for her couch of rest.
My spirit sleeps amid the calm,
The sleep of a new delight;
And hopes that she ne'er may wake again,
But for ever hang o'er the lovely main
And adore the lovely night.
Scarce conscious of an earthly frame,
She glides away like a lambent flame.
And in her bliss she sings.
Now touching softly the ocean's breast,
Now 'mid the stars she lies at rest,
As if she sailed on wings!
Now bold as the brightest star that glows,
More brightly since at first it rose.
Looks down on the far-off flood;
And there all breathless and alone.
As the sky where she soars were a world of her own ,
She mocketh the gentle mighty one
As he lies in his quiet mood.
quot;Art thou,quot; she breathes, quot;the tyrant grim
That scoffs at human prayers,
Answering with prouder roaring the while.
As it rises from some lonely isle,
Through groans raised wild, the hopeless hymn
Of shipwrecked mariners?
407
JOHN WILSON.
Oh! thou art as harmless as a child
Weary with joy, and reconciled
For sleep to change its play;
And now that night hath stayed thy race,
Smiles wander o'er thy placid face,
As if thy dreams were gay.quot;
THOMAS MILLER. iSoSâ1874.
The Desolate Hall.
A lonely Hall upon a lonelier moor, â
For many a mile no other dwelling near;
Northward an ancient wood, whose tall trees roar, When the loud winds their huge broad branches tear. A large old Hall, â a servant deaf and gray On me in silence waits throughout the dreary day.
Before my threshold waves the long white grass.
That like a living desolation stands.
Nodding its withered head when'er I pass,
The last within the old vault to repose;
Then its dark marble door upon our race will close.
The whining wind sweeps o'er the matted floors,
And makes a weary noise, a wailing moan;
I hear all night the clap of broken doors.
That on their rusty hinges grate and groan;
And then loud voices seem to call behind
The worn and wormy wainscot flapping in the wind.
THOMAS MILLER,
Along the roof the dark moss thickly spreads, A dampness o'er the oaken rafters throwing;
A chilly moisture settles on the beds,
Where lichens 'mid decay are slowly growing, Covering the curtains, and the damask eyes Of angels, there enwrought in rainbow-fading dyes.
The toothless mastiff bitch howls all night long. And in her kennel sleepeth all the day.
I heard the old man say, quot;There's something wrong; She was not wont to yell and howl that way, â There's something wrong. Oil! ill and woe betide The Leech's hand by which my Lady Ellen died.quot;
Sometimes I hear, or fancy, o'er my head A tramping noise, like that of human feet;
In hollow high-heeled shoes they seem to tread. And to the sound of solemn music beat:
Then with a crash the window shutters close.
Shaking the crazy walls, and breaking my repose.
The silver moth within the wardrobe feeds; The unturned keys are rusted in the locks;
Upon my hearth the brown mouse safely breeds. By the old fountain fearless sleeps the fox;
The white owl in my chamber dreams all day. For there is no one cares to frighten him away.
The high-piled books with cobwebs are o'ergrown. Their gandy bindings now look dull and dead;
Last night the massy Bible tumbled down,
4io
THOMAS MILLER.
And it laid upon where my Ellen read
The night she died â I knew the place again,
For she shed many a tear, and each had left its stain.
Oh! how I shun the room in which she died, â
The books, the flowers, the harp she well could sound!
The flowers are dead, the books are thrown aside.
The harp is mute, and dust has gathered round
Her lovely drawings, covering over the chair
Where she so oft has sat to braid her long brown hair.
What hollow gusts through broken casements stream ,
Moving the ancient portraits on the wall;
I see them stirring by the moon's pale beam ,
Their floating costumes seem to rise and fall;
And as I come or go, move where I will.
Their dull white deadly eyes, turning, pursue me still.
And when a dreamy slumber o'er me creeps,
The old house-clock rings out its measured sound;
I hear a warning in the march it keeps.
Anon the rusty vane turns round and round:
These are sad tones! for desolation calls.
And ruin loudly roars around my father's halls.
The fish-ponds now are mantled o'er with green;
The rooks have left their old ancestral trees.
Their silent nests are all that now is seen;
No oxen low along the winding leas;
No steed neighs out, no flocks bleat from the fold;
Upland, and hill, and vale are empty, brown, and cold.
411
THOMAS MILLER.
And dance and song within these walls have sounded,
And breathing music rolled in dulcet strains,
And lovely feet have o'er these gray stones bounded
In snowy kirtles and embroidered trains;
Such things have been, and now are gliding past,
And then our race is done; â I live, and die, â the last!
412
ALEXANDER SMITH. 1S30â1867.
Green Old Age.
My head is grey, my blood is young,
Red, leaping in my veins;
The spring doth stir my spirit yet To seek the cloistered violet.
The primrose in the lanes.
In heart, I am a very boy,
Haunting the woods, the waterfalls. The ivies on grey castle walls;
Weeping in silent joy When the broad sun goes down the West, Or trembling o'er a sparrow's nest. The world might laugh were I to tell
What most my old age cheers, â Mem'ries of stars and crescent moons, Of nutting strolls through autumn noons. Rainbows 'mong April tears.
But chief to five that hour again, When first I stood on sea-beach old.
First heard the voice, first saw unrolled
The glory of the main.
Many rich draughts hath memory. The soul's cupbearer, brought to me.
HENRY ALFORD. ISIOâ1871.
Peace.
I have found peace in the bright earth. And in the sunny sky;
By the low voice of summer seas, And where streams murmur by.
I find it in the quiet tone Of voices that I love;
Uy the flickering of a twilight fire, And in a leafless grove.
I find it in the silent flow Of solitary thought;
In calm, half-meditated dreams, And reasonings self-taught.
But seldom have I found such peace. As in the soul's deep joy
Of passing onward, free from harm, Through every day's employ.
If gems we seek we only tire.
And lift our hopes too high;
The constant flowers that line our way Alone can satisfy.
W IL L I A M MORRIS. Born 1834.
The Eve of Crecy.
Gold on her head, and gold on her feet, And gold where the hems of her kirtle meet. And a golden girdle round my sweet, â Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
Margaret's maids are fair to see,
Freshly dressed and pleasantly;
Margaret's hair falls down to her knee:
Ah 1 qu'elle est belle la Marguerite I
If I were rich I would kiss her feet,
I would kiss the place where the gold hems meet, And the golden girdle round my sweet, â Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
Ah me! I have never touched her hand.
When the arrière ban goes through the land Six basnets under my pennon stand;
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite
And many a one grins under his hood: quot;Sir Lambert de Bois, with all his men good
WILLIAM MORRIS.
Has neither food nor fire-wood!quot; â
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
If I were rich I would kiss her feet,
And the golden girdle of my sweet, And thereabouts where the gold hems meet, â All! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
Yet even now it is good to think,
While my few poor varlets grumble and drink, In my desolate hall where the fires sink, Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
Of Margaret sitting glorious there In glory of gold and glory of hair.
And glory of glorious face most fair; â Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
Likewise to-night I make good cheer Because this battle draweth near;
For what h^ve I to lose or fear? â
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
For, look you, my horse is good to prance A right fair measure in this war dance,
Before the eyes of Philip of France, â Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
And sometime it may hap, perdie.
While my new towers stand up three and three.
And my hall gets painted fair to see, â
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
4i6
417
That folks may say: quot; Times change, by the rood! For Lambert, banneret of the wood,
Has heaps of food and fire-wood, â
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
quot;And wonderful eyes, too, under the hood Of a damsel of right noble blood;
St. Ives for Lambert of the Wood!quot; â
Ah! qu'elle est belle la Marguerite!
27
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 1S2Sâ1881.
The Blessed Damozel.
The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of heaven;
Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even;
She had three lilies in her hand,
And the stars in her hair were seven.
Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn,
But a white rose of Mary's gift, For service meetly worn;
Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn.
Her seemed she scarce had been a day One of God's choristers;
The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers;
Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. 419
(To one, it is ten years of years.
.....Yet now, and in this place,
Surely she leaned o'er me â her hair Fell all about my face.....
Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.)
It was the rampant of God's house That she was standing on;
By God built over the sheer depth The which is Space begun,
So high, that looking down ward thence She scarce could see the sun.
It lies in heaven, across the flood Of ether, as a bridge.
Beneath, the tides of day and night With flame and darkness ridge
The void, as low as where this earth Spins like a fretful midge.
Around her, lovers, newly met 'Mid deathless love's acclaims.
Spoke evermore among themselves Their rapturous new names;
And the souls mounting up to God Went by her like thin flames.
And still she bowed herself and stooped Out of the circling charm;
Until her bosom must have made
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
The bar she leaned on warm,
And the lilies lay as if asleep Along her bended arm.
From the fixed place of heaven she saw
Time like a pulse shake fierce Through all the worlds. Her gaze still strove Within the gulf to pierce Its path; and now she spoke as when The stars sang in their spheres.
The sun was gone now; the curled moon
Was like a little feather Fluttering far down the gulf; and now
She spoke through the still weather. Her voice was like the voice the stars Had, when they sang together.
(Ah sweet! Even now, in that bird's song,
Strove not her accents there,
Fain to be hearkened? When those bells
Possessed the mid-day air,
Strove not her steps to reach my side Down all the echoing stair?)
quot; I wish that he were come to me,
For he will come,quot; she said.
quot; Have I not prayed in heaven ? â on earth,
Lord, Lord, has he not prayed?
Are not two prayers a perfect strength? And shall I feel afraid?
420
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
quot;When round his head the aureole clings,
And he is clothed in white,
I'll take his hand and go with him
To the deep wells of light;
We will step down as to a stream, And bathe there in God's sight.
quot;We two will stand beside that shrine.
Occult, withheld, untrod.
Whose lamps are stirred continually
With prayer sent up to God;
And see our old prayers, granted, melt Each like a little cloud.
quot;We two will lie i' the shadow of
That living mystic tree Within whose secret growth the Dove
Is sometimes felt to be.
While every leaf that His plumes touch Saith His Name audibly.
quot;And I myself will teach to him,
I myself, lying so.
The songs I sing here: which his voice
Shall pause in, hushed and slow, And find some knowledge at each pause, Or some new thing to know.quot;
(Alas! we two, we two, thou say'st!
Yea, one wast thou with me That once of old. But shall God lift
421
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
To endless unity.
The soul whose likeness with thy soul Was but its love for thee?)
quot;We two,quot; she said, quot;will seek the groves
Where the Lady Mary is.
With her five handmaidens whose names
Are five sweet symphonies,
Cecily, Gertrude, Magdalene,
Margaret and Rosalys.
quot;Circlewise sit they, with bound locks
And foreheads garlanded;
Into the fine cloth white like flame
Weaving the golden thread.
To fashion the birth-robes for them Who are just born, being dead.
quot;He shall fear, haply, and be dumb;
Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love.
Not once abashed or weak:
And the dear mother will approve My pride, and let me speak.
quot;Herself shall bring us, hand in hand,
To Him round whom all soul Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads
Bowed with their aureoles:
And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles.
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
quot;There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me: â
Only to live as once on earth
With Love, â only to be As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he.quot;
She gazed and listened and then said, Less sad of speech than mild, â quot;All this is when he comes.quot; She ceased.
The light thrilled towards her, fill'd With angels in strong level flight.
Her eyes prayed, and she smiled.
(I saw her smile.) But soon their path
Was vague in distant spheres 1 And then she cast her arms along
The golden barriers,
And .laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.)
423
B. W. PROCTER. 178Sâ1874*
The Return of the Admiral.
How gallantly, how merrily We ride along the sea! The morning is all sunshine,
The wind is blowing free; The billows are all sparkling
And bounding in the light,
Like creatures in whose sunny veins
The blood is running bright. All nature knows our triumph
Strange birds about us sweep; Strange things come up to look at us
The masters of the deep:
In our wake, like any servant,
Follows even the bold shark: Oh, proud must be our Admiral Of such a bonny bark!
Proud, proud must be our Admiral
(Though he is pale to-day) Of twice five hundred iron men, Who all his nod obey;
Ti. W. PROCTER.
Who've won, with sweet and gore. Nobility! which he shall have
quot;Whene'er he touch the shore. Oh! would I were our Admiral,
To order, with a word;
To lose a dozen drops of blood.
And so rise up a lord!
I'd shout e'en to yon shark, there,
Who follows in our lee.
quot;Some day I'll make thee carry me. Like lightning through the sea/'
â The Admiral grew paler,
And paler as we flew:
Still talked he to his officers.
And smiled upon his crew; And he looked up at the heavens,
And he looked down on the sea, And at last he spied the creature,
That kept following in our lee. He shook â 'twas but an instant;
For speedily the pride Ran crimson to his heart.
Till all chances he defied: It threw boldness on his forehead;
It gave firmness to his breath; And he stood like some grim warrior New risen up from death.
That night, a horrid whisper Fell on us where we lay;
And we knew our fine old Admiral
Was changing into clay;
And we heard the wash of waters, Though nothing could we see, And a whistle and a plunge
Among the billows on our lee ! 'Till dawn we watched the body,
In its dead and ghastly sleep. And next evening, at sunset,
It was slung into the deep! And never, from that moment.
Save one shudder through the sea. Saw we or heard the shark
That had followed in our lee!
King Death.
King Death was a rare old fellow.
He sat where no sun could shine. And he lifted his hand so yellow.
And poured out his coal-black wine. Hurrah I for the coal-black wine!
There came to him many a maiden
Whose eyes had forgot to shine. And widows with grief o'erladen,
For a draught of his coal-black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
B, W. PROCTER. 427
The scholar left all his learning,
The poet his fancied woes,
And the beauty her bloom returning,
Like life to the fading rose.
Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
All came to the rare old fellow.
Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, And he gave them his hand so yellow.
And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah! for the coal-black wine!
B U L W E R L Y T T O N. 1805â1873.
The Blind Flower-Girl's song.
Buy my flowers â oh, buy â I pray!
The blind girl comes from afar:
If the earth be as fair as I hear them say,
These flowers her children are!
Do they her beauty keep?
They are fresh from her lap I know;
For I caught them fast asleep
In her arms an hour ago.
With the air which is her breath â
Her soft and delicate breath â
Over them murmuring low!
On their lips her sweet kiss lingers yet. And their cheeks with her tender tears are wet. For she weeps, that gentle mother weeps, (As mom and night her watch she keeps,
With a yearning heart and a passionate care) To see the young things grow so fair; She weeps â for love she weeps â
And the dews are the tears she weeps.
From the well of a mother's love!
EULWER LYTTON.
Ye have a world of light.
Where love in the loved rejoices;
But the blind girl's home is the House of Night,
And its beings are empty voices.
As one in the realm below I stand by the streams of woe;
I hear the vain shadows glide,
I feel their soft breath at my side.
And I thirst the loved forms to see.
And I stretch my fond arms around.
And I catch but a shapeless sound.
For the living are ghosts to me.
Come buy â come buy! â
Hark! how the sweet things sigh (For they have a voice like ours),
quot;The breath of the blind girl closes The leaves of the saddening roses â
We are tender, we sons of light,
We shrink from this child of night;
From the grasp of the blind girl free us; We yearn for the eyes that see us â
We are for night too gay.
In your eyes we behold the day â
Oh, buy â oh, buy the flowers!quot;
429
BULWER LYTTON.
Absent, Yet present.
As the flight of a river
That flows to the sea,
My soul rushes ever In tumult to thee.
A twofold existence
I am where thou art;
My heart in the distance
Beats close to thy heart.
Look up, I am near thee,
I gaze on thy face;
I see thee, I hear thee,
I feel thine embrace.
As a magnet's control on The steel it draws to it.
Is the charm of thy soul on
The thoughts that pursue it.
And absence but brightens The eyes that I miss,
And custom but heightens The spell of thy kiss.
