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diff --git a/34237.txt b/34237.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..192abe3 --- /dev/null +++ b/34237.txt @@ -0,0 +1,22556 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Golden Numbers, by Various + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Golden Numbers + A Book of Verse for Youth + +Author: Various + +Editor: Kate Douglas Wiggin + Nora Archibald Smith + +Release Date: November 8, 2010 [EBook #34237] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GOLDEN NUMBERS *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + + +McCLURE'S LIBRARY OF CHILDREN'S CLASSICS + +EDITED BY KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN AND NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH + +GOLDEN NUMBERS +A BOOK OF VERSE FOR YOUTH + +THE POSY RING +A BOOK OF VERSE FOR CHILDREN + +PINAFORE PALACE +A BOOK OF RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY + +_Library of Fairy Literature_ + +THE FAIRY RING + +MAGIC CASEMENTS A SECOND FAIRY BOOK + +OTHER VOLUMES TO FOLLOW + +_Send to the publishers for Complete Descriptive Catalogue_ + + + + +GOLDEN NUMBERS + +A BOOK OF VERSE FOR YOUTH + +CHOSEN AND CLASSIFIED BY + +_Kate Douglas Wiggin_ + +AND + +_Nora Archibald Smith_ + +WITH INTRODUCTION AND INTERLEAVES BY + +KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN + +[Illustration] + + "_To add to golden numbers, golden numbers._" + + THOMAS DEKKER. + +NEW YORK +DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY +1909 + + +_Copyright, 1902, by_ +McCLURE, PHILLIPS & CO. + +Published, October, 1902, N + + + +GOLDEN NUMBERS + + + _Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice._ + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + _Hark! the numbers soft and clear_ + _Gently steal upon the ear;_ + _Now louder, and yet louder rise,_ + _And fill with spreading sounds the skies;_ + _Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes,_ + _In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats._ + + ALEXANDER POPE. + + + + +A NOTE + + +We are indebted to the following firms for permission to use poems +mentioned: + +Frederick Warne & Co., for poems of George Herbert and Reginald Heber; +Small, Maynard & Co., for two poems by Walt Whitman, and "The +Tax-Gatherer," by John B. Tabb; George Routledge & Son, for "Sir Lark +and King Sun," George Macdonald; Longmans, Green & Co., for Andrew +Lang's "Scythe Song"; Lee & Shepard, for "A Christmas Hymn," "Alfred +Dommett," and "Minstrels and Maids," William Morris; J. B. Lippincott +Co., for three poems by Thomas Buchanan Read; John Lane, for "The +Forsaken Merman," Matthew Arnold, and "Song to April," William Watson; +"The Skylark," Frederick Tennyson; E. P. Dutton & Co., for "O Little +Town of Bethlehem," Phillips Brooks; Dana, Estes & Co., for "July," by +Susan Hartley Swett; Little, Brown & Co., for poems of Christina G. +Rossetti, and for the three poems, "The Grass," "The Bee," and +"Chartless" by Emily Dickinson; D. Appleton & Co., publishers of +Bryant's Complete Poetical Works, for "March," "Planting of the Apple +Tree," "To the Fringed Gentian," "Death of Flowers," "To a Waterfowl," +and "The Twenty-second of December"; Charles Scribner's Sons, for "The +Wind" and "A Visit from the Sea," both taken from "A Child's Garden of +Verses"; "The Angler's Reveille," from "The Toiling of Felix"; "Dear +Land of All My Love," from "Poems of Sidney Lanier," and "The Three +Kings," from "With Trumpet and Drum," by Eugene Field; The Churchman, +for "Tacking Ship Off Shore," by Walter Mitchell; The Whitaker-Ray Co., +for "Columbus" and "Crossing the Plains," from The Complete Poetical +Works of Joaquin Miller; The Macmillan Co., for "At Gibraltar," from +"North Shore Watch and Other Poems," by George Edward Woodberry. + +The following poems are used by permission of, and by special +arrangement with, Houghton, Mifflin Co., the authorized publishers: + +T. B. Aldrich, "A Turkish Legend," "Before the Rain," "Maple Leaves," +and "Tiger Lilies"; Christopher P. Cranch, "The Bobolinks"; Alice Cary, +"The Gray Swan"; Margaret Deland, "While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks +by Night"; Ralph Waldo Emerson, "Forbearance," "The Humble-Bee," "Duty," +"The Rhodora," "Concord Hymn," "The Snow Storm," and Ode Sung in the +Town Hall, Concord; James T. Fields, "Song of the Turtle and the +Flamingo"; Oliver Wendell Holmes, "Old Ironsides" and "The Chambered +Nautilus"; John Hay, "The Enchanted Shirt"; Julia Ward Howe, "Battle +Hymn of the Republic"; Bret Harte, "The Reveille" and "A Greyport +Legend"; T. W. Higginson, "The Snowing of the Pines"; H. W. Longfellow, +"The Wreck of the Hesperus," "The Psalm of Life," "Home Song," "The +Three Kings," and "The Harvest Moon"; James Russell Lowell, +"Washington," extracts from "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "The +Fatherland," "To the Dandelion," "The Singing Leaves," and "Stanzas on +Freedom"; Lucy Larcom, "Hannah Binding Shoes"; Edna Dean Proctor, +"Columbia's Emblem"; T. W. Parsons, "Dirge for One Who Fell in Battle"; +E. C. Stedman, "The Flight of the Birds" and "Going A-Nutting"; E. R. +Sill, "Opportunity"; W. W. Story, "The English Language"; Celia +Thaxter, "The Sandpiper" and "Nikolina"; J. T. Trowbridge, "Evening at +the Farm" and "Midwinter"; Bayard Taylor, "A Night With a Wolf" and "The +Song of the Camp"; J. G. Whittier, "The Corn Song," "The Barefoot Boy," +"Barbara Frietchie," extracts from "Snow-Bound," "Song of the Negro +Boatman," and "The Pipes at Lucknow"; W. D. Howells, "In August"; J. G. +Saxe, "Solomon and the Bees." + + + + +CONTENTS + + +A CHANTED CALENDAR Page + + Daybreak. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 1 + Morning. By _John Keats_ 1 + A Morning Song. By _William Shakespeare_ 2 + Evening in Paradise. By _John Milton_ 2 + Evening Song. By _John Fletcher_ 3 + Night. By _Robert Southey_ 4 + A Fine Day. By _Michael Drayton_ 5 + The Seasons. By _Edmund Spenser_ 5 + The Eternal Spring. By _John Milton_ 5 + March. By _William Cullen Bryant_ 6 + Spring. By _Thomas Carew_ 7 + Song to April. By _William Watson_ 7 + April in England. By _Robert Browning_ 8 + April and May. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 9 + May. By _Edmund Spenser_ 9 + Song on May Morning. By _John Milton_ 10 + Summer. By _Edmund Spenser_ 10 + June Weather. By _James Russell Lowell_ 11 + July. By _Susan Hartley Swett_ 13 + August. By _Edmund Spenser_ 14 + In August. By _William Dean Howells_ 14 + Autumn. By _Edmund Spenser_ 15 + Sweet September. By _George Arnold_ 15 + Autumn's Processional. By _Dinah M. Mulock_ 16 + October's Bright Blue Weather. By _H. H._ 16 + Maple Leaves. By _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ 17 + Down to Sleep. By _H. H._ 18 + Winter. By _Edmund Spenser_ 19 + When Icicles Hang by the Wall. By _William Shakespeare_ 19 + A Winter Morning. By _James Russell Lowell_ 20 + The Snow Storm. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 21 + Old Winter. By _Thomas Noel_ 22 + Midwinter. By _John Townsend Trowbridge_ 23 + Dirge for the Year. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 25 + + +THE WORLD BEAUTIFUL + + The World Beautiful. By _John Milton_ 27 + The Harvest Moon. By _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 27 + The Cloud. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 28 + Before the Rain. By _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ 31 + Rain in Summer. By _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 32 + Invocation to Rain in Summer. By _William C. Bennett_ 34 + The Latter Rain. By _Jones Very_ 35 + The Wind. By _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 35 + Ode to the Northeast Wind. By _Charles Kingsley_ 36 + The Windy Night. By _Thomas Buchanan Read_ 39 + The Brook. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 40 + The Brook in Winter. By _James Russell Lowell_ 42 + Clear and Cool. By _Charles Kingsley_ 44 + Minnows. By _John Keats_ 45 + Snow-Bound (Extracts). By _John G. Whittier_ 46 + Highland Cattle. By _Dinah M. Mulock_ 50 + A Scene in Paradise. By _John Milton_ 52 + The Tiger. By _William Blake_ 53 + The Spacious Firmament on High. By _Joseph Addison_ 54 + + +GREEN THINGS GROWING + + Green Things Growing. By _Dinah M. Mulock_ 57 + The Sigh of Silence. By _John Keats_ 58 + Under the Greenwood Tree. By _William Shakespeare_ 59 + The Planting of the Apple Tree. By _William Cullen Bryant_ 59 + The Apple Orchard in the Spring. By _William Martin_ 63 + Mine Host of "The Golden Apple." By _Thomas Westwood_ 64 + The Tree. By _Jones Very_ 65 + A Young Fir-Wood. By _Dante G. Rossetti_ 65 + The Snowing of the Pines. By _Thomas W. Higginson_ 66 + The Procession of the Flowers. By _Sydney Dobell_ 67 + Sweet Peas. By _John Keats_ 68 + A Snowdrop. By _Harriet Prescott Spofford_ 69 + Almond Blossom. By _Sir Edwin Arnold_ 69 + Wild Rose. By _William Allingham_ 70 + Tiger-Lilies. By _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ 71 + To the Fringed Gentian. By _William Cullen Bryant_ 72 + To a Mountain Daisy. By _Robert Burns_ 73 + Bind-Weed. By _Susan Coolidge_ 74 + The Rhodora. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 76 + A Song of Clover. By "_Saxe Holm_" 76 + To the Dandelion (Extract). By _James Russell Lowell_ 77 + To Daffodils. By _Robert Herrick_ 78 + The Daffodils. By _William Wordsworth_ 79 + The White Anemone. By _Owen Meredith_ 80 + The Grass. By _Emily Dickinson_ 81 + The Corn-Song. By _John G. Whittier_ 82 + Columbia's Emblem. By _Edna Dean Proctor_ 84 + Scythe Song. By _Andrew Lang_ 86 + Time to Go. By _Susan Coolidge_ 86 + The Death of the Flowers. By _William Cullen Bryant_ 88 + Autumn's Mirth. By _Samuel Minturn Peck_ 90 + + +ON THE WING + + Sing On, Blithe Bird. By _William Motherwell_ 93 + To a Skylark. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 94 + Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable. By _George Macdonald_ 99 + The Skylark. By _Frederick Tennyson_ 101 + The Skylark. By _James Hogg_ 102 + The Bobolinks. By _Christopher P. Cranch_ 103 + To a Waterfowl. By _William Cullen Bryant_ 105 + Goldfinches. By _John Keats_ 107 + The Sandpiper. By _Celia Thaxter_ 107 + The Eagle. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 109 + Child's Talk in April. By _Christina G. Rossetti_ 109 + The Flight of the Birds. By _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 111 + The Shepherd's Home. By _William Shenstone_ 112 + To a Cricket. By _William C. Bennett_ 113 + On the Grasshopper and Cricket. By _John Keats_ 114 + The Tax-Gatherer. By _John B. Tabb_ 114 + To the Grasshopper and the Cricket. By _Leigh Hunt_ 115 + The Bee. By _Emily Dickinson_ 116 + The Humble-Bee. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 116 + All Things Wait Upon Thee. By _Christina G. Rossetti_ 119 + Providence. By _Reginald Heber_ 119 + + +THE INGLENOOK + + A New Household. By _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 121 + Two Heavens. By _Leigh Hunt_ 121 + A Song of Love. By "_Lewis Carroll_" 122 + Mother's Song. _Unknown_ 123 + The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl'. By _Robert Ford_ 125 + Cuddle Doon. By _Alexander Anderson_ 126 + I am Lonely. By _George Eliot_ 128 + Brother and Sister. By _George Eliot_ 129 + Home. By _William Ernest Henley_ 131 + Love Will Find Out the Way. _Unknown_ 133 + The Sailor's Wife. By _William J. Mickle_ 134 + Evening at the Farm. By _John Townsend Trowbridge_ 136 + Home Song. By _Henry W. Longfellow_ 138 + Etude Realiste. By _Algernon C. Swinburne_ 139 + We Are Seven. By _William Wordsworth_ 141 + + +FAIRY SONGS AND SONGS OF FANCY + + Puck and the Fairy. By _William Shakespeare_ 145 + Lullaby for Titania. By _William Shakespeare_ 146 + Oberon and Titania to the Fairy Train. + By _William Shakespeare_ 147 + Ariel's Songs. By _William Shakespeare_ 147 + Orpheus with His Lute. By _William Shakespeare_ 149 + The Arming of Pigwiggen. By _Michael Drayton_ 149 + Hesperus' Song. By _Ben Jonson_ 151 + L'Allegro (Extracts). By _John Milton_ 152 + Sabrina Fair. By _John Milton_ 157 + Alexander's Feast. By _John Dryden_ 158 + Kubla Khan. By _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 160 + The Magic Car Moved On. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 162 + Arethusa. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 165 + The Culprit Fay (Extracts). By _Joseph Rodman Drake_ 168 + A Myth. By _Charles Kingsley_ 173 + The Fairy Folk. By _William Allingham_ 174 + The Merman. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 177 + The Mermaid. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 178 + Bugle Song. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 181 + The Raven. By _Edgar Allan Poe_ 182 + The Bells. By _Edgar Allan Poe_ 189 + + +SPORTS AND PASTIMES + + Blowing Bubbles. By _William Allingham_ 195 + Bicycling Song. By _Henry C. Beeching_ 196 + Going A Maying. By _Robert Herrick_ 197 + Jog On, Jog On. By _William Shakespeare_ 200 + A Vagabond Song. By _Bliss Carman_ 201 + Swimming. By _Algernon C. Swinburne_ 201 + Swimming. By _Lord Byron_ 202 + The Angler's Reveille. By _Henry van Dyke_ 203 + The Angler's Invitation. By _Thomas Tod Stoddart_ 207 + Skating. By _William Wordsworth_ 207 + Reading. By _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 209 + On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer. By _John Keats_ 210 + Music's Silver Sound. By _William Shakespeare_ 210 + The Power of Music. By _William Shakespeare_ 211 + Descend, Ye Nine! By _Alexander Pope_ 212 + Old Song. By _Edward Fitzgerald_ 213 + The Barefoot Boy. By _John G. Whittier_ 214 + Leolin and Edith. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 218 + Going A-Nutting. By _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 219 + Whittling. By _John Pierpont_ 220 + Hunting Song. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 222 + The Hunter's Song. By _Barry Cornwall_ 223 + The Blood Horse. By _Barry Cornwall_ 225 + The Northern Seas. By _William Howitt_ 226 + The Needle. By _Samuel Woodwork_ 228 + + +A GARDEN OF GIRLS + + A Portrait. By _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 231 + Little Bell. By _Thomas Westwood_ 234 + A Child of Twelve. By _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 237 + Chloe. By _Robert Burns_ 238 + O, Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet. By _Robert Burns_ 239 + Who Is Silvia? By _William Shakespeare_ 240 + To Mistress Margaret Hussey. By _John Skelton_ 240 + Ruth. By _Thomas Hood_ 242 + My Peggy. By _Allan Ramsay_ 243 + Annie Laurie. By _William Douglas_ 243 + Lucy. By _William Wordsworth_ 245 + Jessie. By _Bret Harte_ 246 + Olivia. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 247 + Nikolina. By _Celia Thaxter_ 248 + The Solitary Reaper. By _William Wordsworth_ 249 + Helena and Hermia. By _William Shakespeare_ 250 + Phyllis. By _William Drummond_ 251 + So Sweet is She. By _Ben Jonson_ 251 + I Love My Jean. By _Robert Burns_ 252 + My Nannie's Awa'. By _Robert Burns_ 253 + + +THE WORLD OF WATERS + + To the Ocean. By _Lord Byron_ 255 + A Life on the Ocean Wave. By _Epes Sargent_ 257 + The Sea. By _Barry Cornwall_ 258 + A Sea-Song. By _Allan Cunningham_ 259 + A Visit from the Sea. By _Robert Louis Stevenson_ 261 + Drifting. By _Thomas Buchanan Read_ 262 + Tacking Ship Off Shore. By _Walter Mitchell_ 265 + Windlass Song. By _William Allingham_ 268 + The Coral Grove. By _James Gates Percival_ 269 + The Shell. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 270 + Bermudas. By _Andrew Marvell_ 272 + Where Lies the Land? By _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 273 + + +FOR HOME AND COUNTRY + + The First, Best Country. By _Oliver Goldsmith_ 275 + My Native Land. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 276 + Loyalty. By _Allan Cunningham_ 276 + My Heart's in the Highlands. By _Robert Burns_ 277 + The Minstrel Boy. By _Thomas Moore_ 278 + The Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls. + By _Thomas Moore_ 279 + Fife and Drum. By _John Dryden_ 280 + The Cavalier's Song. By _William Motherwell_ 280 + The Old Scottish Cavalier. By _Wm. Edmondstoune Aytoun_ 281 + The Song of the Camp. By _Bayard Taylor_ 284 + Border Ballad. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 286 + Gathering Song of Donuil Dhu. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 287 + The Reveille. By _Bret Harte_ 288 + Ye Mariners of England. By _Thomas Campbell_ 290 + The Knight's Tomb. By _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 292 + How Sleep the Brave! By _William Collins_ 292 + Dirge. By _Thomas William Parsons_ 293 + The Burial of Sir John Moore. By _Charles Wolfe_ 295 + Soldier, Rest! By _Sir Walter Scott_ 296 + Recessional. By _Rudyard Kipling_ 297 + The Fatherland. By _James Russell Lowell_ 298 + + +NEW WORLD AND OLD GLORY + + Dear Land of All My Love. By _Sidney Lanier_ 301 + Columbus. By _Joaquin Miller_ 301 + Pocahontas. By _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 303 + Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. By _Felicia Hemans_ 305 + The Twenty-second of December. By _William Cullen Bryant_ 306 + Washington. By _James Russell Lowell_ 307 + Warren's Address. By _John Pierpont_ 308 + Carmen Bellicosum. By _Guy Humphreys McMaster_ 309 + The American Flag. By _Joseph Rodman Drake_ 311 + Old Ironsides. By _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 312 + Indians. By _Charles Sprague_ 313 + Crossing the Plains. By _Joaquin Miller_ 314 + Concord Hymn. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 315 + Ode. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 316 + Stanzas on Freedom. By _James Russell Lowell_ 317 + Abraham Lincoln. By _Richard Henry Stoddard_ 318 + Lincoln, the Great Commoner. By _Edwin Markham_ 319 + Abraham Lincoln. By _Henry Howard Brownell_ 321 + O Captain! My Captain! By _Walt Whitman_ 323 + The Flag Goes By. By _Henry Holcomb Bennett_ 324 + The Black Regiment. By _George Henry Boker_ 326 + Night Quarters. By _Henry Howard Brownell_ 329 + Battle-Hymn of the Republic. By _Julia Ward Howe_ 331 + Sheridan's Ride. By _Thomas Buchanan Read_ 332 + Song of the Negro Boatman. By _John G. Whittier_ 335 + Barbara Frietchie. By _John G. Whittier_ 337 + Two Veterans. By _Walt Whitman_ 340 + Stand by the Flag! By _John Nichols Wilder_ 342 + At Gibraltar. By _George Edward Woodberry_ 343 + Faith and Freedom. By _William Wordsworth_ 345 + Our Mother Tongue. By _Lord Houghton_ 345 + The English Language (Extracts). By _William Wetmore Story_ 346 + To America. By _Alfred Austin_ 347 + The Name of Old Glory. By _James Whitcomb Riley_ 349 + + +IN MERRY MOOD + On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes. + By _Thomas Gray_ 353 + The Priest and the Mulberry Tree. By _Thomas Love Peacock_ 355 + The Council of Horses. By _John Gay_ 356 + The Diverting History of John Gilpin. By _William Cowper_ 359 + To a Child of Quality. By _Matthew Prior_ 369 + Charade. By _Winthrop M. Praed_ 370 + A Riddle. By _Hannah More_ 371 + A Riddle. By _Jonathan Swift_ 372 + A Riddle. By _Catherine M. Fanshawe_ 373 + Feigned Courage. By _Charles and Mary Lamb_ 374 + Baucis and Philemon. By _Jonathan Swift_ 375 + The Lion and the Cub. By _John Gay_ 378 + Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog. By _Oliver Goldsmith_ 379 + The Walrus and the Carpenter. By "_Lewis Carroll_" 381 + Song of the Turtle and Flamingo. By _James T. Fields_ 385 + Captain Reece. By _William S. Gilbert_ 387 + The Cataract of Lodore. By _Robert Southey_ 391 + The Enchanted Shirt. By _John Hay_ 395 + Made in the Hot Weather. By _William Ernest Henley_ 398 + The Housekeeper. By _Charles Lamb_ 400 + The Monkey. By _Mary Howitt_ 401 + November. By _Thomas Hood_ 402 + Captain Sword. By _Leigh Hunt_ 403 + + +STORY POEMS: ROMANCE AND REALITY + + The Singing Leaves. By _James Russell Lowell_ 407 + Seven Times Two. By _Jean Ingelow_ 411 + The Long White Seam. By _Jean Ingelow_ 413 + Hannah Binding Shoes. By _Lucy Larcom_ 414 + Lord Ullin's Daughter. By _Thomas Campbell_ 416 + The King of Denmark's Ride. By _Caroline E. Norton_ 418 + The Shepherd to His Love. By _Christopher Marlowe_ 420 + Ballad. By _Charles Kingsley_ 422 + Romance of the Swan's Nest. By _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 423 + Lochinvar. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 427 + Jock of Hazeldean. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 430 + The Lady of Shalott. By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 431 + The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire. + By _Jean Ingelow_ 438 + The Forsaken Merman. By _Matthew Arnold_ 444 + The Sands of Dee. By _Charles Kingsley_ 450 + The "Gray Swan." By _Alice Gary_ 452 + The Wreck of the Hesperus. By _Henry W. Longfellow_ 454 + A Greyport Legend. By _Bret Harte_ 458 + The Glove and the Lions. By _Leigh Hunt_ 460 + How's My Boy? By _Sydney Dobell_ 462 + The Child-Musician. By _Austin Dobson_ 463 + How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix. + By _Robert Browning_ 464 + The Inchcape Rock. By _Robert Southey_ 468 + A Night with a Wolf. By _Bayard Taylor_ 471 + The Dove of Dacca. By _Rudyard Kipling_ 472 + The Abbot of Inisfalen. By _William Allingham_ 474 + The Cavalier's Escape. By _George Walter Thornbury_ 479 + The Pied Piper of Hamelin. By _Robert Browning_ 480 + Herve Riel. By _Robert Browning_ 493 + Vision of Belshazzar. By _Lord Byron_ 500 + Solomon and the Bees. By _John G. Saxe_ 502 + The Burial of Moses. By _Cecil Frances Alexander_ 504 + + +WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING + + When Banners Are Waving. _Unknown_ 509 + Battle of the Baltic. By _Thomas Campbell_ 511 + The Pipes at Lucknow. By _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 514 + The Battle of Agincourt. By _Michael Drayton_ 517 + The Battle of Blenheim. By _Robert Southey_ 522 + The Armada. By _Lord Macaulay_ 524 + Ivry. By _Lord Macaulay_ 530 + On the Loss of the Royal George. By _William Cowper_ 535 + The Charge of the Light Brigade. + By _Alfred, Lord Tennyson_ 537 + Bannockburn. By _Robert Burns_ 539 + The Night Before Waterloo. By _Lord Byron_ 540 + Hohenlinden. By _Thomas Campbell_ 542 + Incident of the French Camp. By _Robert Browning_ 544 + Marco Bozzaris. By _Fitz-Greene Halleck_ 545 + The Destruction of Sennacherib. By _Lord Byron_ 548 + + +TALES OF THE OLDEN TIME + + Sir Patrick Spens. _Old Ballad_ 551 + The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington. _Old Ballad_ 555 + King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. _Old Ballad_ 558 + Lord Beichan and Susie Pye. _Old Ballad_ 563 + The Gay Gos-hawk. _Old Ballad_ 569 + Earl Mar's Daughter. _Old Ballad_ 576 + Chevy-Chace. _Old Ballad_ 582 + Hynde Horn. _Old Ballad_ 593 + Glenlogie. _Old Ballad_ 597 + + +LIFE LESSONS + + Life. By _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 601 + In a Child's Album. By _William Wordsworth_ 602 + To-Day. By _Thomas Carlyle_ 602 + The Noble Nature. By _Ben Jonson_ 603 + Forbearance. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 603 + The Chambered Nautilus. By _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 604 + Duty. By _Ralph Waldo Emerson_ 605 + On His Blindness. By _John Milton_ 606 + Sir Launfal and the Leper. By _James Russell Lowell_ 606 + Opportunity. By _Edward Rowland Sill_ 608 + Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel. By _Leigh Hunt_ 609 + Be True. By _Horatio Bonar_ 610 + The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation. + By _John Bunyan_ 610 + A Turkish Legend. By _Thomas Bailey Aldrich_ 611 + Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. By _Thomas Gray_ 612 + Polonius to Laertes. By _William Shakespeare_ 618 + The Olive-Tree. By _S. Baring-Gould_ 619 + Coronation. By _H. H._ 620 + December. By _John Keats_ 622 + The End of the Play. By _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 623 + A Farewell. By _Charles Kingsley_ 625 + A Boy's Prayer. By _Henry C. Beeching_ 626 + Chartless. By _Emily Dickinson_ 626 + Peace. By _Henry Vaughan_ 627 + Consider. By _Christina G. Rossetti_ 628 + The Elixir. By _George Herbert_ 629 + One by One. By _Adelaide A. Procter_ 629 + The Commonwealth of the Bees. By _William Shakespeare_ 631 + The Pilgrim. By _John Bunyan_ 632 + Be Useful. By _George Herbert_ 633 + + +THE GLAD EVANGEL + + A Christmas Carol. By _Josiah Gilbert Holland_ 635 + The Angels. By _William Drummond_ 636 + While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night. + By _Margaret Deland_ 637 + The Star Song. By _Robert Herrick_ 638 + Hymn for Christmas. By _Felicia Hemans_ 639 + New Prince, New Pomp. By _Robert Southwell_ 640 + The Three Kings. By _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 641 + The Three Kings. By _Eugene Field_ 644 + A Christmas Hymn. By _Alfred Dommett_ 646 + O Little Town of Bethlehem. By _Phillips Brooks_ 648 + While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night. + By _Nahum Tate_ 649 + Christmas Carol. _Old English_ 650 + Old Christmas. By _Mary Howitt_ 652 + God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. By _Dinah Maria Mulock_ 653 + Minstrels and Maids. By _William Morris_ 654 + An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour. By _Robert Herrick_ 656 + Old Christmas Returned. _Old English_ 657 + Ceremonies for Christmas. By _Robert Herrick_ 658 + Christmas in England. By _Sir Walter Scott_ 659 + The Gracious Time. By _William Shakespeare_ 661 + Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning. + By _Reginald Heber_ 661 + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +_On the Reading of Poetry_ + + +There is no doubt, I fear, that certain people are born without, as +certain other people are born with, a love of poetry. Any natural gift +is a great advantage, of course, be it physical, mental, or spiritual. +The dear old tales which suggest the presence of fairies at the cradle +of the new-born child, dealing out, not very impartially, talents, +charms, graces, are not so far from the real truth. You may have been +given a straight nose, a rosy cheek, a courteous manner, a lively wit, a +generous disposition; but perhaps the Fairy Fine-Ear, who hears the +grass grow, and the leaf-buds throb, had a pressing engagement at +somebody else's cradle-side when you most needed her benefactions. There +is another elf too, a Dame o' Dreams; she is clad all in color-of-rose, +and when she touches your eyelids you see visions forever after; +beautiful haunting things hidden from duller eyes, visions made of stars +and dew and magic. Never any great poet lived but these two fairies were +present at his birth, and it may be that they stole a moment to visit +you. If such was the case you love, need, crave poetry, to understand +yourself, your neighbor, the world, God; and you will find that nothing +else will satisfy you so completely as the years go on. If, on the other +hand, these highly mythical but interesting personages were absent when +the question of your natural endowment was being settled, do not take it +too much to heart, but try to make good the deficiencies. + +You must have liked the rhymes and jingles of your nursery-days: + + Ride a Cock-horse + To Banbury Cross! + +or + + Mistress Mary quite contrary + How does your garden grow? + +I am certain you remember what pleasure it gave you to make "contrary" +rhyme with "Mary" instead of pronouncing it in the proper and prosy way. + +"But" you answer, "I did indeed like that sort of verse, and am still +fond of it when it dances and prances, or trips and patters and tinkles; +it is what is termed "sublime" poetry that is dull and difficult to +understand; the verb is always a long distance from its subject; the +punctuation comes in the middle of the lines, so that it reads like +prose in spite of one, and it is generally sprinkled with allusions to +Calypso, Oedipus, Eurydice, Hesperus, Corydon, Arethusa, and the +Acroceraunian Mountains; or at any rate with people and places which one +has to look up in the atlas and dictionary." + +Of course, all poems are not equally simple in sound and sense. It does +not require much intelligence to read or chant Poe's Raven, and if one +does not quite understand it, one is so taken captive by the weird, +haunting music of the lines, the recurrence of phrases and repetition of +words, that one does not think about its meaning: + + "While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. + ''Tis some visitor, I muttered, 'tapping at my chamber door-- + Only this, and nothing more.'" + +The moment, however, that your eye falls upon the following lines from +"Paradise Lost" you confess privately that if you were obliged to parse +and analyze them the task would cause you a weary half-hour with Lindley +Murray or Quackenbos. + + "Adam the goodliest man of men since born + His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve. + Under a tuft of shade that on a green + Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain-side, + They sat them down;" + +Very well then, do not try to parse them; Paradise Lost was not written +exclusively for the grammarians; content yourself with enjoying the +picture; the frisking of the beasts of the earth, while Adam and Eve +watched them from a fountain-side in Paradise. + +No one need be ashamed of liking a good deal of rhyme and rhythm, swing +and movement and melody in poetry; absolute perfection of form, though +all too rarely attained, is one of the chief delights of the +verse-lover. "_The procession of beautiful sounds that is a poem,_" says +Walter Raleigh. It is quite natural to love the music of verse before +you catch the deeper thought, and you feel, in some of the greatest +poetry, as if only the angels could have put the melodious words +together. There is more in this music than meets the eye or ear; it is +what differentiates prose from poetry, which, to quote Wordsworth, is +the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge. Prose it is said can never +be too truthful or too wise, but song is more than mere Truth and +Wisdom, it is the "rose upon Truth's lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes." +That is why the thought in it finds its way to the very heart of one and +makes one glow and tremble, fills one with desire to do some splendid +action, right some wrong, be something other than one is, more noble, +more true, more patient, more courageous. + +We who have selected the poems in this book have had to keep in mind the +various kinds of young people who are to read it. The boys may wish that +there were more story and battle poems, and verses ringing with spirited +and war-like adventures; the girls may think that there are too many +already; while both, perhaps, may miss certain old favorites like +Horatius or The Ancient Mariner, omitted because of their great length. +Some of you will yawn if the book flies open at Milton; some will be +bored whenever they chance upon Pope; others will never read Wordsworth +except on compulsion. Romantic little maids will turn away from "Tacking +Ship off Shore," while their brothers will disdain "The Swan's Nest +Among the Reeds"; but it was necessary to make the book for all sorts +and conditions of readers, and such a volume must contain a taste of the +best things, whether your special palate is ready for them or not. When +you are twenty-one you may say, loftily, "I do not care for Pope and +Dryden, I prefer Spenser and Tennyson, or Ben Jonson and Herrick," or +whatever you really do prefer,--but now, although, of course, you have +your personal likes and dislikes, you cannot be sure that they are based +on anything real or that they will stand the test of time and +experience. + +So you will find between these covers we hope, a little of everything +good, for we have searched the pages of the great English-speaking poets +to find verses that you would either love at first sight, or that you +would grow to care for as you learn what is worthy to be loved. Where we +found one beautiful verse, quite simple and wholly beautiful, we have +given you that, if it held a complete thought or painted a picture +perfect in itself, even although we omitted the very next one, which +perhaps would have puzzled and wearied the younger ones with its +involved construction or difficult phraseology. + +Will you think, I wonder, that this very simple talk is too informal to +be quite proper when one remembers that it is to serve as introduction +to the greatest poets that ever lived? Informality is very charming in +its place, no doubt (for so the thought might cross your mind), but one +does not use it with kings and queens; still the least things, you know, +may sometimes explain or interpret the greatest. The brook might say, "I +am nothing in myself, I know, but I am showing you the way to the ocean; +follow on if you wish to see something really vast and magnificent." + +There are besides gracious courtesies to be observed on certain +occasions. If a famous poet or author should chance to come to your +village or city and appear before the people, someone would have to +introduce the stranger and commend him to your attention; and if he did +it modestly it would only be an act of kindliness; a wish to serve you +and at the same time bespeak for him a gentle and a friendly hearing. +Once introduced--Presto, change! If he is a great poet he is a great +wizard; the words he uses, the method and manner in which he uses them, +the cadence of his verse, the thoughts he calls to your mind, the way he +brings the quick color to your cheek and the tear to your eye, all these +savor of magic, nothing else. Who could be less than modest in his +presence? Who could but wish to bring the whole world under his spell? +You will readily be modest, too, when you confront these splendid poems, +even although some of you may not wholly comprehend as yet their +grandeur and their majesty; may not fully understand their claim to +immortality. Where is there a girl who would not make a low curtsey to +Shakespeare's Silvia, Milton's Sabrina, Wordsworth's Lucy, or Mrs. +Browning's Elizabeth? And if there is a boy who could stand with his +head covered before Horatius, Herve Riel, Sir Launfal, or Motherwell's +Cavalier he is not one of those we had in mind when we made this book. +Neither is it altogether the personality of hero or heroine that fills +us with reverence; it is the beauty and perfection of the poem itself +that almost brings us to our knees in worship. A little later on you +will have the same feeling of admiration and awe for Shelley's Skylark, +Emerson's Snow Storm, Wordsworth's Daffodils, Keats's Daybreak, and for +many another poem not included in this book, to which you must hope to +grow. For it is a matter of growth after all, and growth, in mind and +spirit, as in body, is largely a matter of will. It is all ours, the +beauty in the world: your task is merely to enter into possession. +Chaucer, Spenser, and Shakespeare are yours as much as another's. The +great treasury of inspiring thoughts that has been heaped together as +the ages went by, that "rich deposit of the centuries," is your +heritage; if you wish to assert your heirship no one can say you nay; if +you will to be a Croesus in the things of the mind and spirit, no one +can ever keep you poor. + +We have brought you only English verse, so you must wait for the years +to give you Homer, Virgil, Dante, Goethe, Schiller, Victor Hugo, and +many another; and of English verse we have only given a hint of the +treasures in store for you later on. + +We have quoted you poems from the grand old masters, those "bards +sublime," + + "Whose distant footsteps echo + Through the corridors of Time," + +and many a verse:-- + + --"from some humbler poet + Whose songs gushed from his heart + As showers from the clouds of summer, + Or tears from the eyelids start; + Who through long days of labor, + And nights devoid of ease, + Still heard in his soul the music + Of wonderful melodies." + +Since you will not like everything in the book equally well, may we +advise you how to use it? First find something you know and love, and +read it over again. (Penitent, indeed, shall we be if it has been +omitted!) The meeting will be like one with a dear playfellow and friend +in a new and strange house, and the house will seem less strange after +you have met and welcomed the friend. + +Then search the pages until you see a verse that speaks to you +instantly, catches your eye, begs you to read it, willy-nilly. There are +dozens of such poems in this collection, as simple as if they had been +written for six-year-olds instead of for the grown-up English-speaking +world: little masterpieces like Tennyson's Brook, Kingsley's Clear and +Cool, Shakespeare's Fairy Songs, Burns's Mountain Daisy, Emerson's +Rhodora, Motherwell's Blithe Bird, Hogg's Skylark, Wordsworth's Pet +Lamb, Scott's Ballads, and scores of others. + +This so far is pure pleasure, but why not, as another step, find +something difficult, something you instinctively draw back from? It will +probably be Milton, Pope, Dryden, Browning, or Shelley. You cannot find +any "story" in it; its rhymes do not run trippingly off the tongue; +there are a few strange and unpronounceable words, the punctuation and +phrasing puzzle you, and worse than all you are obliged to read it two +or three times before you really understand its meaning. Very well, that +is nothing to be ashamed of, and you surely do not want to be vanquished +by a difficulty. You will realize some time or other that all learning, +like all life, is a sort of obstacle race in which the strongest wins. + +I once said to a dear old minister who was preaching to a very ignorant +and unlearned congregation, "It must be very difficult, sir, for you to +preach down to them"; for he was a man of rare scholarship and true +wisdom;--"I try to be very simple a part of the time," he answered, "but +not always; about once a month I fling the fodder so high in the rack +that no man can catch at a single straw without stretching his neck!" + +Now pray do not laugh at that illustration; smile if you will, but it +serves the purpose. Just as we develop our muscles by exercising our +bodies, so do we grow strong mentally and spiritually by this +"stretching" process. You are not obliged to love an impersonal, remote, +or complex poem intimately and passionately, but read it faithfully if +you do not wish to be wholly blind and deaf to beauties of sense or +sound that happier people see and hear. Joubert says most truly: "You +will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some with you," but there are +some splendid things in verse as in prose that you stand in too great +awe of to love in any real, childlike way. It is never scenes from +Paradise Lost that run through your mind when you are going to sleep. It +is something with a lilt, like: + + "Up the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen, + We daren't go a-hunting + For fear of little men;" + +or a poem with a gallant action in it like Marco Bozzaris, or with a +charming story like The Singing Leaves, or a mysterious and musical one, +like Kubla Khan or The Bells, or something that when first you read it +made you a little older and a little sadder, in an odd, unaccustomed way +quite unlike that of real grief: + + "A feeling of sadness and longing + That is not akin to pain + And resembles sorrow only + As the mist resembles rain." + +When you read that verse of Longfellow's afterwards you see that he has +expressed your mood exactly. That is what it means to be a poet, and +that is what poetry is always doing for us; revealing, translating +thoughts we are capable of feeling, but not expressing. + +Perhaps you will not for a long time see the beauty of certain famous +reflective poems like Gray's Elegy, but we must include a few of such +things whether they appeal to you very strongly or not, merely because +it is necessary that you should have an acquaintance, if not a +friendship, with lines that the world by common consent has agreed to +call immortal. They show you, without your being conscious of it, show +you by their lines "all gold and seven times refined,"--how beautiful +the English language can be when it is used by a master of style. Young +people do not think or talk very much about style, but they come under +its spell unconsciously and respond to its influence quickly enough. To +give a sort of definition: style is a way of saying or writing a thing +so that people are _compelled to listen._ When you grow sensitive to +beauty of language you become, in some small degree at least, capable of +using it yourself. You could not, for instance, read daily these +"honey-tongued" poets without gathering a little sweetness for your own +unruly member. + +There are certain spiritual lessons to be gained from many of these +immortal poems, lessons which the oldest as well as the youngest might +well learn. Turn to Milton's Ode on his Blindness. It is not easy +reading, but you will begin to care for it when experience brings you +the meaning of the line, "They also serve who only stand and wait." It +is one of a class of poems that have been living forces from age to age; +that have quickened aspiration, aroused energy, deepened conviction; +that have infused a nobler ardor and loftier purpose into life wherever +and whenever they were read. + +Prefacing each of the divisions of this volume you will find a page or +"interleaf" of comment on, and appreciation of, the poems that follow. +These pages you may read or not as you are minded; they are only +friendly or informal letters from an old traveller to a pilgrim who has +just taken his staff in hand. + +By and by you will add poem after poem to your list of favorites, and +so, gradually, you will make your own volume of Golden Numbers, which +will be far better than any book we can fashion for you. Perhaps you +will copy single verses and whole poems in it and, later, learn them by +heart. Such treasures of memory "will henceforth no longer be +forgettable, detachable parts of your mind's furniture, but well-springs +of instinct forever." + + KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. + + + + +GOLDEN NUMBERS + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_A Chanted Calendar_ + + +Here is the Year's Processional in verse; the story of her hours, her +days, her seasons, told as only poets can, because they see and hear +things not revealed to you and me, and are able by their magic to make +us sharers in the revelation. Read the first six poems and ask yourself +whether you have ever realized the glories of the common day; from the +moment when morning from her orient chambers comes, and the lark at +heaven's gate sings, to the hour when the moon, unveiling her peerless +light, throws her silver mantle o'er the dark, and the firmament glows +with living sapphires. + +It is the task of poetry not only to say noble things, but to say them +nobly; having beautiful fancies, to clothe them in beautiful phrases, +and if you search these poems you will find some of the most wonderful +word-pictures in the English language. How charming Drayton's +description of the summer breeze: + + "_The wind had no more strength than this, + That leisurely it blew, + To make one leaf the next to kiss + That closely by it grew._" + +If the day is dreary you need only read Lowell's "June Weather," and +like the bird sitting at his door in the sun, atilt like a blossom among +the leaves, your "illumined being" will overrun with the "deluge of +summer it receives." + +Then turn the page; the picture fades as you read Trowbridge's +"Midwinter." The speckled sky is dim; the light flakes falter and fall +slow; the chickadee sings cheerily; lo, the magic touch again and the +house mates sit, as Emerson saw them, + + "_Around the radiant fireplace enclosed + In a tumultuous privacy of storm._" + + + + +I + +A CHANTED CALENDAR + + +_Daybreak_ + + Day had awakened all things that be, + The lark, and the thrush, and the swallow free, + And the milkmaid's song, and the mower's scythe, + And the matin bell and the mountain bee: + Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn, + Glowworms went out, on the river's brim, + Like lamps which a student forgets to trim: + The beetle forgot to wind his horn, + The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: + Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, + Night's dreams and terrors, every one, + Fled from the brains which are its prey, + From the lamp's death to the morning ray. + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + +_Morning_ + + Now morning from her orient chambers came, + And her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill: + Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame, + Silvering the untainted gushes of its rill, + Which, pure from mossy beds of simple flowers + By many streams a little lake did fill, + Which round its marge reflected woven bowers, + And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_A Morning Song_ + + Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings. + And Phoebus 'gins arise, + His steeds to water at those springs + On chaliced flowers that lies; + And winking Mary-buds begin + To ope their golden eyes: + With every thing that pretty bin, + My lady sweet, arise: + Arise, arise! + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "Cymbeline."