It is not from duty.
Though that may be owed, â
It is not from beauty,
Though that be bestowed;
BULWER LYTTOX.
But all that I care for,
And all that I know, Is that, without wherefore, I worship thee so.
Through granite as breaketli
A tree to the ray. As a dreamer foresaketh The grief of the day,
My soul in its fever
Escapes unto thee; O dream to the griever,
0 light to the tree!
O twofold existence
1 am where thou art; Hark, hear in the distance
The beat of ray heart!
431
LADY D U F F E R IN.
The Lament of the Irish Emigrant.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side On a bright May morning long ago,
When first you were my bride: The corn was springin' fresh and green,
And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear.
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek, And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more may speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane.
And the little church stands near. The church where we were wed, Mary, â I see the spire from here.
LADY DU1 FERIN.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary, â
And my step might break your rest â For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep. With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary,
For the poor make, no new friends, But oh! they love the better still.
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary;
My blessinquot; and my pride;
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good brave heart, Mary,
That still came hopinn' on,
When the trust in God had left my soul.
And my arms' young strength was gone; There was a comfort ever on your lip.
And a kind look on your brow, â I bless you Mary for that same.
Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,
When the hunger pain was gnawin' there
And you hid it for my sake!
I bless you for the pleasant word.
When your heart was sad and sore â Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!
433
I'm biddin' 'you a lony farewell,
My Mary â kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling!
In the land I'm going to: â
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there, â
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times less fair!
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies, â
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn and the bright May mom. When first you were my bride!
M A T T H E W ARNOLD.
Born 1822.
Iseult Of Brittany, After Tristan's Death.
And is she happy? Does she see unmoved
The days in which she might have lived and loved
Slip, without bringing bliss, slowly away.
One after one, to-morrow like to-day?
Joy has not found her yet, nor ever will:
Is it this thought that makes her mien so still,
Her features so fatigued, her eyes, though sweet,
So sunk, â so rarely lifted save to meet
Her children's? She moves slow; her voice alone
Has yet an infantine and silver tone, â
But even that comes languidly; in truth,
She seems one dying in a mask of youth.
And now she will go home, and softly lay
Her laughing children in their beds, and play
Awhile with them before they sleep; and then
She'll light her silver lamp, which fishermen,
Dragging their nets through the rough waves afar
Along this iron coast, know like a star.
And take her broidery-frame, and there she'll sit
Hour after hour, her gold curls sweeping it.
Lifting her soft-bent head only to mind
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
Her children, or to listen to the wind.
And when the clock peals midnight, she will move
Her work away, and let her fingers rove
Across the shaggy brows of Tristan's hound,
Who lies, guarding her feet, along the ground;
Or else she will fall musing, her blue eyes
Fixed, her slight hands clasped on her lap; then rise,
And at her prie-dieu kneel, until she have told
Her rosary beads of ebony tipped with gold,
Then to her soft sleep; and to-morrow'11 be
To-day's exact repeated effigy.
Ves, it its lonely for her in her hall;
The children, and the gray haired seneschall,
Her women, and Sir Tristan's aged hound
Are there the sole companions to be found.
But these she loves; and noisier life than this
She would find ill to bear, weak as she is.
She has her children too, and night and day
Is with them; and the wide heaths where they play,
The hollies, and the clitf, and the sea-shore.
The sand, the sea-birds, and the distant sails.
These are to her dear as to them; the tales
With which this day the children she beguiled
She gleaned from Breton grandames when u child
In every hut along this sea-coast wild.
She herself loves them, and, when they are told,
Can forget all to hear them, as of old.
Dear saints! it is not sorrow, as I hear,
Not suffering, that shuts up eye and ear
MATTHEW ARNOLD.
To all which has delighted them before,
And lets us be what we were once no more.
No; we may suffer deeply, yet retain
Power to be moved and soothed, for all our pain,
By what of old pleased us, and will a^ain.
No 'lis the gradual furnace of the world.
In whose hot air our spirits are upcurled
Until they crumble, or else grow like steel â
Which kills in us the bloom, the youth, the spring â
Which leaves the fierce necessity to feel.
But takes away the power â this can avail,
By drying up our joy in everything,
To make our former pleasures all seem stale.
This, or some tyrannous single thought, some fit
Of passion, which subdues our souls to it.
Till for its sake alone, we live and move â
Call it ambition, or remorse, or love â
This too can change us wholly, and make seem
All that we did before shadow and dream.
437
ELIZA COOK. Born circa 1818.
The old Arm-Chair.
I love it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I have treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs;
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart,
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would you learn the spell? A mother sat there,
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with list'ning ear;
And gentle words that mother would give.
To fit me to die, and teach me to live;
She told me shame would never betide.
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.
I sat and watched her many a day.
When her eyes grew dim and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled.
ELIZA COOK.
And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on; but the last one sped â
My idol was shattered, my earth star fled: I learnt how much the heart can bear When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
Tis past! 'tis past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow.
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died. And memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak.
While the scalding tears run down my cheek, But I love it, â I love it! and cannot tear My soul from my mother's old arm-chair.
The Churchyard Stile.
I left thee young and gay, Mary
When last the thorn was white, I went upon my way, Mary,
And all the world seemed bright; For though my love had ne'er been told.
Yet, 3^et I saw thy form Beside me, in the midnight watch;
Above me in the storm.
And many a blissful dream I had.
That brought thy gentle smile.
Just as it came when last we leaned Upon the Churchyard Stile.
439
ELIZA COOK.
I'm here to seek thee now, Mary, As all I love the best;
To fondly tell thee how, Mary,
I've hid thee in my breast.
I came to yield thee up my heart,
With hope, and truth, and joy.
And crown with Manhood's honest faith The feelings of the Boy.
I breathed thy name, but every pulse Grew still and cold the while
For I was told thou wert asleep Just by the Churchyard Stile.
My messmates deemed me brave, Mary, Upon the sinking ship;
But flower's o'er thy grave, Man-,
Have power to blanch my lip.
I felt no throb of quailing fear Amid the wrecking surf;
But pale and weak I tremble here,
Upon the osiered turf.
I came to meet thy happy face. And woo thy gleesome smile.
And only find thy resting-place Close by the Churchyard Stile.
Oh ! years may pass away, Mary, And sorrow lose its sting;
For Time is kind, they say, Mary, And flies with healing wing;
The world may make me old and wise,
440
ELIZA COOK.
And Hope may have new birth; And other joys and other ties
May link me to the earth; But Memory living to the last,
Shall treasure up thy smile,
That called me back to find thy grave Close to the Churchyard Stile.
HON. Mrs. NORTON. 1S08â1S77.
Song Of The Peasant Wife.
Gome, Patrick, dear up the storms on your brow;
You were kind to me once â will you frown on me now ? â Shall the storm settle here, when from heaven it departs. And the cold from without find its way to our hearts? No, Patrick, no! sure the wintriest weather Is easily borne when we bear it together.
Though the rain's dropping through, from the roof to the floor, And the wind whistles free where there once was a door, Can the rain, or the snow, or the storm wash away All the warm vows we made in our love's early day? No, Patrick, no! sure the dark storm weather Is easily borne, if we bear it together.
When you stole out to woo me when labour was done.
And the day was closing to us seemed begun ,
Did we care if the sunset was bright on the flowers,
Or if we crept out amid darkness and showers?
No, Patrick! we talked, while we braved the wild weather .
Of all we could bear, if we bore it together.
HON. MES. NORTON.
Soon, soon, will these dark dreary days be gone by,
And our hearts be lit up with a beam from the sky!
Oh! let not our spirits, embittered with pain,
Ke dead to the sunshine that came to us then!
Heart in heart, hand in hand, let its welcome the weather.
And, sunshine or storm, we will bear it together.
443
ALGERON CHARLES SWINBURNE. Born i S3 7.
Chorus from Atalanta in Caiydon.
Before the beginning of years.
There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears;
Grief with a glass that ran;
Pleasure, with pain for leaven;
Summer, with flowers that fell;
Remembrance fallen from heaven,
And madness risen from hell;
Strength without hands to smite;
Love that endures for a breath;
Night, the shadow of light;
And life the shadow of death.
And the high gods took in hand
Fire, and the falling of tears;
And a measure of sliding sand
From under the feet of the years;
And froth and drift of the sea;
And dust of the labouring earth;
And bodies of things to be
In the houses of death and of birth.
ALGEKON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
And wrought with weeping and laughter,
And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after,
And death beneath and above.
For a day, and a night, and a morrow.
That his strength might endure for a span With travail and heavy sorrow,
The holy spirit of man.
From the winds of the north and the south
They gathered as unto strife;
They breathed upon his mouth.
They filled his body with life;
Eye-sight and speech they wrought
For the veils of the soul therein,
A time for labour and thought,
A time to serve and to sin;
They gave him light in his ways.
And love, and a space for delight. And beauty, and a length of days.
And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire;
With his lips he travaileth;
In his heart is a blind desire;
In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision;
Sows, and he shall not reap;
His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep.
EDWIN ARNOLD.
Born 1S32.
The Voices of the Wind.
(From quot; The Light of Asiaquot;.)
Once they set A stringed gourd on the sill, there where the wind Could linger o'er its notes and play at will â
Wild music makes the wind on silver strings â And those who lay around heard only that; But Prince Siddartha heard the Devas play,
And to his ears they sang such words as these: We are the voices of the wandering wind Which moan for rest, and rest can never find; Lo! as the wind is, so is mortal life,
A moan, a sigh, a sob, a storm, a strife.
Wherefore and whence we are ye cannot know. Nor where life springs, nor whither life doth go; We are as ye are, ghösts from the inane.
What pleasure have we of our changeful pain?
What pleasure hast thou of thy changeless bliss? Nay, if love lasted, there were joy in this; But life's way is the wind's way; all these things Are but brief voices breathed on shifting strings.
EDWIN ARNOLD.
O Maya's son! because we roam the earth,
Moan we upon these strings; we make no mirth, So many woes we see in many lands,
So many streaming eyes and wringing hands.
Yet mock we while we wail, for, could they know, This life they cling to is but empty show;
'Twere all as well to bid a cloud to stand,
Or hold a running river with the hand.
But thou that art to save, thine hour is nigh! The sad world waiteth in its misery;
The blind world stumbleth on its round of pain; Rise, Maya's child! wake ! slumber not again!
We are the voices of the wandering wind:
Wander thou, too, O prince, thy rest to find; Leave love for love of lovers, for woe's sake Quit state for sorrow, and deliverance make.
So sigh we, passing o'er the silver strings.
To thee who know'st not yet of earthly things; So say we; mocking, as we pass away.
These lovely shadows wherewith thou dost play.
447
EDWIN ARNOLD.
A Dead Man's Message.
Paraphrased from Arabic verses.
He who died at Azan sends this, to comfort faithful friends.
Faithful friends! It lies, I know.
Pale and cold, and still as snow;
And you say, quot;Abdullah's dead!quot;
Weeping at its feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this,
quot;I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your wail and let it lie,
It was mine; â it is not I!quot;
Sweet friends! what the women lave
For its last bed in the grave
Was a hut which I am quitting â
Was a garment, no more fitting â
Was a cage, wherefrom at last
Like a bird, my soul hath past.
Love the inmate, not the room.
The wearer, not the garb â the plume
Of the eagle, not the bars
Which kept him from the splendid stars.
Loving friends! be wise, and dry Straightway every weeping eye!
What you lift upon the bier
44S
EDWIN ARNOLD. 449
Is not worth a single tear;
'Tis a simple sea-shell, one
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is nothing â leave it there â
The pearl, the soul â was all â is here!
'Tis an earthen pot, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of His treasury â
A mind that loved Him; let it be!
Let the shards be earth's once more.
Since the gold goes to His store!
Allah glorious, Allah good ,
Now Thy world is understood!
Now the long, long wonder ends.
Yet you weep, my foolish friends;
While the man you say quot;is deadquot;
In unspoken bliss instead
Lives and loves you; â lost, 'tis true.
For any light that shines with you;
But, in that light you do not see,
Raised to full felicity.
In a perfect Paradise,
And a life which never dies.
Farewell friends! yet not farewell; Where you are I too shall dwell; I am gone beyond your face, A moment's march; a single pace. When you come where I have stepped, You will wonder why you wept;
29
EDWIN ARNOLD.
You will see by true life taught,
That here is all, and there is nought. Weep a while, if you are fain.
Sunshine still must follow rain,
Only, not at death; for death Now, I see, is that long breath Which our souls draw when they enter Life that is of all life-centre.
He ye certain â all seems love
Viewed from Allah's seat above;
Be ye stout of hope, and come
Bravely onward to your home.
From its happy gate my ken
Sees you, struggling quot;soulsquot;, not quot;menquot;
All for nameless joys decreed,
Which your wills may stay or speed;
But not one â at last â to fail.
Since at last Love must prevail.
quot;La Allah, ilia Allahquot;, yea.
Thou Love divine 1 thou Lord alway!
He that died at Azan gave
This â to those who made his grave.
ROBERT BUCHANAN. Born 1841.
Liz.
And so the baby's come, and I shall die!
And though 'tis hard to leave poor baby here,
Where folk will think him bad, and all's so drear,
The great Lord God knows better far than I.
Ah, don't! â 'tis kindly, but it pains me so!
You say I'm wicked, and I want to go!
â quot;God's kingdom,quot; Parson, dear? Ah nay, ah nay!
That must be like the country â which I fear:
I saw the country once, one summer day.
And I would rather die in London here!
For I was sick of hunger, cold, and strife.
And took a sudden fancy in my head
To try the country, and to earn my bread
Out among the fields where I had heard, one's life
Was easier and brighter. So, that day,
I took my basket up, and stole away,
Just after sunrise. As I went along.
Trembling and loth to leave the busy place,
I felt that I was doing something wrong.
And feared to look policemen in the face.
And all was dim: the streets were grey and wet
ROBERT HUCHAXAX.
After a rainy night, and all was still;
I held my shawl around me with a chill,
And dropt my eyes from every face I met;
Until the streets began to fade, the road
Grew fresh and clean and wide.
Fine houses where the gentlefolk abode,
And gardens full of flowers, on every side,
That made me walk the quicker â on, on, on â
As if I were asleep with half-shut eyes.
And all at once I saw, to my surprise,
The houses of the gentlefolk were gone,
And I was standing still.
Shading my face, upon a high green hill,
And the bright sin was blazing.
And all the blue above me seemed to melt
To burning, flashing gold, while I was gazing
On the great smoky cloud where I had dwelt.
I'll ne'er forget that day. All was so bright
And strange. Upon the grass around my feet
The rain had hung a million drops of light;
The air, too, was so clear and warm and sweet.
It seemed a sin to breathe it. All around
Were hills and fields and trees that trembled through
A burning blazing fire of gold and blue;
And there was not a sound.
Save a bird, singing, in the skies,
And the soft wind, that ran along the ground,
And blew full sweetly on my lips and eyes.
Then, with my heavy hand upon my chest,
Because the bright air pained me, trembling, sighing.
ROBERT 15UCIIANAN.
I stole into a dewy field to rest,
And oh! the j^reen, green grass where I was lying
Was fresh and living â and the bird sang loud,
Out of a golden cloud â
And I was looking up at him and crying!
How swift the hours slipt on! â and by and bye
The sun grew red, big shadows filled the sky.
The air grew damp with dew.
And the dark night was coming down, I knew.
Well, I was more afraid than ever then,
And felt that I should die in such a place, â
So back to London town I turned my face,
And crept into the great black streets again;
And when I breathed the smoke and heard the roar,
Why, I was better, for in London here
My heart was busy, and I felt no fear.
I never saw the country any more.