_ + + +_Evening in Paradise_ + + Now came still Evening on, and Twilight gray + Had in her sober livery all things clad; + Silence accompanied; for beast and bird-- + They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, + Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale; + She all night long her amorous descant sung; + Silence was pleased: now glowed the firmament + With living sapphires: Hesperus, that led + The starry host, rode brightest, till the Moon, + Rising in clouded majesty, at length + Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, + And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. + + JOHN MILTON. + + _From "Paradise Lost."_ + + +_Evening Song_ + + Shepherds all, and maidens fair, + Fold your flocks up, for the air + 'Gins to thicken, and the sun + Already his great course hath run. + See the dew-drops how they kiss + Every little flower that is, + Hanging on their velvet heads, + Like a rope of crystal beads: + See the heavy clouds low falling, + And bright Hesperus down calling + The dead Night from under ground; + At whose rising, mists unsound, + Damps and vapors fly apace, + Hovering o'er the wanton face + Of these pastures, where they come, + Striking dead both bud and bloom: + Therefore, from such danger lock + Every one his loved flock; + And let your dogs lie loose without, + Lest the wolf come as a scout + From the mountain, and, ere day, + Bear a lamb or kid away; + Or the crafty thievish fox + Break upon your simple flocks. + To secure yourselves from these, + Be not too secure in ease; + Let one eye his watches keep, + Whilst the other eye doth sleep; + So you shall good shepherds prove, + And for ever hold the love + Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers, + And soft silence, fall in numbers + On your eyelids! So, farewell! + Thus I end my evening's knell. + + JOHN FLETCHER. + + +_Night_ + + How beautiful is night! + A dewy freshness fills the silent air; + No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, + Breaks the serene of heaven: + In full-orb'd glory yonder Moon divine + Rolls through the dark-blue depths. + Beneath her steady ray + The desert-circle spreads, + Like the round ocean, girdled with the sky. + How beautiful is night! + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + +_A Fine Day_ + + Clear had the day been from the dawn, + All chequer'd was the sky, + Thin clouds like scarfs of cobweb lawn + Veil'd heaven's most glorious eye. + The wind had no more strength than this, + That leisurely it blew, + To make one leaf the next to kiss + That closely by it grew. + + MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + +_The Seasons_ + + So forth issued the seasons of the year; + First, lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers + That freshly budded, and new blooms did bear, + In which a thousand birds had built their bowers. + + EDMUND SPENSER. + + _From "The Faerie Queene."_ + + +_The Eternal Spring_ + + The birds their quire apply; airs, vernal airs, + Breathing the smell of field and grove, attune + The trembling leaves, while universal Pan, + Knit with the Graces and the Hours in dance, + Led on the eternal Spring. + + JOHN MILTON. + + +_March_[1] + + The stormy March is come at last, + With wind, and cloud, and changing skies; + I hear the rushing of the blast + That through the snowy valley flies. + + Ah, passing few are they who speak, + Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee; + Yet though thy winds are loud and bleak, + Thou art a welcome month to me. + + For thou, to northern lands, again + The glad and glorious sun dost bring; + And thou hast joined the gentle train + And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. + + Then sing aloud the gushing rills + In joy that they again are free, + And, brightly leaping down the hills, + Renew their journey to the sea. + + Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies, + And that soft time of sunny showers, + When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, + Seems of a brighter world than ours. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +[Footnote 1: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's +Complete Poetical Works._] + + +_Spring_ + + Now that the winter's gone, the earth hath lost + Her snow-white robes; and now no more the frost + Candies the grass or casts an icy cream + Upon the silver lake or crystal stream: + But the warm sun thaws the benumbed earth, + And makes it tender; gives a sacred birth + To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow tree + The drowsy cuckoo and the bumble-bee. + Now do a choir of chirping minstrels bring + In triumph to the world the youthful spring! + The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich array, + Welcome the coming of the longed-for May. + + THOMAS CAREW. + + +_Song to April_[2] + + April, April, + Laugh thy girlish laughter; + Then, the moment after, + Weep thy girlish tears! + April, that mine ears + Like a lover greetest, + If I tell thee, sweetest, + All my hopes and fears, + April, April, + Laugh thy golden laughter, + But the moment after, + Weep thy golden tears! + + WILLIAM WATSON. + +[Footnote 2: _By courtesy of John Lane._] + + +_April in England_ + + Oh, to be in England + Now that April's there, + And whoever wakes in England + Sees, some morning, unaware, + That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf + Round the elm-tree hole are in tiny leaf, + While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough + In England--now! + + And after April, when May follows, + And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows! + Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge + Leans to the field, and scatters on the clover + Blossoms and dewdrops,--at the bent spray's edge-- + That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, + Lest you should think he never could recapture + The first fine careless rapture! + And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, + All will be gay when noontide wakes anew + The buttercups, the little children's dower, + --Far brighter than this gaudy melon flower. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + +_April and May_ + + April cold with dropping rain + Willows and lilacs brings again, + The whistle of returning birds, + And trumpet-lowing of the herds; + The scarlet maple-keys betray + What potent blood hath modest May; + What fiery force the earth renews, + The wealth of forms, the flush of hues; + What Joy in rosy waves outpoured, + Flows from the heart of Love, the Lord. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + _From "May-Day."_ + + +_May_ + + Then came fair May, the fairest maid on ground, + Deck'd all with dainties of her season's pride, + And throwing flowers out of her lap around: + Upon two brethren's shoulders she did ride; + The twins of Leda, which on either side + Supported her like to their sovereign queen. + Lord! how all creatures laught when her they spied, + And leapt and danced as they had ravish'd been. + And Cupid's self about her fluttered all in green. + + EDMUND SPENSER. + + +_Song on May Morning_ + + Now the bright morning star, Day's harbinger, + Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her + The flowery May, who from her green lap throws + The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. + Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire + Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; + Woods and groves are of thy dressing, + Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. + Thus we salute thee with our early song, + And welcome thee, and wish thee long. + + JOHN MILTON. + + +_Summer_ + + Then came jolly Summer, being dight + In a thin silken cassock, colored green, + That was unlined, all to be more light, + And on his head a garland well beseene. + + EDMUND SPENSER. + + _From "The Faerie Queene."_ + + +_June Weather_ + + For a cap and bells our lives we pay, + Bubbles we earn with a whole soul's tasking; + 'T is heaven alone that is given away, + 'T is only God may be had for the asking; + No price is set on the lavish summer; + June may be had by the poorest comer. + And what is so rare as a day in June? + Then, if ever, come perfect days; + Then Heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, + And over it softly her warm ear lays: + Whether we look, or whether we listen, + We hear life murmur, or see it glisten; + Every clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And, groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers; + The flush of life may well be seen + Thrilling back over hills and valleys; + The cowslip startles in meadows green, + The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, + And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean + To be some happy creature's palace; + The little bird sits at his door in the sun, + Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, + And lets his illumined being o'errun + With the deluge of summer it receives; + His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, + And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings; + He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,-- + In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best? + + Now is the high tide of the year, + And whatever of life hath ebbed away + Comes flooding back, with a ripply cheer, + Into every bare inlet and creek and bay; + Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it, + We are happy now because God wills it; + No matter how barren the past may have been, + 'T is enough for us now that the leaves are green; + We sit in the warm shade and feel right well + How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell; + We may shut our eyes, but we cannot help knowing + That skies are clear and grass is growing; + The breeze comes whispering in our ear, + That dandelions are blossoming near, + That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing, + That the river is bluer than the sky, + That the robin is plastering his house hard by; + And if the breeze kept the good news back, + For other couriers we should not lack, + We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,-- + And hark! how clear bold chanticleer, + Warmed with the new wine of the year, + Tells all in his lusty crowing! + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + _From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_ + + +_July_[3] + + When the scarlet cardinal tells + Her dream to the dragon fly, + And the lazy breeze makes a nest in the trees, + And murmurs a lullaby, + It is July. + + When the tangled cobweb pulls + The cornflower's cap awry, + And the lilies tall lean over the wall + To bow to the butterfly, + It is July. + + When the heat like a mist-veil floats, + And poppies flame in the rye, + And the silver note in the streamlet's throat + Has softened almost to a sigh, + It is July. + + When the hours are so still that time + Forgets them, and lets them lie + 'Neath petals pink till the night stars wink + At the sunset in the sky, + It is July. + + SUSAN HARTLEY SWETT. + +[Footnote 3: _By courtesy of Dana Estes & Co._] + + +_August_ + + The sixth was August, being rich arrayed + In garment all of gold down to the ground; + Yet rode he not, but led a lovely maid + Forth by the lily hand, the which was crowned + With ears of corn, and full her hand was found: + That was the righteous Virgin, which of old + Lived here on earth, and plenty made abound. + + EDMUND SPENSER. + + +_In August_ + + All the long August afternoon, + The little drowsy stream + Whispers a melancholy tune, + As if it dreamed of June, + And whispered in its dream. + + The thistles show beyond the brook + Dust on their down and bloom, + And out of many a weed-grown nook + The aster flowers look + With eyes of tender gloom. + + The silent orchard aisles are sweet + With smell of ripening fruit. + Through the sere grass, in shy retreat + Flutter, at coming feet, + The robins strange and mute. + + There is no wind to stir the leaves, + The harsh leaves overhead; + Only the querulous cricket grieves, + And shrilling locust weaves + A song of summer dead. + +WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. + + +_Autumn_ + + Then came the Autumn all in yellow clad, + As though he joyed in his plenteous store, + Laden with fruits that made him laugh, full glad + That he had banished hunger, which to-fore + Had by the belly oft him pinched sore: + Upon his head a wreath, that was enroll'd + With ears of corn of every sort, he bore; + And in his hand a sickle he did hold, + To reap the ripen'd fruits the which the earth had yold. + + EDMUND SPENSER. + + _From "The Faerie Queene."_ + + +_Sweet September_ + + O sweet September! thy first breezes bring + The dry leafs rustle and the squirrel's laughter, + The cool, fresh air, whence health and vigor spring, + And promise of exceeding joy hereafter. + + GEORGE ARNOLD. + + +_Autumn's Processional_ + + Then step by step walks Autumn, + With steady eyes that show + Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, + While the equinoctials blow. + + DINAH MARIA MULOCK. + + +_October's Bright Blue Weather_ + + O suns and skies and clouds of June, + And flowers of June together, + Ye cannot rival for one hour + October's bright blue weather; + + When loud the bumblebee makes haste, + Belated, thriftless vagrant, + And goldenrod is dying fast, + And lanes with grapes are fragrant; + + When gentians roll their fringes tight + To save them for the morning, + And chestnuts fall from satin burrs + Without a sound of warning; + + When on the ground red apples lie + In piles like jewels shining, + And redder still on old stone walls + Are leaves of woodbine twining; + When all the lovely wayside things + Their white-winged seeds are sowing, + And in the fields, still green and fair, + Late aftermaths are growing; + + When springs run low, and on the brooks, + In idle golden freighting, + Bright leaves sink noiseless in the hush + Of woods, for winter waiting; + + When comrades seek sweet country haunts, + By twos and twos together, + And count like misers, hour by hour, + October's bright blue weather. + + O sun and skies and flowers of June, + Count all your boasts together, + Love loveth best of all the year + October's bright blue weather. + + H. H. + + +_Maple Leaves_ + + October turned my maple's leaves to gold; + The most are gone now; here and there one lingers: + Soon these will slip from out the twigs' weak hold, + Like coins between a dying miser's fingers. + + THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. + + +_"Down to Sleep"_ + + November woods are bare and still, + November days are clear and bright, + Each noon burns up the morning's chill, + The morning's snow is gone by night, + Each day my steps grow slow, grow light, + As through the woods I reverent creep, + Watching all things "lie down to sleep." + + I never knew before what beds, + Fragrant to smell and soft to touch, + The forest sifts and shapes and spreads. + I never knew before, how much + Of human sound there is, in such + Low tones as through the forest sweep, + When all wild things "lie down to sleep." + + Each day I find new coverlids + Tucked in, and more sweet eyes shut tight. + Sometimes the viewless mother bids + Her ferns kneel down full in my sight, + I hear their chorus of "good night," + And half I smile and half I weep, + Listening while they "lie down to sleep." + + November woods are bare and still, + November days are bright and good, + Life's noon burns up life's morning chill, + Life's night rests feet that long have stood, + Some warm, soft bed in field or wood + The mother will not fail to keep + Where we can "lay us down to sleep." + + H. H. + + +_Winter_ + + Lastly came Winter cloathed all in frize, + Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill; + Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze, + And the dull drops that from his purple bill + As from a limbeck did adown distill; + In his right hand a tipped staff he held + With which his feeble steps he stayed still, + For he was faint with cold and weak with eld, + That scarce his loosed limbs he able was to weld. + + EDMUND SPENSER. + + +_When Icicles Hang by the Wall_ + + When icicles hang by the wall, + And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, + And Tom bears logs into the hall, + And milk comes frozen home in pail, + When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, + Then nightly sings the staring owl, + To-whit! + To-who!--a merry note, + While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. + + When all aloud the wind doth blow, + And coughing drowns the parson's saw, + And birds sit brooding in the snow, + And Marian's nose looks red and raw, + When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, + Then nightly sings the staring owl, + To-whit! + To-who!--a merry note, + While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "Love's Labor's Lost."_ + + +_A Winter Morning_ + + There was never a leaf on bush or tree, + The bare boughs rattled shudderingly; + The river was dumb and could not speak, + For the weaver Winter its shroud had spun; + A single crow on the tree-top bleak + From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun; + Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold, + As if her veins were sapless and old, + And she rose up decrepitly + For a last dim look at earth and sea. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + _From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_ + + +_The Snow Storm_ + + Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, + Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, + Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air + Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, + And veils the farmhouse at the garden's end. + The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet + Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit + Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed + In a tumultuous privacy of storm. + + Come see the north-wind's masonry. + Out of an unseen quarry evermore + Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer + Curves his white bastions with projected roof + Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. + Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work + So fanciful, so savage, naught cares he + For number or proportion. Mockingly, + On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; + A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; + Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, + Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate, + A tapering turret overtops the work: + And when his hours are numbered, and the world + Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, + Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art + To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, + Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, + The frolic architecture of the snow. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_Old Winter_ + + Old Winter sad, in snow yclad, + Is making a doleful din; + But let him howl till he crack his jowl, + We will not let him in. + + Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift + His hoary, hagged form, + And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand + Outstretching to the storm. + + And let his weird and sleety beard + Stream loose upon the blast, + And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime + From his bald head falling fast. + + Let his baleful breath shed blight and death + On herb and flower and tree; + And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds + Bind fast, but what care we? + + Let him push at the door,--in the chimney roar, + And rattle the window pane; + Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, + But he shall not entrance gain. + + Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, + On our roof-tiles, till he tire; + But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit + Before our blazing fire. + + Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; + Come, push the can about;-- + From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide + We'll keep old Winter out. + + THOMAS NOEL. + + +_Midwinter_ + + The speckled sky is dim with snow, + The light flakes falter and fall slow; + Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, + Silently drops a silvery veil; + And all the valley is shut in + By flickering curtains gray and thin. + + But cheerily the chickadee + Singeth to me on fence and tree; + The snow sails round him as he sings, + White as the down of angels' wings. + + I watch the slow flakes as they fall + On bank and brier and broken wall; + Over the orchard, waste and brown, + All noiselessly they settle down, + Tipping the apple-boughs, and each + Light quivering twig of plum and peach. + + On turf and curb and bower-roof + The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; + It paves with pearl the garden-walk; + And lovingly round tattered stalk + And shivering stem its magic weaves + A mantle fair as lily-leaves. + + The hooded beehive small and low, + Stands like a maiden in the snow; + And the old door-slab is half hid + Under an alabaster lid. + + All day it snows: the sheeted post + Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; + All day the blasted oak has stood + A muffled wizard of the wood; + Garland and airy cap adorn + The sumach and the wayside thorn, + And clustering spangles lodge and shine + In the dark tresses of the pine. + + The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, + Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; + In surplice white the cedar stands, + And blesses him with priestly hands. + + Still cheerily the chickadee + Singeth to me on fence and tree: + But in my inmost ear is heard + The music of a holier bird; + And heavenly thoughts as soft and white + As snow-flakes on my soul alight, + Clothing with love my lonely heart, + Healing with peace each bruised part, + Till all my being seems to be + Transfigured by their purity. + + JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. + + +_Dirge for the Year_ + + "Orphan Hours, the Year is dead! + Come and sigh, come and weep!" + "Merry Hours, smile instead, + For the Year is but asleep; + See, it smiles as it is sleeping, + Mocking your untimely weeping." + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_The World Beautiful_ + + +"Study Nature, not books," said that inspired teacher, Louis Agassiz. + +The poets do not bring you the fruit of conscious study, perhaps, for +they do not analyze or dissect Dame Nature's methods; with them genius +begets a higher instinct, and it is by a sort of divination that they +interpret for us the power and grandeur, romance and witchery, beauty +and mystery of "God's great out-of-doors." The born poet, like the born +naturalist, seems to have additional senses. Emerson says of his friend +Thoreau that he saw as with microscope and heard as with ear-trumpet, +while his memory was a photographic register of all he saw and heard; +and Thoreau the naturalist might have said the same of Emerson the poet. + +Glance at the succession of beautiful images in Shelley's "Cloud" or +Aldrich's "Before the Rain", lend your ear to the tinkle of Tennyson's +"Brook." Contrast them with the bracing lines of the "Northeast Wind," +the rough metre of "Highland Cattle," the chill calm of "Snow Bound," +the grand style of Milton's "Morning," the noble simplicity of Addison's +"Hymn," and note how the great poet bends his language to the mood of +Nature, grim or sunny, stormy or kind, strong or tender. There is a +stanza in Pope's "Essay on Criticism" which conveys the idea perfectly: + + "_Soft is the strain when zephyr gently blows, + And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; + But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, + The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. + When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, + The line too labors, and the words move slow: + Not so when swift Camilla scours the plain, + Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main._" + + + + +II + +THE WORLD BEAUTIFUL + + +_The World Beautiful_ + + Sweet is the breath of Morn, her rising sweet + With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the Sun + When first on this delightful land he spreads + His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, + Glistening with dew; fragrant the fertile Earth + After soft showers; and sweet the coming on + Of grateful Evening mild; then silent Night + With this her solemn bird, and this fair Moon, + And these the gems of Heaven, her starry train. + + JOHN MILTON. + + _From "Paradise Lost."_ + + +_The Harvest Moon_ + + It is the harvest moon! On gilded vanes + And roofs of villages, on woodland crests + And their aerial neighborhoods of nests + Deserted, oh the curtained window-panes + Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes + And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests! + Gone are the birds that were our summer guests; + With the last sheaves return the laboring wains! + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + +_The Cloud_ + + I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, + From the seas and the streams; + I bear light shade for the leaves when laid + In their noonday dreams. + From my wings are shaken the dews that waken + The sweet buds every one, + When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, + As she dances about the sun. + I wield the flail of the lashing hail, + And whiten the green plains under; + And then again I dissolve it in rain, + And laugh as I pass in thunder. + + I sift the snow on the mountains below, + And their great pines groan aghast; + And all the night 'tis my pillow white, + While I sleep in the arms of the blast. + Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, + Lightning my pilot sits; + In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, + It struggles and howls at fits; + Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, + This pilot is guiding me, + Lured by the love of the genii that move + In the depths of the purple sea; + Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, + Over the lakes and the plains, + Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, + The Spirit he loves remains; + And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, + Whilst he is dissolving in rains. + + The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, + And his burning plumes outspread, + Leaps on the back of my sailing rack + When the morning-star shines dead, + As on the jag of a mountain crag, + Which an earthquake rocks and swings, + An eagle alit one moment may sit + In the light of its golden wings. + And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath + Its ardors of rest and of love, + And the crimson pall of eve may fall + From the depth of heaven above, + With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, + As still as a brooding dove. + + That orbed maiden with white fire laden, + Whom mortals call the moon, + Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-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, + Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, + The mountains its columns be. + The triumphal arch through which I march + With hurricane, fire, and snow, + When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, + Is the million-colored bow; + The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, + While the moist earth was laughing below. + I am the daughter of earth and water, + And the nursling of the sky: + I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; + I change, but I cannot die. + For after the rain when with never a stain, + The pavilion of heaven is bare, + And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, + Build up the blue dome of air, + I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, + And out of the caverns of rain, + Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, + I arise and unbuild it again. + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + +_Before the Rain_ + + We knew it would rain, for all the morn, + A spirit on slender ropes of mist + Was lowering its golden buckets down + Into the vapory amethyst + + Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens-- + Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, + Dipping the jewels out of the sea, + To sprinkle them over the land in showers. + + We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed + The white of their leaves, the amber grain + Shrunk in the wind--and the lightning now + Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain! + + THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. + + +_Rain in Summer_ + + How beautiful is the rain! + After the dust and heat, + In the broad and fiery street, + In the narrow lane, + How beautiful is the rain! + How it clatters along the roofs + Like the tramp of hoofs! + How it gushes and struggles out + From the throat of the overflowing spout! + + Across the window-pane + It pours and pours; + And swift and wide, + With a muddy tide, + Like a river down the gutter roars + The rain, the welcome rain! + + The sick man from his chamber looks + At the twisted brooks; + He can feel the cool + Breath of each little pool; + His fevered brain + Grows calm again, + And he breathes a blessing on the rain. + + From the neighboring school + Come the boys, + With more than their wonted noise + And commotion; + And down the wet streets + Sail their mimic fleets, + Till the treacherous pool + Engulfs them in its whirling + And turbulent ocean. + + In the country on every side, + Where, far and wide, + Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide, + Stretches the plain, + To the dry grass and the drier grain + How welcome is the rain! + + In the furrowed land + The toilsome and patient oxen stand, + Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, + With their dilated nostrils spread, + They silently inhale + The clover-scented gale, + And the vapors that arise + From the well-watered and smoking soil. + For this rest in the furrow after toil, + Their large and lustrous eyes + Seem to thank the Lord, + More than man's spoken word. + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + +_Invocation to Rain in Summer_ + + O gentle, gentle summer rain, + Let not the silver lily pine, + The drooping lily pine in vain + To feel that dewy touch of thine-- + To drink thy freshness once again, + O gentle, gentle summer rain! + + In heat the landscape quivering lies; + The cattle pant beneath the tree; + Through parching air and purple skies + The earth looks up, in vain, for thee; + For thee--for thee, it looks in vain, + O gentle, gentle summer rain! + + Come, thou, and brim the meadow streams, + And soften all the hills with mist, + O falling dew! from burning dreams + By thee shall herb and flower be kissed; + And Earth shall bless thee yet again, + O gentle, gentle summer rain! + + WILLIAM C. BENNETT. + + +_The Latter Rain_ + + The latter rain,--it falls in anxious haste + Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, + Loosening with searching drops the rigid waste + As if it would each root's lost strength repair; + But not a blade grows green as in the spring; + No swelling twig puts forth its thickening leaves; + The robins only 'mid the harvests sing, + Pecking the grain that scatters from the sheaves; + The rain falls still,--the fruit all ripened drops, + It pierces chestnut-bur and walnut-shell; + The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops; + Each bursting pod of talents used can tell; + And all that once received the early rain + Declare to man it was not sent in vain. + + JONES VERY. + + +_The Wind_[4] + + I saw you toss the kites on high + And blow the birds about the sky; + And all around I heard you pass, + Like ladies' skirts across the grass-- + O wind, a-blowing all day long, + O wind, that sings so loud a song! + + I saw the different things you did, + But always you yourself you hid, + I felt you push, I heard you call, + I could not see yourself at all-- + O wind, a-blowing all day long, + O wind, that sings so loud a song! + + O you that are so strong and cold, + O blower, are you young or old? + Are you a beast of field and tree + Or just a stronger child than me? + O wind, a-blowing all day long, + O wind, that sings so loud a song! + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +[Footnote 4: _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By courtesy of Charles +Scribner's Sons._] + + +_Ode to the Northeast Wind_ + + Welcome, wild Northeaster! + Shame it is to see + Odes to every zephyr; + Ne'er a verse to thee. + Welcome, black Northeaster! + O'er the German foam; + O'er the Danish moorlands, + From thy frozen home. + Tired we are of summer, + Tired of gaudy glare, + Showers soft and steaming, + Hot and breathless air. + Tired of listless dreaming, + Through the lazy day; + Jovial wind of winter + Turn us out to play! + Sweep the golden reed-beds; + Crisp the lazy dyke; + Hunger into madness + Every plunging pike. + Fill the lake with wild-fowl; + Fill the marsh with snipe; + While on dreary moorlands + Lonely curlew pipe. + Through the black fir forest + Thunder harsh and dry, + Shattering down the snowflakes + Off the curdled sky. + Hark! the brave Northeaster! + Breast-high lies the scent, + On by holt and headland, + Over heath and bent. + Chime, ye dappled darlings, + Through the sleet and snow, + Who can override you? + Let the horses go! + Chime, ye dappled darlings, + Down the roaring blast; + You shall see a fox die + Ere an hour be past. + Go! and rest to-morrow, + Hunting in your dreams, + While our skates are ringing + O'er the frozen streams. + Let the luscious South-wind + Breathe in lovers' sighs, + While the lazy gallants + Bask in ladies' eyes. + What does he but soften + Heart alike and pen? + 'Tis the hard gray weather + Breeds hard English men. + What's the soft Southwester? + 'Tis the ladies' breeze, + Bringing home their true loves + Out of all the seas; + But the black Northeaster, + Through the snowstorm hurled, + Drives our English hearts of oak, + Seaward round the world! + Come! as came our fathers, + Heralded by thee, + Conquering from the eastward, + Lords by land and sea. + Come! and strong within us + Stir the Vikings' blood; + Bracing brain and sinew; + Blow, thou wind of God! + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +_The Windy Night_[5] + + + Alow and aloof, + Over the roof, + How the midnight tempests howl! + With a dreary voice, like the dismal tune + Of wolves that bay at the desert moon;-- + Or whistle and shriek + Through limbs that creak, + "Tu-who! tu-whit!" + They cry and flit, + "Tu-whit! tu-who!" like the solemn owl! + + Alow and aloof, + Over the roof, + Sweep the moaning winds amain, + And wildly dash + The elm and ash, + Clattering on the window-sash, + With a clatter and patter, + Like hail and rain + That well nigh shatter + The dusky pane! + + Alow and aloof, + Over the roof, + How the tempests swell and roar! + Though no foot is astir, + Though the cat and the cur + Lie dozing along the kitchen floor, + There are feet of air + On every stair! + Through every hall-- + Through each gusty door, + There's a jostle and bustle, + With a silken rustle, + Like the meeting of guests at a festival! + + Alow and aloof, + Over the roof, + How the stormy tempests swell! + And make the vane + On the spire complain-- + They heave at the steeple with might and main + And burst and sweep + Into the belfry, on the bell! + They smite it so hard, and they smite it so well, + That the sexton tosses his arms in sleep, + And dreams he is ringing a funeral knell! + + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. + +[Footnote 5: _By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co._] + + +_The Brook_ + + I come from haunts of coot and hern, + I make a sudden sally, + And sparkle out among the fern, + To bicker down a valley. + + By thirty hills I hurry down, + Or slip between the ridges; + By twenty thorps, a little town, + And half a hundred bridges. + + * * * * + + I chatter over stony ways, + In little sharps and trebles, + I bubble into eddying bays, + I babble on the pebbles. + + With many a curve my banks I fret, + By many a field and fallow, + And many a fairy foreland set + With willow-weed and mallow. + + I chatter, chatter, as I flow + To join the brimming river; + For men may come and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + I wind about, and in and out, + With here a blossom sailing, + And here and there a lusty trout, + And here and there a grayling, + + And here and there a foamy flake + Upon me, as I travel, + With many a silvery waterbreak + Above the golden gravel. + + * * * * + + I steal by lawns and grassy plots, + I slide by hazel covers; + I move the sweet forget-me-nots + That grow for happy lovers. + + I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, + Among my skimming swallows; + I make the netted sunbeams dance + Against my sandy shallows. + + I murmur under moon and stars + In brambly wildernesses; + I linger by my shingly bars; + I loiter round my cresses. + + And out again I curve and flow + To join the brimming river, + For men may come and men may go, + But I go on forever. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_The Brook in Winter_ + + Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak, + From the snow five thousand summers old; + On open wold and hill-top bleak + It had gathered all the cold, + And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek; + It carried a shiver everywhere + From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare; + The little brook heard it and built a roof + 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof; + All night by the white stars' frosty gleams + He groined his arches and matched his beams; + Slender and clear were his crystal spars + As the lashes of light that trim the stars; + He sculptured every summer delight + In his halls and chambers out of sight; + Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt + Down through a frost-leaved forest crypt, + Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees + Bending to counterfeit a breeze; + Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew; + But silvery mosses that downward grew; + Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief + With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; + Sometimes it was simply smooth and clear + For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here + He had caught the nodding bulrush-tops + And hung them thickly with diamond drops, + That crystalled the beams of moon and sun, + And made a star of every one: + No mortal builder's most rare device + Could match this winter-palace of ice; + 'Twas as if every image that mirrored lay + In his depths serene through the summer day, + Each flitting shadow of earth and sky, + Lest the happy model should be lost, + Had been mimicked in fairy masonry + By the elfin builders of the frost. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + _From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_ + + +_Clear and Cool_ + + Clear and cool, clear and cool, + By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool; + Cool and clear, cool and clear, + By shining shingle, and foaming wear; + Under the crag where the ouzel sings, + And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, + Undefiled, for the undefiled; + Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. + + Dank and foul, dank and foul, + By the smoky town in its murky cowl; + Foul and dank, foul and dank, + By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; + Darker and darker the farther I go, + Baser and baser the richer I grow; + Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? + Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. + Strong and free, strong and free, + The floodgates are open, away to the sea, + Free and strong, free and strong, + Cleansing my streams as I hurry along, + To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, + And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. + As I lose myself in the infinite main, + Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again. + Undefiled, for the undefiled; + Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + _From "The Water-Babies."_ + + +_Minnows_ + + How silent comes the water round that bend; + Not the minutest whisper does it send + To the overhanging sallows; blades of grass + Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass,-- + Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reach + To where the hurrying freshnesses aye preach + A natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds; + Where swarms of minnows show their little heads, + Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams, + To taste the luxury of sunny beams + Tempered with coolness. How they ever wrestle + With their own sweet delight, and ever nestle + Their silver bellies on the pebbly sand. + If you but scantily hold out the hand, + That very instant not one will remain; + But turn your eye, and they are there again. + The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses, + And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses; + The while they cool themselves, they freshness give, + And moisture, that the bowery green may live. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_Snow-Bound_ + +(Extracts) + + The sun that brief December day + Rose cheerless over hills of gray, + And, darkly circled, gave at noon + A sadder light than waning moon. + Slow tracing down the thickening sky + Its mute and ominous prophecy, + A portent seeming less than threat, + It sank from sight before it set. + A chill no coat, however stout, + Of homespun stuff could quite shut out, + A hard dull bitterness of cold, + That checked, mid-vein, the circling race + Of life-blood in the sharpened face, + The coming of the snow-storm told. + The wind blew east: we heard the roar + Of ocean on his wintry shore, + And felt the strong pulse throbbing there + Beat with low rhythm our inland air. + + * * * * + + Unwarmed by any sunset light + The gray day darkened into night, + A night made hoary with the swarm + And whirl-dance of the blinding storm, + As zig-zag wavering to and fro + Crossed and recrossed the winged snow: + And ere the early bedtime came + The white drift piled the window-frame, + And through the glass the clothes-line posts + Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts. + + * * * * + + The old familiar sights of ours + Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers + Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood, + Or garden wall, or belt of wood; + A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed, + A fenceless drift what once was road; + The bridle-post an old man sat + With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat; + The well-curb had a Chinese roof; + And even the long sweep, high aloof, + In its slant splendor, seemed to tell + Of Pisa's leaning miracle. + + * * * * + + All day the gusty north wind bore + The loosening drift its breath before; + Low circling round its southern zone, + The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone. + No church-bell lent its Christian tone + To the savage air, no social smoke + Curled over woods of snow-hung oak. + A solitude made more intense + By dreary-voiced elements, + The shrieking of the mindless wind, + The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind, + And on the glass the unmeaning beat + Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet. + Beyond the circle of our hearth + No welcome sound of toil or mirth + Unbound the spell, and testified + Of human life and thought outside. + We minded that the sharpest ear + The buried brooklet could not hear, + The music of whose liquid lip + Had been to us companionship, + And in our lonely life, had grown + To have an almost human tone. + As night drew on, and, from the crest + Of wooded knolls that ridged the west, + The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank + From sight beneath the smothering bank, + We piled with care, our nightly stack + Of wood against the chimney-back,-- + The oaken log, green, huge and thick, + And on its top the stout back-stick; + The knotty fore-stick laid apart, + And filled between with curious art + The ragged brush; then hovering near, + We watched the first red blaze appear, + Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam + On whitewashed wall and sagging beam, + Until the old rude-fashioned room + Burst flower-like into rosy bloom; + While radiant with a mimic flame + Outside the sparkling drift became, + And through the bare-boughed lilac tree + Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free. + The crane and pendent trammels showed, + The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed; + While childish fancy, prompt to tell + The meaning of the miracle, + Whispered the old rhyme: "_Under the tree,_ + _When fire outdoors burns merrily,_ + _There the witches are making tea_." + + * * * * + + Shut in from all the world without, + We sat the clean-winged hearth about, + Content to let the north wind roar + In baffled rage at pane and door, + While the red logs before us beat + The frost-line back with tropic heat; + And ever, when a louder blast + Shook beam and rafter as it passed, + The merrier up its roaring draught + The great throat of the chimney laughed, + The house-dog on his paws outspread + Laid to the fire his drowsy head, + The cat's dark silhouette on the wall + A couchant tiger's seemed to fall; + And, for the winter fireside meet, + Between the andirons' straddling feet, + The mug of cider simmered slow, + The apples sputtered in a row, + And close at hand the basket stood + With nuts from brown October's wood. + + * * * * + + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + +_Highland Cattle_ + + Down the wintry mountain + Like a cloud they come, + Not like a cloud in its silent shroud + When the sky is leaden and the earth all dumb, + But tramp, tramp, tramp, + With a roar and a shock, + And stamp, stamp, stamp, + Down the hard granite rock, + With the snow-flakes falling fair + Like an army in the air + Of white-winged angels leaving + Their heavenly homes, half grieving, + And half glad to drop down kindly upon earth so bare: + With a snort and a bellow + Tossing manes dun and yellow, + Red and roan, black and gray, + In their fierce merry play, + Though the sky is all leaden and the earth all dumb-- + Down the noisy cattle come! + + Throned on the mountain + Winter sits at ease: + Hidden under mist are those peaks of amethyst + That rose like hills of heaven above the amber seas. + While crash, crash, crash, + Through the frozen heather brown, + And dash, dash, dash, + Where the ptarmigan drops down + And the curlew stops her cry + And the deer sinks, like to die-- + And the waterfall's loud noise + Is the only living voice-- + With a plunge and a roar + Like mad waves upon the shore, + Or the wind through the pass + Howling o'er the reedy grass-- + In a wild battalion pouring from the heights unto the plain, + Down the cattle come again! + + * * * * + + DINAH MARIA MULOCK. + + +_A Scene in Paradise_ + + Adam the goodliest man of men since born + His sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve. + Under a tuft of shade that on a green + Stood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain-side, + They sat them down;... + ... About them frisking played + All beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chase + In wood or wilderness, forest or den. + Sporting the lion ramped, and in his paw + Dandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards, + Gamboled before them; the unwieldy elephant, + To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathed + His lithe proboscis; close the serpent sly, + Insinuating, wove with Gordian twine + His braided train, and of his fatal guile + Gave proof unheeded. Others on the grass + Couched, and, now filled with pasture, gazing sat, + Or bedward ruminating; for the sun, + Declined, was hastening now with prone career + To the Ocean Isles, and in the ascending scale + Of Heaven the stars that usher evening rose. + + JOHN MILTON. + + _From "Paradise Lost."_ + + +_The Tiger_ + + Tiger, tiger, burning bright + In the forests of the night! + What immortal hand or eye + Could frame thy fearful symmetry? + + In what distant deeps or skies + Burnt the ardor of thine eyes? + On what wings dare he aspire-- + What the hand dare seize the fire? + + And what shoulder, and what art + Could twist the sinews of thy heart? + And when thy heart began to beat, + What dread hand form'd thy dread feet? + + What the hammer, what the chain, + In what furnace was thy brain? + What the anvil? What dread grasp + Dare its deadly terrors clasp? + + When the stars threw down their spears, + And watered heaven with their tears, + Did he smile his work to see? + Did he who made the lamb make thee? + + Tiger, tiger, burning bright + In the forests of the night, + What immortal hand or eye + Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? + + WILLIAM BLAKE. + + +_The Spacious Firmament on High_ + + The spacious firmament on high, + With all the blue ethereal sky, + And spangled heavens, a shining frame. + Their great Original proclaim. + The unwearied sun from day to day + Does his Creator's power display, + And publishes to every land + The work of an Almighty hand. + + Soon as the evening shades prevail, + The moon takes up the wondrous tale, + And nightly to the listening earth + Repeats the story of her birth; + Whilst all the stars that round her burn, + And all the planets in their turn, + Confirm the tidings as they roll, + And spread the truth from pole to pole. + + What though in solemn silence, all + Move round this dark, terrestrial ball? + What though nor real voice nor sound + Amidst their radiant orbs be found? + In Reason's ear they all rejoice, + And utter forth a glorious voice, + Forever singing as they shine: + "The hand that made us is divine!" + + JOSEPH ADDISON. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_Green Things Growing_ + + + "Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing! + How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;" + + "Every clod feels a stir of might, + An instinct within it that reaches and towers, + And groping blindly above it for light, + Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;" + + "... Lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, + And watch intently Nature's gentle doings; + They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings." + + "Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, + Then beauty is its own excuse for being." + + "They know the time to go! + The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour + In field and woodland, and each punctual flower + Bows at the signal an obedient head + And hastes to bed." + + "If so the sweetness of the wheat + Into my soul might pass, + And the clear courage of the grass." + + "Flower in the crannied wall, + I pluck you out of the crannies; + Hold you here, root and all, in my hand, + Little flower--but if I could understand + What you are, root and all, and all in all, + I should know what God and man is." + + + + +III + +GREEN THINGS GROWING + + +_Green Things Growing_ + + Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing, + The faint sweet smell of the green things growing! + I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve, + Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing. + + Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing! + How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing; + In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight + Or the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing. + + I love, I love them so,--my green things growing! + And I think that they love me, without false showing; + For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much, + With the soft mute comfort of green things growing. + + DINAH MARIA MULOCK. + + +_The Sigh of Silence_ + + 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 their 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, + Born of the very sigh that silence heaves; + For not the faintest motion could be seen + Of all the shades that slanted o'er the green. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_Under the Greenwood Tree_ + + Under the greenwood tree, + Who loves to lie with me, + And tune his merry note + Unto the sweet bird's throat, + Come hither, come hither, come hither! + Here shall he see + No enemy + But winter and rough weather. + + Who doth ambition shun, + And loves to live i' the sun, + Seeking the food he eats, + And pleased with what he gets, + Come hither, come hither, come hither! + Here shall he see + No enemy + But winter and rough weather. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "As You Like It."_ + + +_The Planting of the Apple Tree_[6] + + Come, let us plant the apple tree. + Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; + Wide let its hollow bed be made; + There gently lay the roots, and there + Sift the dark mold with kindly care, + And press it o'er them tenderly, + As, round the sleeping infant's feet + We softly fold the cradle sheet; + So plant we the apple tree. + + What plant we in this apple tree? + Buds, which the breath of summer days + Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; + Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, + Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest; + We plant, upon the sunny lea, + A shadow for the noontide hour, + A shelter from the summer shower, + When we plant the apple tree. + + What plant we in this apple tree? + Sweets for a hundred flowery springs + To load the May wind's restless wings, + When, from the orchard row, he pours + Its fragrance through our open doors; + A world of blossoms for the bee, + Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, + For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, + We plant with the apple tree. + + What plant we in this apple tree? + Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, + And redden in the August noon, + And drop, when gentle airs come by, + That fan the blue September sky, + While children come, with cries of glee, + And seek them where the fragrant grass + Betrays their bed to those who pass, + At the foot of the apple tree. + + And when, above this apple tree, + The winter stars are quivering bright, + And winds go howling through the night, + Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, + Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, + And guests in prouder homes shall see, + Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine + And golden orange of the line, + The fruit of the apple tree. + + The fruitage of this apple tree + Winds, and our flag of stripe and star, + Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, + Where men shall wonder at the view, + And ask in what fair groves they grew; + And sojourners beyond the sea + Shall think of childhood's careless day + And long, long hours of summer play, + In the shade of the apple tree. + + Each year shall give this apple tree + A broader flush of roseate bloom, + A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, + And loosen, when the frost clouds lower, + The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. + The years shall come and pass, but we + Shall hear no longer, where we lie, + The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, + In the boughs of the apple tree. + + And time shall waste this apple tree. + Oh, when its aged branches throw + Thin shadows on the ground below, + Shall fraud and force and iron will + Oppress the weak and helpless still? + What shall the tasks of mercy be, + Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears, + Of those who live when length of years + Is wasting this apple tree? + + "Who planted this old apple tree?" + The children of that distant day + Thus to some aged man shall say; + And, gazing on its mossy stem, + The gray-haired man shall answer them: + "A poet of the land was he, + Born in the rude but good old times; + 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes + On planting the apple tree." + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +[Footnote 6: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's +Complete Poetical Works._] + + +_An Apple Orchard in the Spring_ + + Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring? + In the spring? + An English apple orchard in the spring? + When the spreading trees are hoary + With their wealth of promised glory, + And the mavis sings its story, + In the spring. + + Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring? + In the spring? + And caught their subtle odors in the spring? + Pink buds pouting at the light, + Crumpled petals baby white, + Just to touch them a delight-- + In the spring. + + Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring? + In the spring? + Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring? + When the pink cascades are falling, + And the silver brooklets brawling, + And the cuckoo bird soft calling, + In the spring. + + If you have not, then you know not, in the spring, + In the spring, + Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring, + No sweet sight can I remember + Half so precious, half so tender, + As the apple blossoms render + In the spring. + + WILLIAM MARTIN. + + +_Mine Host of "The Golden Apple"_ + + A goodly host one day was mine, + A Golden Apple his only sign, + That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine. + + My host was the bountiful apple-tree; + He gave me shelter and nourished me + With the best of fare, all fresh and free. + + And light-winged guests came not a few, + To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew, + And sang their best songs ere they flew. + + I slept at night on a downy bed + Of moss, and my Host benignly spread + His own cool shadow over my head. + + When I asked what reckoning there might be, + He shook his broad boughs cheerily:-- + A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree! + + THOMAS WESTWOOD. + + +_The Tree_ + + I love thee when thy swelling buds appear, + And one by one their tender leaves unfold, + As if they knew that warmer suns were near, + Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; + And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen + To veil from view the early robin's nest, + I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, + With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed; + And when the autumn winds have stripped thee bare, + And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, + When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, + I love to watch thy shadowy form below, + And through thy leafless arms to look above + On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love. + + JONES VERY. + + +_A Young Fir-Wood_ + + These little firs to-day are things + To clasp into a giant's cap, + Or fans to suit his lady's lap. + From many winters, many springs + Shall cherish them in strength and sap, + Till they be marked upon the map, + A wood for the wind's wanderings. + All seed is in the sower's hands: + And what at first was trained to spread + Its shelter for some single head,-- + Yea, even such fellowship of wands,-- + May hide the sunset, and the shade + Of its great multitude be laid + Upon the earth and elder sands. + + DANTE G. ROSSETTI. + + +_The Snowing of the Pines_ + + Softer than silence, stiller than still air + Float down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves. + The forest floor its annual boon receives + That comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair. + Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bare + Old rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weaves + Of paler yellow than autumnal sheaves + Or those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear. + Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way; + High up, the crows are gathering for the night; + The delicate needles fill the air; the jay + Takes through their golden mist his radiant flight; + They fall and fall, till at November's close + The snow-flakes drop as lightly--snows on snows. + + THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. + + +_The Procession of the Flowers_ + + First came the primrose, + On the bank high. + Like a maiden looking forth + From the window of a tower + When the battle rolls below, + So look'd she, + And saw the storms go by. + + Then came the wind-flower + In the valley left behind, + As a wounded maiden, pale + With purple streaks of woe, + When the battle has roll'd by + Wanders to and fro, + So totter'd she, + Dishevell'd in the wind. + + Then came the daisies, + On the first of May, + Like a banner'd show's advance + While the crowd runs by the way, + With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields. + + As a happy people come, + So came they, + As a happy people come + When the war has roll'd away, + With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, + And all make holiday. + + Then came the cowslip, + Like a dancer in the fair, + She spread her little mat of green, + And on it danced she. + With a fillet bound about her brow, + A fillet round her happy brow, + A golden fillet round her brow, + And rubies in her hair. + + SYDNEY DOBELL. + + +_Sweet Peas_ + + 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. + Linger awhile upon some bending planks + That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks, + And watch intently Nature's gentle doings: + They will be found softer than ringdove's cooings. + How silent comes the water round that bend! + Not the minutest whisper does it send + To the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grass + Slowly across the chequer'd shadows pass. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_A Snowdrop_ + + Only a tender little thing, + So velvet soft and white it is; + But march himself is not so strong, + With all the great gales that are his. + + In vain his whistling storms he calls, + In vain the cohorts of his power + Ride down the sky on mighty blasts-- + He cannot crush the little flower. + + Its white spear parts the sod, the snows + Than that white spear less snowy are, + The rains roll off its crest like spray, + It lifts again its spotless star. + + HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. + + +_Almond Blossom_ + + Blossom of the almond trees, + April's gift to April's bees, + Birthday ornament of spring, + Flora's fairest daughterling; + Coming when no flowerets dare + Trust the cruel outer air; + When the royal kingcup bold + Dares not don his coat of gold; + And the sturdy black-thorn spray + Keeps his silver for the May;-- + Coming when no flowerets would, + Save thy lowly sisterhood, + Early violets, blue and white, + Dying for their love of light. + Almond blossom, sent to teach us + That the spring-days soon will reach us, + Lest, with longing over-tried, + We die, as the violets died-- + Blossom, clouding all the tree + With thy crimson broidery, + Long before a leaf of green + O'er the bravest bough is seen; + Ah! when winter winds are swinging + All thy red bells into ringing, + With a bee in every bell, + Almond blossom, we greet thee well. + + EDWIN ARNOLD. + + +_Wild Rose_ + + Some innocent girlish Kisses by a charm + Changed to a flight of small pink Butterflies, + To waver under June's delicious skies + Across gold-sprinkled meads--the merry swarm + A smiling powerful word did next transform + To little Roses mesh'd in green, allies + Of earth and air, and everything we prize + For mirthful, gentle, delicate, and warm. + + WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + +_Tiger-Lilies_ + + I like not lady-slippers, + Nor yet the sweet-pea blossoms, + Nor yet the flaky roses, + Red, or white as snow; + I like the chaliced lilies, + The heavy Eastern lilies, + The gorgeous tiger-lilies, + That in our garden grow! + + For they are tall and slender; + Their mouths are dashed with carmine, + And when the wind sweeps by them, + On their emerald stalks + They bend so proud and graceful,-- + They are Circassian women, + The favorites of the Sultan, + Adown our garden walks! + + And when the rain is falling, + I sit beside the window + And watch them glow and glisten,-- + How they burn and glow! + O for the burning lilies, + The tender Eastern lilies, + The gorgeous tiger-lilies, + That in our garden grow! + + THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. + + +_To the Fringed Gentian_[7] + + Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, + And colored with the heaven's own blue, + That openest, when the quiet light + Succeeds the keen and frosty night; + + Thou comest not when violets lean + O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, + Or columbines in purple dressed, + Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest. + + Thou waitest late, and com'st alone, + When woods are bare, and birds are flown, + And frosts and shortening days portend + The aged Year is near his end. + + Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye + Look through its fringes to the sky, + Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall + A flower from its cerulean wall. + I would that thus, when I shall see + The hour of death draw near to me, + Hope, blossoming within my heart, + May look to heaven as I depart. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +[Footnote 7: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's +Complete Poetical Works._] + + +_To a Mountain Daisy_ + +_On Turning One Down With the Plough in April._ + + 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! it's no thy neebor sweet, + The bonnie lark, companion meet! + Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet, + Wi' spreckl'd breast, + When upward-springing, blithe, to greet + The purpling east. + + Cauld blew the bitter-biting north + Upon thy early, humble birth; + Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth + Amid the storm, + Scarce rear'd above the parent earth + Thy tender form. + The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, + High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun shield; + But thou, beneath the random bield + O' clod or stane, + Adorns the histie stibble-field, + Unseen, alane. + + There, in thy scanty mantle clad, + Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, + Thou lifts thy unassuming head + In humble guise; + But now the share uptears thy bed, + And low thou lies. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + +_Bind-Weed_ + + In the deep shadow of the porch + A slender bind-weed springs, + And climbs, like airy acrobat, + The trellises, and swings + And dances in the golden sun + In fairy loops and rings. + + Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed with dew, + Like pearly chalices, + Hold cooling fountains, to refresh + The butterflies and bees; + And humming-birds on vibrant wings + Hover, to drink at ease. + + And up and down the garden-beds, + Mid box and thyme and yew, + And spikes of purple lavender, + And spikes of larkspur blue, + The bind-weed tendrils win their way, + And find a passage through. + + With touches coaxing, delicate, + And arts that never tire, + They tie the rose-trees each to each, + The lilac to the brier, + Making for graceless things a grace, + With steady, sweet desire. + + Till near and far the garden growths, + The sweet, the frail, the rude, + Draw close, as if with one consent, + And find each other good, + Held by the bind-weed's pliant loops, + In a dear brotherhood. + + Like one fair sister, slender, arch, + A flower in bloom and poise, + Gentle and merry and beloved, + Making no stir or noise, + But swaying, linking, blessing all + A family of boys. + + SUSAN COOLIDGE. + + +_The Rhodora_ + + In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, + I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, + Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, + To please the desert and the sluggish brook: + The purple petals, fallen in the pool + Made the black waters with their beauty gay; + Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, + And court the flower that cheapens his array. + Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why + This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, + Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing, + Then beauty is its own excuse for being. + Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! + I never thought to ask; I never knew, + But in my simple ignorance suppose + The selfsame Power that brought me there, brought you. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_A Song of Clover_ + + I wonder what the Clover thinks,-- + Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links, + Lover of Daisies slim and white, + Waltzer with Buttercups at night; + Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, + Serving to them wine-dregs and lees, + Left by the Royal Humming Birds, + Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; + Fellow with all the lowliest, + Peer of the gayest and the best; + Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, + Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; + Prophet of Good-Luck mystery + By sign of four which few may see; + Symbol of Nature's magic zone, + One out of three, and three in one; + Emblem of comfort in the speech + Which poor men's babies early reach; + Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, + Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, + Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,-- + Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;-- + Sweet in its every living breath, + Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death! + Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks? + No one! unless the Bob-o'-links! + + "SAXE HOLM." + + +_To the Dandelion_ + +(Extract) + + Dear common flower, that grow'st 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. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + +_To Daffodils_ + + Fair Daffodils, we weep to see + You haste away so soon; + As yet the early-rising sun + Has not attained his noon. + Stay, stay, + Until the hastening day + Has run + But to the even-song; + And, having prayed together, we + Will go with you along. + + We have short time to stay, as you, + We have as short a spring; + As quick a growth to meet decay, + As you, or anything. + We die + As your hours do, and dry + Away, + Like to the summer's rain; + Or as the pearls of morning's dew, + Ne'er to be found again. + + ROBERT HERRICK. + + +_The Daffodils_ + + I wandered lonely as a cloud + That floats on high o'er vales and hills, + When all at once I saw a crowd,-- + A host, of golden daffodils, + Beside the lake, beneath the trees, + Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. + + Continuous as the stars that shine + And twinkle on the milky way, + They stretched in never-ending line + Along the margin of a bay: + Ten thousand saw I at a glance, + Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. + + The waves beside them danced, but they + Outdid the sparkling waves in glee; + A poet could not but be gay + In such a jocund company. + I gazed, and gazed, but little thought + What wealth the show to me had brought: + + For oft, when on my couch I lie + In vacant or in pensive mood, + They flash upon that inward eye + Which is the bliss of solitude; + And then my heart with pleasure fills, + And dances with the daffodils. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + +_The White Anemone_ + + 'Tis the white anemone, fashioned so + Like to the stars of the winter snow, + First thinks, "If I come too soon, no doubt + I shall seem but the snow that stayed too long, + So 'tis I that will be Spring's unguessed scout," + And wide she wanders the woods among. + Then, from out of the mossiest hiding-places, + Smile meek moonlight-colored faces + Of pale primroses puritan, + In maiden sisterhood demure; + Each virgin floweret faint and wan + With the bliss of her own sweet breath so pure. + + * * * * + + OWEN MEREDITH. + + (Edward Robert Bulwer-Lytton.) + + +_The Grass_ + + The grass so little has to do,-- + A sphere of simple green, + With only butterflies to brood, + And bees to entertain, + + And stir all day to pretty tunes + The breezes fetch along, + And hold the sunshine in its lap + And bow to everything; + + And thread the dews all night, like pearls, + And make itself so fine,-- + A duchess were too common + For such a noticing. + + And even when it dies, to pass + In odors so divine, + As lowly spices gone to sleep, + Or amulets of pine. + + And then to dwell in sovereign barns, + And dream the days away,-- + The grass so little has to do, + I wish I were the hay! + + EMILY DICKINSON. + + +_The Corn-Song_ + + Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard! + Heap high the golden corn! + No richer gift has Autumn poured + From out her lavish horn! + + Let other lands, exulting, glean + The apple from the pine, + The orange from its glossy green, + The cluster from the vine; + + We better love the hardy gift + Our rugged vales bestow, + To cheer us when the storm shall drift + Our harvest-fields with snow. + + Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, + Our ploughs their furrows made, + While on the hills the sun and showers + Of changeful April played. + + We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, + Beneath the sun of May, + And frightened from our sprouting grain + The robber crows away. + + All through the long, bright days of June + Its leaves grew green and fair, + And waved in hot midsummer's noon + Its soft and yellow hair. + + And now with autumn's moonlit eves, + Its harvest-time has come, + We pluck away the frosted leaves, + And bear the treasure home. + + There richer than the fabled gift + Apollo showered of old, + Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, + And knead its meal of gold. + + Let vapid idlers loll in silk + Around their costly board; + Give us the bowl of samp and milk, + By homespun beauty poured! + + Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth + Sends up its smoky curls, + Who will not thank the kindly earth, + And bless our farmer girls! + + Then shame on all the proud and vain, + Whose folly laughs to scorn + The blessing of our hardy grain, + Our wealth of golden corn! + + Let earth withhold her goodly root, + Let mildew blight the rye, + Give to the worm the orchard's fruit, + The wheat field to the fly: + + But let the good old crop adorn + The hills our fathers trod; + Still let us for his golden corn, + Send up our thanks to God! + + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + +_Columbia's Emblem_ + + Blazon Columbia's emblem + The bounteous, golden Corn! + Eons ago, of the great sun's glow + And the joy of the earth, 'twas born. + From Superior's shore to Chili, + From the ocean of dawn to the west, + With its banners of green and silken sheen + It sprang at the sun's behest; + And by dew and shower, from its natal hour, + With honey and wine 'twas fed, + Till on slope and plain the gods were fain + To share the feast outspread: + For the rarest boon to the land they loved + Was the Corn so rich and fair, + Nor star nor breeze o'er the farthest seas + Could find its like elsewhere. + + In their holiest temples the Incas + Offered the heaven-sent Maize-- + Grains wrought of gold, in a silver fold, + For the sun's enraptured gaze; + And its harvest came to the wandering tribes + As the gods' own gift and seal, + And Montezuma's festal bread + Was made of its sacred meal. + Narrow their cherished fields; but ours + Are broad as the continent's breast. + And, lavish as leaves, the rustling sheaves + Bring plenty and joy and rest; + For they strew the plains and crowd the wains + When the reapers meet at morn, + Till blithe cheers ring and west winds sing + A song for the garnered Corn. + + The rose may bloom for England, + The lily for France unfold; + Ireland may honor the shamrock, + Scotland her thistle bold; + But the shield of the great Republic, + The glory of the West, + Shall bear a stalk of the tasseled Corn-- + The sun's supreme bequest! + The arbutus and the golden rod + The heart of the North may cheer, + And the mountain laurel for Maryland + Its royal clusters rear, + And jasmine and magnolia + The crest of the South adorn; + But the wide Republic's emblem + Is the bounteous, golden Corn! + + EDNA DEAN PROCTOR. + + +_Scythe Song_[8] + + Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, + What is the word methinks ye know, + Endless over-word that the Scythe + Sings to the blades of the grass below? + Scythes that swing in the grass and clover, + Something, still, they say as they pass; + What is the word that, over and over, + Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? + + _Hush, ah hush_, the Scythes are saying, + _Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;_ + _Hush_, they say to the grasses swaying, + _Hush_, they sing to the clover deep! + _Hush_--'tis the lullaby Time is singing-- + _Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,_ + _Hush, ah hush!_ and the Scythes are swinging + Over the clover, over the grass! + + ANDREW LANG. + +[Footnote 8: _By courtesy of Longmans, Green & Co._] + + +_Time to Go_ + + They know the time to go! + The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour + In field and woodland, and each punctual flower + Bows at the signal an obedient head + And hastes to bed. + + The pale Anemone + Glides on her way with scarcely a good-night; + The Violets tie their purple nightcaps tight; + Hand clasped in hand, the dancing Columbines, + In blithesome lines, + + Drop their last courtesies, + Flit from the scene, and couch them for their rest; + The Meadow Lily folds her scarlet vest + And hides it 'neath the Grasses' lengthening green; + Fair and serene, + + Her sister Lily floats + On the blue pond, and raises golden eyes + To court the golden splendor of the skies,-- + The sudden signal comes, and down she goes + To find repose + + In the cool depths below. + A little later, and the Asters blue + Depart in crowds, a brave and cheery crew; + While Golden-rod, still wide awake and gay, + Turns him away, + + Furls his bright parasol, + And, like a little hero, meets his fate. + The Gentians, very proud to sit up late, + Next follow. Every Fern is tucked and set + 'Neath coverlet, + Downy and soft and warm. + No little seedling voice is heard to grieve + Or make complaints the folding woods beneath; + No lingerer dares to stay, for well they know + The time to go. + + Teach us your patience, brave, + Dear flowers, till we shall dare to part like you, + Willing God's will, sure that his clock strikes true, + That his sweet day augurs a sweeter morrow, + With smiles, not sorrow. + + SUSAN COOLIDGE. + + +_The Death of the Flowers_[9] + + The melancholy days have 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 tread. + 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 sprang and stood + In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? + Alas! they all are in their graves, 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, but the cold, November rain, + Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. + + The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, + And the brier-rose and the orchids died amid the summer glow; + But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, + And the yellow sun-flower 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. + + And now, when comes the calm, mild day, 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 fragrance late he bore, + And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +[Footnote 9: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's +Complete Poetical Works._] + + +_Autumn's Mirth_ + + 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves, + For, watch the rain among the leaves; + With silver fingers dimly seen + It makes each leaf a tambourine, + And swings and leaps with elfin mirth + To kiss the brow of mother earth; + Or, laughing 'mid the trembling grass, + It nods a greeting as you pass. + Oh! hear the rain amid the leaves, + 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves! + + 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves, + For, list the wind among the sheaves; + Far sweeter than the breath of May, + Or storied scents of old Cathay, + It blends the perfumes rare and good + Of spicy pine and hickory wood + And with a voice in gayest chime, + It prates of rifled mint and thyme. + Oh! scent the wind among the sheaves, + 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves! + + 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves, + Behold the wondrous web she weaves! + By viewless hands her thread is spun + Of evening vapors shyly won. + Across the grass from side to side + A myriad unseen shuttles glide + Throughout the night, till on the height + Aurora leads the laggard light. + Behold the wondrous web she weaves, + 'Tis all a myth that Autumn grieves! + + SAMUEL MINTURN PECK. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_On the Wing_ + + +Our "little brothers of the air," have you named them all without a gun, +as Emerson asks in "Forbearance"? Shy, glancing eyes peer from nests +half-hidden in leaves; the forest is vocal with melody, the air is +tremulous with the whirr of tiny wings. + +Poet-singers have written undying lines about their brother minstrels of +the wood, and the "blithe lark," especially, has a proud place in +poetry, apostrophized as he is by Shakespeare, Shelley, Frederick +Tennyson, Wordsworth, and The Ettrick Shepherd. + +As the skylark's note dies away we hear the saucy chatter of Cranch's +Bobolink, the twitter of Keats's Goldfinches, the mournful cry of Celia +Thaxter's Sandpiper, and the revolving wheel of Emily Dickinson's +Humming-bird, with its resonance of emerald, its rush of cochineal. The +feathered warblers, Robin, Bluebird, Swallow, speed their southern +flight, but there are other songs of summer, voices of sweet and tiny +cousins, heard at the lazy noontide; chirpings, rustlings of the green +little vaulters in the sunny grass. And if the wee grasshoppers and +those warm little housekeepers the crickets, have served as themes for +Keats and Leigh Hunt, so has the humble bee provoked his tribute from +the poets: + + "_His feet are shod with gauze, + His helmet is of gold; + His breast a single onyx + With chrysophrase inlaid._" + +Come within earshot of his drowsy hum, his breezy bass,--Father Tabb's +publican bee, + + "_Collecting the tax + On honey and wax,_" + +or Emerson's yellow-breeched philosopher, + + "_Seeing only what is fair, + Sipping only what is sweet._" + + + + +IV + +ON THE WING + + +_Sing On, Blithe Bird!