And I have stayed in London, well or ill â
I would not stay out yonder if I could.
For one feels dead, and all looks pure and good â
I could not bear a life so bright and still.
All that I want is sleep.
Under the Hags and stones, so deep, so deep!
God won't be hard on one so mean, but He,
Perhaps, will let a tired girl slumber sound
There in the deep cold darkness underground;
And I shall waken up in time, may be.
Better and stronger, not afraid to see
The great still Light that folds Him round and round!
See! there's the sunset creeping through the pane â
453
ROBERT BUCHANAN,
How cool and moist it looks amid the rain ] like to hear the slashing of the drops On the house-tops,
And the loud humming of the folk that go
Along the Streets below!
I like the smoke and roar â I am so bad;
They make a low one hard, and still her cares.
There's Joe! I hear his foot upon the stairs!
He must be wet, poor lad!
He will be angry, like enough, to find
Another little life to clothe and keep;
But show him baby, Parson, speak him kind â
And tell him Doctor thinks I'm going to sleep.
A hard, hard life is his! He need be strong
And rough to earn his bread and get along.
I think he will be sorry when I go,
And leave the little one and him behind.
I hope he'll see another to his mind.
To keep him straight and tidy â poor old Joe!
454
W. C. BENNET.
Baby's Shoes.
Oh, those little, those little blue slices!
Those shoes that no little feet use;
Oh, the price were high That those shoes would buy.
Those little blue unused shoes 1
For they hold the small shape of feet That no more their mother's eyes meet;
That, by God's good will.
Years since grew still.
And ceased from their totter so sweet.
For they mind her for evermore Of a patter along the lloor;
And blue eyes she sees Look up from her knees.
With the look that in life they wore.
As they lie before her there.
There babbles from chair to chair A little sweet face,
That's a gleam in the place,
With its little gold curls of hair!
Then, oh, wonder not that her heart From all else would rather part.
Than those tiny blue shoes That no little feet use.
And whose sight makes such fond tears start.
CHARLES KENT.
Born 1S23.
The Dying Bride-groom.
The lattice trembled open.
And cool the summer air,
Through the woodbine wafting sweetness, Stirred the dying student's hair.
And, on evening's purple silence streamed His voice, breathed like a prayer.
quot;Come nearer, Alice, nearer.
Lay your hand upon my brow;
I am free from suffering, dearest
And my thoughts are calmer now,
And I love to feel you clinging
Like the blossom to the bough.
quot;Let me clasp your blessèd fingers â There â I press them to my lips;
They are thin with all this watching. How Time's sand too glibly slips;
Mine were warmer when my fancies Felt the fever's dire eclipse.
CHARLES KENT.
quot;Nay, slmdder not so wildly:
It is past, that gloomy strife!
All my mind's delirum vanished With this ebbing out of life;
I'm a very child in weakness now, My gentle-hearted wife!
quot;Draw your arm around my shoulders so, And let me lay my head,
Weary â weary, love, but loving.
On your breast â my sweetest bed;
And perhaps sometimes you'll fancy me Still here when I am dead,
quot;Will you find it very lonely.
When, the twilight drawing round,
You shall watch my empty corner On our hearth's beloved ground.
And you pause to hear â alas! in vain â My tongue's familiar sound?
quot;Oh, weep not, Alice weep not!
I cannot bear those tears;
I would stanch them with my kisses, And dispel your bitter fears.
With our memories of bygone hours, And hopes of happy years.
How sweet the breezy vesper
Spreads abroad its faint perfumes.
Fanning through the open window.
457
CHARLES KENT.
Where the honeysuckle blooms!
Think you, Alice, there are blossoms Such as those among the tombs?
Nay, do not shut the lattice,
For the mild air sheds a balm O'er my temples. 'Tls not chilling;
And the eve is hushed and calm. And its fitful murmur rises
With the sadness of a psalm.
quot; Hark! the village bells are chiming â Do you hear them down the dale? They were joyful once, belovèd,
When they told our wedding tale; But their merry sounds ring harshly now With tones of no avail.
quot;To me their plaintive music,
As they vibrate to and fro,
In the ivied belfry swinging.
When the winds of evening blow. Seems like the solemn dirges sung O'er friends gone years ago.
quot;Vet think not idle sorrows
Such as these I can now feel; No, my heart's adored treasure!
Other griefs around me steal, â Thoughts of agonized affection Broken words but half reveal.
CHARLES KENT. 459
quot;I am thinking, O my fairest!
Of those days almost divine When to these poor arms that beauty
You were willing to resign.
When your virgin faith you plighted,
And I found you â Alice â mine!
quot;Mine, unworthy in my weakness;
Mine, though humbly I could own Not a rood of fair possessions
Where the leaves of God are grown: Mine, though poorest and obscurest â
Mine, My Alice, mine alone!
quot;Brief but priceless are the moments
That have vanished since that morn When Sweet! hither to our cottage
From the bridal you were borne;
Scarce, since then, three moons have ripened Milky greenness in the corn.
quot;It has pleased the God who made us
In His wisdom to afford But few glimpses of that rapture
That we dreamt of and adored.
When you chose me from all others For your proud though lowly lord.
quot;Yet with all my pangs of anguish,
Whiie I see you by my side,
Looking down with tender patience
J
CHARLES KENT.
On the love by death denied,
I am filled with glad emotions,
O my glory! O my bride!
quot;All the fame I yearned to vanquish.
This frail mind no more may seek.
Clasp me nearer to your bosom â
Let me kiss your pallid cheek.
O my Alice, grief is stronger.
Though my failing voice be weak.
quot; But the chalice of my sorrows God is filling to the brim.
Kiss my forehead, Alice, quickly.
For my eyes are growing dim;
Kiss my lips, love â closer, closer, closer, Oh, my senses faint and swim!quot;
She is bending o'er him fondly.
Shedding fast the briny rain;
On his heart her palm she presses;
And â like madness in her brain â
Feels, O God! it beat no longer,
Knows it ne'er can throb again.
DEAN ALFORD. 1810â1871.
Peace.
I have found peace in the bright earth. And in the sunny sky;
By the low voice of summer seas, And where streams murmur by.
I find it in the quiet tone Of voices that I love;
By the flickering of a twilight fire, And in a leafless grove.
I And it in the silent flow Of solitary thought;
In calm, half-meditated dreams , And reasoning self-taught.
But seldom have I found such peace. As in the soul's deep joy
Of passing onward, free from harm, Through every day's employ.
If gems we seek we only tire.
And lift our hopes too high,
The constant flowers that line our way Alone can satisfy.
W I L LI A M HO W I T T. 1796â1879.
Midsummer Musings.
It is the summer of the fleeting year,
On the brown sward the flowers are faint and few; All songs are hushed, and but the clear halloo And larum of the bird-boy reach the ear.
Through the warm air floats far the lime's perfume, But wayside boughs have lost the rose's bloom.
The corn is golden on a thousand slopes.
All crisply rustling to the living breeze;
And 'mid the billowy sound of summer trees I wander, pondering on departed hopes;
Nor hopes alone, but pleasant lives departed, â I walk alone â for I am lonely hearted.
What of those blest affections have I found,
Which life should ripen like its summer corn,
Which has not from my feeble grasp been torn.
Of all the love with which young wife was crowned? Hearts which if 1 should seek, I know not where To find their graves â yet have they long been there.
WILLIAM HOW ITT.
These fell away like leaves when life was new,
Smitten by that blight which to the fairest clings; And though I have lived on through many springs, No greenness follows where those first buds grew.
Still glows the heart, but glows without the power To give or gain the freshness of that hour.
Yet why should I be sad? â for Nature spreads Her wealth before me daily; from her heart,
Doth joys, proud thoughts, sweet sympathies impart, Which I drink in as one who nothing dreads.
Fearless that hers, like man's weak mind should fall, Her face should darken, or her pleasures pall.
Yet why should I be sad? for I have found One true companion, â one dear soul is mine,
Whose converse still doth soothe, arouse, refine; And on my hearth there is a cheerful sound Of lightsome feet, and tones that in my ears Ring like the hopes and joys of other years.
Then, though the false depart, the weak descend. Though lights, which seemed immortal, cease to bum, Though it be mine with bitter tears to mourn Life's sorest sight â a soul â debasèd friend;
Firm is my faith in truth and virtue's lot,
Though thousands feign, and myriads feel them not.
463
ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. 1844â1881.
The Fountain Of Tears.
If you go over desert and mountain,
Far into the country of sorrow,
To-day and to-night and to-morrow,
And may be for months and for years; You shall come, with a heart that is bursting. For trouble and toiling and thirsting.
You shall certainly come to the fountain At length, â to the Fountain of Tears.
Very peaceful the place is, and solely For piteous lamenting and sighing.
And those who come living or dying.
Alike from their hopes and their fears;
Full of cypress-like shadows the place is. And statues that cover their faces:
But out of the gloom springs the holy And beautiful Fountain of Tears.
And it flows and it flows with a motion So gentle and lovely and listless, And murmurs a tune so resistless To him who hath suffered and hears â
465
You shall surely â without a word spoken, Kneel down there and know your heart broken, And yield to the long curbed emotion That day by the Fountain of Tears.
For it grows and it grows as though leaping
Up higher the more one is thinking;
And ever its tunes go on sinking
More poignantly into the ears:
Yea, so blessed and good seems that fountain
Reached after dry desert and mountain.
You shall fall down at length in your weeping
And bathe your sad face in the tears.
Then, alas! while you lie there a season,
And sob between living and dying,
And give up the land you were trying
To find 'mid your hopes and your fears;
â O the world shall come up and pass o'er you:
Strong men shall not care to stay for you,
Nor wonder indeed for what reason
Your way should seem harder than theirs.
But perhaps, while you lie, never lifting Your cheek from the wet leaves it presses, Not caring to raise your wet tresses.
And look how the cold world appears, â O perhaps the mere silences round you â All things in that place grief hath found you, Yea, e'en to the clouds o'er you drifting. May soothe you somewhat through your tears.
3°
ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.
You may feel, when a falling leaf brushes Your face, as though someone had kissed you Or think at least someone who missed you Hath sent you a thought, â if that cheers: Or a bird's little song, faint and broken, May pass for a tender word spoken:
â Enough, while around you there rushes That life-drowning torrent of tears.
And the tears shall glow faster and faster.
Brim over, and baffle resistance.
And roll down bleared paths to each distance
Of past desolation and years;
Till they cover the place of each sorrow.
And leave you no past and no morrow:
For what man is able to master
And stem the great Fountain of Tears?
But the floods of the tears meet and gather; The sound of them all grows like thunder;
â O, into what bosom, I wonder,
Is poured the whole sorrow of years? For Eternity only seems keeping Account of the great human weeping: May God then, the Maker and Father â May He find a place for the tears!
GERALD MASSE Y. Born 1S28.
Hope On, Hope Ever.
Hope on, hope ever! though to-day be dark,
The sweet sunburst may smile on thee to-morrow: Tho' thou art lonely, there's an eye will mark Thy loneliness, and guerdon all thy sorrow!
Tho' thou must toil 'mong cold and sordid men,
With none to echo back thy thought, or love thee, Cheer up, poor heart! thou dost not beat in vain, For God is over all, and heaven above thee â
Hope on, hope ever.
The iron may enter in and pierce thy soul.
But cannot kill the love within thee burning: The tears of misery, thy bitter dole.
Can never quench thy true heart's seraph yearning For better things: nor crush thy ardour's trust.
That Error from the mind shall be uprooted.
That Truths shall dawn as flowers spring from the dust. And love be cherisht where Hate was embruted!
Hope on, hope ever.
I know 'tis hard to bear the sneer and taunt, â
With the heart's honest pride at midnight wrestle;
GERALD MASSY.
To feel the killing canker-worm of Want,
While rich rogues in their stolen luxury nestle;
For I have felt it. Yet from Earth's cold Real My soul looks out on coming things,
and cheerful
The warm Sunrise floods all the land Ideal, And still it whispers to the worn and tearful, Hope on, hope ever.
Hope on, hope ever! after darkest night.
Comes, full of loving life, the laughing Morning;
Hope on, hope ever! Spring-tide, flusht with light. Aye crowns old Winter with her rich adorning.
Hope on, hope ever! yet the time shall come.
When man to man shall be a friend and brother;
And this old world shall be a happy home.
And all Earth's family love one another 1 Hope on, hope ever.
A Glimpse Of Auld Lang Syne.
Earth, sparkling Bride-like, bares her bosom to the nestling Night, Who hath come down in glory from the golden halls of light;
Ten thousand tender, starry eyes smile o'er the world at r;st. The weary world â husht like an infant on its mother's breast!
The great old hills thrust up their foreheads in rich sleeping light: How humbly-grand, and still they stand, worshipping God to-night
GERALD MASSY.
The flowers have hung their cups with gems of their own sweetness
[wrought.
And muse and smile upon their stems, in ecstasy of thought:
They have banqueted on beauty, at the fragant Eve's red lips, And fold in charmed rest, with crowns upon their velvet tips.
No green tide sweeps the sea of leaves, no wind-sigh stirs the sod, While Holiness broods dove-like on the soul, begetting God.
Sweet hour! thou wak'st the feeling that we never know by day, For angel eyes look down, and read the spirit 'neath the clay:
Even while I listen, music stealeth in upon my soul, As though adown heaven's stair of stars, the seraph-harpings
[stole â
Or if I could grasp the immortal part of life, and soar, and soar. Such strong wings take me, and my heart hath found such
[hidden lore 1
It flings aside the weight of years, and lovingly goes back, To that sweet time, the dear old days, that glisten on its track!
Life's withered leaves grow green again, and fresh with Child-
[hood's spring,
As I am welcomed back once more within its rainbow ring: â
The Past, with all its gathered charms, beckons me back in joy, And loving hearts, and open arms, reclasp me as a boy.
The voices of the Loved and Lost are stirring at my heart, And memory's misered treasures leap to life, with sudden start, â
469
GERALD MASSY.
As through her darkened windows, warm and glad sunlight
[creeps in,
And Lang-Syne, glimpst in glorious tears, my toil-worn soul
[doth win.
Thou art looking, smiling on me, as thou hast lookt and smiled,
[Mother,
And I am sitting by thy side, at heart a very child, Mother!
I'm with thee now in soul, sweet Mother, much as in those hours, When all my wealth was in thy love, and in the birds and flowers;
When the long summer days were short, for my glad soul to live The golden fulness of the bliss, each happy hour could give;
When Heaven sang to my innocence, and every leafy grove. And forest ached with music, as a young heart aches with love;
When life oped like a flower, where clung my lips, to qua.T its
[honey,
And joys thronged like a shower of gold king-cups in meadows
[sunny.
I'll tell thee. Mother! since we met, stern changes have come
[o'er me;
Then life smiled like a paradise, the world was all before me.
O! I was full of trusting faith, and, in my glee and gladness. Deemed not that others had begun as bright, whose end was
[madness.
I knew not smiles could light up eyes, like Sunset's laughing glow On some cold stream, which burns above, while all runs dark below;
47°
GERALD MASSY.
That on Love's summer sea, great souls go down, while some,
[grown cold,
Seal up affection's living spring, and sell their love for gold;
How they on whom we'd staked the heart forget the early vow, And they who swore to love through life would pass all coldly now;
How, in the soul's dark hour, Love's temple-veil is rent in twain, And the heart quivers thorn-crowned on the cross of fiery pain.
And shattered idols, broken dreams, come crowding on my brain, As speaks the spirit-voice of days that never come again.
It tells of golden moments lost â heart seared â blind passion's
[thrall;
Life's spring-tide blossoms run to waste. Love's honey turned
[to gall.
It tells how many and often high resolve and purpose strong, Shaped on the anvil of my heart, have failed upon my tongue.
I left thee. Mother, in sweet May, the merry month of flowers, To toil away in dusky gloom the golden summer hours.
I left my world of love behind, with soul for life a-thirsting, My burning eyelid dropt no tear, although my heart was bursting,
For I had knit my soul to climb, with poverty its burden; Give me but time, O give me time, and I would win the guerdon.
Ah! Mother! many a heart that all my aspiration cherisht. Hath fallen in the trampling strife, and in the life-march perisht.
47'
GERALD MASSY.
We see the bleeding victims lie upon the world's grim Altar, And one by one young feelings die, and dark doubts make us
falter.
Mother, the world hath wreakt its part on me, with scathing
power,
Yet the best life that heaves my heart runs for thee at this hour;
And by these holy yearnings, by these eyes with sweet tears wet, I know there wells a spring of love through all my being yet.
472
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD. 17S9â1855.
Cunigunda's Vow.
Albert. Cunigunda,
Hast thou not sworn to yield thy hand to none Save him who rides unscathed around these steep And narrow walls? Is not that oath proclaimed On earth, and registered in heaven?
Cunigunda. Aias!
Albert. And I too have a vow recorded there To do this deed or perish.
Cunigunda. Oh, go not!
Not yet! not yet!
Albert. Why should I dally?
Cunigunda. A month, a little month! Thou wilt not? Then A week, a day, an hour! Grant but such respite As the poor sentenced criminal may claim When he craves time for prayer. â Oh, go not yet! Not yet! noc yet!
Albert. Is this the soft relenting
Of woman's tender heart to all whom pain Or danger threaten? Didst thou thus implore Henry of Cassel? or the gentle boy.
Young Rudolf of Thuringia?
mary russell mitford.
Cunigunda. No, Oil, frown not,
Xor turn away thy head, nor snatch thy hand From mine! They knew the peril that they braved, And they would brave that peril. Canst thou blame me That I ne'er loved afore ? that I love now ? Oh, go not, Albert ?
ALBERT. Lady I am bound
By a strong fettering vow. â If I return This hand is mine?
Cunigunda. Ay, hand and heart. Yet go not!
Beseech thee, stay with me!
Albert. When I come back
Thou art wholly mine?
Cunigunda. Ay, ay. Hut go not yet!
Albert. Mine to dispose even as I will?
Cunigunda. Ay, dearest,
Even as thou wilt. But stay with me awhile!
Stay! stay! (Exit Albert,.
Editha. He's gone!
Cunigunda. Oh, stop him! Say I beg!
Say I command! Fly! tly !
(Exit Otto).
And yet my oath,
My fatal, fatal oath! Without such trial We may not wed. But, oh, to see him dashed,
474
As they have been, from off the wall and lain A pale disfigured corse â Oh, horror! horror!
Cunigunda. Old man, art thou turned flatterer? He'll perish.
MARY RUSSELL MITFORD.
Ernest. I beheld the manèged steed
Ascend the steep and narrow stair; a steed Of Araby, light-limbed and fine, with eyes Of living fire half starting from his slim And veiny head; a hot and mettled steed;
Yet, trained to such obedience, that each motion Of the swift foot seemed guided by the will Of the bold rider, even as they had been One and incorporate. If man may achieve This perilous deed, the Falcon Knight alone â
Cunigunda. Ernest, thou shalt have lands enow to make Thyself a belted knight! Now blessings on thee That bring'st me hope! â but Edith, Geremde, Otto, Why come they not? I could have won to Prague And back, in half the time. Why come they not?
Good tidings find swift messengers. Alas! I fear, I fear!
Ernest. Shall I go seek them?
Cunigunda. No.
The abyss, the dread abyss, where the old wall Shelving, and steep, and crumbling overhangs The vale of Hirschberg from such dizzying height As never plummet fathomed, â that abyss â
Henry of Cassel there, and the good knight Of Olmutz â Oh, I have been cruel, Ernest,
475
And for my sins he'll die! to punish me He'll die! he'll die!
Editha. The leap is past. The Falcon Knight is safe.
mary russell miïford.
CüNIGUNDA. My Editha,
Ask what thou wilt of me. Was ever woman So blest before! The Falcon Knight is mine,
Mine own, and I am his. Oh, thanks to Heaven! Now, ye that called my vow cruel and rash,
What say ye now?
Ernest. Alas! dear lady, still
I grieve for them that â
Cunigunda. Talk not of them. Think
What were a thousand such as they, compared With the bold Falcon Knight! â Editha, Gertrude, Alberth will come to claim his bride; wipe off These blistering tears, braid this dishevelled hair.
Adjust my wimple and my veil; â my knight Will come to claim his bride.
(Enter Sir Albert aud a Page).
He comes! away!
I was a fool to think of vanity.
He will not love his Cunigunda less That she hath lain on the stone floor in prayer And tearful agony, whilst he hath dared This perilous deed. â Albert!
Albert (to the Page). Lead Saladin
Gently around the court. He trembles still At the o'ermastered danger.
Cunigunda. Albert!
Albert (still to the Page). Loosen The foaming bit. It is a matchless steed.
Cunigunda. Oh, matchless! matchless! I myself would be His groom. But, Albert! â
mary russell m1tf0rd.
477
Albert.
When he's cooler, bid
Thy comrade, Jerome, ride him back to Prague. Bring thou another courser straight. The day
(Exit Page).
Wears on.
cunigunda. Albert.
Sir Albert! Madam?
Hast thou not
cuxigunda.
A word for Cunijjunda? Dost thou stand There, like some breathing marble in thy cold,
Stern , haughty beauty, mute and motionless,
With arms close-folded and down-gazing eyes, No thought for Cunigunda, not a word For her whom thou hast won, not even a look?
Dost thou not claim me, Albert?
Albert. Lady, no.
I have a wife â ay, start and tremble! turn
As pale as winter snows! feel every pang
That thou hast caused and scorned! â I have a wife,
A sweet and gracious woman; beautiful
Beyond all beauty, for the blush of love.
The smile of kindness, and the dancing light
Of those joy-kindling eyes in whose bright play
The innocent spirit revels, blend their spell
With features delicate as lily-bells,
A shape more graceful than the clustering vine.
Talk of thy stately charms! At Ida's side
Thou would'st show coarse and sunburnt, as the brown
And rugged elm beside the beech.
Ay, shrink and tremble! hide thy burning cheeks
Within thy quivering hands! Wilt thou hear more? â
mary russell mitford.
This lovely loving wife, my three year's bride,
And twice a mother, â oh, none ever bent With such a grace as she o'er sleeping babes So like the Cherubim! â This wife, so fair So sweet, so womanly, whose pitying heart Would ache to see a sparrow die, this wife I love.
Cuxini nda. Why, then â oh, cruel!
Albert. Dar'st thou talk
Of cruelty, proud murderess, whose meed For true love hath been death? Whose sinful vow Slew the most gracious boy of all the earth.
The hope and pride and joy of his high line â
Young Rudolf of Thuiingia, my dear brother.
My dear and only brother?
Ernest. 'Tis Duke Albert!
Yet pity her! See how she smites her brow,
And tears her raven hair!
Albert. Where was her pity
When that fair boy â Murderess, 'tis Rudolf's brother
That speaks to thee. When first I heard that tale.
Several revenges â deadly, bloody, fierce.
All that the body can endure of keen
And lengthened agony, the rack, the wheel
The stake, rushed through my brain, but they had been
A poor and trivial vengeance, all unmeet
For such o'erwhelming wrong; my cunning hate
Hath found a more enduring curse. Thou lov'st me.
Thou lov'st me, Cunigunda, with the hot
Wild passion of thy nature, and I scorn thee!
Thou art contemned and loathed by whom thou lov'st
47»
mary russell mitford.
Won and abandoned; spurned and thrown aside Like an infected garment! The plaguespot Of sin is on thee, woman; blackest shame Shall follow like thy shadow. 'Twas for this I donned the mask of courtship; for this trained My faithful steed. Thy worthless hand is mine; â Nay, touch me not, hang not about my knees, â
Mine to bestow. Some horse-boy of my train Shall prove thy fitting partner.
Editha. Oh, for pity!
For manly pity, good my lord, break not The bruised flower.
Cunigunda. Be silent, Editha,
I have deserved all evil. Deal with me Even as thou wilt, Duke Albert. I've deserved Thy hate â but soon my heart â my bursting heart â Deal with me as thou wilt. 'Twill not be long.
Albert. Nay, then Rise, Cunigunda! Lift thy face From off the ground, and listen. I'll not break The bruisèd flower. Live and repent. In prayer And pious penance live. The cloister cell Were thy meet refuge. By to-morrow's dawn Go join the Carmelites at Prague. For them Who died untimely, for thyself, for me.
And for my children pray. â Now home. Sir Page. My steed! my steed! (Exeunt).
479
AMERICAN POETS.
EDGAR ALLAN POE. iSogâ1S49.
Annabel Lee.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love and be loved by me.
I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love
I and my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsmen came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven
Went envying her and me â
â Yes! â that was the reason (as all men know
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night. Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those that were older than we â
Of many far wiser than we â
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night tide, I lie down by the side Of my darling â my darling â my life and my bride. In the sepulchre there by the sea.
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
The Raven.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary. Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore â While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping. As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door â Only this and nothing more.quot;
Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; â vainly had I sought to borrow. From my books surcease of sorrow â sorrow for the lost Lenore â For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore â Nameless here for evermore.
4S4
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me, filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, quot;Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door â Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; â This it is and nothing more.quot;
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, quot;Sir,'' said I, quot;or Madam, truly your foregiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping: and so gently you came rapping. And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you.quot; Here I opened wide the door,â Darkness there and nothing more.
Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
[fearing.
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token. An d the only word there spoken was the whispered word quot;Lenorequot;. This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word quot;Lenorequot;! Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my heart within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before, quot;Surely,quot; said I, quot;Surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore â Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; â 'Tis the wind and nothing more.quot;
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayedhe;
485
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door â Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door â Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stem decorum of the countenance it wore, quot; Though thy crest be shorn and shaven , thou,quot; I said, quot; art sure
[no craven,
Ghastly, grim, and Ancient Raven wandering from the nightly
[shore:
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore!quot; Quoth the Raven quot;Nevermorequot;.
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning â relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door â Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as quot;Nevermorequot;.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did out-pour. Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered â Till I scarcely more than muttered; Other friends have flown
[before â
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.quot; Then the bird said, quot;Nevermorequot;.
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, â quot;Doubtless,quot; said I, quot;what it utters is its stock and store; Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
486
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore. â Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of quot;Never â Nevermore!quot;
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust
[and door,
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore â Meant in croaking quot;Nevermorequot;.
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl, whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,â But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er She shall press â ah, Nevermore!
Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen
[censer,
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor. quot;Wretch!quot; I cried, quot;thy God hath lent thee, by these angels
[he hath sent thee Respite â respite and nepenthe from thy memories ofLenore! Quaff, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!quot; Qucth the Raven quot;Nevermorequot;.
quot; Prophet!quot; said I, quot; thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil! â By that heaven that bends above us â by that God we both adore â Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within that distant Aidenn, I shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore.quot; Quoth the Raven quot;Nevermorequot;.
4S7
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
quot;Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend, I shrieked,
[upstarting â
Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off
[my door! quot;
Quoth the Raven quot;Nevermorequot;.
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming; And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on
[the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the rioor Shall be lifted â nevermore!
488
LYDIA HUNTLY SIGOURNEY. 1791â1865.
The early Blue-bird.
Blue-bird! on yon leafless tree,
Dost thou carol thus to me,
quot;Spring is coming! Spring is here!quot; Say'st thou so, my birdie dear?
What is that, in misty shroud. Stealing from the darken'd cloud? Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound Settles o'er the whitened ground, Yet thou singest, blithe and clear, quot;Spring is coming! Spring is here!quot;
Strik'st thou not too bold a strain? Winds are piping o'er the plain ; Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky With a black and threatening eye; Urchins, by the frozen rill,
Wrap their mantels closer still; Yon poor man, with doubtlet old, Doth he shiver at the cold?
Hath he not a nose of blue ?
Tell me, birdling, tell me true.
LYDIA HUNTLY SIGOURNEY.
Spring's a maid of mirth and glee, Rosy wreaths and revelry:
Hast thou wooed some winged love To a nest in verdant grove?
Sung to her of greenwood bower, Sunny skies that never lower?
Lured her with thy promise fair Of a lot that knows no care? Pr'ythee, bird, in coat of blue, Though a lover, tell her true.
Ask her if, when storms are long, She can sing a cheerful song?
When the rude winds rock the tree. If she'll closer cling to thee?
Then the blasts that sweep the sky, Unappalled shall pass thee by; Though thy curtained chamber show Siftings of untimely snow.
Warm and glad thy heart shall be. Love shall make it Spring for thee.
490
WALDO EMERSON. 1S03â1SS2.
Good-bye proud World!
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home Thou art not my friend; I am not thine: Too long through weary crowds I roam: â A river ark on the ocean brine,
Too long I am tossed like the driven foam; But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face; To Grandeur with his wise grimace: To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street. To frozen hearts, and hasting feet.
To those who go, and those who come, Good-bye proud world, I'm going home.
I go to seek my own heart-stone.
Bosomed in yon green hills alone;
A secret lodge in a pleasant land.
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned, Where arches green, tiie livelong day Echo the blackbird's roundelay.
RALPH
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
And evil men have never trod A sgot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome; And when I am stretched beneath the pines Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all in their high conceit. When man in the bush with God may meet?
The humble Bee.
Burly dozing humble bee!
Where thou art is clime for me, Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek, I will follow thee alone.
Thou animated torrid rone!
Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines.
Insect lover of the sun Joy of thy dominion!
Sailor of the atmosphere.
Swimmer through the waves of air. Voyager of light and noon,
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Epicurean of June,
Wait, I prithee, till I come Within ear-shot of thy hum, â All without is martyrdom.
When the south wind, in May days. With a net of shining haze,
Silvers the horizon wall.
And, with softness touching all.
Tints the human countenance With a colour of romance. And, infusing subtle heats.
Turns the sod to violets, â
Thou in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace With thy mellow breezy bass.
Hot midsummer's petted crone.
Sweet to me thy breezy tone.
Telling of countless sunny hours.
Long days, and solid banks of flowers, Of gulfs of sweetness without bound In Indian wildernesses found.
Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure. Firmest cheer and bird-like pleasure.
Aught unsavoury or unclean Hath my insect never seen;
But violets and bilberry bells.
Maple sap and daffodils,
493
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Grass with green flag half-mist high, Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey.
Scented fern and agrimony.
Clover, catch-fly, adder's tongue. And briar-roses, dwelt among; All beside was unknown waste.
All was picture as he passed.
Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher!
Seeing only what is fair,
Sipping only what is sweet.
Thou dost mock at fate and care.
Leave the chaff and take the wheat, When the fierce north-western blast Cools sea and land so far and fast. Thou already, slumberest deep, â Woe and want thou canst out-sleep, â Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous.
Dirge.
Knows he who tills this lonely field
To reap its scanty corn.
What mystic fruit his acres yield At midnight and at morn?
494
RALPH quot;WALDO EMERSOX.
In the long sunny afternoon.
The plain was full of ghosts,
I wandered up, I wandered down,
Beset by pensive hosts.
The winding boncord gleamed below
Pouring as wide a flood As when my brothers, long ago.
Came with me to the wood.
But they are gone â the holy ones
Who trod with me this lonely vale, The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low and pale.
My good, my noble in their prime.
Who made this world the feast it was. Who learned with me the lore of Time, Who loved this dwelling â place;
They took this valley for their toy.
They played with it in every mood, A cell for prayer, a hall for joy.
They treated Nature as they would.