_ + + I've plucked the berry from the bush, the brown nut from the tree, + But heart of happy little bird ne'er broken was by me. + I saw them in their curious nests, close couching, slyly peer + With their wild eyes, like glittering beads, to note if harm were near; + I passed them by, and blessed them all; I felt that it was good + To leave unmoved the creatures small whose home was in the wood. + + And here, even now, above my head, a lusty rogue doth sing; + He pecks his swelling breast and neck, and trims his little wing. + He will not fly; he knows full well, while chirping on that spray, + I would not harm him for a world, or interrupt his lay. + Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill my heart with summer gladness; + It has been aching many a day with measures full of sadness! + + WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. + + +_To a Skylark_ + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit! + Bird thou never wert-- + That from heaven or near it + Pourest thy full heart + In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest + Like a cloud of fire; + The blue deep thou wingest, + And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden light'ning + Of the sunken sun, + O'er which clouds are bright'ning, + Thou dost float and run, + Like an embodied joy whose race is just begun. + + The pale purple even + Melts around thy flight; + Like a star of heaven + In the broad daylight, + Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-- + + Keen as are the arrows + Of that silver sphere + Whose intense lamp narrows + In the white dawn clear, + Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. + + All the earth and air + With thy voice is loud, + As, when night is bare, + From one lonely cloud + The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. + + What thou art we know not; + What is most like thee? + From rainbow clouds there flow not + Drops so bright to see + As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-- + + Like a poet hidden + In the light of thought, + Singing hymns unbidden, + Till the world is wrought + To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: + + Like a high-born maiden + In a palace tower, + Soothing her love-laden + Soul in secret hour + With music sweet as love which overflows her bower: + + Like a glow-worm golden + In a dell of dew, + Scattering unbeholden + Its aerial hue + Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: + + Like a rose embow'red + By its own green leaves, + By warm winds deflow'red, + Till the scent it gives + Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. + + Sound of vernal showers + On the twinkling grass, + Rain-awak'ned flowers,-- + All that ever was, + Joyous and clear and fresh,--thy music doth surpass. + + Teach us, sprite or bird, + What sweet thoughts are thine: + I have never heard + Praise of love or wine + That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. + + Chorus hymeneal + Or triumphal chant, + Matched with thine, would be all + But an empty vaunt-- + A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. + + What objects are the fountains + Of thy happy strain? + What fields, or waves, or mountains? + What shapes of sky or plain? + What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? + + With thy clear keen joyance + Languor cannot be: + Shadow of annoyance + Never came near thee: + Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. + + Waking or asleep, + Thou of death must deem + Things more true and deep + Than we mortals dream, + Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? + + We look before and after, + And pine for what is not: + Our sincerest laughter + With some pain is fraught; + Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. + + Yet, if we could scorn + Hate and pride and fear, + If we were things born + Not to shed a tear, + I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. + + Better than all measures + Of delightful sound, + Better than all treasures + That in books are found, + Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know; + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow + The world should listen then as I am listening now. + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + +_Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable_ + + "Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, + Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne. + "Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, + Of all your servants, to welcome you home. + I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, + To catch the first shine of your golden hair." + + "Must I thank you then," said the king, "Sir Lark, + For flying so high and hating the dark? + You ask a full cup for half a thirst: + Half was love of me, and half love to be first. + There's many a bird makes no such haste, + But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste." + + And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud, + And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; + But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon + The wrath of the king will be over and gone; + And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold, + Will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold." + + So he flew--with the strength of a lark he flew; + But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; + And not one gleam of the golden hair + Came through the depths of the misty air; + Till, weary with flying, with sighing sore, + The strong sun-seeker could do no more. + + His wings had had no chrism of gold; + And his feathers felt withered and worn and old; + He faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone. + And there on his nest, where he left her, alone + Sat his little wife on her little eggs, + Keeping them warm with wings and legs. + + Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! + Full in her face was shining the king. + "Welcome, Sir Lark! You look tired," said he; + "_Up_ is not always the best way to me. + While you have been singing so high and away, + I've been shining to your little wife all day." + + He had set his crown all about the nest, + And out of the midst shone her little brown breast; + And so glorious was she in russet gold, + That for wonder and awe Sir Lark grew cold. + He popped his head under her wing, and lay + As still as a stone, till King Sun was away. + + GEORGE MACDONALD. + + +_The Skylark_[10] + + How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair + That leans thro' cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth, + And all alone in the empyreal air + Fills it with jubilant sweet songs of mirth; + How far he seems, how far + With the light upon his wings, + Is it a bird or star + That shines and sings? + + * * * * + + And now he dives into a rainbow's rivers; + In streams of gold and purple he is drown'd; + Shrilly the arrows of his song he shivers, + As tho' the stormy drops were turned to sound: + And now he issues thro', + He scales a cloudy tower; + Faintly, like falling dew, + His fast notes shower. + + * * * * + + FREDERICK TENNYSON. + +[Footnote 10: _By courtesy of John Lane._] + + +_The Skylark_ + + Bird of the wilderness, + Blithesome and cumberless, + Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place,-- + Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! + Wild is thy lay and loud + Far in the downy cloud, + Love gives it energy, love gave it birth! + Where, on thy dewy wing, + Where art thou journeying? + Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. + + O'er fell and fountain sheen, + O'er moor and mountain green, + O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, + Over the cloudlet dim, + Over the rainbow's rim, + Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! + Then, when the gloaming comes, + Low in the heather blooms + Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place-- + Oh, to abide in the desert with thee! + + JAMES HOGG. + + (The Ettrick Shepherd.) + + +_The Bobolinks_ + + When Nature had made all her birds, + With no more cares to think on, + She gave a rippling laugh, and out + There flew a Bobolinkon. + + She laughed again; out flew a mate; + A breeze of Eden bore them + Across the fields of Paradise, + The sunrise reddening o'er them. + + Incarnate sport and holiday, + They flew and sang forever; + Their souls through June were all in tune, + Their wings were weary never. + + Their tribe, still drunk with air and light, + And perfume of the meadow, + Go reeling up and down the sky, + In sunshine and in shadow. + + One springs from out the dew-wet grass; + Another follows after; + The morn is thrilling with their songs + And peals of fairy laughter. + + From out the marshes and the brook, + They set the tall reeds swinging, + And meet and frolic in the air, + Half prattling and half singing. + + When morning winds sweep meadow-lands + In green and russet billows. + And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs. + And silver all the willows, + + I see you buffeting the breeze, + Or with its motion swaying, + Your notes half drowned against the wind, + Or down the current playing. + + When far away o'er grassy flats, + Where the thick wood commences, + The white-sleeved mowers look like specks, + Beyond the zigzag fences, + + And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam + White in the pale blue distance, + I hear the saucy minstrels still + In chattering persistence. + + When eve her domes of opal fire + Piles round the blue horizon, + Or thunder rolls from hill to hill + A Kyrie Eleison, + + Still merriest of the merry birds, + Your sparkle is unfading,-- + Pied harlequins of June,--no end + Of song and masquerading. + + * * * * + + Hope springs with you: I dread no more + Despondency and dulness; + For Good Supreme can never fail + That gives such perfect fulness. + + The life that floods the happy fields + With song and light and color + Will shape our lives to richer states, + And heap our measures fuller. + + CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. + + +_To a Waterfowl_[11] + + Whither 'midst falling dew, + While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, + Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue + Thy solitary way? + + Vainly the fowler's eye + Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, + As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, + Thy figure floats along. + + Seek'st thou the plashy brink + Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, + Or where the rocky billows rise and sink + On the chafed ocean-side? + + There is a Power whose care + Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- + The desert and illimitable air,-- + Lone wandering, but not lost. + + All day thy wings have fanned, + At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, + Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, + Though the dark night is near. + + And soon that toil shall end; + Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, + And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, + Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. + + Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven + Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart + Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, + And shall not soon depart. + + He who, from zone to zone, + Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, + In the long way that I must tread alone, + Will lead my steps aright. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +[Footnote 11: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's +Complete Poetical Works._] + + +_Goldfinches_ + + Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop + From low-hung branches; little space they stop, + But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek, + Then off at once, as in a wanton freak; + Or perhaps, to show their black and golden wings, + Pausing upon their yellow flutterings. + Were I in such a place, I sure should pray + That naught less sweet might call my thoughts away + Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown + Fanning away the dandelion's down. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_The Sandpiper_ + + Across the narrow beach we flit, + One little sandpiper and I; + And fast I gather, bit by bit, + The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry. + The wild waves reach their hands for it, + The wild wind raves, the tide runs high, + As up and down the beach we flit,-- + One little sandpiper and I. + + Above our heads the sullen clouds + Scud black and swift across the sky; + Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds + Stand out the white lighthouses high. + Almost as far as eye can reach + I see the close-reefed vessels fly, + As fast we flit along the beach,-- + One little sandpiper and I. + + I watch him as he skims along, + Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; + He starts not at my fitful song, + Or flash of fluttering drapery. + He has no thought of any wrong; + He scans me with a fearless eye; + Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, + The little sandpiper and I. + + Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night + When the loosed storm breaks furiously? + My driftwood fire will burn so bright! + To what warm shelter canst thou fly? + I do not fear for thee, though wroth + The tempest rushes through the sky; + For are we not God's children both, + Thou, little sandpiper, and I? + + CELIA THAXTER. + + +_The Eagle_ + +(Fragment) + + He clasps the crag with hooked hands; + Close to the sun in lonely lands, + Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. + + The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; + He watches from his mountain walls; + And like a thunderbolt he falls. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_Child's Talk in April_ + + I wish you were a pleasant wren, + And I your small accepted mate; + How we'd look down on toilsome men! + We'd rise and go to bed at eight + Or it may be not quite so late. + + Then you should see the nest I'd build, + The wondrous nest for you and me; + The outside rough perhaps, but filled + With wool and down; ah, you should see + The cosy nest that it would be. + + We'd have our change of hope and fear, + Some quarrels, reconcilements sweet: + I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer, + Or hop about on active feet, + And fetch you dainty bits to eat. + + We'd be so happy by the day. + So safe and happy through the night, + We both should feel, and I should say, + It's all one season of delight, + And we'll make merry whilst we may. + + Perhaps some day there'd be an egg + When spring had blossomed from the snow: + I'd stand triumphant on one leg; + Like chanticleer I'd almost crow + To let our little neighbours know. + + Next you should sit and I would sing + Through lengthening days of sunny spring; + Till, if you wearied of the task, + I'd sit; and you should spread your wing + From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask. + + Fancy the breaking of the shell, + The chirp, the chickens wet and bare, + The untried proud paternal swell; + And you with housewife-matron air + Enacting choicer bills of fare. + + Fancy the embryo coats of down, + The gradual feathers soft and sleek; + Till clothed and strong from tail to crown, + With virgin warblings in their beak, + They too go forth to soar and seek. + + So would it last an April through + And early summer fresh with dew, + Then should we part and live as twain: + Love-time would bring me back to you + And build our happy nest again. + + CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. + + +_The Flight of the Birds_ + + Whither away, Robin, + Whither away? + Is it through envy of the maple-leaf, + Whose blushes mock the crimson of thy breast, + Thou wilt not stay? + The summer days were long, yet all too brief + The happy season thou hast been our guest: + Whither away? + + Whither away, Bluebird, + Whither away? + The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky + Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, + The hue of May. + Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, + Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? + Whither away? + + Whither away, Swallow, + Whither away? + Canst thou no longer tarry in the North, + Here, where our roof so well hath screened thy nest? + Not one short day? + Wilt thou--as if thou human wert--go forth + And wanton far from them who love thee best? + Whither away? + + EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. + + +_The Shepherd's Home_ + + My banks they are furnished with bees, + Whose murmur invites one to sleep; + My grottoes are shaded with trees, + And my hills are white over with sheep. + I seldom have met with a loss, + Such health do my fountains bestow; + My fountains all bordered with moss, + Where the harebells and violets blow. + + Not a pine in the grove is there seen, + But with tendrils of woodbine is bound; + Not a beech's more beautiful green, + But a sweetbrier entwines it around. + Not my fields in the prime of the year, + More charms than my cattle unfold; + Not a brook that is limpid and clear, + But it glitters with fishes of gold. + + I have found out a gift for my fair, + I have found where the wood pigeons breed, + But let me such plunder forbear, + She will say 'twas a barbarous deed; + For he ne'er could be true, she averred, + Who would rob a poor bird of its young; + And I loved her the more when I heard + Such tenderness fall from her tongue. + + WILLIAM SHENSTONE. + + +_To a Cricket_ + + Voice of Summer, keen and shrill, + Chirping round my winter fire, + Of thy song I never tire, + Weary others as they will; + For thy song with Summer's filled-- + Filled with sunshine, filled with June; + Firelight echo of that noon + Heard in fields when all is stilled + In the golden light of May, + Bringing scents of new-mown hay, + Bees, and birds, and flowers away: + Prithee, haunt my fireside still, + Voice of Summer, keen and shrill! + + WILLIAM C. BENNETT. + + +_On the Grasshopper and Cricket_ + + The poetry of earth is never dead: + When all the birds are faint with the hot sun, + And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run + From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead; + That is the Grasshopper's--he takes the lead + In summer luxury,--he has never done + With his delights; for when tired out with fun, + He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. + The poetry of earth is ceasing never: + On a lone winter evening, when the frost + Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills + The Cricket's song, in warmth increasing ever, + And seems to one, in drowsiness half lost, + The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_The Tax-Gatherer_ + + "And pray, who are you?" + Said the violet blue + To the Bee, with surprise + At his wonderful size, + In her eye-glass of dew. + + "I, madam," quoth he, + "Am a publican Bee, + Collecting the tax + Of honey and wax. + Have you nothing for me?" + + JOHN B. TABB. + + +_To the Grasshopper and the Cricket_ + + Green little vaulter in the sunny grass, + Catching your heart up at the feel of June,-- + Sole voice that's heard amidst the lazy noon, + When even the bees lag at the summoning brass; + And you, warm little housekeeper, who class + With those who think the candles come too soon, + Loving the fire, and with your tricksome tune + Nick the glad silent moments as they pass! + O sweet and tiny cousins, that belong, + One to the fields, the other to the hearth, + Both have your sunshine; both, though small, are strong + At your clear hearts; and both seem given to earth + To sing in thoughtful ears their natural song,-- + In doors and out, summer and winter, Mirth. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + +_The Bee_ + + Like trains of cars on tracks of plush + I hear the level bee: + A jar across the flowers goes, + Their velvet masonry + + Withstands until the sweet assault + Their chivalry consumes, + While he, victorious, tilts away + To vanquish other blooms. + + His feet are shod with gauze, + His helmet is of gold; + His breast, a single onyx + With chrysoprase, inlaid. + + His labor is a chant, + His idleness a tune; + Oh, for a bee's experience + Of clovers and of noon! + + EMILY DICKINSON. + + +_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 zone! + 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; + Epicurean of June,-- + Wait, I prithee, till I come + Within earshot of thy hum,-- + 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 color of romance, + And, infusing subtle heats, + Turns the sod to violets, + 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 drowsy tone + Tells 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 unsavory or unclean + Hath my insect never seen; + But violets and bilberry bells, + Maple-sap and daffodels, + Grass with green flag half-mast high, + Succory to match the sky, + Columbine with horn of honey, + Scented fern, and agrimony, + Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue + And brier-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 northwestern blast + Cools sea and land so far and fast, + Thou already slumberest deep; + Woe and want thou canst outsleep: + Want and woe, which torture us, + Thy sleep makes ridiculous. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_All Things Wait Upon Thee_ + + Innocent eyes not ours + And made to look on flowers, + Eyes of small birds, and insects small; + Morn after summer morn + The sweet rose on her thorn + Opens her bosom to them all. + The last and least of things, + That soar on quivering wings, + Or crawl among the grass blades out of sight, + Have just as clear a right + To their appointed portion of delight + As queens or kings. + + CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. + + +_Providence_ + + Lo, the lilies of the field, + How their leaves instruction yield! + Hark to Nature's lesson given + By the blessed birds of heaven! + Every bush and tufted tree + Warbles sweet philosophy: + Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, + God provideth for the morrow. + + Say, with richer crimson glows + The kingly mantle than the rose? + Say, have kings more wholesome fare + Than we citizens of air? + Barns nor hoarded grain have we, + Yet we carol merrily. + Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, + God provideth for the morrow. + + One there lives, whose guardian eye + Guides our humble destiny; + One there lives, who, Lord of all, + Keeps our feathers lest they fall. + Pass we blithely then the time, + Fearless of the snare and lime, + Free from doubt and faithless sorrow: + God provideth for the morrow. + + REGINALD HEBER. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_The Inglenook_ + + + "_With his flute of reeds a stranger + Wanders piping through the village, + Beckons to the fairest maiden, + And she follows where he leads her, + Leaving all things for the stranger._" + +The ancient arrowmaker is left standing lonely at the door of his +wigwam, but Laughing Water and Hiawatha have gone to make a new +household among the myriad homes of earth. + +It matters not whether the inglenook be in wigwam or cabin, cottage or +palace, if _Love Dwells Within_ be graven upon the threshold, for "where +a true wife comes, there home is always around her." She is the Domina +or House Lady, and under the benediction of her gaze arise sweet order, +peace, and restful charm. The "gudeman," too; "his very foot has music +in't when he comes up the stair," and like the fire on the hearth he +diffuses warmth and comfort and good cheer. By and by a cradle swings to +and fro in the sheltered corner of the fireside; baby feet have come to +stray on life's untrodden brink; baby eyes whose speech make dumb the +wise smile up into the mother's as she sings her lullaby: + + "_The Queen has sceptre, crown, and ball, + You are my sceptre, crown, and all. + And it's O! sweet, sweet, and a lullaby._" + +The dog and the cat snooze peacefully on the hearth, the kettle hums, +the kitchen clock ticks drowsily. The circle of love widens to take in +all who are helping to make home beautiful--the farm boy, the milkmaid, +and even the whinnying mare and friendly cow. + +The poetry of the inglenook is simple, unpretentious, humble, but it has +a tender charm of its own because it sings of a heaven far on this side +of the stars: + + "By men called home." + + + + +V + +THE INGLENOOK + + +_A New Household_ + + O Fortunate, O happy day, + When a new household finds its place + Among the myriad homes of earth, + Like a new star just sprung to birth, + And rolled on its harmonious way + Into the boundless realms of space! + + * * * * + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + _From "The Hanging of the Crane."_ + + +_Two Heavens_ + + For there are two heavens, sweet, + Both made of love,--one, inconceivable + Ev'n by the other, so divine it is; + The other, far on this side of the stars, + By men called home. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + +_A Song of Love_ + + Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, + That lures the bird home to her nest? + Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, + To cuddle and croon it to rest? + What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, + Till it cooes with the voice of the dove? + 'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low-- + And the name of the secret is Love! + For I think it is Love, + For I feel it is Love, + For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! + + Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, + Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? + That stirs the vexed soul with an aching--a yearning + For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? + Whence the music that fills all our being--that thrills + Around us, beneath, and above? + 'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes-- + But the name of the secret is Love! + For I think it is Love, + For I feel it is Love, + For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! + + Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, + Like a picture so fair to the sight? + That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, + Till the little lambs leap with delight? + 'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, + Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, + In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear-- + And the name of the secret is Love! + For I think it is Love, + For I feel it is Love, + For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! + + LEWIS CARROLL. + + +_Mother's Song_ + + My heart is like a fountain true + That flows and flows with love to you. + As chirps the lark unto the tree + So chirps my pretty babe to me. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + There's not a rose where'er I seek, + As comely as my baby's cheek. + There's not a comb of honey-bee, + So full of sweets as babe to me. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + There's not a star that shines on high, + Is brighter than my baby's eye. + There's not a boat upon the sea, + Can dance as baby does to me. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + No silk was ever spun so fine + As is the hair of baby mine-- + My baby smells more sweet to me + Than smells in spring the elder tree. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + A little fish swims in the well, + So in my heart does baby dwell. + A little flower blows on the tree, + My baby is the flower to me. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball, + You are my sceptre, crown and all. + For all her robes of royal silk, + More fair your skin, as white as milk. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + Ten thousand parks where deer run, + Ten thousand roses in the sun, + Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea, + My baby more precious is to me. + And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby. + + WEST OF ENGLAND LULLABY. + + +_The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl'_ + + The bonniest bairn in a' the warl' + Has skin like the drifted snaw, + An' rosy wee cheeks sae saft an' sleek-- + There never was ither sic twa; + Its een are just bonnie wee wander'd stars, + Its leggies are plump like a farl, + An' ilk ane maun see't, an' a' maun declare't + The cleverest bairn, + The daintiest bairn, + The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn, + The dearest, queerest, + Rarest, fairest, + Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'. + + The bonniest bairn in a' the warl' + Ye ken whaur the ferlie lives? + It's doon in yon howe, it's owre yon knowe-- + In the laps o' a thousand wives; + It's up an' ayont in yon castle brent, + The heir o' the belted earl; + It's sookin' its thoomb in yon gipsy tent-- + The cleverest bairn, + The daintiest bairn, + The rosiest, cosiest, cantiest bairn, + The dearest, queerest, + Rarest, fairest, + Bonniest bairn in a' the warl'. + + * * * * + + ROBERT FORD. + + +_Cuddle Doon_ + + The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, + Wi' muckle faucht an' din; + Oh, try an' sleep, ye waukrife rogues, + Your father's comin' in. + They never heed a word I speak; + I try to gi'e a froon, + But aye I hap them up, an' cry, + "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." + + Wee Jamie wi' the curly heid-- + He aye sleeps neist the wa', + Bangs up an' cries, "I want a piece"; + The rascal starts them a'. + I rin an' fetch them pieces, drinks, + They stop awee the soun'; + Then draw the blankets up and cry, + "Noo, weanies, cuddle doon." + + But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab + Cries oot frae 'neath the claes, + "Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at ance-- + He's kittlin' wi' his taes." + The mischief's in that Tam for tricks, + He'd bother half the toon: + But aye I hap them up an' cry, + "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." + + At length they hear their father's fit, + An', as he steeks the door, + They turn their faces to the wa', + While Tam pretends to snore. + "Hae a' the weans been gude?" he asks, + As he pits aff his shoon; + "The bairnies, John, are in their beds, + An' lang since cuddled doon." + + An' just afore we bed oorsel's, + We look at oor wee lambs; + Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck, + An' Rab his airm roun' Tam's. + I lift wee Jamie up the bed, + An', as I straik each croon, + I whisper, till my heart fills up, + "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." + + The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht, + Wi' mirth that's dear to me; + But sune the big warl's cark an' care + Will quaten doon their glee. + Yet come what will to ilka ane, + May He who sits aboon + Aye whisper, though their pows be bauld, + "O, bairnies, cuddle doon." + + ALEXANDER ANDERSON. + + +_I Am Lonely_ + + The world is great: the birds all fly from me, + The stars are golden fruit upon a tree + All out of reach: my little sister went, + And I am lonely. + + The world is great: I tried to mount the hill + Above the pines, where the light lies so still, + But it rose higher: little Lisa went + And I am lonely. + + The world is great: the wind comes rushing by, + I wonder where it comes from; sea birds cry + And hurt my heart: my little sister went, + And I am lonely. + + The world is great: the people laugh and talk, + And make loud holiday: how fast they walk! + I'm lame, they push me: little Lisa went, + And I am lonely. + + GEORGE ELIOT. + + _From "The Spanish Gypsy."_ + + +_Brother and Sister_ + + But were another childhood-world my share, + I would be born a little sister there. + + + I + + I cannot choose but think upon the time + When our two lives grew like two buds that kiss + At lightest thrill from the bee's swinging chime, + Because the one so near the other is. + + He was the elder and a little man + Of forty inches, bound to show no dread, + And I the girl that puppy-like now ran, + Now lagged behind my brother's larger tread. + + I held him wise, and when he talked to me + Of snakes and birds, and which God loved the best, + I thought his knowledge marked the boundary + Where men grew blind, though angels knew the rest. + + If he said "Hush!" I tried to hold my breath; + Wherever he said "Come!" I stepped in faith. + + + II + + Long years have left their writing on my brow, + But yet the freshness and the dew-fed beam + Of those young mornings are about me now, + When we two wandered toward the far-off stream + With rod and line. Our basket held a store + Baked for us only, and I thought with joy + That I should have my share, though he had more, + Because he was the elder and a boy. + + The firmaments of daisies since to me + Have had those mornings in their opening eyes, + The bunched cowslip's pale transparency + Carries that sunshine of sweet memories, + + And wild-rose branches take their finest scent + From those blest hours of infantine content. + + + III + + Our mother bade us keep the trodden ways, + Stroked down my tippet, set my brother's frill, + Then with the benediction of her gaze + Clung to us lessening, and pursued us still + + Across the homestead to the rookery elms, + Whose tall old trunks had each a grassy mound, + So rich for us, we counted them as realms + With varied products: here were earth-nuts found, + + And here the Lady-fingers in deep shade; + Here sloping toward the Moat the rushes grew, + The large to split for pith, the small to braid; + While over all the dark rooks cawing flew, + And made a happy strange solemnity, + A deep-toned chant from life unknown to me. + + * * * * + + IX + + We had the selfsame world enlarged for each + By loving difference of girl and boy: + The fruit that hung on high beyond my reach + He plucked for me, and oft he must employ + + A measuring glance to guide my tiny shoe + Where lay firm stepping-stones, or call to mind + "This thing I like my sister may not do, + For she is little, and I must be kind." + + Thus boyish Will the nobler mastery learned + Where inward vision over impulse reigns, + Widening its life with separate life discerned, + A Like unlike, a Self that self restrains. + + His years with others must the sweeter be + For those brief days he spent in loving me. + + * * * * + + GEORGE ELIOT. + + +_Home_ + + O Falmouth is a fine town with ships in the bay, + And I wish from my heart it's there I was to-day; + I wish from my heart I was far away from here, + Sitting in my parlour and talking to my dear. + For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be. + Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. + O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree + They're all growing green in the old countree. + + In Baltimore a-walking a lady I did meet + With her babe on her arm as she came down the street; + And I thought how I sailed, and the cradle standing ready + For the pretty little babe that has never seen its daddie. + And it's home, dearie, home,-- + + O, if it be a lass, she shall wear a golden ring; + And if it be a lad, he shall fight for his king; + With his dirk and his hat and his little jacket blue + He shall walk the quarter-deck as his daddie used to do. + And it's home, dearie, home,-- + + O, there's a wind a-blowing, a-blowing from the west, + And that of all the winds is the one I like the best, + For it blows at our backs, and it shakes our pennon free, + And it soon will blow us home to the old countree. + For it's home, dearie, home--it's home I want to be. + Our topsails are hoisted, and we'll away to sea. + O the oak and the ash and the bonnie birken tree + They're all growing green in the old countree. + + WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY. + + +_Love Will Find Out the Way_ + + Over the mountains + And over the waves, + Under the fountains + And under the graves; + Under floods that are deepest, + Which Neptune obey, + Over rocks that are steepest, + Love will find out the way. + + Where there is no place + For the glow-worm to lie, + Where there is no space + For receipt of a fly; + Where the midge dares not venture + Lest herself fast she lay, + If Love come, he will enter + And will find out the way. + + * * * * + + OLD ENGLISH. + + +_The Sailor's Wife_ + + And are ye sure the news is true? + And are ye sure he's weel? + Is this a time to think o' wark? + Ye jades, lay by your wheel; + Is this the time to spin a thread. + When Colin's at the door? + Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, + And see him come ashore. + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck at a'; + There's little pleasure in the house + When our gudeman's awa. + + And gie to me my bigonet, + My bishop's satin gown; + For I maun tell the baillie's wife + That Colin's in the town. + My Turkey slippers maun gae on, + My stockins pearly blue; + It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, + For he's baith leal and true. + + Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, + Put on the muckle pot; + Gie little Kate her button gown + And Jock his Sunday coat; + And mak their shoon as black as slaes, + Their hose as white as snaw; + It's a' to please my ain gudeman, + For he's been long awa. + + There's twa fat hens upo' the coop + Been fed this month and mair; + Mak haste and thraw their necks about, + That Colin weel may fare; + And spread the table neat and clean, + Gar ilka thing look braw, + For wha can tell how Colin fared + When he was far awa? + + Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, + His breath like caller air; + His very foot has music in't + As he comes up the stair. + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, + In troth I'm like to greet! + + If Colin's weel, and weel content, + I hae nae mair to crave; + And gin I live to keep him sae, + I'm blest aboon the lave: + And will I see his face again? + And will I hear him speak? + I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought, + In troth I'm like to greet. + For there's nae luck about the house, + There's nae luck at a'; + There's little pleasure in the house + When our gudeman's awa. + + WILLIAM J. MICKLE. + + +_Evening at the Farm_ + + Over the hill the farm-boy goes. + His shadow lengthens along the land, + A giant staff in a giant hand; + In the poplar-tree, above the spring, + The katydid begins to sing; + The early dews are falling;-- + Into the stone-heap darts the mink; + The swallows skim the river's brink; + And home to the woodland fly the crows, + When over the hill the farm-boy goes, + Cheerily calling, + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + Farther, farther, over the hill, + Faintly calling, calling still, + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" + + Into the yard the farmer goes, + With grateful heart, at the close of day: + Harness and chain are hung away; + In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough, + The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, + The cooling dews are falling;-- + The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, + The pigs come grunting to his feet, + And the whinnying mare her master knows, + When into the yard the farmer goes, + His cattle calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + While still the cow-boy, far away, + Goes seeking those that have gone astray,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!" + + Now to her task the milkmaid goes. + The cattle come crowding through the gate, + Lowing, pushing, little and great; + About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, + The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, + While the pleasant dews are falling;-- + The new milch heifer is quick and shy, + But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, + And the white stream into the bright pail flows, + When to her task the milkmaid goes, + Soothingly calling, + "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!" + The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, + And sits and milks in the twilight cool. + Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!" + + To supper at last the farmer goes. + The apples are pared, the paper read, + The stories are told, then all to bed. + Without, the crickets' ceaseless song + Makes shrill the silence all night long; + The heavy dews are falling. + The housewife's hand has turned the lock; + Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; + The household sinks to deep repose, + But still in sleep the farm-boy goes + Singing, calling,-- + "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!" + And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, + Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, + Murmuring "So, boss! so!" + + JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE. + + +_Home Song_ + + Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; + Home-keeping hearts are happiest, + For those that wander they know not where + Are full of trouble and full of care, + To stay at home is best. + + Weary and homesick and distressed, + They wander east, they wander west, + And are baffled, and beaten and blown about + By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; + To stay at home is best. + + Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; + The bird is safest in its nest: + O'er all that flutter their wings and fly + A hawk is hovering in the sky; + To stay at home is best. + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + +_Etude Realiste_ + + I + + A baby's feet, like seashells pink, + Might tempt, should heaven see meet, + An angel's lips to kiss, we think,-- + A baby's feet. + + Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat + They stretch and spread and wink + Their ten soft buds that part and meet. + + No flower-bells that expand and shrink + Gleam half so heavenly sweet, + As shine on life's untrodden brink,-- + A baby's feet. + + II + + A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, + Where yet no leaf expands, + Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,-- + A baby's hands. + + Then, even as warriors grip their brands + When battle's bolt is hurled, + They close, clenched hard like tightening bands. + + No rose-buds yet by dawn impearled + Match, even in loveliest lands, + The sweetest flowers in all the world,-- + A baby's hands. + + III + + A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, + Ere lips learn words or sighs, + Bless all things bright enough to win + A baby's eyes. + + Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies, + And sleep flows out and in, + Sees perfect in them Paradise! + + Their glance might cast out pain and sin, + Their speech make dumb the wise, + By mute glad godhead felt within + A baby's eyes. + ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. + + +_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;-- + Her beauty made me glad. + + "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, + How many may you be?" + "How many? Seven in all," she said, + And wondering looked at me. + + "And where are they? I pray you tell." + She answered, "Seven are we; + And two of us at Conway dwell, + And two are gone to sea. + + "Two of us in the churchyard lie, + My sister and my brother; + And, in the churchyard cottage, I + Dwell near them with my mother." + + "You say that two at Conway dwell, + And two are gone to sea, + Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, + Sweet Maid, how this may be." + + Then did the little maid reply, + "Seven boys and girls are we; + Two of us in the churchyard lie, + Beneath the churchyard tree." + + "You run about, my little Maid, + Your limbs they are alive; + If two are in the churchyard laid + Then ye are only five." + + "Their graves are green, they may be seen," + The little Maid replied, + "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, + And they are side by side. + + "My stockings there I often knit, + My kerchief there I hem; + And there upon the ground I sit + And sing a song to them. + + "And often after sunset, Sir, + When it is light and fair, + I take my little porringer + And eat my supper there. + + "The first that died was sister Jane; + In bed she moaning lay, + Till God released her of her pain; + And then she went away. + + "So in the churchyard she was laid; + And, when the grass was dry, + Together round her grave we played, + My brother John and I. + + "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." + + "How many are you, then," said I, + "If they two are in heaven?" + Quick was the little Maid's reply, + "O Master! we are seven." + + "But they are dead; those two are dead! + Their spirits are in heaven!" + 'Twas throwing words away: for still + The little Maid would have her will, + And said, "Nay, we are seven!" + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_Fairy Songs and Songs of Fancy_ + + +Most of these songs come to you from the masters of English poetry. +Nations, like individuals, have their "play-spells," and Shakespeare, +Drayton, and "rare Ben Jonson" belong to that wonderful age of Elizabeth +when more than ten score of poets were making England a veritable nest +of singing-birds. + +Dowden says of the exquisite songs scattered through Shakespeare's +plays, that if they do not make their own way, like the notes in the +wildwood, no words will open the dull ear to take them in. Of Drayton we +give you here "The Arming of Pigwiggen," from "Nymphidia," and later on +"The Battle of Agincourt," called, respectively, the best fantastic poem +and the best war poem in the language. + +Then comes Milton the sublime; Milton set apart among poets; so that the +adjective Miltonic has come to be a synonym for gravity, loftiness, and +majesty. After Milton, Dryden, often called the greatest poet of a +little age; but if he lacked the true sublimity he reverenced in the +great Puritan, he was still the first, and perhaps the greatest, master +of satirical poetry. Then, more than half a century afterward, comes +Coleridge with his dreamy grace and his touch of the supernatural; his +marvellous poetic gift, of sudden blossoming and sad and premature +decay. Contemporary with Coleridge was Shelley, the master singer of his +time, pouring out, like his own skylark, "his full heart in profuse +strains of unpremeditated art." + +When these two voices were hushed the Victorian era was dawning and the +laurel worn by Wordsworth was placed on the brow of a poet who, by his +perfect grace of manner, melody of rhythm, finished skill, clear +insight, and nobility of thought, gave his name to the Tennysonian age. + + + + +VI + +FAIRY SONGS AND SONGS OF FANCY + + +FAIRY LAND + +I + +_Puck and the Fairy_ + + _Puck._ How now, spirit! whither wander you? + + _Fairy._ Over hill, over dale, + Thorough bush, thorough brier, + Over park, over pale, + Thorough flood, thorough fire, + I do wander everywhere, + Swifter than the moone's sphere; + And I serve the fairy queen, + To dew her orbs upon the green; + The cowslips tall her pensioners be; + In their gold coats, spots you see; + Those be rubies, fairy favors, + In those freckles live their savors; + I must go seek some dewdrops here, + And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. + Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone: + Our queen and all her elves come here anon. + + _From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."