They coloured the whole horizon round. Stars flamed and faded as they bade All echoes hearkened for their sound.
They made the woodlands glad or mad.
I touch this flower of silken leaf
Which once our childhood knew.
495
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew.
Hearken to yon pine warbler,
Singing aloft in the tree;
Harkest thou, O traveller!
What he singeth to me?
Not unless God made sharp thine ear With sorrow such as mine,
Out of that delicate lay couldst thou Its heavy tale divine.
Go, lonely man,'* it saith,
quot;They loved thee from their birth.
Their hands were pure, and pure their faith There are no such hearts on earth.
quot;Ye drew one mother's milk.
One chamber held ye all.
A very tender history
Did in your childhood fall.
quot;Ye cannot unlock your heart.
The key is gone with them;
The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem.quot;
496
WILLIAM GULLEN BRYANT. 1794â1878.
The close of Autumn.
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year: Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sere. Heaped in the hollows of the grove the withered leaves lie dead, They rustle to the eddying gust and to the rabbit's head. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.
Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung
[and stood.
In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
Alas! they all are in their graves â the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours; The rain is falling where they lie â but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.
The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died, amid the summer's glow; But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood. And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague
[on men.
And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade,
[and glen.
32
49S
And now when comes the calm mild day â as still such days
[will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the
[trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragance late
[he bore.
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream nc more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died. The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours. So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
An Indian Story.
I know where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell.
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides. With its many stems and its tangled sides.
From the eye of the hunter well.
I know where the young May violet grows,
In its lone and lowly nook.
On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose.
Far over the silent brook.
WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT.
And that timid fawn starts not with, fear,
When I steal to her secret bower,
And that young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower.
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting-ground on the hills;
'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks,
With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase â but evil eyes
Are at watch in the thicker shades;
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs.
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize. The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred.
And the woods their song renew.
With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew.
And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,
Ere eve shall redden the sky,
A good red deer from the forest shade.
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade. At her cabin door shall lie.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun.
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;
499
498
And now when comes the calm mild day â as still such days
[will come,
To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the
[trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragance late
[he bore.
And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.
And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died. The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast tie leaf. And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief; Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
An Indian Story.
I know where the timid fawn abides
In the depths of the shaded dell.
Where the leaves are broad, and the thicket hides. With its many stems and its tangled sides,
From the eye of the hunter well.
I know where the young May violet grows,
In its lone and lowly nook,
On the mossy bank, where the larch tree throws Its broad dark boughs, in solemn repose.
Far over the silent brook.
WILLIAM CI LLEX 11RVANT.
And that timid fawn starts not with fear,
When I steal to her secret bower,
And that young May violet to me is dear,
And I visit the silent streamlet near,
To look on the lovely flower.
Thus Maquon sings as he lightly walks
To the hunting-ground on the hills;
'Tis a song of his maid of the woods and rocks. With her bright black eyes and long black locks, And voice like the music of rills.
He goes to the chase â but evil eyes
Are at watch in the thicker shades;
For she was lovely that smiled on his sighs.
And he bore, from a hundred lovers, his prize, The flower of the forest maids.
The boughs in the morning wind are stirred.
And the woods their song renew,
With the early carol of many a bird,
And the quickened tune of the streamlet heard Where the hazels trickle with dew.
And Maquon has promised his dark-haired maid,
Ere eve shall redden the sky,
A good red deer from the forest shade,
That bounds with the herd through grove and glade, At her cabin door shall lie.
The hollow woods, in the setting sun,
Ring shrill with the fire-bird's lay;
499
WILLIAM GULLEN BRYANT.
And Maquon's sylvan labours are done,
And his shafts are spent, but the spoil they won He bears on his homeward way.
He stops near his bower â his eye perceives
Strange traces along the ground â At once, to the earth his burden he heaves. He breaks through the veil of boughs and leaves, And gains its door with a bound.
But the vines are torn on its walls that leant. And all from the young shrubs there By struggling hands have the leaves been rent, And there hangs on the sassafras broken and bent One tress of the well-known hair.
But where is she who at this calm hour
Ever watched his coming to see?
She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower; He calls, but he only hears on the flower The hum of the laden bee.
It is not a time for idle grief.
Nor a time for tears to flow;
The horror that freezes his limbs is brief â He grasps his war axe and bow, and a sheaf Of darts made sharp for the foe.
And he looks for the print of the ruffian's feet,
Where he bore the maiden away;
And he darts on the fatal path more fleet Than the blast that hurries the vapour and sleet O'er the wild November day.
5°°
WILLIAM GULLEN BRYANT.
'Twas early summer when Maquon's bride Was stolen away from his door;
But at length the maples in crimson are dyed, And the grape is black on the cabin side, â
And she smiles at his hearth once more.
But far in a pine grove, dark and cold.
Where the yellow leaf falls not.
Nor the autumn shines in scarlet and gold,
There lies a hillock of fresh dark mould
In the deepest gloom of the spot
And the Indian girls, that pass that way.
Point out the ravisher's grave;
quot;And how soon to the bower she loved,quot; they say, quot;Returned the maid that was borne away
From Maquon, the fond and the brave.quot;
Oh, Mother of a mighty Race.
O Mother of a mighty race,
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace! The elder dames, thy haughty peers, Admire and hate thy blooming years.
With words of shame And tr.unts of scorn they join thy name.
For on thy cheeks the glow is spread That tints the morning hills with red; Thy step â the wild deer's rustling feet,
SOI
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Thy hopeful eye Is bright as thine own sunny sky.
Ay, let them rail â those haughty ones -While safe thou dwellest with thy sons. They do not know how loved thou art â How many a fond and fearless heart
Would rise to throw Its life between thee and the foe!
They know not, in their hate and pride, What virtues with thy children bide; How true, how good, thy graceful maids
What generous men Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen:
What cordial welcomes greet the guest By the lone rivers of the west;
How faith is kept, and truth revered. And man is loved, and God is feared.
In woodland homes.
And where the solemn ocean foams!
There's freedom at thy gates, and rest For earth's down-trodden and oppressed, A shelter for the hunted head.
For the starved labourer toil and bread.
Power, at the bounds.
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.
O fair young mother! on thy brow.
Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 503
Deep in the brightness of thy skies The thronging years in glory rise,
And, as they fleet,
Drop strength and riches at thy feet.
Thine eye, with every coming hour.
Shall brighten, and thy form shall tower; And when thy sisters, elder bom.
Would brand thy name with words of scorn.
Before thine eye.
Upon their lips the taunt shall die!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIE Born 1809.
Maud Miiller.
Maud Jluller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glanced to the far-off town, A\hite from its hill-slope looking down.
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast â
A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chesnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid.
JOHN CRKENLEAF WHITTIER.
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadows across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup,
And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
quot;Thanks!quot; said the Judge, quot;a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed.quot;
He spoke of the grass, and flowers, and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown;
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: quot;Ah, mel That I the Judge's bride might be!
quot;He would dress me up in silks so fine. And praise and toast me at his wine.
505
JOHN GREEXLEAF WHITTIER.
quot;My father should wear a broad-cloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.
quot;I'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day.
quot;And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door.quot;
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill. And saw Maud Muller standing still.
quot;A form more fair, a face more sweet.
Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.
quot;And her modest answer and graceful air, Show her wise and good as she is fair.
quot;Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her a harvester of hay:
quot;No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, And weary lawyers with endless tongues,
But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health of quiet and loving words.quot;
But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold. And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 507
But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.
He wedded a wife of richest dower.
Who lived for fashion as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go.
And sweet Maud Müller's hazel eyes Looked out in innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms. To dream of meadows and clover blooms.
And the proud man sighed with a secret pain : quot;Ah, that I were free again.
quot;Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.quot;
She wedded a man unlearned and poor. And many children played round her door.
But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. Left their traces on heart and brain.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
And oft when the summer sun shone hot On the new-moan hay in the meadow lot,
And she heard the little spring-brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall.
In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein:
And, gazing down with timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls;
The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned.
And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
A manly form at her side she saw. And joy was duty, and love was law.
Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, quot; It might have been ! quot;
Alas! for Maiden, alas! forjudge.
For rich repiner and household drudge!
God pity them both! and pity us all. Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
JOHN CREENLEAF WHITTIER.
For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: quot; It might have been 1quot;
Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes;
And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from its grave away!
Telling the bees.
Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took;
You can see the gap in the old wall still.
And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook.
There is the house, with the gate red-barred. And the poplars tall;
And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall.
There are the bee-hives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink
Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'er run, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink.
A year has gone, as the tortoise goes,
Heavy and slow;
And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings, of a year ago.
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
There's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm
Tangles his wings of fire in the trees,
Setting, as then, over Fernside farm.
I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat
I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair.
And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat.
Since we parted, a month had passed, â
To love, a year;
Down through the beeches I looked at last
On the little red gate and the well-sweep near.
I can see it all now, â the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves.
The sundown's blaze on her window-pane,
The bloom of her roses under the eaves.
Just the same as a month before, â
The house and the trees.
The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door. Nothing changed but the hives of bees.
Before them, under the garden wall,
⢠Forward and back.
Went drearily singing the chore-girl small,
Draping each hive with a shred of black.
Trembling, I listened; the summer sun Had the chill of snow;
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go!
Then I said to myself, quot;My Mary weeps
For the dead to-day:
Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps
The fret and the pain of his age away.quot;
But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill,
With his cane to his chin,
The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in.
And the song she was singing, ever since
In my ear sounds on: â
quot;Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!
Barbara Fritchie.
Up from the meadows, rich with corn, Clear from the cool September morn. The clustered spires of Frederick stand. Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach â tree fruited deep; Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde.
511
JOHN GREENLEAF WH1TTIER.
On that pleasant morn of the early fall, When Lee marched over the mountain wall, Over the mountains winding down.
Horse and foot, into Frederick town,
Forty flags with their silver stars.
Forty flags with their silver bars.
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Fritchie then.
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten. Bravest of all in Frederick town.
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set. To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead;
Under his slouched hat, left and right. He glanced, the old flag met his sight. quot;Halt!quot; â the dust-brown ranks stood fast; quot;Fire!quot; â out blazed the rifle blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell from the broken staff.
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window sill. And shook it forth with a royal will.
51-
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
quot;Shoot, if you must, this old grey head. But spare your country's flag,quot; she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame. Over the face of the leader came; The noble nature within him stirred To life, at that woman's deed and word.
quot;Who touches a hair of yon grey head, Dies like a dog. March on!v he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet;
All day long the free flag tossed Over the heads of the rebel host;
Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds, that loved it well;
And through the hill-gap's sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Fritchie's work is o'er.
And the rebel rides on his raid no more.
Honour to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier! Over Barbara Fritchie's grave.
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace, and order, and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below, in Frederick town!
513
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL. Born 1S19.
The Changeling.
I had a little daughter,
And she was given to me To lead me gently backward
To the Heavenly Father's knee.
That I, by the force of nature,
Might in some dim wise divine The depth of His infinite patience To this wayward soul of mine.
I know not how others saw her.
But to me she was wholly fair,
And the light of the heaven she came from Still lingered and gleamed in her hair; For it was as wavy and golden,
And as many changes took.
As the shadows of sun-gilt ripples On the yellow bed of a brook.
To what can I liken her smiling
Upon me, her kneeling lover.
How it leaped from her lips to her eye-lids, And dimpled her wholly over.
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL. 515
Till her outstretched hands smiled also,
And I almost seemed to see The very heart of her mother
Sending sun through her veins to me I
She had been with us scarce a twelvemonth,
And it hardly seemed a day,
When a troop of wandering angels Stole my little daughter away; Or perhaps those heavenly Zincali
But loosed the hampering strings And when they had opened her cage door. My little bird used her wings.
But they left in her stead a changeling,
A little angel child.
That seems like her bud in full blossom,
And smiles as she never smiled:
When I wake in the morning, I see it
Where she always used to lie,
And I feel as weak as a violet Alone 'neath the awful sky;
As weak, yet as trustful also;
For the whole year long I see All the wonders of faithful Nature
Still worked for the love of me;
Winds wander, and dews drip earthward,
Rain falls, suns rise and set.
Earth whirls, and all but to prosper A poor little violet.
5l6 JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
This child is not mine as the first was,
I cannot sing it to rest,
I cannot lift it up fatherly
And bless it upon ray breast;
Vet it lies in my little one's cradle
And sits in my little one's chair. And the light of the heaven she's gone to Transfigures its golden hair.
The Sower.
I saw a sower walking slow
Across the earth from east to west; His beard was white as mountain snow,
His head drooped forward on his breast.
With shrivelled hand he flung his seed,
Nor ever turned to look behind;
Of sight or sound he took no heed;
If seemed he was both deaf and blind.
His dim face showed no soul beneath;
Yet in my heart I felt a stir.
As if I looked upon the sheath
That once had clasped Excalibur.
I heard as still the seed he cast.
How, crooning to himself, he sung, â quot;I sow again the holy Past,
The happy days when I was young.
JAMES RCSSEL LOWELL.
quot;Then all was wheat without a tare,
Then all was righteous, fair, and true:
And I am he whose thoughtful care
Shall plant the Old World in the New.
The fruitful germs I scatter free.
With busy hand, while all men sleep;
In Europe now, from sea to sea.
The nations bless me as they reap.''
Them looked I back along his path,
And heard the clash of steel on steel.
Where man faced man, in deadly wrath,
While clanged the tocsin's hurrying peal.
The sky with burning towns flared red.
Nearer the noise of fighting rolled.
And brother's blood, by brothers shed.
Crept, curdling, over pavements cold.
Then marked I how each germ of truth
Which through the dotard's fingers ran
Was mated with a dragon's tooth
Whence there sprang up and armed man.
I shouted, but he could not hear;
Made signs, but these he could not see:
And soil, without a doubt or fear.
Broad-cast he scattered anarchy.
Long to my straining ears the blast
Brought faintly back the words he sung;
JAMES RUSSEL LCnvELL.
I sow again the holy Past,
The happy days when I was young.quot;
To the Dandelion.
Dear common flower, that growest beside the way,
Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold
First pledge of blithesome May,
Which children pluck, and full of pride, uphold.
High-hearted buccaneers, o'erjoyed that they
An Eldorado in the grass have found.
Which not the rich earth's ample round
May match in wealth, thou art more dear to me
Than all the prouder summer-blooms may be.
Gold such as thine ne'er drew the Spanish prow
Through the primeval hush of Indian seas.
Nor wrinkled the lean brow
Of age, to rob the lover's heart of ease;
'Tis the spring's largess, which she scatters now
To rich and poor alike, with lavish hand.
Though most hearts never understand
To take it at God's value, but pass by
The offered wealth with unrewarded eye.
Thou art my tropics and mine Italy;
To look at thee unlocks a warmer clime;
The eyes thou givest me
Are in the heart, and heed not space or time: Not in mid June the golden-cuirassed bee
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
Feels a more summer-like, warm ravishment In the white lily's breezy tent,
His conquered Sybaris, than I, when first From the dark green thy yellow circles burst.
Then think I of deep shadows on the grass, â Of meadows where in sun the cattle graze,
Where, as the breezes pass.
The gleaming rushes lean a thousand ways, â Of leaves that slumber in a cloudy mass,
Or whiten in the wind, â of waters blue That from the distance sparkle through * Some woodland gap, â and of a sky above,
Where one white cloud like a stray lamb doth move.
My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked with thee
The sight of thee calls back the robin's song,
Who, from the dark old tree
Beside the door, sang clearly all day long,
And I, secure in childish piety.
Listened as if I heard an augel sing
With news from heaven, which he did bring
Fresh every day to my untainted ears.
When birds and flowers and I were happy peers.
How like a prodigal doth nature seem,
When thou, for all thy gold, so common art!
Thou teachest me to deem
More sacredly of every human heart,
Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam
Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show.
519
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
Did we but pay the love we owe,
And with a child's undoubting wisdom look
On all these living pages of God's book.
Rosaline.
Thou look'dst on me all yesternight;
Thine eyes were blue, thy hair was bright As when we murmured our troth-plight Beneath the thick stars, Rosaline! Thy hair was braided on thy head As on the day we two were wed.
Mine eyes scarce knew if thou wert dead â But my shrunk heart knew, Rosaline!
The death-watch ticked behind the wall. The blackness rustled like a pall, The moaning wind did rise and fall
Among the bleak pines, Rosaline! My heart beat thickly in mine ears!
The lids may shut out freshly fears.
But still the spirit sees and hears.
Its eyes are lidless, Rosaline!
A wildness rushing suddenly,
A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die â
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline ?
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone, A strong soul trampled from its throne, â What wouldst thou further, Rosaline?
'Tis lone such moonless nights as these, Strange sounds are out upon the breeze. And the leaves shiver in the trees,
And then thou comest, Rosaline! I seem to hear the mourners go,
With long black garments trailing slow And plumes a-nodding to and fro,
As once I heard them, Rosaline!
Thy shroud it is of snowy white.
And in the middle of the night Thou standest moveless and upright,
Gazing upon me, Rosaline!
There is no sorrow in thine eyes, But evermore that meek surprise, â O God, her gentle spirit tries
To deem me guiltless, Rosaline!
Above thy grave the robin sings. And swarms of bright and happy things Flit all about with sunlit wings, â
But I am cheerless, Rosaline! The violets on the hillock toss. The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss. For Nature feels not any loss, â
But I am cheerless, Rosaline!
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
Ah! why wert thou so lowly bred?
Why was my pride galled on to wed Her who brought lands and gold instead
Of thy heart's treasure, Rosaline? Why did I fear to let thee stay To look on me and pass away Forgivingly, as in its May
A broken flower, Rosaline?
I thought not, when my dagger strook, Of thy blue eyes; I could not brook The past all pleading in one look
Of utter sorrow, Rosaline !
I did not know when thou wert dead: A blackbird whistling overhead Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled. But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!
A low, low moan, a light twig stirr'd By the upspringing of a bird,
A drip of blood, â were all I heard, â
Then deathly stillness, Rosaline!
The sun rolled down, and very soon,
Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline!
The stars came out; and one by one,
Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done: I dared not hide me Rosaline!
522
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to God's quiet sky,
I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline!
I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin
To hell and heaven, Rosaline!
But no voice came, and then it seemed As if the very corpse had screamed, The sound like sunshine glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline!
Dreams of old quiet glimmered by, And faces loved in infancy Came and looked on me mournfully,
Till my heart melted, Rosaline!
I saw my mother's dying bed,
I heard her bless me, and I shed Cool tears â but lo! the ghastly dead Stared me to madness, Rosaline!
And then , amidst the silent night I screamed with horrible delight And in my brain an auful light
Dit seem to crackle, Rosaline!
It is my curse! sweet memories fall From me like snow â and only all Of that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline!
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
Thine eyes are shut, they never more Will leap thy gentle words before To tell the secret o'er and o'er
Thou couldst not smother, Rosaline! Thine eyes are shut; they will not shine With happy tears, or, through the vine That hid thy casement, beam on mine Sunfull with gladness, Rosaline!
The voice I never more shall hear,
Which in old times did seem so dear That e'er it trembled in my ear
My quick heart heard it, Rosaline! Would I might die! I were as well, Ay, better, at my home in hell.
To set for aye a burning spell
'Twixt me and memory, Rosaline!
Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes. Wherein such blessed memories.
Such pitying forgiveness lies.
Than hate more bitter, Rosaline! Woe's me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die. And with mean clay in churchyard lie â Would God it were so, Rosaline!
524
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
The Heritage.
The rich man's son inherits lands,
And piles of brick, and stone, and gold, And he inherits soft white hands
And tender flesh that fears the cold. Nor dares to wear a garment old; A heritage, it seems to me.
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits cares;
The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares.
And soft white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me.
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
The rich man's son inherits wants,
His stomach craves for dainty fare;
With sated heart he hears the pants
Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare. And wearies in his easy-chair; A heritage, it seems to me.
One scarce would wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit;
King of two hands j he does his part In every useful toil and art;
525
JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.
A heritage it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
Wishes o'erjoyed with humble things, A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit.
Content that from employment springs, A heart that in his labour sings; A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
What doth the poor man's son inherit?
A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door, A heritage, it seems to me,
A king might wish to hold in fee.
O rich man's son! there is a toil,
That with all others level stands;
Large charity doth never soil.
But only whiten, soft white hands, â This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me.
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
O poor man's son, scorn not thy state;
There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great;
Toil only gives the soul to shine,
526
JAMES RüSSEL LOWELL. 527
And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me,
Worth being rich to hold in fee.
Both, heirs to some six feet of sod.
Are equal in the earth at last;
Both, children of the same dear God, Prove title to your heirship vast By record of a well-fill'd past; A heritage, it seems to me,
Well worth a life to hold in fee.
She came and went.
As a twig trembles which a bird
Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent. So is my memory thrilled and stirred; â I only know she came and went.
As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,
The blue dome's measureless content, So my soul held that moment's heaven; 1 only know she came and went.
As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps The orchards full of bloom and scent, So clove her May my wintry sleeps; â I only know she came and went.
JAMES RüSSEL. LOWELL.
An angel stood and met my gaze,
Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; ~ I only know she came and went.
O, when the room grows slowly dim, And life's last oil is nearly spent, One gush of light these eyes will brim, Only to think she came and went.
GEORGE
F. M ORRIS. â1864.
Woodman, spare that Tree.
Woodman, spare that Tree!
Touch not a single bow! In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot There, woodman, let it stand Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree.
Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down Woodman , forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties; O spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy
I sought its graceful shade; In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
530 GEORGE P. MORRIS.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand â Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.
My heart-strings round thee cling
Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Born 1809.
The Voiceless.
We count the broken lyres that rest Where the wailing singers slumber, â
But o'er their silent sisters' breast,
The wild flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them.
Alas for those who never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone.
Whose song has told their heart's sad story. Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross, without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow.
But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
Oh! hearts that break and give no sign.
Save whitening lips and faded tresses.
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, â
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand â Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.
My heart-strings round thee cling
Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Born 1809.
The Voiceless.
We count the broken lyres that rest Where the wailing singers slumber, â
But o'er their silent sisters' breast,
The wild flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string.
And noisy Fame is proud to win them.
Alas for those who never sing.
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone.
Whose song bas told their heart's sad story. Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross, without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow.
But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
Oh! hearts that break and give no sign,
Save whitening lips and faded tresses.
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, â
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given , What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven !
L'lnconnue.
Is thy name Mary, maiden fair?
Such should, methinks, its music be, The sweetest natae that mortals bear,
Were best befitting thee,
And she to whom it once was given, Was half of earth and half of heaven.
I hear thy voice, I see thy smile,
I look upon thy folded hair; Ah! while we dream not they beguile,
Our hearts are in the snare;
And she, who chains a wild bird's wing. Must start not if her captive sing.
So, lady, take the leaf that falls,
To all but thee unseen, unknown; When evening shades thy silent walls,
Then read it all alone;
In stillness read, in darkness seal.
Forget, despise, but not reveal!
EP ES SARGENT.
The days that are past.
We will not deplore them, the days that are past;
The gloom of misfortune is over them cast;
They are lengthened by sorrow and sullied by care;
Their griefs were too many, their joys were too rare: Yet now that their shadows are on us no more,
Let us welcome the prospect that brightens before!
We have cherished fair hopes, we have plotted brave schemes. We have lived till we find them illusive as dreams;
Wealth has melted like snow that is grasped in the hand. And the steps we have climbed have departed like sand; Yet shall we despond while of health un-bereft.
And honour, bright honour, and freedom are left?
O! shall we despond, while the pages of time Yet open before us their records sublime!
While, ennobled by treasures more precious than gold, We can walk with the martyrs and heroes of old:
While humanity whispers such truths in the ear.
As it softens the heart like sweet music to hear?
O! shall we despond while, with visions still free,
We can gaze on the sky, and the earth, and the sea;
EPES SARGENT.
While the sunshine can waken a burst of delight. And the stars are a joy and a glory by night:
While each harmony, running through nature, can raise In our spirits the impulse of gladness and praise?
0! let us no longer, then, vainly lament Over scenes that are faded and days that are spent: But, by faith unforsaken, unawed by mischance. On hope's waving banner still fixed be our glance; And, should fortune prove cruel and false to the last. Let us look to the future, and not to the past!
534
RICHARD HENRY WILDE.
My Life is like the Summer Rose.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky. But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground â to die. Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed. As if she wept the waste to see â But none shall weep a tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf,
That trembles in the moon's pale ray. Its hold is frail â its date is brief.
Restless â and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade. The winds bewail the leafless tree. But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race.
On that lone shore loud moans the sea. But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. Born about 1835.
December 1863.
Only the sea intoning,
Only the wainscot-mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.
Darkest of all Decembers
Ever my life has known,
Sitting here by the embers,
Stunned and helpless, alone, â
Dreaming of two graves lying Out in the damp and chill;
One where the buzzard, flying, Pauses at Malvern Hill.
The other, â alas! the pillows Of that uneasy bed
Rise and fall with the billows Over our sailor's head.
Theirs the heroic story, â
Died by frigate and town!
THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.
Theirs the calm and the glory,
Theirs the cross and the crown.
Mine to linger and languish Here by the wintry sea. Ah faint heart! in thy anguish, What is there left to thee?
Only the sea intoning,
Only the wainscot mouse,
Only the wild wind moaning Over the lonely house.
537
W A L T. W H 1 T M A N.
Born 1S19.
0 Captain! My Captain!
(For the death of Lincoln.)
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting. While follow eyes the steedy 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 â for you the flag is flung â for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths â 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;
WHITMAN.
WALT.
539
The ship is anchored 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 Bui I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck, my Captain lies Fallen cold and dead.
WILLIS G. CLARK.
A Remembrance.
I see thee still! thou art not dead,
Though dust is mingling with thy form; The broken sunbeam hath not shed The final rainbow on the storm: In visions of the midnight deep,
Thine accents through my bosom thrill, Till joy's fond impulse bids me weep, â For, rapt in thought, I see thee still!
I see thee still, â that cheek of rose, â
Those lips, with dewy fragrance wet, That forehead in serene repose, â
Those soul-lit eyes â I see them yet! Sweet seraph! sure thou art not dead, â Thou gracest still this earthly sphere. An influence still is round me shed
Like thine, â and yet thou art not here
Farewell, beloved! To mortal sight.
Thy vermeil cheek no more may bloom; No more thy smiles inspire delight.
For thou art garnered in the tomb.
Rich harvest for that ruthless power
Which hath no bound to mar his will: Yet, as in hope's unclouded hour.
Throned in my heart, I see thee still.
HUMOROUS PIECES.
Dr. JOHN WO LOOT. (Peter Pindar.) 173Sâ1819.
The Pilgrims and the Peas.
A brace of sinners, for no good,
Were ordered to the Virgin Mary's shrine.
Who at Loretto dwelt in wax, stone, wood
And in a curled white wig, looked wondrous fine.
Fifty long miles had these sad rogues to travel,
With something in their shoes much worse than gravel;
In short, their toes so gentle to amuse.
The priest had ordered peas into their shoes.
A nostrum famous in old popish times,
For purifying souls that stunk with crimes,
A sort of apostolic salt,
That popish parsons for its powers exalt.
For keeping souls of sinners sweet Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.
The knaves set off on the same day.
Peas in their shoes to go and pray;
But very different was their speed, I wot;
One of the sinners galloped on,
DR JOHN WOLCOT. (PETER PINDAR.)
Light as a bullet from a gun;
The other limped as if he had been shot.
One saw the Virgin, soon peccavi cried;
Had his soul white washed all so clever,
When home again he nimbly hied,
Made lit with saints above to live for ever.
In coming back, however, let me say.
He met his brother rogue about half-way,
Hobbling with outstretched hams and bending knees
Cursing the souls and bodies of the peas;
His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brow in sweat,
Deep sympathising with his groaning feet.
quot;How, now!quot; the light-toed white-washed pilgrim broke.
You lazy hibber!
quot;Confound it!quot; cried the t'other, 'tis no joke;
My feet, once hard as any rock.
Are now as soft as blubber.
Excuse me. Virgin Mary, that I swear;
As for Loretto, I shall not get there;
Mb! to the Devil my sinful soul must go,
For hang me if I havn't lost every toe!
quot;But, brother sinner, do explain
How 'tis that you are not in pain â
What power hath worked a wonder for your toes â
Whilst I, just like a snail, am crawling. Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
Whilst not a rascal comes to ease my woes?
344
I IR JOHN' WOLCOT. (PETER PINDAR.)
How is 't that you can like a greyhound go,
Merry as if nought had happened, burn ye? Why, cried the other, grinning, quot;you must know
That just before I ventured on my journey. To walk a little more at ease.,
I took the liberty to boil my peas.quot;
GEORGE COLEMAN, The 1762â1836.
The New-Castle Apothecary.
A man in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with Death to wrestle; Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestal.
Yet some affirm no enemies they are.
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair, Who first shake hands before they box
Then gives each other plaguy knocks.
With all the love and kindness of a brother â
So â many a suffering patient says â Though the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.
A member of this /Esculapian line,
Lived at New-Castle-upon-tyne;
No man could better gild a pill.
Or make a bill,
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head; Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.
Younger.
GEORGE COLEMAN.
Of occupations these were quantum suff,
Yet still he thought the list not long enough, And therefore midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanced things; for if he hurled A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by bringing others in to't.
His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus:
All the old women called him a fine man Iquot; His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade â
Which often times will genius fetrer â
Nead works of fancy, it is said.
And cultivated the belles-lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic? Of poetry though patron god,
Apollo patronises physic.
Bolus loved verse, and took so much delight in ' That his prescriptions he resolved to write in
No opportunity he e'er let pass
Of writing the directions on his labels, In dapper couplets, like Gay's Fables,
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason? 'Tis simply honest dealing; not a crime;
GEORGE COLEMAN.
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a patient lying at Death's door,
Some three miles from the town, it might be four; To whom, one evening. Bolus sent an article
In pharmacy that's called cathartical.
And on the label of the stuff
He wrote this verse.
Which one would think was clear enough And terse:
quot;When takenquot;
quot;To be well shakenquot;.
Next morning. Bolus, early rose.
And to the patient's house he goes.
Upon his pad.
Who a vile trick of stumbling had: ⢠It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that's of course;
For what's expected from a horse With an apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap.
Between a single and a double rap.
Knocks of this kind Are given by gentlemen who teach to dance;.
By fiddlers; and by opera singers;
One loud, and then a little one behind,
As if the knocker fell by chance Out of their fingers.
548
GEORGE COLEMAN.
The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place â
Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim, As if the apothecary had ph3-sicked him,
And not his master.
quot;Well, how's the patient?'' Bolus said.
John shook his head.
etIndeed!quot; â hum! â ha! â that's very odd!
He took the draught? John gave a nod.
Well, how I what then? Speak out you dunce!quot;
Why then, says John, quot;we shock him once. quot;Shook him! â how?quot; Bolus stammered out.
quot;We jolted him about.
Zounds! shake a patient, man, a shake won't do.
No sir! and so, we gave him two.
quot;Two shakes! odds curse!
quot;'Twould make the patient worse.
quot;It did so sir; and so, a third we tried.quot;
quot;Well, and what then? quot;Then sir, my master died.quot;
Lodgings for Single Gentlemen.