_ + + +II + +_Lullaby for Titania_ + + You spotted snakes with double tongue, + Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; + Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; + Come not near our fairy queen. + + Philomel, with melody, + Sing in our sweet lullaby; + Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! + Never harm, + Nor spell nor charm, + Come our lovely lady nigh; + So, good-night, with lullaby. + + Weaving spiders, come not here; + Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence! + Beetles black, approach not near; + Worm nor snail, do no offence. + + Philomel, with melody, + Sing in our sweet lullaby; + Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! + Never harm, + Nor spell nor charm, + Come our lovely lady nigh; + So, good-night, with lullaby. + + _From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."_ + + +III + +_Oberon and Titania to the Fairy Train_ + + _Oberon._ + Through the house give glimmering light, + By the dead and drowsy fire; + Every elf and fairy sprite, + Hop as light as bird from brier; + And this ditty after me + Sing, and dance it trippingly. + _Titania._ + First, rehearse your song by rote, + To each word a warbling note: + Hand in hand with fairy grace + Will we sing and bless this place. + + _From "Midsummer-Night's Dream."_ + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + +IV + +_Ariel's Songs_ + + I + + Come unto these yellow sands, + And then take hands: + Court'sied when you have and kiss'd, + (The wild waves whist) + Foot it featly here and there; + And sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. + Hark, hark! + Bow, wow, + The watch-dog's bark: + Bow, wow, + Hark, hark! I hear + The strain of strutting chanticleer + Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow! + + II + + Where the bee sucks, there suck I: + In a cowslip's bell I lie; + There I couch when owls do cry. + On the bat's back I do fly, + After summer merrily. + Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, + Under the blossom that hangs on the bough! + + III + + Full fathom five thy father lies; + Of his bones are coral made; + Those are pearls that were his eyes: + Nothing of him that doth fade + But doth suffer a sea-change + Into something rich and strange. + Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: + Ding-dong. + Hark! now I hear them-- + Ding-dong, bell! + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "The Tempest."_ + + +_Orpheus With His Lute_ + + Orpheus with his lute made trees, + And the mountain tops that freeze, + Bow themselves when he did sing: + To his music, plants and flowers + Ever sprung; as sun and showers + There had made a lasting spring. + + Every thing that heard him play, + Even the billows of the sea, + Hung their heads, and then lay by. + In sweet music is such art, + Killing care and grief of heart + Fall asleep or hearing, die. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "King Henry VIII."_ + + +_The Arming of Pigwiggen_ + + (He) quickly arms him for the field, + A little cockle-shell his shield, + Which he could very bravely wield, + Yet could it not be piersed: + His spear a bent both stiff and strong, + And well near of two inches long; + The pile was of a horsefly's tongue, + Whose sharpness naught reversed. + + And put him on a coat of mail, + Which was of a fish's scale, + That when his foe should him assail, + No point should be prevailing. + His rapier was a hornet's sting, + It was a very dangerous thing; + For if he chanc'd to hurt the king, + It would be long in healing. + + His helmet was a beetle's head, + Most horrible and full of dread, + That able was to strike one dead, + Yet it did well become him: + And for a plume a horse's hair, + Which being tossed by the air, + Had force to strike his foe with fear, + And turn his weapon from him. + + Himself he on an earwig set, + Yet scarce he on his back could get, + So oft and high he did curvet + Ere he himself could settle: + He made him turn, and stop, and bound, + To gallop, and to trot the round, + He scarce could stand on any ground, + He was so full of mettle. + + MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + _From "Nymphidia."_ + + +_Hesperus' Song_ + + Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, + Now the sun is laid to sleep, + Seated in thy silver chair, + State in wonted manner keep. + Hesperus entreats thy light, + Goddess, excellently bright. + + Earth, let not thy envious shade + Dare itself to interpose; + Cynthia's shining orb was made + Heaven to clear, when day did close; + Bless us then with wished sight, + Goddess, excellently bright. + + Lay thy bow of pearl apart, + And thy crystal-shining quiver; + Give unto the flying hart + Space to breathe, how short soever: + Thou that mak'st a day of night, + Goddess, excellently bright. + + BEN JONSON. + + _From "Cynthia's Revels."_ + + +_L'Allegro_ + +(Extracts) + + * * * * + + Haste thee, nymph, and bring with thee + Jest and youthful Jollity, + Quips, and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, + Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles. + Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, + And love to live in dimple sleek; + Sport that wrinkled Care derides, + And Laughter holding both his sides. + Come, and trip it as you go + On the light fantastic toe, + And in thy right hand lead with thee + The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; + And if I give thee honor 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 singing 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 Sweet-Briar, 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: + Oft listening 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 Hedgerow Elms, on Hillocks green, + Right against the Eastern gate, + Where the great Sun begins his state, + Robed in flames and Amber light, + The clouds in thousand liveries dight. + While the Plowman near at hand + Whistles o'er the furrowed land, + And the Milkmaid singeth blithe, + And the Mower whets his scythe, + And every Shepherd tells his tale + Under the Hawthorn in the dale. + Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures + Whilst the landskip round it measures, + Russet Lawns, and Fallows gray, + Where the nibbling flock do stray, + Mountains on whose barren breast + The laboring clouds do often rest, + Meadows trim with Daisies pied, + Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide. + Towers and Battlements it sees + Bosomed high in tufted Trees, + Where perhaps some beauty lies, + The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. + Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes, + From betwixt two aged Oaks, + Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, + Are at their savory dinner set + Of Herbs, and other Country Messes, + Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; + And then in haste her Bower she leaves + With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves; + Or, if the earlier season lead, + To the tanned Haycock in the Mead. + Sometimes with secure delight + The upland Hamlets will invite, + When the merry Bells ring round, + And the jocund rebecks sound + To many a youth, and many a maid, + Dancing in the Checkered shade; + And young and old come forth to play + On a Sunshine Holy-day + Till the livelong daylight fail; + Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, + With stories told of many a feat, + How Fairy Mab the junkets eat, + She was pinched, and pulled, she said, + And he by Friars' Lanthorn led, + Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat, + To earn his Cream-bowl duly set, + When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, + His shadowy Flail hath threshed the Corn, + That ten day-laborers could not end; + Then lies him down the Lubbar Fiend, + And stretched out all the Chimney's length, + Basks at the fire his hairy strength, + And Crop-full out of doors he flings, + Ere the first Cock his Matin rings. + Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep + By whispering Winds soon lulled asleep. + Towered 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 store of Ladies, whose bright eyes + Rain influence, and judge the prize + Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend + To win her Grace, whom all commend. + There let Hymen oft appear + In Saffron robe, with Taper clear, + And pomp, and feast, and revelry, + With mask, and antique Pageantry; + Such sights as youthful Poets dream + On summer eves by haunted stream. + Then to the well-trod stage anon, + If Jonson's learned sock be on, + Or sweetest Shakespeare, 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 meeting 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 heaped Elysian flowers, and hear + Such strains as would have won the ear + Of Pluto, to have quite set free + His half-regained Eurydice. + These delights, if thou canst give, + Mirth, with thee I mean to live. + + JOHN MILTON. + + +_Sabrina Fair_ + + _The Spirit sings:_ + Sabrina fair, + Listen where thou art sitting + Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, + In twisted braids of lilies knitting + The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair; + Listen for dear honor's sake, + Goddess of the silver lake, + Listen, and save! + Listen, and appear to us, + In name of great Oceanus; + + * * * * + + By all the Nymphs that Nightly dance + Upon thy streams with wily glance, + Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head + From thy coral-paven bed, + And bridle in thy headlong wave, + Till thou our summons answered have. + Listen, and save. + + [SABRINA rises, attended by water-nymphs, and sings.] + + By the rushy-fringed bank, + Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, + My sliding Chariot stays, + Thick set with agate, and the azure sheen + Of turkis blue, and emerald green, + That in the channel strays; + Whilst from off the waters fleet + Thus I set my printless feet + O'er the Cowslip's Velvet head, + That bends not as I tread; + Gentle swain, at thy request + I am here. + + JOHN MILTON. + + _From "Comus."_ + + +_Alexander's Feast_ + + 'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won + By Philip's warlike son: + Aloft in awful state + The godlike hero sate + On his imperial throne: + His valiant peers were placed around; + Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: + (So should desert in arms be crowned.) + The lovely Thais, 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. + + _Chorus._ + + _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 touched the lyre: + The trembling notes ascend the sky, + And heavenly joys inspire. + The song began from Jove, + Who left his blissful seats above, + (Such is the power of mighty love.) + A dragon's fiery form belied the god: + Sublime on radiant spires he rode. + 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. + + _Chorus._ + + _With ravish'd ears_ + _The monarch hears,_ + _Assumes the god,_ + _Affects to nod,_ + _And seems to shake the spheres._ + + JOHN DRYDEN. + + _From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."_ + + +_Kubla Khan_ + + In Xanadu did Kubla Khan + A stately pleasure-dome decree: + Where Alph, the sacred river, ran + Through caverns measureless to man, + Down to a sunless sea. + So twice five miles of fertile ground + With walls and towers were girdled round: + And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills + Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; + And here were forests ancient as the hills, + Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. + + But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted + Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! + A savage place! as holy and enchanted + As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted + By woman wailing for her demon-lover! + And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, + As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, + A mighty fountain momently was forced: + Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst + Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, + Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: + And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever + It flung up momently the sacred river. + Five miles meandering with a mazy motion + Through wood and dale, the sacred river ran, + Then reached the caverns measureless to man, + And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: + And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far + Ancestral voices prophesying war! + + The shadow of the dome of pleasure + Floated midway on the waves; + Where was heard the mingled measure + From the fountain and the caves. + It was a miracle of rare device, + A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! + A damsel with a dulcimer + In a vision once I saw: + It was an Abyssinian maid, + And on her dulcimer she played, + Singing of Mount Abora. + Could I revive within me + Her sympathy and song, + To such a deep delight 'twould win me, + That with music loud and long, + I would build that dome in air, + That sunny dome! Those caves of ice! + And all who heard should see them there, + And all should cry, Beware! Beware! + His flashing eyes, his floating hair! + Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes with holy dread, + For he on honey-dew hath fed, + And drunk the milk of Paradise. + + SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. + + +_The Magic Car Moved On_ + + The Fairy and the Soul proceeded; + The silver clouds disparted; + And, as the car of magic they ascended, + Again the speechless music swelled, + Again the coursers of the air + Unfurled their azure pennons, and the Queen, + Shaking the beamy reins, + Bade them pursue their way. + + The magic car moved on. + The night was fair, and countless stars + Studded heaven's dark-blue vault,-- + The eastern wave grew pale + With the first smile of morn. + The magic car moved on. + From the celestial hoofs + The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew; + And, where the burning wheels + Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak, + Was traced a line of lightning. + Now far above a rock, the utmost verge + Of the wide earth, it flew-- + The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow + Loured o'er the silver sea. + + Far far below the chariot's path, + Calm as a slumbering babe, + Tremendous Ocean lay. + The mirror of its stillness showed + The pale and waning stars, + The chariot's fiery track, + And the grey light of morn + Tingeing those fleecy clouds + That cradled in their folds the infant dawn. + The chariot seemed to fly + Through the abyss of an immense concave, + Radiant with million constellations, tinged + With shades of infinite colour, + And semicircled with a belt + Flashing incessant meteors. + + The magic car moved on. + As they approached their goal, + The coursers seemed to gather speed. + The sea no longer was distinguished; earth + Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere; + The sun's unclouded orb + Rolled through the black concave; + Its rays of rapid light + Parted around the chariot's swifter course, + And fell like ocean's feathery spray + Dashed from the boiling surge + Before a vessel's prow. + The magic car moved on. + Earth's distant orb appeared + The smallest light that twinkles in the heavens + Whilst round the chariot's way + Innumerable systems rolled, + And countless spheres diffused + An ever-varying glory. + It was a sight of wonder: some + Were horned like the crescent moon; + Some shed a mild and silver beam + Like Hesperus o'er the western sea; + Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, + Like worlds to death and ruin driven; + Some shone like stars, and, as the chariot passed, + Bedimmed all other light. + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + _From "Queen Mab."_ + + +_Arethusa_ + + Arethusa arose + From her couch of snows + In the Acroceraunian mountains,-- + From cloud and from crag, + With many a jag, + Shepherding her bright fountains. + She leapt down the rocks + With her rainbow locks + Streaming among the streams; + Her steps paved with green + The downward ravine + Which slopes to the western gleams: + And gliding and springing, + She went, ever singing, + In murmurs as soft as sleep; + The Earth seemed to love her, + And Heaven smiled above her, + As she lingered towards the deep. + + Then Alpheus bold, + On his glacier cold, + With his trident the mountains strook + And opened a chasm + In the rocks;--with the spasm + All Erymanthus shook. + And the black south wind + It concealed behind + The urns of the silent snow, + And earthquake and thunder + Did rend in sunder + The bars of the springs below. + The beard and the hair + Of the River-god were + Seen through the torrent's sweep, + As he followed the light + Of the fleet nymph's flight + To the brink of the Dorian deep. + + "Oh! save me! Oh! guide me! + And bid the deep hide me! + For he grasps me now by the hair!" + The loud Ocean heard, + To its blue depth stirred, + And divided at her prayer; + And under the water + The Earth's white daughter + Fled like a sunny beam, + Behind her descended, + Her billows unblended + With the brackish Dorian stream. + Like a gloomy stain + On the emerald main, + Alpheus rushed behind,-- + As an eagle pursuing + A dove to its ruin + Down the streams of the cloudy wind. + Under the bowers + Where the Ocean Powers + Sit on their pearled thrones; + Through the coral woods + Of the weltering floods; + Over heaps of unvalued stones; + Through the dim beams + Which amid the streams + Weave a network of colored light; + And under the caves + Where the shadowy waves + Are as green as the forest's night; + Outspeeding the shark, + And the swordfish dark,-- + Under the ocean foam, + And up through the rifts + Of the mountain clifts,-- + They passed to their Dorian home. + + And now from their fountains + In Enna's mountains, + Down one vale where the morning basks, + Like friends once parted + Grown single-hearted, + They ply their watery tasks. + At sunrise they leap + From their cradles steep + In the cave of the shelving hill; + At noontide they flow + Through the woods below + And the meadows of asphodel; + And at night they sleep + In the rocking deep + Beneath the Ortygian shore;-- + Like the spirits that lie + In the azure sky, + When they love but live no more. + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. + + +_The Culprit Fay_ + +(Extracts) + +III + +_Fairy Dawn_ + + * * * * + + 'Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell: + The wood-tick has kept the minutes well; + He has counted them all with click and stroke, + Deep in the heart of the mountain oak, + And he has awakened the sentry elve + Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree, + To bid him ring the hour of twelve, + And call the fays to their revelry; + Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell-- + ('Twas made of the white snail's pearly shell)-- + "Midnight comes, and all is well! + Hither, hither, wing your way! + 'Tis the dawn of the fairy-day." + + +IV + +_The Assembling of the Fays_ + + They come from beds of lichen green, + They creep from the mullein's velvet screen; + Some on the backs of beetles fly + From the silver tops of moon-touched trees, + Where they swung in their cobweb hammocks high, + And rocked about in the evening breeze; + Some from the humbird's downy nest-- + They had driven him out by elfin power, + And, pillowed on plumes of his rainbow breast, + Had slumbered there till the charmed hour; + Some had lain in the scoop of the rock, + With glittering ising-stars inlaid; + And some had opened the four-o'clock, + And stole within its purple shade. + And now they throng the moonlight glade, + Above--below--on every side, + Their little minim forms arrayed, + In the tricksy pomp of fairy pride. + + +VI + +_The Throne of the Lily-King_ + + The throne was reared upon the grass, + Of spice-wood and of sassafras; + On pillars of mottled tortoise-shell + Hung the burnished canopy-- + And over it gorgeous curtains fell + Of the tulip's crimson drapery. + The monarch sat on his judgment-seat, + On his brow the crown imperial shone, + The prisoner Fay was at his feet, + And his peers were ranged around the throne, + He waved his sceptre in the air, + He looked around and calmly spoke; + His brow was grave and his eye severe, + But his voice in a softened accent broke: + + +VII + +_The Fay's Crime_ + + Fairy! Fairy! list and mark: + Thou hast broke thine elfin chain; + Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, + And thy wings are dyed with a deadly stain-- + Thou hast sullied thine elfin purity + In the glance of a mortal maiden's eye, + Thou hast scorned our dread decree, + And thou shouldst pay the forfeit high, + But well I know her sinless mind + Is pure as the angel forms above, + Gentle and meek, and chaste and kind, + Such as a spirit well might love; + Fairy! had she spot or taint, + Bitter had been thy punishment. + + +VIII + +_The Fay's Sentence_ + + "Thou shalt seek the beach of sand + Where the water bounds the elfin land; + Thou shalt watch the oozy brine + Till the sturgeon leaps in the bright moonshine, + Then dart the glistening arch below, + And catch a drop from his silver bow. + The water-sprites will wield their arms + And dash around, with roar and rave, + And vain are the woodland spirits' charms, + They are the imps that rule the wave. + Yet trust thee in thy single might: + If thy heart be pure and thy spirit right, + Thou shalt win the warlock fight. + + IX + + "If the spray-bead gem be won, + The stain of thy wing is washed away: + But another errand must be done + Ere thy crime be lost for aye; + Thy flame-wood lamp is quenched and dark, + Thou must reillume its spark. + Mount thy steed and spur him high + To the heaven's blue canopy; + And when thou seest a shooting star, + Follow it fast, and follow it far-- + The last faint spark of its burning train + Shall light the elfin lamp again. + Thou hast heard our sentence, Fay; + Hence! to the water-side, away!" + + +X + +_The Fay's Departure_ + + The goblin marked his monarch well; + He spake not, but he bowed him low, + Then plucked a crimson colen-bell, + And turned him round in act to go. + The way is long, he cannot fly, + His soiled wing has lost its power, + And he winds adown the mountain high, + For many a sore and weary hour. + Through dreary beds of tangled fern, + Through groves of nightshade dark and dern, + Over the grass and through the brake, + Where toils the ant and sleeps the snake; + Now over the violet's azure flush + He skips along in lightsome mood; + And now he thrids the bramble-bush, + Till its points are dyed in fairy blood. + He has leaped the bog, he has pierced the brier, + He has swum the brook, and waded the mire, + Till his spirits sank, and his limbs grew weak, + And the red waxed fainter in his cheek. + He had fallen to the ground outright, + For rugged and dim was his onward track, + But there came a spotted toad in sight, + And he laughed as he jumped upon her back: + He bridled her mouth with a silkweed twist, + He lashed her sides with an osier thong; + And now, through evening's dewy mist, + With leap and spring they bound along, + Till the mountain's magic verge is past, + And the beach of sand is reached at last. + + JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. + + +_A Myth_ + + A floating, a floating + Across the sleeping sea, + All night I heard a singing bird + Upon the topmast tree. + + "Oh, came you from the isles of Greece + Or from the banks of Seine? + Or off some tree in forests free + That fringe the western main?" + + "I came not off the old world, + Nor yet from off the new; + But I am one of the birds of God + Which sing the whole night through." + + "Oh, sing and wake the dawning! + Oh, whistle for the wind! + The night is long, the current strong, + My boat it lags behind." + + "The current sweeps the old world, + The current sweeps the new; + The wind will blow, the dawn will glow, + Ere thou hast sailed them through." + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +_The Fairy Folk_ + + Up the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen + We daren't go a-hunting, + For fear of little men; + Wee folk, good folk, + Trooping all together; + Green jacket, red cap, + And white owl's feather. + + Down along the rocky shore + Some make their home, + They live on crispy pancakes + Of yellow tide-foam; + Some in the reeds + Of the black mountain-lake, + With frogs for their watch-dogs, + All night awake. + + High on the hill-top + The old King sits; + He is now so old and gray + He's nigh lost his wits. + With a bridge of white mist + Columbkill he crosses, + On his stately journeys + From Slieveleague to Rosses; + Or going up with music, + On cold starry nights, + To sup with the Queen + Of the gay Northern Lights. + + They stole little Bridget + For seven years long; + When she came down again + Her friends were all gone. + They took her lightly back, + Between the night and morrow; + They thought that she was fast asleep, + But she was dead with sorrow. + They have kept her ever since + Deep within the lakes, + On a bed of flag leaves, + Watching till she wakes. + + By the craggy hillside, + Through the mosses bare, + They have planted thorn-trees + For pleasure here and there. + Is any man so daring + As dig one up in spite? + He shall find the thornies set + In his bed at night. + + Up the airy mountain, + Down the rushy glen, + We daren't go a-hunting + For fear of little men; + Wee folk, good folk, + Trooping all together; + Green jacket, red cap, + And white owl's feather. + + WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + +_The Merman_ + + I + + Who would be + A merman bold, + Sitting alone, + Singing alone + Under the sea, + With a crown of gold, + On a throne? + + II + + I would be a merman bold, + I would sit and sing the whole of the day; + I would fill the sea-halls with a voice of power; + But at night I would roam abroad and play + With the mermaids in and out of the rocks, + Dressing their hair with the white sea-flower; + And holding them back by their flowing locks + I would kiss them often under the sea, + And kiss them again till they kiss'd me + Laughingly, laughingly; + And then we would wander away, away, + To the pale-green sea-groves straight and high, + Chasing each other merrily. + + III + + There would be neither moon nor star; + But the wave would make music above us afar-- + Low thunder and light in the magic night-- + Neither moon nor star. + We would call aloud in the dreamy dells, + Call to each other and whoop and cry + All night, merrily, merrily. + They would pelt me with starry spangles and shells, + Laughing and clapping their hands between, + All night, merrily, merrily, + But I would throw to them back in mine + Turkis and agate and almondine; + Then leaping out upon them unseen + I would kiss them often under the sea, + And kiss them again till they kiss'd me + Laughingly, laughingly. + O, what a happy life were mine + Under the hollow-hung ocean green! + Soft are the moss-beds under the sea; + We would live merrily, merrily. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_The Mermaid_ + + I + + Who would be + A mermaid fair, + Singing alone, + Combing her hair + Under the sea, + In a golden curl + With a comb of pearl, + On a throne? + + II + + I would be a mermaid fair; + I would sing to myself the whole of the day; + With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair; + And still as I combed I would sing and say, + "Who is it loves me? who loves not me?" + I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall + Low adown, low adown, + From under my starry sea-bud crown + Low adown and around, + And I should look like a fountain of gold + Springing alone + With a shrill inner sound, + Over the throne + In the midst of the hall; + Till that great sea-snake under the sea + From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps + Would slowly trail himself sevenfold + Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate + With his large calm eyes for the love of me. + And all the mermen under the sea + Would feel their immortality + Die in their hearts for the love of me. + + III + + But at night I would wander away, away, + I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks, + And lightly vault from the throne and play + With the mermen in and out of the rocks; + We would run to and fro, and hide and seek, + On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells, + Whose silvery spikes are nearest the sea. + But if any came near I would call and shriek, + And adown the steep like a wave I would leap + From the diamond ledges that jut from the dells; + For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list, + Of the bold merry mermen under the sea; + They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me, + In the purple twilights under the sea; + But the king of them all would carry me, + Woo me, win me, and marry me, + In the branching jaspers under the sea; + Then all the dry pied things that be + In the hueless mosses under the sea + Would curl round my silver feet silently, + All looking up for the love of me. + And if I should carol aloud from aloft + All things that are forked and horned and soft + Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea, + All looking down for the love of me. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_Bugle Song_ + + The splendor falls on castle walls, + And snowy summits old in story; + The long light shakes across the lakes, + And the wild cataract leaps in glory. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying: + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + Oh hark! oh hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + Oh sweet and far from cliff and scar + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! + Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O Love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill, or field, or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow forever and forever: + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + _From "The Princess."_ + + +_The Raven_ + + Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, + Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, + While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, + As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. + "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- + Only this, and nothing more." + + 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;--vainly I had sought to borrow + From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- + For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Nameless here for evermore. + + 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 + "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- + Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- + This it is, and nothing more." + + Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, + "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness 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"--here I opened wide the door;---- + Darkness there, and nothing more. + + Deep into that 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 darkness gave no token, + And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!" + This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" + Merely this, and nothing more. + + Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, + Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. + "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; + Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- + Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-- + 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" + + 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 an instant stopped or stayed he; + But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- + Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door-- + Perched, and sat, and nothing more. + + Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, + By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, + "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "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!" + Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." + + Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, + Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore; + For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being + Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- + Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, + With such name as "Nevermore." + + But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only + That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. + Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- + Till I scarcely more than muttered "Other friends have flown before-- + On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." + Then the bird said "Nevermore." + + Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, + "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, + Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster + Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-- + Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore + Of 'Never--nevermore.'" + + 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-- + What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore + Meant in croaking "Nevermore." + + 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 lamp-light gloated o'er, + But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, + She shall press, ah, nevermore! + + Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer + Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. + "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels + he hath sent thee + Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! + Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!" + Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!-- + Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, + Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-- + On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore-- + Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore! + Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." + + "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil! + By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore-- + Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, + It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- + Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore?" + Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." + + "Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting-- + "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!" + Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." + + 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 lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; + And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor + Shall be lifted--nevermore! + + EDGAR ALLAN POE. + + +_The Bells_ + + I + + Hear the sledges with the bells-- + Silver bells! + What a world of merriment their melody foretells! + How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, + In the icy air of night! + While the stars, that oversprinkle + All the heavens, seem to twinkle + With a crystalline delight; + Keeping time, time, time, + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells + From the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells-- + From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. + + II + + Hear the mellow wedding bells, + Golden bells! + What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! + Through the balmy air of night + How they ring out their delight! + From the molten-golden notes, + And all in tune, + What a liquid ditty floats + To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats + On the moon! + Oh, from out the sounding cells, + What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! + How it swells! + How it dwells + On the Future! how it tells + Of the rapture that impels + To the swinging and the ringing + Of the bells, bells, bells, + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells-- + To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! + + III + + Hear the loud alarum bells-- + Brazen bells! + What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! + In the startled ear of night + How they scream out their affright! + Too much horrified to speak, + They can only shriek, shriek, + Out of tune, + In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, + In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, + Leaping higher, higher, higher, + With a desperate desire, + And a resolute endeavor + Now--now to sit or never, + By the side of the pale-faced moon. + Oh, the bells, bells, bells! + What a tale their terror tells + Of despair! + How they clang, and clash, and roar! + What a horror they outpour + On the bosom of the palpitating air! + Yet the ear it fully knows, + By the twanging, + And the clanging, + How the danger ebbs and flows; + Yet the ear distinctly tells, + In the jangling + And the wrangling, + How the danger sinks and swells, + By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells-- + Of the bells-- + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells,-- + In the clamor and the clangor of the bells. + + IV + + Hear the tolling of the bells-- + Iron bells! + What a world of solemn thought their monody + compels! + In the silence of the night, + How we shiver with affright + At the melancholy menace of their tone! + For every sound that floats + From the rust within their throats + Is a groan. + + And the people--ah, the people-- + They that dwell up in the steeple, + All alone, + And who tolling, tolling, tolling, + In that muffled monotone, + Feel a glory in so rolling + On the human heart a stone-- + They are neither man nor woman-- + They are neither brute or human-- + They are Ghouls: + And their king it is who tolls; + And he rolls, rolls, rolls, + Rolls + A paean from the bells! + And his merry bosom swells + With the paean of the bells! + And he dances and he yells; + Keeping time, time, time + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the paean of the bells-- + Of the bells: + Keeping time, time, time + In a sort of Runic rhyme, + To the throbbing of the bells, + Of the bells, bells, bells,-- + To the sobbing of the bells; + Keeping time, time, time, + As he knells, knells, knells, + In a happy Runic rhyme, + To the rolling of the bells,-- + Of the bells, bells, bells,-- + To the tolling of the bells, + Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, + Bells, bells, bells,-- + To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. + + EDGAR ALLAN POE. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_Sports and Pastimes_ + + +In ancient tapestries, centuries old, you sometimes see, wrought in +delicate needlework that is faded with the lapse of years, pictures of +the sports of the period. There will be quaint scenes showing otter and +bear hunting, swans' nesting, hawking, chasing the deer, and the like; +in-door scenes, too, depicting pretty pages strumming musical +instruments, and lovely ladies at their tambour or 'broidery frames. + +The poetry of each passing age preserves pictures of its plays and +diversions still more perfectly than worn and tattered tapestry, and the +verses we have chosen cover a bewildering variety of pastimes and +recreations. The poets have sounded the praises of almost every kind of +sport: angling, swimming, skating, bubble-blowing, going a-Maying, +walking, riding, whittling, nutting, the country pleasures of "the +barefoot boy," the joys of reading, the delights of music, and the +exhilarations of cruising and travelling. One poem of the immediate +present, Beeching's "Bicycling Song," shows us that the sport of the +moment need not of necessity be too commonplace to be wrought into +verse. At first thought the amusements of these latter days are so swift +and breathless, so complicated with steam, electricity, and other great +forces of the new era, that they seem less poetic than the picturesque +frolics of milkmaids and shepherds, the games of the old Greeks or the +gay sports of the days of chivalry. But after all, as Lowell said, +"there is as much poetry in the iron horses that eat fire as in those of +Diomed that fed on men. If you cut an apple across, you may trace in it +the lines of the blossom that the bee hummed around in May; and so the +soul of poetry survives in things prosaic." + + + + +VII + +SPORTS AND PASTIMES + + +_Blowing Bubbles_ + + SEE, the pretty Planet! + Floating sphere! + Faintest breeze will fan it + Far or near; + + World as light as feather; + Moonshine rays, + Rainbow tints together, + As it plays; + + Drooping, sinking, failing, + Nigh to earth, + Mounting, whirling, sailing, + Full of mirth; + + Life there, welling, flowing, + Waving round; + Pictures coming, going, + Without sound. + + Quick now, be this airy + Globe repell'd! + Never can the fairy + Star be held. + + Touch'd--it in a twinkle + Disappears! + Leaving but a sprinkle, + As of tears. + + WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + +_Bicycling Song_ + + With lifted feet, hands still, + I am poised, and down the hill + Dart, with heedful mind; + The air goes by in a wind. + + Swifter and yet more swift, + Till the heart with a mighty lift + Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry:-- + "O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. + + "Is this, is this your joy? + O bird, then I, though a boy, + For a golden moment share + Your feathery life in air!" + + Say, heart, is there aught like this + In a world that is full of bliss? + 'Tis more than skating, bound + Steel-shod to the level ground. + + Speed slackens now, I float + Awhile in my airy boat; + Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, + My feet to the treadles fall. + + Alas, that the longest hill + Must end in a vale; but still, + Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, + Shall find wings waiting there. + + HENRY CHARLES BEECHING. + + +_Going A Maying_ + + Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn + Upon her wings presents the god unshorn: + See how Aurora throws her fair + Fresh-quilted colours through the air: + Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed, and see + The dew-bespangled herb and tree! + Each flower has wept and bowed toward the east, + Above an hour since, yet you not drest, + Nay, not so much as out of bed? + When all the birds have matins said, + And sung their thankful hymns, 'tis sin, + Nay, profanation, to keep in, + Whenas a thousand virgins on this day, + Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May. + + Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen + To come forth, like the Spring-time fresh and green, + And sweet as Flora. Take no care + For jewels for your gown or hair: + Fear not; the leaves will strew + Gems in abundance upon you: + Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, + Against you come, some orient pearls unwept. + Come, and receive them while the light + Hangs on the dew-locks of the night. + And Titan on the eastern hill + Retires himself, or else stands still + Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: + Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying. + + Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark + How each field turns a street, each street a park, + Made green, and trimmed with trees! see how + Devotion gives each house a bough + Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, + An ark, a tabernacle is, + Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, + As if here were those cooler shades of love. + Can such delights be in the street, + And open fields, and we not see't? + Come, we'll abroad: and let's obey + The proclamation made for May. + And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, + But, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. + + There's not a budding boy or girl, this day, + But is got up, and gone to bring in May. + A deal of youth, ere this is come + Back and with white-thorn laden home. + Some have despatched their cakes and cream, + Before that we have left to dream: + And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth, + And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: + Many a green-gown has been given, + Many a kiss, both odd and even: + Many a glance, too, has been sent + From out the eye, love's firmament: + Many a jest told of the keys betraying + This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a Maying. + + Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, + And take the harmless folly of the time! + We shall grow old apace, and die + Before we know our liberty. + Our life is short, and our days run + As fast away as does the sun. + And as a vapour, or a drop of rain, + Once lost, can ne'er be found again, + So when or you or I are made + A fable, song, or fleeting shade, + All love, all liking, all delight, + Lies drowned with us in endless night. + Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, + Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying. + + ROBERT HERRICK. + + +_Jog On, Jog On_[12] + + Jog on, jog on the foot path-way, + And merrily hent the stile-a, + Your merry heart goes all the day, + Your sad tires in a mile-a. + + Your paltry money-bags of gold-- + What need have we to stare for, + When little or nothing soon is told, + And we have the less to care for. + + Then cast away care, let sorrow cease, + A fig for melancholy; + Let's laugh and sing, or, if you please, + We'll frolic with sweet Dolly. + + _From The Winter's Tale._ + +[Footnote 12: _First stanza by William Shakespeare. Last two stanzas by +unknown author in "Antidote Against Melancholy," 1661._] + + +_A Vagabond Song_ + + There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood-- + Touch of manner, hint of mood; + And my heart is like a rhyme, + With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. + + The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry + Of bugles going by. + And my lonely spirit thrills + To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills. + + There is something in October sets the gipsy blood astir; + We must rise and follow her, + When from every hill of flame + She calls and calls each vagabond by name. + + BLISS CARMAN. + + +_Swimming_ + + And mightier grew the joy to meet full-faced + Each wave, and mount with upward plunge, and taste + The rapture of its rolling strength, and cross + Its flickering crown of snows that flash and toss + Like plumes in battle's blithest charge, and thence + To match the next with yet more strenuous sense; + Till on his eyes the light beat hard and bade + His face turn west and shoreward through the glad + Swift revel of the waters golden-clad, + And back with light reluctant heart he bore + Across the broad-backed rollers in to shore. + + ALGERNON C. SWINBURNE. + + _From "Tristram of Lyonesse."_ + + +_Swimming_ + + How many a time have I + Cloven, with arm still lustier, breast more daring, + The wave all roughened; with a swimmer's stroke + Flinging the billows back from my drenched hair, + And laughing from my lip the audacious brine, + Which kissed it like a wine-cup, rising o'er + The waves as they arose, and prouder still + The loftier they uplifted me; and oft, + In wantonness of spirit, plunging down + Into their green and glassy gulfs, and making + My way to shells and seaweed, all unseen + By those above, till they waxed fearful; then + Returning with my grasp full of such tokens + As showed that I had searched the deep; exulting, + With a far-dashing stroke, and drawing deep + The long suspended breath, again I spurned + The foam which broke around me, and pursued + My track like a sea-bird.--I was a boy then. + + GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. + + _From "The Two Foscari."_ + + +_The Angler's Reveille_[13] + + What time the rose of dawn is laid across the lips of night, + And all the drowsy little stars have fallen asleep in light; + 'Tis then a wandering wind awakes, and runs from tree to tree, + And borrows words from all the birds to sound the reveille. + + This is the carol the Robin throws + Over the edge of the valley; + Listen how boldly it flows, + Sally on sally: + + Tirra-lirra, + Down the river, + Laughing water + All a-quiver. + Day is near, + Clear, clear. + Fish are breaking, + Time for waking. + Tup, tup, tup! + Do you hear? + All clear-- + Wake up! + + The phantom flood of dreams has ebbed and vanished with the dark, + And like a dove the heart forsakes the prison of the ark; + Now forth she fares through friendly woods and diamond-fields of dew, + While every voice cries out "Rejoice!" as if the world were new. + + This is the ballad the Bluebird sings, + Unto his mate replying, + Shaking the tune from his wings + While he is flying: + + Surely, surely, surely, + Life is dear + Even here. + Blue above, + You to love, + Purely, purely, purely. + + There's wild azalea on the hill, and roses down the dell, + And just one spray of lilac still abloom beside the well; + The columbine adorns the rocks, the laurel buds grow pink, + Along the stream white arums gleam, and violets bend to drink. + + This is the song of the Yellowthroat, + Fluttering gaily beside you; + Hear how each voluble note + Offers to guide you: + + Which way, sir? + I say, sir, + Let me teach you, + I beseech you! + Are you wishing + Jolly fishing? + This way, sir! + I'll teach you. + + Then come, my friend, forget your foes, and leave your fears behind, + And wander forth to try your luck, with cheerful, quiet mind; + For be your fortune great or small, you'll take what God may give, + And all the day your heart shall say, "'Tis luck enough to live." + + This is the song the Brown Thrush flings, + Out of his thicket of roses; + Hark how it warbles and rings, + Mark how it closes: + + Luck, luck, + What luck? + Good enough for me! + I'm alive, you see. + Sun shining, + No repining; + Never borrow + Idle sorrow; + Drop it! + Cover it up! + Hold your cup! + Joy will fill it, + Don't spill it, + Steady, be ready, + Good luck! + + HENRY VAN DYKE. + +[Footnote 13: _From "The Toiling of Felix." By permission of Charles +Scribner's Sons._] + + +_The Angler's Invitation_ + + Come when the leaf comes, angle with me, + Come when the bee hums over the lea, + Come with the wild flowers-- + Come with the wild showers-- + Come when the singing bird calleth for thee! + + Then to the stream side, gladly we'll hie, + Where the grey trout glide silently by, + Or in some still place + Over the hill face + Hurrying onward, drop the light fly. + + Then, when the dew falls, homeward we'll speed + To our own loved walls down on the mead, + There, by the bright hearth, + Holding our night mirth, + We'll drink to sweet friendship in need and in deed. + + THOMAS TOD STODDART. + + +_Skating_ + + And in the frosty season, when the sun + Was set, and, visible, for many a mile, + The cottage-windows through the twilight blazed, + I heeded not the summons. Happy time + It was indeed for all of us: for me + It was a time of rapture! Clear and loud + The village clock tolled six. I wheeled about, + Proud and exulting, like an untired horse + That cares not for its home. + All shod with steel, + We hissed along the polished ice, in games + Confederate, imitative of the chase + And woodland pleasures,--the resounding horn, + The pack loud bellowing, and the hunted hare. + So through the darkness and the cold we flew, + And not a voice was idle. + With the din + Meanwhile the precipices rang aloud. + The leafless trees and every icy crag + Tinkled like iron; while the distant hills + Into the tumult sent an alien sound + Of melancholy, not unnoticed; while the stars + Eastward were sparkling clear, and in the west + The orange sky of evening died away. + + Not seldom from the uproar I retired + Into a silent bay; or sportively + Glanced sideways, leaving the tumultuous throng, + To cut across the reflex of a star,-- + Image, that, flying still before me, gleamed + Upon the glassy plain. And oftentimes, + When we had given our bodies to the wind, + And all the shadowy banks on either side + Came sweeping through the darkness, spinning still + The rapid line of motion, then at once + Have I, reclining back upon my heels, + Stopped short; yet still the solitary cliffs + Wheeled by me, even as if the earth had rolled + With visible motion her diurnal round. + Behind me did they stretch in solemn train, + Feebler and feebler; and I stood and watched + Till all was tranquil as a summer sea. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + _From "The Prelude._" + + +_Reading_ + + ... We get no good + By being ungenerous, even to a book, + And calculating profits ... so much help + By so much reading. It is rather when + We gloriously forget ourselves and plunge + Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, + Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth-- + 'Tis then we get the right good from a book. + + ELIZABETH B. BROWNING. + + _From "Aurora Leigh."_ + + +_On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer_ + + Much have I travelled in the realms of gold, + And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; + Round many western islands have I been + Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. + Oft of one wide expanse had I been told + That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne: + Yet did I never breathe its pure serene + Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold; + Then felt I like some watcher of the skies + When a new planet swims into his ken; + Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes + He stared at the Pacific--and all his men + Looked at each other with a wild surmise-- + Silent, upon a peak in Darien. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_Music's Silver Sound_ + + When griping grief the heart doth wound, + And doleful dump the mind oppress, + Then music, with her silver sound, + With speedy help doth lend redress. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "Romeo and Juliet."_ + + +_The Power of Music_ + + For do but note a wild and wanton herd, + Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, + Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, + Which is the hot condition of their blood; + If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, + Or any air of music touch their ears, + You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, + Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze, + By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet + Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods; + Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, + But music for the time doth change his nature. + The man that hath no music in himself, + Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, + Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; + The motions of his spirit are dull as night, + And his affections dark as Erebus: + Let no such man be trusted. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "The Merchant of Venice."_ + + +_Descend, Ye Nine_ + + Descend, ye Nine! descend and sing; + The breathing instruments inspire, + Wake into voice each silent string, + And sweep the sounding lyre! + In a sadly pleasing strain, + Let the warbling lute complain: + Let the loud trumpet sound, + Till the roofs all around + The shrill echoes rebound; + While in more lengthen'd notes and slow, + The deep, majestic, solemn organs blow. + Hark! the numbers soft and clear + Gently steal upon the ear; + Now louder, and yet louder rise, + And fill with spreading sounds the skies; + Exulting in triumph now swell the bold notes, + In broken air, trembling, the wild music floats; + Till, by degrees, remote and small, + The strains decay, + And melt away, + In a dying, dying fall. + By music, minds an equal temper know, + Nor swell too high, nor sink too low. + If in the breast tumultuous joys arise, + Music her soft, assuasive voice applies; + Or, when the soul is press'd with cares, + Exalts her in enlivening airs. + Warriors she fires with animated sounds; + Pours balm into the bleeding lover's wounds: + Melancholy lifts her head, + Morpheus rouses from his bed, + Sloth unfolds her arms and wakes, + Listening Envy drops her snakes; + Intestine war no more our passions wage, + And giddy factions bear away their rage. + + ALEXANDER POPE. + + _From "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."_ + + +_Old Song_ + + 'Tis a dull sight + To see the year dying, + When winter winds + Set the yellow wood sighing: + Sighing, O sighing! + + When such a time cometh + I do retire + Into an old room + Beside a bright fire: + O, pile a bright fire! + + And there I sit + Reading old things, + Of knights and lorn damsels, + While the wind sings-- + O, drearily sings! + + I never look out + Nor attend to the blast; + For all to be seen + Is the leaves falling fast: + Falling, falling! + + But close at the hearth, + Like a cricket, sit I + Reading of summer + And chivalry-- + Gallant chivalry! + + * * * * + + Then the clouds part, + Swallows soaring between; + The spring is alive, + And the meadows are green! + + I jump up like mad, + Break the old pipe in twain, + And away to the meadows, + The meadows again! + + EDWARD FITZGERALD. + + +_The Barefoot Boy_ + + Blessings on thee, little man, + Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! + With thy upturned pantaloons, + And thy merry whistled tunes; + With thy red lip, redder still + Kissed by strawberries on the hill; + With the sunshine on thy face, + Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; + From my heart I give thee joy,-- + I was once a barefoot boy! + Prince thou art,--the grown-up man + Only is republican. + Let the million-dollared ride! + Barefoot, trudging at his side, + Thou hast more than he can buy + In the reach of ear and eye,-- + Outward sunshine, inward joy: + Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! + + O for boyhood's painless play, + Sleep that wakes in laughing day, + Health that mocks the doctor's rules, + Knowledge never learned of schools, + Of the wild bee's morning chase, + Of the wild-flower's time and place, + Flight of fowl and habitude + Of the tenants of the wood; + How the tortoise bears his shell, + How the woodchuck digs his cell, + And the ground-mole sinks his well; + How the robin feeds her young, + How the oriole's nest is hung; + Where the whitest lilies blow, + Where the freshest berries grow, + Where the groundnut trails its vine, + Where the wood-grape's clusters shine: + Of the black wasp's cunning way, + Mason of his walls of clay, + And the architectural plans + Of gray hornet artisans!-- + For, eschewing books and tasks, + Nature answers all he asks; + Hand in hand with her he walks, + Face to face with her he talks, + Part and parcel of her joy,-- + Blessings on the barefoot boy! + + O for boyhood's time of June, + Crowding years in one brief moon, + When all things I heard or saw, + Me, their master, waited for. + I was rich in flowers and trees, + Humming-birds and honey-bees; + For my sport the squirrel played, + Plied the snouted mole his spade; + For my taste the blackberry cone + Purpled over hedge and stone; + Laughed the brook for my delight + Through the day and through the night, + Whispering at the garden wall, + Talked with me from fall to fall; + Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, + Mine the walnut slopes beyond, + Mine, on bending orchard trees, + Apples of Hesperides! + Still as my horizon grew, + Larger grew my riches too; + All the world I saw or knew + Seemed a complex Chinese toy, + Fashioned for a barefoot boy! + + O for festal dainties spread, + Like my bowl of milk and bread,-- + Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, + On the door-stone, gray and rude! + O'er me like a regal tent, + Cloudy ribbed, the sunset bent, + Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, + Looped in many a wind-swung fold; + While for music came the play + Of the pied frogs' orchestra; + And to light the noisy choir, + Lit the fly his lamp of fire. + I was monarch: pomp and joy + Waited on the barefoot boy! + + Cheerily, then, my little man, + Live and laugh as boyhood can! + Though the flinty slopes be hard, + Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, + Every morn shall lead thee through + Fresh baptisms of the dew; + Every evening from thy feet + Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: + All too soon these feet must hide + In the prison cells of pride, + Lose the freedom of the sod, + Like a colt's for work be shod, + Made to tread the mills of toil, + Up and down in ceaseless moil: + Happy if their track be found + Never on forbidden ground; + Happy if they sink not in + Quick and treacherous sands of sin. + Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, + Ere it passes, barefoot boy! + + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + +_Leolin and Edith_ + + These had been together from the first, + Leolin's first nurse was, five years after, hers; + So much the boy foreran: but when his date + Doubled her own, for want of playmates he + + * * * * + + Had tost his ball and flown his kite, and roll'd + His hoop to pleasure Edith, with her dipt + Against the rush of the air in the prone swing, + Made blossom-ball or daisy-chain, arranged + Her garden, sow'd her name and kept it green + In living letters, told her fairy-tales, + Show'd her the fairy footings on the grass, + The little dells of cowslip, fairy palms, + The petty marestail forest, fairy pines, + Or from the tiny pitted target blew + What looked a flight of fairy arrows aim'd + All at one mark, all hitting: make-believes + For Edith and himself. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + _From "Aylmer's Field."_ + + +_Going A-Nutting_ + + No clouds are in the morning sky, + The vapors hug the stream,-- + Who says that life and love can die + In all this northern gleam? + At every turn the maples burn, + The quail is whistling free, + The partridge whirs, and the frosted burs + Are dropping for you and me. + Ho! hilly ho! heigh O! + Hilly ho! + In the clear October morning. + + Along our path the woods are bold, + And glow with ripe desire; + The yellow chestnut showers its gold, + The sumachs spread their fire; + The breezes feel as crisp as steel, + The buckwheat tops are red: + Then down the lane, love, scurry again, + And over the stubble tread! + Ho! hilly ho! heigh O! + Hilly ho! + In the clear October morning. + + EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. + + +_Whittling_ + + The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school, + Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool, + The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eye + Turns, while he hears his mother's lullaby; + His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it, + Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it; + And in the education of the lad + No little part that implement hath had. + His pocket-knife to the young whittler brings + A growing knowledge of material things. + + Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art, + His chestnut whistle and his shingle cart, + His elder pop-gun, with its hickory rod, + Its sharp explosion and rebounding wad, + His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper tone + That murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone, + Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeed + His bow, his arrow of a feathered reed, + His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win, + His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin, + Or, if his father lives upon the shore, + You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor," + Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch, + And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch. + Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven + Ere long he'll solve you any problem given; + Make any gimcrack, musical or mute, + A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute; + Make you a locomotive or a clock, + Cut a canal, or build a floating-dock, + Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;-- + Make anything, in short, for sea or shore, + From a child's rattle to a seventy-four;-- + Make it, said I?--Ay, when he undertakes it, + He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it. + + And when the thing is made,--whether it be + To move on earth, in air, or on the sea; + Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide, + Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide; + Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring, + Whether it be a piston or a spring, + Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass, + The thing designed shall surely come to pass; + For, when his hand's upon it, you may know + That there's go in it, and he'll make it go. + + JOHN PIERPONT. + + +_Hunting Song_ + + Waken, lords and ladies gay, + On the mountain dawns the day; + All the jolly chase is here + With hawk and horse and hunting-spear! + Hounds are in their couples yelling, + Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. + Merrily, merrily mingle they, + "Waken, lords and ladies gay." + + Waken, lords and ladies gay, + The mist has left the mountain gray, + Springlets in the dawn are steaming, + Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, + And foresters have busy been + To track the buck in thicket green; + Now we come to chant our lay + "Waken, lords and ladies gay." + + Waken, lords and ladies gay, + To the greenwood haste away; + We can show you where he lies, + Fleet of foot and tall of size; + We can show the marks he made + When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; + You shall see him brought to bay; + "Waken, lords and ladies gay." + + Louder, louder chant the lay + Waken, lords and ladies gay! + Tell them youth and mirth and glee + Run a course as well as we; + Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, + Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; + Think of this, and rise with day, + Gentle lords and ladies gay! + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + +_The Hunter's Song_ + + Rise! Sleep no more! 'Tis a noble morn! + The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn, + And the frost shrinks back like a beaten hound, + Under the steaming, steaming ground. + Behold where the billowy clouds flow by, + And leave us alone in the clear gray sky! + Our horses are ready and steady,--So, ho! + I'm gone like a dart from the Tartar's bow. + _Hark, hark!--who calleth the maiden Morn_ + _From her sleep in the woods and the stubble corn?_ + _The horn--the horn!_ + _The merry sweet ring of the hunter's horn!_ + + Now through the copse where the fox is found + And over the stream at a mighty bound, + And over the high lands and over the low, + O'er furrows, o'er meadows the hunters go! + Away! as the hawk flies full at his prey + So flieth the hunter,--away, away! + From the burst at the corn till set of sun, + When the red fox dies, and the day is done! + _Hark, hark!--What sound on the wind is borne?_ + _'Tis the conquering voice of the hunter's horn._ + _The horn,--the horn!_ + _The merry bold voice of the hunter's horn!_ + + Sound, sound the horn! To the hunter good + What's the gully deep, or the roaring flood? + Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds, + At the heels of his swift, sure, silent hounds. + O what delight can a mortal lack + When he once is firm on his horse's back, + With his stirrups short and his snaffle strong, + And the blast of the horn for his morning song! + _Hark, hark! Now home! and dream till morn_ + _Of the bold sweet sound of the hunter's horn!_ + _The horn, the horn!_ + _Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn!_ + + BARRY CORNWALL. + + (Bryan Waller Procter.) + + +_The Blood Horse_ + + Gamarra is a dainty steed, + Strong, black, and of a noble breed, + Full of fire, and full of bone, + With all his line of fathers known; + Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, + But blown abroad by the pride within! + His mane is like a river flowing, + And his eyes like embers glowing + In the darkness of the night, + And his pace as swift as light. + + Look--how 'round his straining throat + Grace and shifting beauty float; + Sinewy strength is in his reins, + And the red blood gallops through his veins; + Richer, redder, never ran + Through the boasting heart of man. + He can trace his lineage higher + Than the Bourbon dare aspire,-- + Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, + Or O'Brien's blood itself! + + He, who hath no peer, was born, + Here, upon a red March morn; + But his famous fathers dead + Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, + And the last of that great line + Trod like one of a race divine! + And yet,--he was but friend to one, + Who fed him at the set of sun, + By some lone fountain fringed with green: + With him, a roving Bedouin, + He lived (none else would he obey + Through all the hot Arabian day),-- + And died untamed upon the sands + Where Balkh amidst the desert stands! + + BARRY CORNWALL. + + (Bryan Waller Procter.) + + + +_The Northern Seas_ + + Up! up! let us a voyage take; + Why sit we here at ease? + Find us a vessel tight and snug, + Bound for the Northern Seas. + + I long to see the Northern Lights, + With their rushing splendors, fly, + Like living things, with flaming wings, + Wide o'er the wondrous sky. + + I long to see those icebergs vast, + With heads all crowned with snow; + Whose green roots sleep in the awful deep, + Two hundred fathoms low. + + I long to hear the thundering crash + Of their terrific fall; + And the echoes from a thousand cliffs, + Like lonely voices call. + + There shall we see the fierce white bear, + The sleepy seals aground, + And the spouting whales that to and fro + Sail with a dreary sound. + + There may we tread on depths of ice, + That the hairy mammoth hide; + Perfect as when, in times of old, + The mighty creature died. + + And while the unsetting sun shines on + Through the still heaven's deep blue, + We'll traverse the azure waves, the herds + Of the dread sea-horse to view. + + We'll pass the shores of solemn pine, + Where wolves and black bears prowl, + And away to the rocky isles of mist + To rouse the northern fowl. + + Up there shall start ten thousand wings, + With a rushing, whistling din; + Up shall the auk and fulmar start,-- + All but the fat penguin. + + And there, in the wastes of the silent sky, + With the silent earth below, + We shall see far off to his lonely rock + The lonely eagle go. + + Then softly, softly will we tread + By island streams, to see + Where the pelican of the silent North + Sits there all silently. + + WILLIAM HOWITT. + + +_The Needle_ + + The gay belles of fashion may boast of excelling + In waltz or cotillion, at whist or quadrille; + And seek admiration by vauntingly telling + Of drawing, and painting, and musical skill; + But give me the fair one, in country or city, + Whose home and its duties are dear to her heart, + Who cheerfully warbles some rustical ditty, + While plying the needle with exquisite art: + The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, + The needle directed by beauty and art. + If Love have a potent, a magical token, + A talisman, ever resistless and true-- + A charm that is never evaded or broken, + A witchery certain the heart to subdue-- + 'T is this--and his armory never has furnished + So keen and unerring, or polished a dart; + Let Beauty direct it, so pointed and burnished, + And, oh! it is certain of touching the heart: + The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, + The needle directed by beauty and art. + + Be wise, then, ye maidens, nor seek admiration + By dressing for conquest, and flirting with all; + You never, whate'er be your fortune or station, + Appear half so lovely at rout or at ball, + As gayly convened at a work-covered table, + Each cheerfully active and playing her part, + Beguiling the task with a song or a fable, + And plying the needle with exquisite art: + The bright little needle--the swift-flying needle, + The needle directed by beauty and art. + + SAMUEL WOODWORTH. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_A Garden of Girls_ + + +Enter a procession of charming girls; wee ones like Nikolina and Jessie, +others, like Peggy, just entering their teens. Some are so saintly we +can almost see the halos above their lovely heads--like Mrs. Browning's +human angel in the first poem, or like Shakespeare's Silvia, who excels +each mortal thing; others are just happy children, like Little Bell. + +The poets, as you will see, have delighted to paint the beauties of this +rosebud garden. There is sweet Phyllis, the little dairymaid, whose hand +seemed milk, in milk it was so white; Annie Laurie, with her brow like +the snowdrift and her voice like wind in summer sighing; merry Margaret, +like midsummer flower; but you will note that in all of them sunny hair +and dewy eyes are not where the beauty lies. "Love deep and kind" leaves +good gifts behind, with Bell and with Mally, too, who is rare and fair +and every way complete, and who is also modest and discreet. On the +other hand, Burns does not describe Nannie by so much as a single word, +but it is easy to conjure up her picture, so eloquently he paints the +dreariness of the world "when Nannie's awa'." + +Will you not add to this garden of girls others whom you would like to +see blooming beside them? Remember, it is a rosebud garden, and the +new-comers must be not only beautiful, but sweet and fragrant with +pretty, womanly virtues. + + _"She walks--the lady of my delight + A shepherdess of sheep. + Her flocks are thoughts. She keeps them white; + She guards them from the steep. + She feeds them on the fragrant height, + And folds them in for sleep."_ + + + + +VIII + +A GARDEN OF GIRLS + + +_A Portrait_ + + "One Name is Elizabeth."--JONSON. + + + I will paint her as I see her: + Ten times have the lilies blown, + Since she looked upon the sun. + + And her face is lily-clear-- + Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty + To the law of its own beauty. + + Oval cheeks encolored faintly, + Which a trail of golden hair + Keeps from fading off to air: + + And a forehead fair and saintly, + Which two blue eyes undershine, + Like meek prayers before a shrine. + + Face and figure of a child,-- + Though too calm, you think, and tender, + For the childhood you would lend her. + + Yet child-simple, undefiled, + Frank, obedient,--waiting still + On the turnings of your will. + + Moving light, as all young things-- + As young birds, or early wheat + When the wind blows over it. + + Only free from flutterings + Of loud mirth that scorneth measure-- + Taking love for her chief pleasure: + + Choosing pleasures (for the rest) + Which come softly--just as she, + When she nestles at your knee. + + Quiet talk she liketh best, + In a bower of gentle looks,-- + Watering flowers, or reading books. + + And her voice, it murmurs lowly, + As a silver stream may run, + Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. + + And her smile, it seems half holy, + As if drawn from thoughts more fair + Than our common jestings are. + + And if any poet knew her, + He would sing of her with falls + Used in lovely madrigals. + + And if any painter drew her, + He would paint her unaware + With a halo round her hair. + + And if reader read the poem, + He would whisper--"You have done a + Consecrated little Una!" + + And a dreamer (did you show him + That same picture) would exclaim, + "'Tis my angel, with a name!" + + And a stranger,--when he sees her + In the street even--smileth stilly, + Just as you would at a lily. + + And all voices that address her, + Soften, sleeken every word, + As if speaking to a bird. + + And all fancies yearn to cover + The hard earth whereon she passes. + With the thymy scented grasses. + + And all hearts do pray, "God love her!" + Ay, and always, in good sooth, + We may all be sure he doth. + + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + +_Little Bell_ + + Piped the blackbird on the beechwood spray: + "Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, + What's your name?" quoth he-- + "What's your name? Oh, stop and straight unfold, + Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"-- + "Little Bell," said she. + + Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks-- + Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks-- + "Bonny bird," quoth she, + "Sing me your best song before I go." + "Here's the very finest song I know, + Little Bell," said he. + + And the blackbird piped; you never heard + Half so gay a song from any bird;-- + Full of quips and wiles, + Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, + All for love of that sweet face below, + Dimpled o'er with smiles. + + And the while the bonny bird did pour + His full heart out freely o'er and o'er, + 'Neath the morning skies, + In the little childish heart below, + All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, + And shine forth in happy overflow + From the blue, bright eyes. + + Down the dell she tripped; and through the glade + Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, + And from out the tree + Swung and leaped and frolicked, void of fear, + While bold blackbird piped, that all might hear, + "Little Bell!" piped he. + + Little Bell sat down amid the fern: + "Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return; + Bring me nuts!" quoth she. + Up, away, the frisky squirrel hies, + Golden wood lights glancing in his eyes; + And adown the tree, + Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, + In the little lap drop, one by one: + Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun! + "Happy Bell!" pipes he. + + Little Bell looked up and down the glade: + "Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid, + Come and share with me!" + Down came squirrel, eager for his fare, + Down came bonny blackbird, I declare. + Little Bell gave each his honest share, + Ah the merry three! + + And the while these frolic playmates twain + Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, + 'Neath the morning skies, + In the little childish heart below, + All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, + And shine out in happy overflow, + From her blue, bright eyes. + + By her snow-white cot at close of day, + Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray: + Very calm and clear + Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, + In blue heaven, an angel shape serene + Paused awhile to hear. + + "What good child is this," the angel said, + "That, with happy heart, beside her bed + Prays so lovingly?" + Low and soft, oh! very low and soft, + Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, + "Bell, _dear_ Bell!" crooned he. + + "Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair + Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; + Child, thy bed shall be + Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, + Shall watch around, and leave good gifts behind, + Little Bell, for thee." + + THOMAS WESTWOOD. + + +_A Child of Twelve_ + + A child most infantine + Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age + In all but its sweet looks and mien divine. + + * * * * + + She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, + A power, that from its objects scarcely drew + One impulse of her being--in her lightness + Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, + Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue, + To nourish some far desert; she did seem + Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, + Like the bright shade of some immortal dream + Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life's dark stream. + As mine own shadow was this child to me. + + * * * * + + This playmate sweet, + This child of twelve years old. + + PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY + + _From "The Revolt of Islam."_ + + +_Chloe_ + + It was the charming month of May, + When all the flowers were fresh and gay, + One morning by the break of day, + The youthful charming Chloe + From peaceful slumbers she arose, + Girt on her mantle and her hose, + And o'er the flowery mead she goes, + The youthful charming Chloe. + Lovely was she by the dawn, + Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, + Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, + The youthful charming Chloe. + + The feather'd people you might see, + Perch'd all around on every tree, + In notes of sweetest melody + They hail the charming Chloe; + Till painting gay the eastern skies, + The glorious sun began to rise, + Out-rivall'd by the radiant eyes + Of youthful, charming Chloe. + Lovely was she by the dawn, + Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, + Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, + The youthful, charming Chloe. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + +_O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet_ + + As I was walking up the street, + A barefit maid I chanced to meet; + But O the road was very hard + For that fair maiden's tender feet. + O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, + Mally's modest and discreet, + Mally's rare, Mally's fair, + Mally's every way complete. + + It were more meet that those fine feet + Were weel laced up in silken shoon, + And 'twere more fit that she should sit + Within yon chariot gilt aboon. + + Her yellow hair, beyond compare, + Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, + And her two eyes, like stars in skies, + Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. + O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, + Mally's modest and discreet, + Mally's rare, Mally's fair, + Mally's every way complete. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + +_Who Is Silvia?_ + + Who is Silvia? What is she, + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she; + The heaven such grace did lend her, + That she might admired be. + + Is she kind as she is fair? + For beauty lives with kindness: + Love doth to her eyes repair, + To help him of his blindness; + And, being helped, inhabits there. + + Then to Silvia let us sing, + That Silvia is excelling; + She excels each mortal thing + Upon the dull earth dwelling; + To her let us garlands bring. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "The Two Gentlemen of Verona."_ + + +_To Mistress Margaret Hussey_ + + Merry Margaret + As midsummer flower-- + Gentle as falcon, + Or hawk of the tower; + With solace and gladness, + Much mirth and no madness, + All good and no badness; + So joyously, + So maidenly, + So womanly + Her demeaning,-- + In everything + Far, far passing + That I can indite + Or suffice to write, + Of merry Margaret, + As midsummer flower, + Gentle as falcon + Or hawk of the tower; + As patient and as still, + And as full of good-will, + As fair Isiphil, + Coliander, + Sweet Pomander, + Good Cassander; + Steadfast of thought, + Well made, well wrought; + Far may be sought + Ere you can find + So courteous, so kind, + As merry Margaret, + This midsummer flower-- + Gentle as falcon + Or hawk of the tower. + + JOHN SKELTON. + + +_Ruth_ + + She stood breast-high amid the corn, + Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, + Like the sweetheart of the sun, + Who many a glowing kiss had won. + + On her cheek an autumn flush. + Deeply ripened;--such a blush + In the midst of brown was born, + Like red poppies grown with corn. + + Round her eyes her tresses fell, + Which were blackest none could tell, + But long lashes veil'd a light + That had else been all too bright. + + And her hat, with shady brim, + Made her tressy forehead dim;-- + Thus she stood amid the stooks, + Praising God with sweetest looks. + + "Sure," I said, "Heav'n did not mean + Where I reap thou shouldst but glean; + Lay thy sheaf adown and come, + Share my harvest and my home." + + THOMAS HOOD. + + +_My Peggy_ + + My Peggy is a young thing, + Just entered in her teens, + Fair as the day, and sweet as May, + Fair as the day, and always gay, + My Peggy is a young thing, + And I'm not very auld, + Yet well I like to meet her at + The wauking of the fauld. + + * * * * + + My Peggy sings sae saftly, + When on my pipe I play; + By a' the rest it is confest, + By a' the rest, that she sings best. + My Peggy sings sae saftly, + And in her sangs are tauld, + With innocence, the wale of sense, + At wauking of the fauld. + + ALLAN RAMSAY. + + _From "The Gentle Shepherd."