Who has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen quot;Lodgings to letquot; stare him full in the face; Some are good, and let dearly; while some, 'tis well known, Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.
549
GEORGE COLEMAN.
Will Waddle, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings, that took Single gentlemen only;
But Will was so fat, he appeared like a tun,
Or like two single gentlemen rolled into one.
He entered his rooms, and to bed he retreated.
But all the night long, he felt fevered and heated; And though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep.
He was not by any means heavy to sleep.
Next night 'twas the same; and the next, and the next;
He perspired like an ox; he was nervous and vexed;
Week passed after week, till, by weekly succession. His weekly condition was past all expression.
In six months his acquaintance began much to doubt him,
For his skin, like a lady's loose gown, hung about him. He sent for a doctor, and cried like a ninny:
I have lost many pounds, make me well, there's a guinea.
The doctor looked wise; 'a slow fever', he said;
Prescribed sudorifics and going to bed.
Sudorifics in bed, exclaimed Will, quot;are humbugs!
I've enough of them there without paying for drugs.
W7ill kicked out the Doctor; but when ill indeed,
E'en dismissing the Doctor, don't always succeed; So, calling his host, he said: quot;Sir, do you know,
I'm the fat single gentleman of six months ago?
Look'e, landlord, I think, argued Will with a grin..
That with honest intentions you first took me in.
55°
COW PER. 551
But from the first night, â and to say it, I'm bold â I've been so hanged hot, that I am sure I caught cold.
Quoth the landlord; till now I ne'er had a dispute I've let lodgings ten years; I'm a baker to boot;
In airing your sheets, sir, my wife is no sloven,
And your bed is immediately over my oven.
The oven! says Will! Says the host, Why this passion In that excellent bed died, three people of fashion.
Why so crusty, good sir! Zounds! cried Will in a taking. Who wouldn't be crusty with half a year's baking.
Will paid for his rooms; cried the host with a sneer. Well, I see you 've been going away half a year.
Friend, we can't well agree; yet no quarrel. Will said, But I'd rather not perish, while you make your bread.
Diverting History of John Gilpin.
Shewing how he went farther then he intended, and came safe home again.
John Gilpin was a citizen
Of credit and renown,
A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town.
John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear;
Though wedded we have been
COWPER.
These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen.
'To morrow is our wedding-day
And we will then repair,
Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair.
My sister and my sister's child,
Myself and children three,
Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we'.
He soon replied; I do admire
Of womankind but one,
And you are she, my dearest dear; Therefore it shall be done.
I am a linendraper bold.
As all the world doth know. And my good friend the Calendar Will lend his horse to go.
â Quoth Mrs Gilpin; that's well said;
And for that wine is dear.
We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear.
John Gilpin kissed his loving wife;
O'erjoyed was lie to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind.
COWPER.
The morning came, the chaise was brought But yet was not allowed,
To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud.
So three doors off the chaise was stayed Where they did all get in;
Six precious souls and all agog,
To dash through thick and thin.
Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad;
The stones did rattle underneath,
As if Cheapside were mad.
John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane,
And up he gat, in haste to ride.
But soon came down again ;
For saddle-tree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin,
When, turning round his head, he saw,
Three customers came in.
So down he came; for loss of time.
Although it grieved him sore,
Yet loss of pence, full well he knew.
Would trouble him much more.
'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind.
COWPER.
When Betty screaming came downstairs The wine is left behind.
Good lack!quot; quoth he â yet bring it me,
My leathern belt likewise,
In which I bear my trusty sword.
When I do exercise.
Now Mrs Gilpin! careful soul! â
Had two stone bottles found.
To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound.
Each bottle had a curling ear
Through which the belt he drew. And hung a bottle on each side.
To make his balance true.
Then over all, that he might be
Equipped from top to toe.
His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw.
Now see him mounted once again ,
Upon his nimble steed.
Full slowly pacing o'er the stones With caution and good heed.
But finding soon a smoother road,
Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot Which galled him in his seat.
COWPER.
So! Fair and softly,1' John he cried, But John he cried in vain;
That trot became a gallop soon,
In spite of curb and rein.
So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright,
He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might.
His horse, which never in that sort Had handled been before.
What thing upon his back had got, Did wonder more and more.
Away went Gilpin, neck or nought;
Away went hat and wig;
He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig.
The wind did blow, the cloak did fly.
Like streamer long and gay.
Till, loop and button failing both.
At last it flew away.
Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung;
A bottle swinging at each side.
As hath been said or sung.
The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all;
COWPER.
And every soul cried out: Well done! As loud as he could bawl.
Away went Gilpin, â who but he?
His fame soon spread around; He carries weight, he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pounds!
And still, as fast, as he drew near,
'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw.
And now, as he went bowing down
His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow.
Down ran the wine into the road,
Most piteous to be seen ,
Which made his horses flanks to smoke As they had basted been.
But still he seemed to carry weight.
With leathern girdle braced;
For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist.
Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play.
Until he came unto the Wash, Of Edmonton so gay.
556
COWPER.
And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way;
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.
At Edmonton, his loving wife From the balcony spied,
Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride.
quot;Stop, stop, John Gilpin! â Here's the house! They all at once did cry;
The dinner waits, and we are tired;
Said Gilpin ; so am I!quot;
But yet his horse was not a whit.
Inclined to tarry there; â
For why? â his owner had a house Full ten miles off at Ware.
So like an arrow, swift he flew,
Shot by an archer strong:
So did he fly â which brings me to The middle of my song.
Away went Gilpin out of breath,
And sore against his will,
Till at his friend the Calender's His horse at last stood still.
The Calender, amazed to see His neighbour in such trim.
557
COWPER.
Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him.
What news? what news? your tidings tell;
Tell me you must and shall â
Say, why bare headed you are come, Or why you come at all?
Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit.
And loved a timely joke;
And thus unto the Calender In merry guise he spoke.
I came because your horse would come.
And, if I well forebode My hat and wig will soon be here â
They are upon the road'.
The Calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin.
Returned him not a single word,
But to the house went in;
Whence straight he came with hat and wig;
A wig that flowed behind,
A hat not much the worse for wear;
Each comely in its kind.
He held them up, and in his turn
Thus shewed his ready wit:
My head is twice as big as yours.
They therefore needs must fit.
558
COW PER.
quot;Eut let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face;
And stop and eat, for well you may, Be in a hungry case.
Said John: quot;It is my wedding-day, And all the world would stare,
If wife should dine at Edmonton ,
And I should dine at Ware.
So turning to his horse, he said: I am in haste to dine;
'Tis for your pleasure you came here. You shall go back for mine.
Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast! For which he paid full dear;
For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear;
Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar.
And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before.
Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig;
He lost them sooner than at first; For why? â they were too big.
Now Mrs Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down
559
COWPER.
Into the country far away,
She pulled out half a crown.
And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell:
This shall be yours, when you bring back, My husband safe and well.
The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain!
Whom in a trice he tried to stop. By catching at his rein.
But not performing what he meant. And gladly would have done.
The frighted steed, he frighted more, And made him faster run.
Away went Gilpin and awny.
Went post-boy at his heels.
The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.
Six gentlemen, upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly.
With post-boy scampering in the rear They raised the hue and cry.
Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman! Not one of them was mute;
And all and each that passed that way Did join in that pursuit.
560
t. and h. smith.
And now the turn pike gates again;
Flew open in short space; The tollmen thinking as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.
And so he did, and won it too,
For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up. He did again get down.
Now let us sing, long live the king.
And Gilpin , long live he, And when he next doth ride abroad. May I be there to see.
The Baby's Debut.
By T. amp; H. Smith.
My brother Jack was nine in May, And I was eight on New-Year's Day;
So in Kate Wilson's shop.
Papa (he's my papa and Jack's),
Bought me last week a doll of wax. And brother Jack a top.
Jack's in the pouts, and this it is. He thinks mine came to more than his.
So to my drawer he goes;
Takes out the doll, and, O my stars! He pokes her head between the bars. And melts off half her nose.
SMITH.
Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And tie it to his peg-top's peg.
And bang with might and main, Its head against the parlour door; Off flies the head, and hits the floor. And breaks a window pane.
This made him cry with rage and spite; Well, let him cry, it serves him right.
A pretty thing, forsooth!
If he's to melt, all scalding hot;
Half my doll's nose, and I am not. To draw his pegtop's tooth!
Aunt Hannah heard the window break. And cried, quot;O naughty Nancy Lake,
Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury Lane for you to-day! And while papa said, Pooh! she may! Mamma said: No, she shan't!
Well after many a sad reproach.
They got into a hackney coach. And trotted down the street.
I saw them go; one horse was blind; The tails of both, hung down behind; Their shoes were on their feet.
The chaise in which poor brother Bill, Used to be drawn to Pentonville,
Stood in the lumber room.
562
SMITH.
I wiped the dust from off the top,
While Molly mopped it with a mop,
And brushed it with a broom.
My Uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes,
Came in at six to black the shoes,
I always talk to Sam:
So what does he, but takes and drags Me in the chaise, along the flags.
And leaves me where I am.
My father's walls are made of brick.
But not so tall, and not so thick,
As these; and, goodness me!
But my father's beams are made of wood, But never never, half so good.
As these that now I see.
What a large floor, 'tis like a town,
The carpet, when they lay it down
Won't hide it, I'll be bound;
And there's a row of lamps, my eye.
How they do blaze,
I wonder why they keep them on the ground.
At first I caught hold, of the wing And kept away, but Mr Thingumbob,
The Prompter man,
â¢Gave with his hand my chaise, a shove.
And said, go on, my pretty love;
Speak to him little Nan.
563
564 smith.
You 've only got to curtsey, whispered,
Hold your chin up, langh and lisp.
And then your 're sure to take; I 've known the day, when brats not quite Thirteen got fifty pounds a night,
Then why not Nancy Lee.
But while I'm speaking, where's Papa And where's my Aunt, and where's Mama
Where's Jack, 0 there they sit.
They smile, they nod; I'll go my ways. And order round poor Billy's chaise.
To join them in the pit.
And now good gentlefolks, I go,
To join mamma, and see the show;
So bidding you adieu,
I curtsey, like a pretty miss.
And If you'll blow to me a kiss,
I'll blow a kiss to you.
A parental ode to my son, aged three years and five months.
By Hood.
Thou happy, happy elf!
(But stop â first let me kiss away that tenr).
Thou tiny image of myself!
(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry laughing sprite.
HOOD.
With spirits feather light,
Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin!
(Good heavens! The child is swallowing a pin!)
Thou little tricksy Puck!
With antic toys so funnily bestuck.
Light as the singing bird that wings the air, (The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!
(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!
In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link. Thou idol of thy parents. (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)
Thou cherub â but of earth;
Fit playfellow for fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,
(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey From every blossom in the world that blows. Singing in youth's Elysium's ever sunny,
(Another tumble, â that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope.
He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope! (With pure heart newly stamped from natures mint Where did he learn that squint?)
Thou young domestic dove!
(He'll have that jug off with another shove!)
Dear nursling of the hymeneal nest!
565
HOOD.
(Are those torn clothes his best?)
Little epitome of man!
(He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan!) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life, (He's got a knife.)
Thou enviable being!
No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing. Play on, play on,
My elfin John.
Toss the light ball, â bestride the stick,
(I knew so many cakes, would make him sick!) With fancies buoyant as the thistle-down, Prompting the face grotesque and antic brisk,
With many a lamb-like frisk.
(He's got the scissors, snipping, at your gown!)
Thou pretty opening rose!
(Go to your mother, child, and wipe your nose? Balmy, and breathing music like the south! He really brings my heart into my mouth!
Fresh as the morn, and brilliant as its star! (I wish that window had an iron bar!
Bold as the hawk, yet gentle as the dove!
(I'll tell you what my love,)
(I cannot write, unless he's sent above!)
566
horace smith. 567
Address to the Mummy in Belzoni's Exhibition.
By IIORACt Smith.
And tliou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow.
Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous,
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.
Speak! for thou long enough has acted dummy!
Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its time; Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy;
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon.
Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures
But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.
Tell us â for doubtless thou canst recollect â
To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect
Of either pyramid that bears his name?
Is Pompey's pillar really a misnomer?
Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?
Perhaps thou wert a mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade â
Then say, what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a priest, â if so, my struggles Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.
HORACE SMITH.
Perchance that very hand now pinioned flat,
Has hob- a nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a half penny in Homer's hat,
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass,
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the Great Temple's dedication.
I need not ask thee, if that hand when armed lias any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled,
For thou wert dead, and buried, and embalmed.
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun,
Long after thy primeval race was run.
Thou could'st develope, if that withered tongue.
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen,
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the Great Deluge still had left it green;
Or was it then so old, that History's pages Contained no record of its early ages?
Still silent, incommunitive elf!
Art sworn to secrecy ? then keep thy vows;
Put Prithee tell us something of thyself,
Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;
Since in the world of spirits thou has slumbered;
What hast thru seen â what strange adventures numbered.
Since first thy form was in this box en tended.
We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations ,
The Roman Empire has begun and ended.
New worlds have risen â we have lost old nations,
568
HORACE SMITH.
And countless kings have into dust been humbled Whilst not a fragment of thy flesh hast crumbled.
Did'st thou not hear the pother o'er thy head.
When the Great Persian Emporer, Cambyses,
Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread
O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis,
And shook the pyramids with fear and wonder,
When the gigantic Mem non fell asunder.
If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed.
The nature of thy private life unfold,
A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled.
Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face, What was thy name, and station, age and race?
Statue of flesh, â immortal of the dead!
Imperishable type of evanesence!
Posthumus man who quitt'st thy narrow bed,
And stand'st undecayed within our presence;
Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgement morning.
When the Great trump shall thrill thee with its warnin
Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure,
In living virtue, that when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.
GOLDSMITH.
The haunch of Venison.
Thanks my Lord for your venison, for finer or fatter,
Never ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter;
'Die haunch was a picture, for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting.
To spoil such a delicate picture by eating,
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view.
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so-so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold â let me pause, â dont I hear you pronounce.
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, suppose it a bounce, sure a poet may try.
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.
But, my lord, its no bounce; I protest in my turn,
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr Burn.
To go on with my tale, as I gaz'd on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynold's undrest.
To paint it or eat it, just as he liked best.
Of the neck and the breast, I had next to dispose;
Twas a neck and a breast that might rival Munroe's;
But in parting with these I was puzzled again
With the how and the who, and the where, and the when â
There's Hâd, and Cây, and Hârth, and Hâff,
I think they love venison, â I know they love beef.
570
GOLDSMITH.
There's my countryman Higgins â Oh! let him alone,
For making a blunder, or picking a bone;
But hang it â to poets who seldom can eat.
Your very good mutton's a very good treat.
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt.
It's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.
While this I debated, in reverie centered,
An acquaintance, a friend as he called himself entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he
And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me.
What have we got here? â Why, this is good eating.
Your own I suppose â or is it in waiting?
Why whose should it be? â cried I with a flounce;
quot;I get these things oftenquot; â but that was a bounce:
Some lords, my acquaintaince that settle the nation.
Are pleased to be kind â but I hate ostentation.quot;
quot;If that be the case then,quot; cried he, very gay,
I am glad I have taken this house in my way.
To morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
Xo words, I insist on't â precisely at three;
We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare.
And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out a dinner.
What say you â a pasty? it shall and it must.
And my wife, Little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here porter â this venison with me to Mile-end;
No stirring, I beg, my dear friend â my dear friend!
Then snatching his hat he brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.
Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf.
GOLDSMITH.
And nobody with me at sea but myself;
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty
Vet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life.