_ + + +_Annie Laurie_ + + Maxwelton braes are bonnie + Where early fa's the dew, + And it's there that Annie Laurie + Gie'd me her promise true,-- + Gie'd me her promise true, + Which ne'er forgot will be; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + Her brow is like the snawdrift, + Her throat is like the swan, + Her face it is the fairest + That e'er the sun shone on,-- + That e'er the sun shone on; + And dark blue is her e'e; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + Like dew on the gowan lying + Is the fa' o' her fairy feet; + Like the winds in summer sighing, + Her voice is low and sweet,-- + Her voice is low and sweet; + And she's a' the world to me; + And for bonnie Annie Laurie + I'd lay me doune and dee. + + WILLIAM DOUGLAS OF FINGLAND. + + +_Lucy_ + + Three years she grew in sun and shower; + Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower + On earth was never sown: + This child I to myself will take; + She shall be mine, and I will make + A lady of my own. + + "Myself will to my darling be + Both law and impulse: and with me + The girl, in rock and plain, + In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, + Shall feel an overseeing power + To kindle or restrain. + + "She shall be sportive as the fawn + That, wild with glee, across the lawn, + Or up the mountain springs; + And hers shall be the breathing balm, + And hers the silence and the calm + Of mute, insensate things. + + "The floating clouds their state shall lend + To her; for her the willow bend; + Nor shall she fail to see + E'en in the motions of the storm + Grace that shall mold the maiden's form + By silent sympathy. + + "The stars of midnight shall be dear + To her; and she shall lean her ear + In many a secret place + Where rivulets dance their wayward round, + And beauty born of murmuring sound + Shall pass into her face. + + "And vital feelings of delight + Shall rear her form to stately height, + Her virgin bosom swell; + Such thoughts to Lucy I will give + While she and I together live + Here in this happy dell." + + Thus Nature spake--the work was done-- + How soon my Lucy's race was run! + She died, and left to me + This heath, this calm and quiet scene; + The memory of what has been, + And nevermore will be. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + +_Jessie_ + + Jessie is both young and fair, + Dewy eyes and sunny hair; + Sunny hair and dewy eyes + Are not where her beauty lies. + + Jessie is both kind and true, + Heart of gold and will of yew; + Will of yew and heart of gold-- + Still her charms are scarcely told. + + If she yet remain unsung, + Pretty, constant, docile, young. + What remains not here compiled? + Jessie is a little child! + + BRET HARTE. + + +_Olivia_ + + She gamboll'd on the greens + A baby-germ, to when + The maiden blossoms of her teens + Could number five from ten. + + I swear, by leaf, and wind, and rain-- + And hear me with thine ears-- + That tho' I circle in the grain + Five hundred rings of years, + + Yet, since I first could cast a shade, + Did never creature pass + So slightly, musically made, + So light upon the grass. + + * * * * + + Then ran she, gamesome as the colt, + And livelier than a lark + She sent her voice thro' all the holt + Before her, and the park. + + A light wind chased her on the wing, + And in the chase grew wild, + As close as might be would he cling + About the darling child. + + But light as any wind that blows, + So fleetly did she stir, + The flower she touch'd on, dipt and rose, + And turned to look at her. + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + _From "The Talking Oak."_ + + +_Nikolina_ + + O tell me, little children, have you seen her-- + The tiny maid from Norway, Nikolina? + O, her eyes are blue as cornflow'rs mid the corn, + And her cheeks are rosy red as skies of morn! + + Nikolina! swift she turns if any call her, + As she stands among the poppies, hardly taller, + Breaking off their scarlet cups for you, + With spikes of slender larkspur, burning blue. + + In her little garden many a flower is growing-- + Red, gold, and purple in the soft wind blowing + But the child that stands amid the blossoms gay + Is sweeter, quainter, brighter e'en than they. + + CELIA THAXTER. + + +_The Solitary Reaper_ + + Behold her, single in the field, + Yon solitary Highland Lass! + Reaping and singing by herself; + Stop here, or gently pass! + Alone she cuts and binds the grain, + And sings a melancholy strain; + O listen! for the vale profound + Is overflowing with the sound. + + No nightingale did ever chaunt + More welcome notes to weary bands + Of travelers in some shady haunt, + Among Arabian sands; + A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard, + In springtime from the cuckoo bird, + Breaking the silence of the seas + Among the farthest Hebrides. + + Will no one tell me what she sings?-- + Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow + For old, unhappy, far-off things, + And battles long ago: + Or is it some more humble lay, + Familiar matter of to-day? + Some natural sorrow, loss or pain, + That has been, and may be again? + + Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang + As if her song could have no ending; + I saw her singing at her work, + And o'er the sickle bending;-- + I listened, motionless and still; + And, as I mounted up the hill, + The music in my heart I bore, + Long after it was heard no more. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + +_Helena and Hermia_ + + We, Hermia,... + Have with our needles created both one flower, + Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, + Both warbling of one song, both in one key; + As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds + Had been incorporate. So we grew together, + Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, + But yet a union in partition, + Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; + So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart, + Two of the first, like coats in heraldry + Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "A Midsummer Night's Dream."_ + + +_Phyllis_ + + In petticoat of green, + Her hair about her eyne, + Phyllis beneath an oak + Sat milking her fair flock; + 'Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, rare delight, + Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was so white. + + WILLIAM DRUMMOND. + + +_So Sweet Is She_ + + Have you seen but a bright lily grow, + Before rude hands have touched it? + Have you marked but the fall of the snow, + Before the soil hath smutched it? + Have you felt the wool of the beaver? + Or swan's down ever? + Or have smelt o' the bud of the brier? + Or the nard i' the fire? + Or have tasted the bag of the bee? + Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, is she! + + BEN JONSON. + + _From "The Triumph of Charis."_ + + +_I Love My Jean_ + + Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, + I dearly like the west, + For there the bonnie lassie lives, + The lassie I lo'e best; + There wild woods grow, and rivers row, + And monie a hill between; + But day and night my fancy's flight + Is ever wi' my Jean. + + I see her in the dewy flowers, + I see her sweet and fair; + I hear her in the tunefu' birds, + I hear her charm the air: + There's not a bonnie flower that springs + By fountain, shaw, or green; + There's not a bonnie bird that sings, + But minds me o' my Jean. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + +_My Nannie's Awa'_ + + Now in her green mantle blythe nature arrays, + An' listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes, + While birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; + But to me it's delightless--my Nannie's awa'. + + The snaw-drap an' primrose our woodlands adorn, + An' violets bathe in the weet o' the morn; + They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw, + They mind me o' Nannie--an' Nannie's awa'. + + Thou lav'rock that springs frae the dews of the lawn, + The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, + An' thou mellow mavis that hails the night-fa', + Give over for pity--my Nannie's awa'. + + Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow an' gray, + An' soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; + The dark, dreary winter, an' wild-driving snaw, + Alane can delight me--now Nannie's awa'. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_The World of Waters_ + + +"The sea has the sun for a harper." She has also among her myriad +worshippers Swinburne, the poet-harpist, who sweeps all the strings of +his noble instrument in her praise. + +There can be no worthier introduction to a group of sea-poems than lines +"all gold seven times refined," selected almost at random from a great +poet whom you will be glad to read later on. + + + _"Green earth has her sons and her daughters, + And these have their guerdons; but we + Are the wind's and the sun's and the water's, + Elect of the sea."_ + + _"She is pure as the wind and the sun, + And her sweetness endureth forever."_ + + _"For the wind, with his wings half open, at pause + in the sky, neither fettered nor free, + Leans waveward and flutters the ripple to laughter!"_ + + _"But for hours upon hours + As a thrall she remains + Spell-bound as with flowers + And content in their chains, + And her loud steeds fret not, and lift not a lock + of their deep white manes."_ + + _"And all the rippling green grew royal gold + Between him and the far sun's rising rim."_ + + _"Where the horn of the headland is sharper + And her green floor glitters with fire, + The sea has the sun for a harper, + The sun has the sea for a lyre."_ + + _"The waves are a pavement of amber, + By the feet of the sea-winds trod, + To receive in a god's presence-chamber + Our father, the God."_ + + + + +IX + +THE WORLD OF WATERS + + +_To the Ocean_ + + Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean--roll! + Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; + Man marks the earth with ruin--his control + Stops with the shore;--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, unknell'd, uncoffin'd and unknown. + + His steps are not upon thy paths--thy fields + Are not a spoil for him--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 haply lies + His petty hope in some near port or bay, + And dashest him again to earth--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 creator the vain title take + Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; + These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, + They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar + Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Trafalgar. + + Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee-- + Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they? + Thy waters wasted them while they were free, + And many a tyrant since: their shores obey + The stranger, slave or savage; their decay + Has dried up realms to deserts--not so thou. + Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play-- + Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow-- + 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--in breeze, or gale, or storm, + Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime + Dark-heaving;--boundless, endless, and sublime-- + The image of Eternity--the throne + Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime + The monsters of the deep are made; each zone + Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. + + GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. + + _From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_ + + +_A Life on the Ocean Wave_[14] + + A life on the ocean wave, + A home on the rolling deep, + Where the scattered waters rave, + And the winds their revels keep! + Like an eagle caged I pine + On this dull unchanging shore: + Oh! give me the flashing brine, + The spray and the tempest's roar! + + Once more on the deck I stand + Of my own swift-gliding craft: + Set sail! farewell to the land! + The gale follows fair abaft. + We shoot through the sparkling foam + Like an ocean-bird set free;-- + Like the ocean-bird, our home + We'll find far out on the sea. + + The land is no longer in view, + The clouds have begun to frown; + But with a stout vessel and crew, + We'll say let the storm come down! + And the song of our hearts shall be, + While the winds and the waters rave, + A home on the rolling sea! + A life on the ocean wave. + + EPES SARGENT. + +[Footnote 14: _Harper's "Cyclopaedia of British and American Poetry."_] + + +_The Sea_ + + The sea! the sea! the open sea! + The blue, the fresh, the ever free! + Without a mark, without a bound, + It runneth the earth's wide regions round; + It plays with the clouds; it mocks the skies; + Or like a cradled creature lies. + + I'm on the sea! I'm on the sea! + I am where I would ever be; + With the blue above, and the blue below, + And silence wheresoe'er I go; + If a storm should come and awake the deep, + What matter? I shall ride and sleep. + + I love, oh, how I love to ride + On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, + When every mad wave drowns the moon, + Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, + And tells how goeth the world below, + And why the sou'west blasts do blow. + + I never was on the dull, tame shore, + But I loved the great sea more and more, + And backward flew to her billowy breast, + Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest; + And a mother she was, and is, to me; + For I was born on the open sea! + + The waves were white, and red the morn, + In the noisy hour when I was born; + And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, + And the dolphins bared their backs of gold; + And never was heard such an outcry wild + As welcomed to life the ocean-child! + + I've lived since then, in calm and strife, + Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, + With wealth to spend, and power to range, + But never have sought nor sighed for change; + And Death, whenever he comes to me, + Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea! + + BARRY CORNWALL. + + (Bryan Waller Procter.) + + +_A Sea-Song_ + + A wet sheet and a flowing sea, + A wind that follows fast, + And fills the white and rustling sail + And bends the gallant mast; + And bends the gallant mast, my boys, + While, like the eagle free, + Away the good ship flies, and leaves + Old England on the lee. + + O for a soft and gentle wind! + I heard a fair one cry; + But give to me the snoring breeze + And white waves heaving high; + And white waves heaving high, my lads, + The good ship tight and free-- + The world of waters is our home, + And merry men are we. + + There's tempest in yon horned moon, + And lightning in yon cloud; + But hark the music, mariners! + The wind is piping loud; + The wind is piping loud, my boys, + The lightning flashes free-- + While the hollow oak our palace is, + Our heritage the sea. + + ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. + + +_A Visit From the Sea_[15] + + Far from the loud sea-beaches, + Where he goes fishing and crying, + Here in the inland garden, + Why is the sea-gull flying? + + Here are no fish to dive for: + Here is the corn and lea; + Here are the green trees rustling. + Hie away home to sea! + + Fresh is the river water, + And quiet among the rushes; + This is no home for the sea-gull, + But for the rooks and thrushes. + + Pity the bird that has wandered! + Pity the sailor ashore! + Hurry him home to the ocean, + Let him come here no more! + + High on the sea-cliff ledges + The white gulls are trooping and crying; + Here among rooks and roses, + Why is the sea-gull flying? + + ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. + +[Footnote 15: _From "A Child's Garden of Verses." By permission of +Charles Scribner's Sons._] + + +_Drifting_[16] + + My soul to-day + Is far away, + Sailing the Vesuvian Bay; + My winged boat, + A bird afloat, + Swings round the purple peaks remote:-- + + Round purple peaks + It sails, and seeks + Blue inlets and their crystal creeks, + Where high rocks throw, + Through deeps below, + A duplicated golden glow. + + Far, vague, and dim, + The mountains swim; + While on Vesuvius' misty brim, + With outstretched hands, + The gray smoke stands + O'erlooking the volcanic lands. + + Here Ischia smiles + O'er liquid miles; + And yonder, bluest of the isles, + Calm Capri waits, + Her sapphire gates + Beguiling to her bright estates. + + I heed not, if + My rippling skiff + Float swift or slow from cliff to cliff; + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise. + + Under the walls + Where swells and falls + The Bay's deep breast at intervals + At peace I lie, + Blown softly by, + A cloud upon this liquid sky. + + The day, so mild, + Is Heaven's own child, + With Earth and Ocean reconciled; + The airs I feel + Around me steal + Are murmuring to the murmuring keel. + + Over the rail + My hand I trail + Within the shadow of the sail, + A joy intense, + The cooling sense + Glides down my drowsy indolence. + + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Where Summer sings and never dies,-- + O'erveiled with vines + She glows and shines + Among her future oil and wines. + + Her children, hid + The cliffs amid, + Are gambolling with the gambolling kid, + Or down the walls, + With tipsy calls, + Laugh on the rocks like waterfalls. + + The fisher's child, + With tresses wild, + Unto the smooth, bright sand beguiled, + With glowing lips + Sings as she skips, + Or gazes at the far-off ships. + + Yon deep bark goes + Where traffic blows, + From lands of sun to lands of snows; + This happier one,-- + Its course is run + From lands of snow to lands of sun. + + O happy ship, + To rise and dip, + With the blue crystal at your lip! + O happy crew, + My heart with you + Sails, and sails, and sings anew! + + No more, no more + The worldly shore + Upbraids me with its loud uproar: + With dreamful eyes + My spirit lies + Under the walls of Paradise! + + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. + +[Footnote 16: _By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co._] + + +_Tacking Ship Off Shore_[17] + + The weather-leech of the topsail shivers, + The bowlines strain, and the lee-shrouds slacken, + The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, + And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken. + + Open one point on the weather-bow, + Is the light-house tall on Fire Island Head. + There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, + And the pilot watches the heaving lead. + + I stand at the wheel, and with eager eye + To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, + Till the muttered order of "Full and by!" + Is suddenly changed for "Full for stays!" + + The ship bends lower before the breeze, + As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; + And she swifter springs to the rising seas, + As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!" + + It is silence all, as each in his place, + With the gathered coil in his hardened hands, + By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, + Waiting the watchword impatient stands. + + And the light on Fire Island Head draws near, + As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout + From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, + With the welcome call of "Ready! About!" + + No time to spare! It is touch and go; + And the captain growls, "Down helm! hard down!" + As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, + While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown. + + High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, + As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; + And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, + As I answer, "Ay, ay, sir! Ha-a-rd a-lee!" + + With the swerving leap of a startled steed + The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, + The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, + And the headland white we have left behind. + + The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse, + And belly and tug at the groaning cleats; + And spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps; + And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!" + + 'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, + Hisses the rain of the rushing squall: + The sails are aback from clew to clew. + And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!" + + And the heavy yards, like a baby's toy, + By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung: + She holds her way, and I look with joy + For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung. + + "Let go, and haul!" 'Tis the last command, + And the head-sails fill to the blast once more: + Astern and to leeward lies the land, + With its breakers white on the shingly shore. + + What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? + I steady the helm for the open sea; + The first mate clamors, "Belay, there, all!" + And the captain's breath once more comes free. + + And so off shore let the good ship fly; + Little care I how the gusts may blow, + In my fo'castle bunk, in a jacket dry. + Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below. + + WALTER MITCHELL. + +[Footnote 17: _By courtesy of The Churchman._] + + +_Windlass Song_ + + Heave at the windlass!--Heave O, cheerly, men! + Heave all at once, with a will! + The tide quickly making, + Our cordage a-creaking, + The water has put on a frill, + Heave O! + + Fare you well, sweethearts!--Heave O, cheerly, men! + Fare you well, frolic and sport! + The good ship all ready, + Each dog-vane is steady, + The wind blowing dead out of port, + Heave O! + + Once in blue water--Heave O, cheerly, men! + Blow it from north or from south; + She'll stand to it tightly, + And curtsey politely, + And carry a bone in her mouth, + Heave O! + + Short cruise or long cruise--Heave O, cheerly, men! + Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one. + No latitude dreads he + Of White, Black, or Red Sea, + Great icebergs, or tropical sun, + Heave O! + + One other turn, and Heave O, cheerly, men! + Heave, and good-bye to the shore! + Our money, how went it? + We shared it and spent it; + Next year we'll come back with some more, + Heave O! + + WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + +_The Coral Grove_ + + Deep in the wave is a coral grove, + Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; + Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue + That never are wet with falling dew, + But in bright and changeful beauty shine, + Far down in the green and glassy brine. + + The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift; + And the pearl-shell spangle the flinty snow; + From coral rocks the sea-plants lift + Their boughs where the tides and billows flow. + The water is calm and still below, + For the winds and waves are absent there; + And the sands are bright as the stars that glow + In the motionless fields of upper air. + + There, with its waving blade of green, + The sea-flag streams through the silent water; + And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen + To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter. + There, with a light and easy motion, + The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea; + And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean + Are bending like corn on the upland lea; + And life, in rare and beautiful forms, + Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, + And is safe when the wrathful Spirit of storms + Has made the top of the wave his own. + + And when the ship from his fury flies, + Where the myriad voices of Ocean roar; + When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies, + And demons are waiting the wreck on shore,-- + Then, far below, in the peaceful sea, + The purple mullet and gold-fish rove, + While the waters murmur tranquilly + Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. + + JAMES GATES PERCIVAL. + + +_The Shell_ + + See what a lovely shell, + Small and pure as a pearl, + Lying close to my foot, + Frail, but a work divine, + Made so fairily well + With delicate spire and whorl, + How exquisitely minute, + A miracle of design! + What is it? a learned man + Could give it a clumsy name. + Let him name it who can, + The beauty would be the same. + + The tiny cell is forlorn, + Void of the little living will + That made it stir on the shore. + Did he stand at the diamond door + Of his house in a rainbow frill? + Did he push, when he was uncurled, + A golden foot or a fairy horn + Through his dim water-world? + Slight, to be crush'd with a tap + Of my finger-nail on the sand! + Small, but a work divine! + Frail, but of force to withstand, + Year upon year, the shock + Of cataract seas that snap + The three-decker's oaken spine + Athwart the ledges of rock, + Here on the Breton strand! + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_Bermudas_ + + Where the remote Bermudas ride, + In the ocean's bosom unespied, + From a small boat, that rowed along, + The listening winds received this song: + + "What should we do but sing His praise, + That led us through the watery maze, + Unto an isle so long unknown, + And yet far kinder than our own? + Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks, + That lift the deep upon their backs; + He lands us on a grassy stage, + Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage. + He gave us this eternal spring, + Which here enamels every thing, + And sends the fowls to us in care, + On daily visits through the air; + He hangs in shades the orange bright, + Like golden lamps in a green night, + And does in the pomegranates close + Jewels more rich than Ormus shows; + He makes the figs our mouths to meet, + And throws the melons at our feet; + But apples plants of such a price, + No tree could ever bear them twice; + With cedars chosen by His hand, + From Lebanon, He stores the land, + And makes the hollow seas, that roar, + Proclaim the ambergris on shore; + He cast (of which we rather boast) + The Gospel's pearl upon our coast, + And in these rocks for us did frame + A temple where to sound His name. + Oh! let our voice His praise exalt, + Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, + Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may + Echo beyond the Mexique Bay." + + Thus sung they, in the English boat, + An holy and a cheerful note; + And all the way, to guide their chime, + With falling oars they kept the time. + + ANDREW MARVELL. + + +_Where Lies the Land?_ + + Where lies the land to which the ship would go? + Far, far ahead is all her seamen know. + And where the land she travels from? Away, + Far, far behind, is all that they can say. + + On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face; + Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; + Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below + The foaming wake far widening as we go. + + On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, + How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave! + The dripping sailor on the reeling mast + Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. + + Where lies the land to which the ship would go? + Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. + And where the land she travels from? Away, + Far, far behind, is all that they can say. + + ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_For Home and Country_ + + + _"Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam? + His first, best country ever is at home."_ + +This is the proud claim of Goldsmith's "Traveller," and the same +passionate loyalty to the soil inspires all these poems of Fatherland. +The Scotsman's heart is in the Highlands, the birthplace of valor, the +country of worth; the English warrior boasts of his country: + + _"And o'er one-sixth of all the earth, and over all the main, + Like some good Fairy, Freedom marks and blesses her domain;"_ + +the Irish Minstrel-boy tears the chords of his faithful harp asunder +lest they sound in the service of the foe, while the quick, alarming +Yankee drum in Bret Harte's "Reveille" calls upon each freeman to defend +the land of the pilgrim's pride, land where his fathers died. + +Religion, war, and glory were the three souls of a perfect Christian +knight, says Lamartine, and if Death's couriers, Fame and Honor, summon +us to the field, + + _"Our business is like men to fight + And hero-like to die."_ + +In Kipling's "Recessional" and Lowell's "Fatherland" we hear a note as +valiant, but more spiritual. The one makes us remember that + + _"The tumult and the shouting dies-- + The captains and the kings depart-- + Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart."_ + +The other leads us to still higher levels of thought, reminding us that +wherever a single soul doth pine, or one man may help another, that spot +of earth is thine and mine--that is the world-wide fatherland. + + + + +X + +FOR HOME AND COUNTRY + + +_The First, Best Country_ + + But where to find the 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 goods 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. + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH. + + _From "The Traveller."_ + + +_My Native Land_ + + 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? + If such there breathe, go, mark him well! + For him no minstrel's 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, unhonored, and unsung. + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + _From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel."_ + + +_Loyalty_ + + Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be, + O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! + When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, + The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; + _Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,_ + _O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!_ + + The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', + The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; + But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, + An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. + _Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,_ + _O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!_ + + The great now are gane, wha attempted to save; + The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave: + But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, + "I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie." + _Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,_ + _Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!_ + + ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. + + +_My Heart's in the Highlands_ + + My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; + My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; + Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, + My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. + Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, + The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; + Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, + The hills of the Highlands forever I love. + + Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; + Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; + Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; + Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. + My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, + My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; + Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, + My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. + + ROBERT BURNS. + + +_The Minstrel-Boy_ + + The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, + In the ranks of death you'll find him; + His father's sword he has girded on, + And his wild harp slung behind him.-- + "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, + "Though all the world betrays thee, + One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, + One faithful harp shall praise thee!" + + The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain + Could not bring his proud soul under; + The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, + For he tore its chords asunder; + And said, "No chains shall sully thee, + Thou soul of love and bravery! + Thy songs were made for the pure and free, + They shall never sound in slavery!" + + THOMAS MOORE. + + +_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. + + THOMAS MOORE. + + +_Fife and Drum_ + + The trumpet's loud clangor + Excites us to arms, + With shrill notes of anger + And mortal alarms. + + The double, double, double beat + Of the thundering drum, + Cries, "Hark! the foes come; + Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat." + + JOHN DRYDEN. + + _From "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."_ + + +_The Cavalier's Song_ + + A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, + A sword of metal keene! + All else to noble heartes is drosse, + All else on earth is meane. + The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, + The rowlinge of the drum, + The clangor of the trumpet lowde, + Be soundes from heaven that come; + And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, + Whenas their war cryes swell, + May tole from heaven an angel bright. + And rouse a fiend from hell. + Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, + And don your helmes amaine: + Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call + Us to the field againe. + No shrewish teares shall fill our eye + When the sword-hilt's in our hand-- + Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe + For the fayrest of the land; + Let piping swaine, and craven wight, + Thus weepe and puling crye; + Our business is like men to fight, + And hero-like to die! + + WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. + + +_The Old Scottish Cavalier_ + + Come listen to another song, + Should make your heart beat high, + Bring crimson to your forehead, + And the luster to your eye;-- + It is a song of olden time, + Of days long since gone by, + And of a baron stout and bold + As e'er wore sword on thigh! + Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, + All of the olden time! + + He kept his castle in the north. + Hard by the thundering Spey; + And a thousand vassals dwelt around, + All of his kindred they. + And not a man of all that clan + Had ever ceased to pray + For the Royal race they laved so well, + Though exiled far away + From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers + All of the olden time! + + His father drew the righteous sword + For Scotland and her claims, + Among the loyal gentlemen + And chiefs of ancient names, + Who swore to fight or fall beneath + The standard of King James, + And died at Killiecrankie Pass + With the glory of the Graemes; + Like a true old Scottish cavalier + All of the olden time! + + He never owned the foreign rule, + No master he obeyed, + But kept his clan in peace at home, + From foray and from raid; + And when they asked him for his oath, + He touched his glittering blade, + And pointed to his bonnet blue, + That bore the white cockade: + Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, + All of the olden time! + + At length the news ran through the land-- + THE PRINCE had come again! + That night the fiery cross was sped + O'er mountain and through glen; + And our old baron rose in might, + Like a lion from his den, + And rode away across the hills + To Charlie and his men, + With the valiant Scottish cavaliers. + All of the olden time! + + He was the first that bent the knee + When the STANDARD waved abroad, + He was the first that charged the foe + On Preston's bloody sod; + And ever, in the van of fight, + The foremost still he trod, + Until on bleak Culloden's heath, + He gave his soul to God, + Like a good old Scottish cavalier, + All of the olden time! + + Oh never shall we know again + A heart so stout and true-- + The olden times have passed away, + And weary are the new: + The fair white rose has faded + From the garden where it grew, + And no fond tears save those of heaven, + The glorious bed bedew + Of the last old Scottish cavalier + All of the olden time! + + WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN. + + +_The Song of the Camp_ + + "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, + The outer trenches guarding, + When the heated guns of the camps allied + Grew weary of bombarding. + + The dark Redan, in silent scoff, + Lay, grim and threatening, under; + And the tawny mound of the Malakoff + No longer belched its thunder. + + There was a pause. A guardsman said: + "We storm the forts to-morrow; + Sing while we may, another day + Will bring enough of sorrow." + + They lay along the battery's side, + Below the smoking cannon,-- + Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, + And from the banks of Shannon. + + They sang of love, and not of fame; + Forgot was Britain's glory; + Each heart recalled a different name, + But all sang "Annie Laurie." + + Voice after voice caught up the song, + Until its tender passion + Rose like an anthem rich and strong,-- + Their battle eve confession. + + Dear girl! her name he dared not speak; + But as the song grew louder, + Something upon the soldier's cheek + Washed off the stains of powder. + + Beyond the darkening ocean burned + The bloody sunset's embers, + While the Crimean valleys learned + How English love remembers. + + And once again a fire of hell + Rained on the Russian quarters, + With scream of shot and burst of shell, + And bellowing of the mortars! + + And Irish Nora's eyes are dim + For a singer dumb and gory; + And English Mary mourns for him + Who sang of "Annie Laurie." + + Sleep, soldiers! still in honored rest + Your truth and valor wearing; + The bravest are the tenderest,-- + The loving are the daring. + + BAYARD TAYLOR. + + +_Border Ballad_ + + March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale; + Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order? + March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale! + All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border! + Many a banner spread + Flutters above your head, + Many a crest that is famous in story. + Mount and make ready, then, + Sons of the mountain glen, + Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. + + Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing; + Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; + Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing; + Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. + Trumpets are sounding; + War-steeds are bounding; + Stand to your arms and march in good order. + England shall many a day + Tell of the bloody fray + When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + _From "The Monastery."_ + + +_Gathering Song of Donuil Dhu_ + + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, + Pibroch of Donuil, + Wake thy wild voice anew, + Summon Clan Conuil. + Come away, come away, + Hark to the summons! + Come in your war-array, + Gentles and commons. + + Come from deep glen, and + From mountain so rocky; + The war-pipe and pennon + Are at Inverlochy. + Come every hill-plaid, and + True heart that wears one, + Come every steel blade, and + Strong hand that bears one. + + Leave untended the herd, + The flock without shelter; + Leave the corpse uninterr'd, + The bride at the altar; + Leave the deer, leave the steer, + Leave nets and barges: + Come with your fighting gear, + Broadswords and targes. + + Come as the winds come, when + Forests are rended, + Come as the waves come, when + Navies are stranded: + Faster come, faster come, + Faster and faster, + Chief, vassal, page and groom, + Tenant and master. + + Fast they come, fast they come; + See how they gather! + Wide waves the eagle plume + Blended with heather. + Cast your plaids, draw your blades, + Forward each man set! + Pibroch of Donuil Dhu + Knell for the onset! + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + +_The Reveille_ + + Hark! I hear the tramp of thousands, + And of armed men the hum; + Lo! a nation's hosts have gathered + Round the quick alarming drum,-- + Saying, "Come, + Freemen, come! + Ere your heritage be wasted," said the quick + Alarming drum. + + "Let me of my heart take counsel: + War is not of life the sum; + Who shall stay and reap the harvest + When the autumn days shall come?" + But the drum + Echoed, "Come! + Death shall reap the braver harvest," said the + Solemn-sounding drum. + + "But when won the coming battle, + What of profit springs therefrom? + What if conquest, subjugation, + Even greater ills become?" + But the drum + Answered, "Come! + You must do the sum to prove it," said the Yankee-answering drum. + + "What if, 'mid the cannons' thunder, + Whistling shot and bursting bomb, + When my brothers fall around me, + Should my heart grow cold and numb?" + But the drum + Answered, "Come! + Better there in death united, than in life a recreant, + --Come!" + + Thus they answered,--hoping, fearing, + Some in faith, and doubting some, + Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, + Said, "My chosen people, come!" + Then the drum, + Lo! was dumb, + For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, + "Lord, we come!" + + BRET HARTE. + + +_Ye Mariners of England_ + + Ye Mariners of England, + That guard our native seas, + Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, + The battle and the breeze, + Your glorious standard launch again, + To match another foe! + And sweep through the deep + While the stormy winds do blow-- + While the battle rages loud and long, + And the stormy winds do blow. + + The spirit of your fathers + Shall start from every wave! + For the deck it was their field of fame, + And Ocean was their grave. + Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell + Your manly hearts shall glow, + As ye sweep through the deep + While the stormy winds do blow-- + While the battle rages loud and long, + And the stormy winds do blow. + + Britannia needs no bulwarks, + No towers along the steep; + Her march is o'er the mountain-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-- + When the battle rages loud and long, + And the stormy winds do blow. + + The meteor flag of England + Shall yet terrific burn, + Till danger's troubled night depart, + And the star of peace return. + Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! + Our song and feast shall flow + To the fame of your name, + When the storm has ceased to blow,-- + When the fiery fight is heard no more, + And the storm has ceased to blow. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + +_The Knight's Tomb_ + + Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? + Where may the grave of that good man be?-- + By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, + Under the twigs of a young birch tree! + + The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, + And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, + And whistled and roared in the winter alone, + Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.-- + The knight's bones are dust, + And his good sword rust;-- + His soul is with the saints, I trust. + + SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. + + +_How Sleep the Brave!