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day in due splendour to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine
(A chair-lumbered closet just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come:
For I knew it, he cried, both eternally fail.
The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale,
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,
They're both of them merry and authors like you,
The one wiites the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna, â he owns to Pan urge.
While thus he described them by trade and by name.
They entered and dinner was served as they came.
At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen.
At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there were spinach and pudding made hot;
In the middle a place where the pasty â was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate, like a Turk or a Persian,
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound.
While the bacon and liver went merrily round.
But what vexed me most was that Dâd Scottish rogue â
With his long winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue;
GOLDSMITH.
And Madam, quoth he, may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never did set eyes on.
Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst.
But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst.
The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,
I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:
I like these here dinners so pretty and small;
But your friend, there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.
O, â ho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice:
There's a pasty. â A pasty! repeated the Jew;
I don't care, if I keep a corner for 't, too.quot;
What the de'el, mon, a pasty! re-echoed the Scot,
Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that.
We'll all keep a corner, the lady cried out;
We'll all keep a corner, was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed,
With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid:
A visage so sad and so pale with affright.
Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her?
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the pasty, on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus â but let smiles drop â
And now that I think on't, the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, its but labour misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something â a kind of discerning,
A relish â a taste, â sickened over by learning;
At least its your temper, as is very well-known.
573
574 THEODORE HOOK.
That you think very slightly of all that's your own. So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.
Puns.
My little dears, who learn to read, pray early learn to shun. That very silly thing indeed which people call a pun.
Read Entick's rules, and 'twill be found how simple an offence It is to make the self-same sound afford a double sense.
For instance, ale may make you ail, your aunt an ant may kill, You in a vale may buy a veil, and Bill may pay the bill; Or if to France your bark you steer, at Dover it may be, A peer appears upon the pier, who blind still goes to sea.
This one might say, when to a treat, good friends accept our
[greecing,
'Tis meet that men who meet to eat should eat their meat when
[meeting;
Brawn on the board's no bore indeed, although from boar prepared, Nor can the fowl, on which we feed, foul feeding be declared.
Thus one ripe fruit may be a pear, and yet be pared again. And still be one which seemeth rare we do explain; It therefore should be all your aim to speak with ample care. For who, however fond of game, would choose to swallow hair?
A fat man's gait, may make us smile, who have no gate to close; The farmer sitting on his stile, no stylish person knows.
THACKERAY.
Perfumers men of scents must be; some Scilly men are bright, A brown man oft deep read we see, a black a wicked white.
Most wealthy men good manors have; however vulgar they. And actors still the harder slave, the oftener they play; So poets can't the baize obtain, unless their tailors choose While groom's and coachmen, not in vain, each evening seek
[the mews.
The dyer who by dyeing lives, a dire life maintains; The glazier, it is known, receives, his profits from his panes: By gardeners thyme is tied 'tis true, when spring is in its prime, But time and tide won't wait for you, if you are tied for time.
There now you see, my little dears, the way to make a pun; A trick which you through coming years should sedulously shun; The fault admits of no defence; for wheresoe'er 'tis found. You sacrifice the sound for sense; the sense is never sound.
So let your words and actions too, one single meaning prove, And just in all you say or do, you'll gain esteem and love; In mirth and play no harm you'll know, when duty's task is done; But parents ne'er should let you go, unpunished for a pun.
The King of Brentford's Testament.
The noble king of Brentford Was old and very sick, He summoned his physicians To wait upon him quick.
575
THACKERAY.
They stepped into their coaches,
And brought their best Physick.
They crammed their gracious master
With potion and with pill;
They drenched him, and they bled him,
They could not cure his ill. Go fetch, says he, quot;my lawyer, quot;I'd better make my will.
The monarch's royal mandate,
The lawyer did obey;
The thought of six-and-eight pence
Did make his heart full gay;
quot;What is't,quot; says he, your Majesty Would wish of me to-day?
The doctors have belaboured me
With potion and with pill; My hours of life are counted,
0 man of tape and quill!
Sit down and mend a pen or two,
1 want to make my will.
O'er all the land of Brentford,
I'm lord, and eke of Kew; I've three per cents and five per cents;
My debts are but a few;
And to inherit after me
I have but children two.
Prince Thomas is my eldest son,
A sober prince is he.
576
THACKERAY.
And from the day we breeched him,
Till now he's twenty three,
He never caused disquiet
To his poor mamma or me.
quot;At school they never flogged him,
At College, though not fast.
Yet his little-go and great-go
He creditably passed.
And made his year's allowance For eighteen months to last.
He never owed a shilling,
Went never drunk to bed,
He has not two ideas
Within his honest head â
In all respects he differs
From my second son. Prince Ned.
When Tom has half his income.
Laid by at the year's end.
Poor Ned has ne'er a stiver
That rightly he may spend.
But sponges on a tradesman,
Or borrows from a friend.
While Tom his legal studies
Most soberly pursues.
Poor Ned must pass his mornings
A dwadling with the Muse.
While Tom frequents his banker.
Young Ned frequents the Jews.
577
37
THACKERAY.
Ned drives about in buggies, Tom sometimes takes a bus;
Ah! cruel Fate; why made you. My children differ thus?
Why make of Tom a dullard,
And Ned a genius.
quot;You'll cut him with a shilling?quot; Exclaimed the man of writs.
quot;I'll leave my wealth,quot; said Brentford, Sir lawyer, as befits.
And portion both their fortunes Unto their several wits.
Your Grace knows best, the lawyer said, On your commands I wait.
Be silent, sir, says Brentford,
A plague upon your prate!
Come, take your pen and paper. And write as I dictate.
The will as Brentford spoke it.
Was writ and signed, and closed;
He made the lawyer leave him,
And turned him round and dozed
And next week in the churchyard. The good old King reposed.
Tom, dressed in crape and hatband. Of mourners was the chief;
In bitter self upbraidings
S78
THACKERAY,
Poor Edward showed his grief: Tom hid his fat white countenance In his pocket-handkerchief.
Ned's eyes were full of weeping,
He faltered in his walk; Tom never shed a tear,
But onwards he did stalk. As pompous, black and solemn. As any catafalque.
And when the bones of Brentford,
That gentle king and just â With bell and book and candle
Were duly laid in dust, Now gentlemen says Thomas, Let business be discussed.
When late our sire beloved
Was taken deadly ill. Sir lawyer you attended him
(I mean to tax your bill;) And as you signed and wrote it, I prithee read the will.
The lawyer wiped his spectacles,
And drew the parchment out: And all the Brentford family
Sat eager round about.
Poor Ned was somewhat anxious. But Tom had ne'er a doubt.
579
THACKERAY.
Jly sons, as 1 make ready
To seek my last long liome,
Some cares I had for Neddy,
But none for thee, my Tom;
Sobriety and order
You ne'er departed from.
Xed hath a brilliant genius.
And thou a plodding brain;
On thee I think with pleasure. On him with doubt and pain.
(quot;You see, good Ned, says Thomas, What he thought about us twain.)
Though small was your allowance. You saved a little store;
And those who save a little Shall get a plenty more.
As the lawyer read this compliment, Tom's eyes were running o'er.
The tortoise and the hare, Tom, Set out, at each his pace;
The hare, it was the fleeter, The tortoise won the race;
And since the world's beginning This ever was the case.
Ned's genius, blithe and singing,
Steps gaily o'er the ground;
As steadily you trudge it
580
THACKERAY.
He clears it with a bound;
But dulness has stout legs, Tom, And wind that's wondrous sound.
O'er fruits and flowers alike, Tom,
You pass with plodding feet; You heed not one nor t'other, But onwards go your beat.
While genius stops to loiter.
With all that he may meet.
And ever as he wanders.
Will have a pretext fine. For sleeping in the morning.
Or loitering to dine,
Or dozing in the shade,
Or basking in the shine.
Your little steady eyes, Tom,
Though not so bright as those. That restless round about him
His flashing genius throws. Are excellently suited
To look before your nose.
Thank heaven, then, for the blinkers.
It placed before your eyes. The stupidest are weakest,
The witty are not wise:
Oh, bless your good stupidity,
It is your dearest prize!
THACKERAY.
And though my lands are wide, Tom
And plenty is my gold,
Still better gifts from nature,
My Thomas do you hold â A brain that's thick and heavy, A heart that's dull and cold.
Too dull to feel depression,
Too hard to heed distress. Too cold to yield to passion
Or silly tenderness.
March on â your road is open To wealth, Tom, and success.
Ned sinneth in extravagance.
And you in greedy lust, (quot;I faith,quot; says Ned, quot;our father.
Is less polite than just.quot;)
In you, son Tom, I've confidence. But Ned I cannot trust.
Wherefore my lease and copy holds,
My lands and tenements. My parks, my farms, and orchards.
My houses and my rents. My Dutch stock and my Spanish stocl My five and three per cents.
I leave to you, my Thomas, â
(What all?) poor Edward said. Well, well, I should have spent them
THACKERAY.
And Tom's a prudent head.)
I leave to you, my Thomas, â To you in trust for Ned.
The wrath and consternation What poet e'er could trace
That at this fatal passage.
Came o'er Prince Tom his face;
The wonder of the company. And honest Ned's amaze!
'Tis surely some mistake.
Good-naturedly cried Ned,
The lawyer answered gravely, 'Tis even as I said;
'Twas thus his gracious Majesty Ordained on his death-bed.
See, here the will is witnessed And here's his autograph.
quot;In truth, our father's writing.
Says Edward with a laugh;
But thou shalt not be a loser, Tom, We'll share it half and half.
Alas! my kind young gentleman, This sharing cannot be;
'Tis written in the testament
That Brentford spoke to me,
I do forbid Prince Ned to give Prince Tom a halfpenny.
583
THACKERAY.
He hath a store of money,
But ne'er was known to lend it;
He never helped his brother:
The poor he ne'er befriended:
He hath no need of property
Who knows not how to spend it.
Poor Edward knows but how to spend And thrifty Tom to hoard;
Let Thomas be the steward then. And Edward be the Lord;
And as the honest labourer Is worthy his reward,
I pray Prince Ned my second son,
And my successor dear.
To pay to his intendant.
Five hundred pounds a year.
And to think of his old father.
And live and make good cheer.
Such was old Brentford's honest testament,
He did devise his moneys for the best.
And lies in Brentford Church in peaceful rest.
Prince Edward lived, and money made, and spent
But his good sire was wrong, it is confessed.
To say his son, young Thomas, never lent.
He did. â Young Thomas lent at interest.
And nobly took his twenty-five per cent.
Long time, the famous reign of Ned endured.
O'er Chiswick, Fulham, Brentford, Putney, Kew,
584
W. S. GILBERT.
But of extravagance he ne'er was cured.
And when both died, as mortal men will do, 'Twas commonly reported that the steward, Was very much the richer of the two.
The Perils of Invisibility.
Old Peter had a wretched life â
Old Peter had a furious wife;
Old Peter too, was truly stout. He measured several yards about.
The little fairy Picklekin,
One summer afternoon looked in.
And said, quot;Old Peter, how de do?
Can I do anything for you.
I have three gifts, â the first will give. Unbounded riches while you live; The second health where'er you be; The third invisibility.
O little fairy Picklekin,
Old Peter answered with a grin,
To hesitate would be absurd â Undoubtedly I choose the third.
'Tis yours, quot;the fairy said; be quite Invisible to mortal sight Whene'er you please. Remember me Most kindly, pray, to Mrs P.quot;
585
W. S. GILBERT.
Old Mrs Peter overheard Wee Picklekin's concluding word, And, jealous of her girlhood's choice,
Said, that was some young woman's voice!
Old Peter let her scold and swear â Old Peter, bless him, did'nt care.
My dear, your rage is wasted quite â Observe, I disappear from sight!
A well-bred fairy (so I've heard)
Is always faithful to her word;
Old Peter vanished like a shot,
But then â his suit of clothes did not!
For when conferred the fairy slim Invisibility on him.
She popped away on fairy wings Without referring to his clt;thingsquot;.
So there remained a coat of blue,
A vest and double eyeglass too.
His tail, his shoes, his socks as well. His pair of â no, I must not tell.
Old Mrs Peter soon began To see the failure of his plan.
And then resolved (I quote the bard) To quot;hoist him with his own petard.
Old Peter woke next day and dressed Put on his coat and shoes and vest.
586
W. S. GILBERT.
His shirt and stock; but could not find His only pair of â never mind!
Old Peter was a decent man, And though he twigged his lady's plan , Yet, hearing her approaching, he Resumed invisibility.
Dear Mrs P. my only joy,
Exclaimed the horrified old boy, Now give them up, I beg of you â You know what I'm referring to!quot;
But no; the cross old lady swore She'd keep his â what I said before â To make him publicly absurd;
And Mrs Peter kept her word.
The poor old fellow had no rest; His coat, his stock, his shoes, his vest Were all that now met mortal eye; The rest invisibility!
Now, Madam, give them up I beg â I've bad rheumatics in my leg;
Besides until you do, it's plain I cannot come to sight again!
For though some mirth it might afford. To see my clothes without their lord. Yet there would rise indignant oaths If he were seen without his clothes!
JOHN HAV.
But no; resolved to have her quiz. The lady held her own â and his â And Peter left his humble cot To find a pair of â you know what.
Hut here's the worst of the affair, â Whene'er he came across a pair,
Already placed for him to don,
He was too stout to get them on!
So he resolved at once to train, And walked and walked with all his main For years he paced this mortal earth, To bring himself to decent girth.
At night, when all around is still,
You'll find him pounding up a hill; And shrieking peasants whom he meets. Fall down in terror on the peats.
Old Peter walks through wind and rain, Resolved to train, and train, and train, Until he weighs twelve stone or so â And when he does I'll let you know.
The Enchanted Shirt.
The King was sick. His cheek was red. And his eye was clear and bright; He ate and drank with a kingly rest. And peacefully snored at night.
JOHN HAY.
But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
And doctors came by the score.
They did not cure him. He cut off their heads And sent to the schools for more.
At last two famous doctors came.
And one was as poor as a rat,
He had passed his life in studious toil,
And never found time to grow fat.
The other had never looked into a book;
His patients gave him no trouble;
If they recovered, they paid him well;
If they died, their heirs paid double.
Together they looked at the royal tongue,
As the king on his couch reclined; In succession they thumped his august chest, But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said. You're as sound as a nut.
Hang him up, roared the king in a gale â In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;
The other leech grew a shade pale.
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose.
And thus his prescription ran:
The king will be well, if he sleeps one night In the shirt of a Happy Man.
Wide o'er the realm the courier's rode. And fast their horses ran,
JOHN HAY.
And many they saw, and to many they spoke, But they found no Happy Man.
They saw two men by the roadside sit,
And both be moaned their lot;
And one had buried his wife, he said And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate,
A beggar lay whistling there;
He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled. On the grass in the soft June air.
The weary courtiers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay;
And one of them said. Heaven save you, friend! You seem to be happy to-day.quot;
0 yes, fair sirs, the rascal laughed.
And his voice rang free and glad;
quot;An idle man has so much to do.
That he never has time to be sad.
This is our man,quot; the courier said;
quot;Our luck has led us aright.
1 will give you a hundred ducats, friend.
For the loan of your shirt to-night.
The merry blackguard lay back on the grass.
And laughed till his face was black;
I would do it, God wot, and he roared with the fun, But I have n't a shirt to my back.
JOHN HAY.
Each day to the king, the reports came in, Of his unsuccessful spies.
And the sad panorama of human woes, Passed daily under our eyes.
And he grew ashamed of his useless life. And his maladies hatched in gloom:
He opened the windows and let the air, Of the free heaven into his room.
And out he went into the world, and toiled In his own appointed way;
And the people blessed him, the land was g And the king was well and gay.