_ + + How sleep the Brave who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blest! + When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, + Returns to deck their hallowed mould, + She there shall dress a sweeter sod + Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. + + By fairy hands their knell is rung; + By forms unseen their dirge is sung; + There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, + To bless the turf that wraps their clay; + And Freedom shall awhile repair, + To dwell a weeping hermit there! + + WILLIAM COLLINS. + + +_Dirge_ + +_For One Who Fell in Battle._ + + Room for a soldier! lay him in the clover; + He loved the fields, and they shall be his cover; + Make his mound with hers who called him once her lover: + Where the rain may rain upon it, + Where the sun may shine upon it, + Where the lamb hath lain upon it, + And the bee will dine upon it. + + Bear him to no dismal tomb under city churches; + Take him to the fragrant fields, by the silver birches, + Where the whip-poor-will shall mourn, where the oriole perches: + Make his mound with sunshine on it, + Where the bee will dine upon it, + Where the lamb hath lain upon it, + And the rain will rain upon it. + + Busy as the bee was he, and his rest should be the clover; + Gentle as the lamb was he, and the fern should be his cover; + Fern and rosemary shall grow my soldier's pillow over: + Where the rain may rain upon it, + Where the sun may shine upon it, + Where the lamb hath lain upon it, + And the bee will dine upon it. + + Sunshine in his heart, the rain would come full often + Out of those tender eyes which evermore did soften: + He never could look cold till we saw him in his coffin. + Make his mound with sunshine on it. + Plant the lordly pine upon it, + Where the moon may stream upon it, + And memory shall dream upon it. + + "Captain or Colonel,"--whatever invocation + Suit our hymn the best, no matter for thy station,-- + On thy grave the rain shall fall from the eyes of a mighty nation! + Long as the sun doth shine upon it, + Shall glow the goodly pine upon it, + Long as the stars do gleam upon it, + Shall memory come to dream upon it. + + THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS. + + +_The Burial of Sir John Moore_ + + Not a drum was heard, not a funeral-note, + As his corse to the rampart we hurried; + Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot + O'er the grave where our hero we buried. + + We buried him darkly at dead of night, + The sods with our bayonets turning, + By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, + And the lantern dimly burning. + + No useless coffin enclosed his breast, + Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; + But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, + With his martial cloak around him. + + Few and short were the prayers we said, + And we spoke not a word of sorrow; + But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, + And we bitterly thought of the morrow. + + We thought as we hollow'd his narrow bed, + And smooth'd down his lonely pillow, + That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, + And we far away on the billow! + + Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, + And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him-- + But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on + In the grave where a Briton has laid him. + + But half of our heavy task was done, + When the clock struck the hour for retiring; + And we heard the distant and random gun + That the foe was sullenly firing. + + Slowly and sadly we laid him down, + From the field of his fame fresh and gory; + We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone-- + But we left him alone in his glory. + + CHARLES WOLFE. + + +_Soldier, Rest!_ + + Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, + Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking: + Dream of battle-fields no more, + Days of danger, nights of waking. + In our isle's enchanted hall, + Hands unseen thy couch are strewing; + Fairy strains of music fall, + Every sense in slumber dewing. + Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, + Dream of fighting fields no more: + Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, + Morn of toil, nor night of waking. + + No rude sound shall reach thine ear, + Armor's clang, or war-steed's champing; + Trump nor pibroch summon here, + Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. + Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, + At the day-break, from the fallow, + And the bittern sound his drum, + Booming from the sedgy shallow. + Ruder sounds shall none be near, + Guards nor warders challenge here, + Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, + Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping. + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + _From "The Lady of the Lake."_ + + +_Recessional_ + + God of our fathers, known of old-- + Lord of our far-flung battle-line-- + Beneath Whose awful Hand we hold + Dominion over palm and pine-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + The tumult and the shouting dies-- + The captains and the kings depart-- + Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice, + An humble and a contrite heart. + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + Far-called our navies melt away-- + On dune and headland sinks the fire-- + Lo, all our pomp of yesterday + Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! + Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + If, drunk with sight of power, we loose + Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- + Such boasting as the Gentiles use + Or lesser breeds without the Law-- + Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, + Lest we forget--lest we forget! + + For heathen heart that puts her trust + In reeking tube and iron shard-- + All valiant dust that builds on dust, + And guarding calls not Thee to guard-- + For frantic boast and foolish word, + Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + +_The Fatherland_ + + Where is the true man's fatherland? + Is it where he by chance is born? + Doth not the yearning spirit scorn + In such scant borders to be spanned? + Oh yes! his fatherland must be + As the blue heaven wide and free! + + Is it alone where freedom is, + Where God is God and man is man? + Doth he not claim a broader span + For the soul's love of home than this? + Oh yes! his fatherland must be + As the blue heaven wide and free! + + Where'er a human heart doth wear + Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves, + Where'er a human spirit strives + After a life more true and fair, + There is the true man's birthplace grand, + His is a world-wide fatherland! + + Where'er a single slave doth pine, + Where'er one man may help another,-- + Thank God for such a birthright, brother,-- + That spot of earth is thine and mine! + There is the true man's birthplace grand, + His is a world-wide fatherland! + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_New World and Old Glory_ + + +The verse in this division gives a poetic picture of America, dear land +of all our love, from the very beginning of her world-life. It sings her +story from the time when Columbus, + + _"Before him not the ghost of shores, + Before him only shoreless seas,"_ + +sailed toward the mysterious continent that lay hidden in the West; +sings it from the thrilling moment when the weary sailors sighted the +new land, up to the twentieth century, when Old Glory waves + + _"Wherever the sails of peace are seen + And wherever the war-wind blows."_ + +Heroic figures, familiar to us from childhood, appear in these metrical +versions of episodes in our national history. Here is the red man whose +hour, alas! was struck when first the pale-face looked upon his happy +hunting-grounds; here are Pocahontas and her Captain; the Pilgrim +Fathers; Washington, the soldier-statesman; the embattled farmers who +fired at Concord the shot heard round the world; the Continentals in +their ragged regimentals, and Old Ironsides with its memories of 1812. +Then, when "westward the Star of Empire takes its way," come the +Argonauts of '49, crossing the plains in their white-sailed prairie +schooners in search, like Jason, of the Golden Fleece. + +The years move on, and Abraham Lincoln, the Great Commoner, dear +benefactor of the race, appears, and, kneeling at his feet, the dusky +slave whose bonds he loosened. Gallant Phil Sheridan and Barbara +Frietchie are here too; indeed, you will find that the number of poems +inspired by the Civil War is very great; but the patriot host, above, +below, knows now no North nor South; and Lincoln's "dear majestic ghost" +looks down upon, as Old Glory floats over, a united commonwealth. + + + + +XI + +NEW WORLD AND OLD GLORY + + +_Dear Land of All My Love_[18] + + Long as thine art shall love true love, + Long as thy science truth shall know, + Long as thine eagle harms no dove, + Long as thy law by law shall grow, + Long as thy God is God above, + Thy brother every man below, + So long, dear land of all my love, + Thy name shall shine, thy fame shall glow. + + SIDNEY LANIER. + + _From "The Centennial Ode"_ (1876). + +[Footnote 18: _From "Poems of Sidney Lanier," copyright 1891, and +published by Charles Scribner's Sons._] + + +_Columbus_[19] + + Behind him lay the gray Azores, + Behind the gates of Hercules; + Before him not the ghost of shores, + Before him only shoreless seas. + The good mate said: "Now must we pray, + For, lo! the very stars are gone. + Brave Adm'r'l, speak; what shall I say?" + "Why, say: 'Sail on, sail on! and on!'" + + "My men grow mutinous day by day; + My men grow ghastly wan and weak." + The stout mate thought of home; a spray + Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. + "What shall I say, brave Adm'r'l, say, + If we sight not but seas at dawn?" + "Why, you shall say, at break of day: + 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" + + They sailed and sailed as winds might blow, + Until at last the blanched mate said: + "Why, now not even God would know + Should I and all my men fall dead. + These very winds forget the way, + For God from these dread seas is gone. + Now speak, brave Adm'r'l, speak and say--" + He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" + + They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: + "This mad sea shows his teeth to-night; + He curls his lip, he lies in wait, + With lifted teeth, as if to bite: + Brave Adm'r'l, say but one good word; + What shall we do when hope is gone?" + The words leapt as a leaping sword: + "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" + + Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck + And peered through darkness. Ah, that night + Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- + A light! a light! a light! a light! + It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! + It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. + He gained a world; he gave that world + Its greatest lesson: "On! sail on!" + + JOAQUIN MILLER. + +[Footnote 19: _From "The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller" +(copyrighted). By permission of the publishers, The Whitaker-Ray +Company, San Francisco._] + + +_Pocahontas_ + + Wearied arm and broken sword + Wage in vain the desperate fight; + Round him press a countless horde, + He is but a single knight. + Hark! a cry of triumph shrill + Through the wilderness resounds, + As, with twenty bleeding wounds, + Sinks the warrior, fighting still. + + Now they heap the funeral pyre, + And the torch of death they light; + Ah! 'tis hard to die by fire! + Who will shield the captive knight? + Round the stake with fiendish cry + Wheel and dance the savage crowd, + Cold the victim's mien and proud, + And his breast is bared to die. + + Who will shield the fearless heart? + Who avert the murderous blade? + From the throng with sudden start + See, there springs an Indian maid. + Quick she stands before the knight: + "Loose the chain, unbind the ring! + I am daughter of the king. + And I claim the Indian right!" + + Dauntlessly aside she flings + Lifted axe and thirsty knife, + Fondly to his heart she clings, + And her bosom guards his life! + In the woods of Powhattan, + Still 'tis told by Indian fires + How a daughter of their sires + Saved a captive Englishman. + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + +_Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers_ + + The breaking waves dashed high + On a stern and rock-bound coast, + And the woods against a stormy sky + Their giant branches tossed; + And the heavy night hung dark + The hills and waters o'er, + When a band of exiles moored their bark + On the wild New England shore. + + Not as the conqueror comes, + They, the true-hearted, came; + Not with the roll of the stirring drums, + And the trumpet that sings of fame: + Not as the flying come, + In silence and in fear: + They shook the depths of the desert's gloom + With their hymns of lofty cheer. + + Amidst the storm they sang; + And the stars heard, and the sea; + And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang + To the Anthem of the Free. + The ocean eagle soared + From his nest by the white wave's foam; + And the rocking pines of the forest roared,-- + This was their welcome home! + + There were men with hoary hair + Amidst that 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?-- + They sought a faith's pure shrine! + Ay, call it holy ground, + The soil where first they trod;-- + They have left unstained what there they found-- + Freedom to worship God. + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + +_The Twenty-second of December_[20] + + Wild was the day; the wintry sea + Moaned sadly on New England's strand, + When first the thoughtful and the free, + Our fathers, trod the desert land. + + They little thought how pure a light, + With years, should gather round that day; + How love should keep their memories bright, + How wide a realm their sons should sway. + + Green are their bays; but greener still + Shall round their spreading fame be wreathed, + And regions, now untrod, shall thrill + With reverence when their names are breathed, + + Till where the sun, with softer fires, + Looks on the vast Pacific's sleep, + The children of the Pilgrim sires + This hallowed day like us shall keep. + + WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. + +[Footnote 20: _By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's +Complete Poetical Works._] + + +_Washington_ + + Soldier and statesman, rarest unison; + High-poised example of great duties done + Simply as breathing, a world's honors worn + As life's indifferent gifts to all men born; + Dumb for himself, unless it were to God, + But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, + Tramping the snow to coral where they trod, + Held by his awe in hollow-eyed content; + Modest, yet firm as Nature's self; unblamed + Save by the men his nobler temper shamed; + Never seduced through show of present good + By other than unsetting lights to steer + New-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his steadfast mood + More steadfast, far from rashness as from fear; + Rigid, but with himself first, grasping still + In swerveless poise the wave-beat helm of will; + Not honored then or now because he wooed + The popular voice, but that he still withstood; + Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is but one + Who was all this and ours, and all men's,--WASHINGTON. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + _From "Under the Old Elm."_ + + +_Warren's Address_ + + Stand! the ground's your own, my braves! + Will ye give it up to slaves? + Will ye look for greener graves? + Hope ye mercy still? + What's the mercy despots feel? + Hear it in that battle peal! + Read it on yon bristling steel! + Ask it,--ye who will! + + Fear ye foes who kill for hire? + Will ye to your homes retire? + Look behind you! they're afire, + And, before you, see + Who have done it!--From the vale + On they come!--and will ye quail?-- + Leaden rain and leaden hail + Let their welcome be! + + In the God of battles trust! + Die we may,--and die we must; + But oh, where can dust to dust + Be consigned so well, + As where Heaven its dews shall shed + On the martyred patriot's bed, + And the rocks shall raise their head + Of his deeds to tell! + + JOHN PIERPONT. + + +_Carmen Bellicosum_ + + In their ragged regimentals + Stood the old Continentals, + Yielding not, + When the grenadiers were lunging, + And like hail fell the plunging + Cannon shot; + When the files + Of the isles, + From their smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant + Unicorn, + And grummer, grummer, grummer, roll'd the roll of the drummer, + Through the morn! + + Then with eyes to the front all, + And guns horizontal, + Stood our sires; + And the balls whistled deadly, + And in streams flashing redly + Blazed the fires; + As the roar + On the shore, + Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green sodded acres + Of the plain; + And louder, louder, louder, cracked the black gunpowder, + Cracking amain! + + Now like smiths at their forges + Worked the red Saint George's + Cannoniers, + And the "villainous saltpetre" + Rung a fierce, discordant metre + 'Round their ears; + As the swift + Storm-drift, + With hot, sweeping anger, came the Horse Guards' clangor + On our flanks; + And higher, higher, higher, burned the old-fashioned fire + Through the ranks! + + Then the old-fashioned Colonel + Galloped through the white infernal + Powder cloud; + His broad-sword was swinging, + And his brazen throat was ringing + Trumpet loud; + Then the blue + Bullets flew, + And the trooper-jackets redden at the touch of the leaden + Rifle-breath; + And rounder, rounder, rounder, roared our iron six-pounder, + Hurling death! + + GUY HUMPHREYS MCMASTER. + + +_The American Flag_ + +(Extract) + + When Freedom from her mountain height + Unfurled her standard to the air, + She tore the azure robe of night, + And set the stars of glory there. + She mingled with its gorgeous dyes + The milky baldric of the skies, + And striped its pure, celestial white, + With streakings of the morning light; + Then from his mansion in the sun + She called her eagle bearer down, + And gave into his mighty hand + The symbol of her chosen land. + + * * * * + + Flag of the free heart's hope and home! + By angel hands to valor given; + Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, + And all thy hues were born in heaven. + Forever float that standard sheet! + Where breathes the foe but falls before us, + With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, + And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us! + + JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. + + +_Old Ironsides_ + +(U. S. S. "Constitution.") + + Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! + Long has it waved on high, + And many an eye has danced to see + That banner in the sky; + Beneath it rung the battle shout, + And burst the cannon's roar;-- + The meteor of the ocean air + Shall sweep the clouds no more. + + Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, + Where knelt the vanquished foe, + When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, + And waves were white below, + No more shall feel the victor's tread, + Or know the conquered knee; + The harpies of the shore shall pluck + The eagle of the sea! + + Oh, better that her shattered hulk + Should sink beneath the wave; + Her thunders shook the mighty deep, + And there should be her grave: + Nail to the mast her holy flag, + Set every threadbare sail, + And give her to the god of storms, + The lightning and the gale! + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + +_Indians_ + + Alas! for them, their day is o'er, + Their fires are out on hill and shore; + No more for them the wild deer bounds, + The plough is on their hunting grounds; + The pale man's axe rings through their woods, + The pale man's sail skims o'er their floods; + Their pleasant springs are dry; + Their children,--look, by power opprest, + Beyond the mountains of the west, + Their children go to die. + + CHARLES SPRAGUE. + + +_Crossing the Plains_[21] + + What great yoked brutes with briskets low; + With wrinkled necks like buffalo, + With round, brown, liquid, pleading eyes, + That turned so slow and sad to you, + That shone like love's eyes soft with tears, + That seemed to plead, and make replies, + The while they bowed their necks and drew + The creaking load; and looked at you. + Their sable briskets swept the ground, + Their cloven feet kept solemn sound. + + Two sullen bullocks led the line, + Their great eyes shining bright like wine; + Two sullen captive kings were they, + That had in time held herds at bay, + And even now they crushed the sod + With stolid sense of majesty, + And stately stepped and stately trod, + As if 't were something still to be + Kings even in captivity. + + JOAQUIN MILLER. + +[Footnote 21: _From "The Complete Poetical Works of Joaquin Miller" +(copyrighted). By permission of the publishers. The Whitaker-Ray +Company, San Francisco._] + + +_Concord Hymn_ + +Sung at the completion of the Battle Monument, April 19, 1836. + + By the rude bridge that arched the flood, + Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, + Here once the embattled farmers stood, + And fired the shot heard round the world. + + The foe long since in silence slept; + Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; + And Time the ruined bridge has swept + Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. + + On the green bank, by this soft stream, + We set to-day a votive stone; + That memory may her dead redeem, + When, like our sires, our sons are gone. + + Spirit, that made those heroes dare + To die, and leave their children free, + Bid Time and Nature gently spare + The shaft we raise to them and thee. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_Ode_ + +Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857. + + O tenderly the haughty day + Fills his blue urn with fire; + One morn is in the mighty heaven, + And one in our desire. + + The cannon booms from town to town, + Our pulses beat not less, + The joy-bells chime their tidings down, + Which children's voices bless. + + For He that flung the broad blue fold + O'er-mantling land and sea, + One third part of the sky unrolled + For the banner of the free. + + The men are ripe of Saxon kind + To build an equal state,-- + To take the statute from the mind + And make of duty fate. + + United States! the ages plead,-- + Present and Past in under-song,-- + Go put your creed into your deed, + Nor speak with double tongue. + + For sea and land don't understand, + Nor skies without a frown + See rights for which the one hand fights + By the other cloven down. + + Be just at home; then write your scroll + Of honor o'er the sea, + And bid the broad Atlantic roll, + A ferry of the free. + + And henceforth there shall be no chain, + Save underneath the sea + The wires shall murmur through the main + Sweet songs of liberty. + + The conscious stars accord above, + The waters wild below, + And under, through the cable wove, + Her fiery errands go. + + For He that worketh high and wise, + Nor pauses in His plan, + Will take the sun out of the skies, + Ere freedom out of man. + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_Stanzas on Freedom_ + + Is true Freedom but to break + Fetters for our own dear sake, + And, with leathern hearts, forget + That we owe mankind a debt? + No! true freedom is to share + All the chains our brothers wear, + And, with heart and hand, to be + Earnest to make others free! + + They are slaves who fear to speak + For the fallen and the weak; + They are slaves who will not choose + Hatred, scoffing, and abuse, + Rather than in silence shrink + From the truth they needs must think; + They are slaves who dare not be + In the right with two or three. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + +_Abraham Lincoln_ + + This man whose homely face you look upon, + Was one of nature's masterful, great men; + Born with strong arms, that unfought battles won; + Direct of speech, and cunning with the pen. + Chosen for large designs, he had the art + Of winning with his humor, and he went + Straight to his mark, which was the human heart; + Wise, too, for what he could not break he bent. + Upon his back a more than Atlas-load, + The burden of the Commonwealth, was laid; + He stooped, and rose up to it, though the road + Shot suddenly downwards, not a whit dismayed. + Hold, warriors, councillors, kings! All now give place + To this dear benefactor of the race. + + RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. + + +_Lincoln the Great Commoner_ + + When the Norn-Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour, + Greatening and darkening as it hurried on, + She bent the strenuous Heavens and came down, + To make a man to meet the mortal need. + She took the tried clay of the common road-- + Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth, + Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy; + Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff. + It was a stuff to wear for centuries, + A man that matched the mountains and compelled + The stars to look our way and honor us. + + The color of the ground was in him, the red Earth, + The tang and odor of the primal things, + The rectitude and patience of the rocks; + The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn; + The courage of the bird that dares the sea; + The justice of the rain that loves all leaves; + The pity of the snow that hides all scars; + The loving kindness of the wayside well; + The tolerance and equity of light + That gives as freely to the shrinking weed + As to the great oak flaring to the wind-- + To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn + That shoulders out the sky. + + And so he came, + From prairie cabin to the Capitol, + One fair ideal led our chieftain on, + Forevermore he burned to do his deed + With the fine stroke and gesture of a King. + He built the rail pile as he built the State, + Pouring his splendid strength through every blow, + The conscience of him testing every stroke, + To make his deed the measure of a man. + + So came the Captain with the mighty heart; + And when the step of earthquake shook the house, + Wrenching the rafters from their ancient hold, + He held the ridgepole up and spiked again + The rafters of the Home. He held his place-- + Held the long purpose like a growing tree-- + Held on through blame and faltered not at praise, + And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down + As when a kingly cedar green with boughs + Goes down with a great shout upon the hills. + + EDWIN MARKHAM. + + +_Abraham Lincoln_ + +(Summer, 1865.) + + Dead is the roll of the drums, + And the distant thunders die, + They fade in the far-off sky; + And a lovely summer comes, + Like the smile of Him on high. + + * * * * + + How the tall white daisies grow, + Where the grim artillery rolled! + (Was it only a moon ago? + It seems a century old,)-- + + And the bee hums in the clover, + As the pleasant June comes on; + Aye, the wars are all over,-- + But our good Father is gone. + + There was tumbling of traitor fort, + Flaming of traitor fleet-- + Lighting of city and port, + Clasping in square and street. + + There was thunder of mine and gun, + Cheering by mast and tent,-- + When--his dread work all done,-- + And his high fame full won-- + Died the Good President. + + * * * * + + And our boys had fondly thought, + To-day, in marching by, + From the ground so dearly bought, + And the fields so bravely fought, + To have met their Father's eye. + + But they may not see him in place + Nor their ranks be seen of him; + We look for the well-known face, + And the splendor is strangely dim. + + Perished?--who was it said + Our Leader had passed away? + Dead? Our President dead? + He has not died for a day! + + We mourn for a little breath + Such as, late or soon, dust yields; + But the Dark Flower of Death + Blooms in the fadeless fields. + + We looked on a cold, still brow, + But Lincoln could yet survive; + He never was more alive, + Never nearer than now. + + For the pleasant season found him, + Guarded by faithful hands, + In the fairest of Summer Lands; + With his own brave Staff around him, + There our President stands. + + There they are all at his side, + The noble hearts and true, + That did all men might do-- + Then slept, with their swords, and died. + + * * * * + + HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. + + +_O Captain! My Captain!_ + + O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done, + The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is won, + The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, + While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; + + But O heart! heart! heart! + O the bleeding drops of red, + Where on the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; + Rise up--for you the flag is flung--for you the bugle trills, + For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths--for you the shores a-crowding, + For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning; + Here, Captain! dear father! + This arm beneath your head! + It is some dream that on the deck, + You've fallen cold and dead. + + My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still, + My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will, + The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done, + From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won; + + Exult, O shores! and ring, O bells! + But I with mournful tread, + Walk the deck my Captain lies, + Fallen cold and dead. + + WALT WHITMAN. + + +_The Flag Goes By_ + + Hats off! + Along the street there comes + A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums, + A flash of color beneath the sky: + Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + Blue and crimson and white it shines, + Over the steel-tipped, ordered lines. + Hats off! + The colors before us fly; + But more than the flag is passing by. + + Sea-fights and land-fights, grim and great, + Fought to make and to save the State: + Weary marches and sinking ships; + Cheers of victory on dying lips; + + Days of plenty and years of peace; + March of a strong land's swift increase; + Equal justice, right and law, + Stately honor and reverend awe; + + Sign of a nation, great and strong + To ward her people from foreign wrong: + Pride and glory and honor,--all + Live in the colors to stand or fall. + + Hats off! + Along the street there comes + A blare of bugles, a ruffle of drums; + And loyal hearts are beating high: + Hats off! + The flag is passing by! + + HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT. + + +_The Black Regiment_ + + Dark as the clouds of even, + Ranked in the western heaven, + Waiting the breath that lifts + All the dead mass, and drifts + Tempest and falling brand + Over a ruined land,-- + So still and orderly, + Arm to arm, knee to knee, + Waiting the great event, + Stands the black regiment. + + Down the long dusky line + Teeth gleam, and eyeballs shine; + And the bright bayonet, + Bristling and firmly set, + Flashed with a purpose grand, + Long ere the sharp command + Of the fierce rolling drum + Told them their time had come, + Told them what work was sent + For the black regiment. + + "Now!" the flag-sergeant cried, + "Though death and hell betide, + Let the whole nation see + If we are fit to be + Free in this land; or bound + Down, like the whining hound,-- + Bound with red stripes of pain + In our cold chains again!" + Oh, what a shout there went + From the black regiment! + + "Charge!" trump and drum awoke; + Onward the bondsmen broke; + Bayonet and sabre-stroke + Vainly opposed their rush. + Through the wild battle's crush, + With but one thought aflush, + Driving their lords like chaff, + In the gun's mouth they laugh; + Or at the slippery brands, + Leaping with open hands, + Down they tear man and horse, + Down in their awful course; + Trampling with bloody heel + Over the crushing steel,-- + All their eyes forward bent, + Rushed the black regiment. + + "Freedom!" their battle-cry,-- + "Freedom! or leave to die!" + Ah, and they meant the word! + Not as with us 'tis heard,-- + Not a mere party shout; + They gave their spirits out, + Trusting the end to God, + And on the gory sod + Rolled in triumphant blood. + Glad to strike one free blow, + Whether for weal or woe; + Glad to breathe one free breath, + Though on the lips of death; + Praying--alas, in vain!-- + That they might fall again, + So they could once more see + That burst to liberty! + This was what "freedom" lent + To the black regiment. + + Hundreds on hundreds fell; + But they are resting well; + Scourges, and shackles strong, + Never shall do them wrong. + Oh, to the living few, + Soldiers, be just and true! + Hail them as comrades tried; + Fight with them side by side; + Never, in field or tent, + Scorn the black regiment! + + GEORGE HENRY BOKER. + + +_Night Quarters_ + + Tang! tang! went the gong's wild roar + Through the hundred cells of our great Sea-Hive! + Five seconds--it couldn't be more-- + And the whole Swarm was humming and alive-- + (We were on an enemy's shore.) + + With savage haste, in the dark, + (Our steerage hadn't a spark,) + Into boot and hose they blundered-- + From for'ard came a strange, low roar, + The dull and smothered racket + Of lower rig and jacket + Hurried on, by the hundred, + How the berth deck buzzed and swore! + + The third of minutes ten, + And half a thousand men, + From the dream-gulf, dead and deep, + Of the seamen's measured sleep, + In the taking of a lunar, + In the serving of a ration, + Every man at his station!-- + Three and a quarter, or sooner! + Never a skulk to be seen-- + From the look-out aloft to the gunner + Lurking in his black magazine. + There they stand, still as death, + And, (a trifle out of breath, + It may be,) we of the Staff, + All on the poop, to a minute, + Wonder if there's anything in it-- + Doubting if to growl or laugh. + + But, somehow, every hand + Feels for hilt and brand, + Tries if buckle and frog be tight,-- + So, in the chilly breeze, we stand, + Peering through the dimness of the night-- + The men by twos and ones, + Grim and silent at the guns, + Ready, if a Foe heave in sight! + + But, as we look aloft, + There, all white and soft, + Floated on the fleecy clouds, + (Stray flocks in heaven's blue croft)-- + How they shone, the eternal stars, + 'Mid the black masts and spars + And the great maze of lifts and shrouds! + + HENRY HOWARD BROWNELL. + + _(Flag Ship "Hartford," May, 1864.)_ + + +_Battle-Hymn of the Republic_ + + Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; + He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored, + He hath loosed the fateful lightning of His terrible swift sword; + His truth is marching on. + + I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; + They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps, + I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps; + His day is marching on. + + I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel; + "As ye deal with My contemners, so with you My grace shall deal: + Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, + Since God is marching on." + + He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; + He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment-seat: + Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him,--be jubilant, my feet! + Our God is marching on. + + In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, + With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: + As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, + While God is marching on. + + JULIA WARD HOWE. + + +_Sheridan's Ride_[22] + +October 19, 1864. + + Up from the South at break of day, + Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, + The affrighted air with a shudder bore, + Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, + The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, + Telling the battle was on once more, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + And wider still those billows of war + Thundered along the horizon's bar; + And louder yet into Winchester rolled + The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, + Making the blood of the listener cold, + As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray, + And Sheridan twenty miles away. + + But there is a road from Winchester town, + A good broad highway leading down; + And there, through the flash of the morning light, + A steed as black as the steeds of night + Was seen to pass as with eagle flight; + As if he knew the terrible need, + He stretched away with the utmost speed; + Hills rose and fell--but his heart was gay, + With Sheridan fifteen miles away. + + Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering South, + The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth; + On the tail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, + Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. + The heart of the steed and the heart of the master + Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, + Impatient to be where the battlefield calls; + Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, + With Sheridan only ten miles away. + + Under his spurning feet the road + Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, + And the landscape flowed away behind, + Like an ocean flying before the wind; + And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, + Swept on with his wild eyes full of fire; + But lo! he is nearing his heart's desire, + He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray, + With Sheridan only five miles away. + + The first that the General saw were the groups + Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops. + What was done? what to do? A glance told him both. + Then, striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, + He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzas, + And the wave of retreat checked its course there, because + The sight of the master compelled it to pause. + With foam and with dust the black charger was gray; + By the flash of his eye, and the red nostril's play, + He seemed to the whole great army to say, + "I have brought you Sheridan all the way + From Winchester down to save the day!" + + Hurrah! hurrah for Sheridan! + Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! + And when their statues are placed on high, + Under the dome of the Union sky, + The American soldier's Temple of Fame,-- + There with the glorious General's name, + Be it said, in letters both bold and bright, + "Here is the steed that saved the day + By carrying Sheridan into the fight, + From Winchester, twenty miles away!" + + THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. + +[Footnote 22: _By courtesy of J. B. Lippincott & Co._] + + +_Song of the Negro Boatman_ + + O, praise an' tanks! De Lord he come + To set de people free; + An' massa tink it day ob doom, + An' we ob jubilee. + De Lord dat heap de Red Sea waves + He jus' as 'trong as den; + He say de word: we las' night slaves; + To-day, de Lord's freemen. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn; + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + Ole massa on he trabbels gone; + He leaf de land behind: + De Lord's breff blow him furder on, + Like corn-shuck in de wind. + We own de hoe, we own de plough, + We own de hands dat hold; + We sell de pig, we sell de cow, + But nebber chile be sold. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn; + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + We pray de Lord: he gib us signs + Dat some day we be free; + De norf-wind tell it to de pines, + De wild-duck to de sea; + We tink it when de church-bell ring, + We dream it in de dream; + De rice-bird mean it when he sing, + De eagle when he scream. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + We'll hab de rice an' corn; + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + We know de promise nebber fail, + An' nebber lie de word; + So like de 'postles in de jail, + We waited for de Lord: + An' now he open ebery door, + An' trow away de key; + He tink we lub him so before, + We lub him better free. + De yam will grow, de cotton blow, + He'll gib de rice an' corn; + O nebber you fear, if nebber you hear + De driver blow his horn! + + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + _From "At Port Royal."_ + + +_Barbara Frietchie_ + + Up from the meadows rich with corn, + Clear in 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 tree fruited deep, + + Fair as a garden of the Lord, + To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, + + 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 crimson bars, + + Flapped in the morning wind; the sun + Of noon looked down, and saw not one. + + Up rose old Barbara Frietchie 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 slouch hat left and right + He glanced: the old flag met his sight. + + "Halt!"--the dust-brown ranks stood fast; + "Fire!"--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. + + "Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, + But spare your country's flag," she said. + + A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, + Over the face of the leader came; + + The nobler nature within him stirred + To life at that woman's deed and word: + + "Who touches a hair of yon gray head + Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. + + All day long through Frederick street + Sounded the tread of marching feet; + + All day long that free flag tost + 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-gaps sunset light + Shone over it with a warm good-night. + + Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, + And the rebel rides on his raids no more. + + Honor to her! and let a tear + Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. + + Over Barbara Frietchie'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. + + JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + +_Two Veterans_ + + The last sunbeam + Lightly falls from the finished Sabbath, + On the pavement here, and there beyond it is looking + Down a new-made double grave. + + Lo! the moon ascending, + Up from the east the silvery round moon, + Beautiful over the house-tops, ghastly, phantom moon, + Immense and silent moon. + + I see a sad procession, + And I hear the sound of coming full-keyed bugles, + All the channels of the city streets they're flooding, + As with voices and with tears. + + I hear the great drums pounding, + And the small drums steady whirring, + And every blow of the great convulsive drums + Strikes me through and through. + + For the son is brought with the father, + (In the foremost ranks of the fierce assault they fell, + Two veterans, son and father, dropt together, + And the double grave awaits them). + + Now nearer blow the bugles, + And the drums strike more convulsive, + And the daylight o'er the pavement quite has faded, + And the strong dead-march enwraps me. + + In the eastern sky up-buoying, + The sorrowful vast phantom moves illumined, + ('Tis some mother's large transparent face + In heaven brighter growing). + + O strong dead-march you please me! + O moon immense with your silvery face you soothe me! + O my soldiers twain! O my veterans passing to burial! + What I have I also give you. + + The moon gives you light, + And the bugles and the drums give you music, + And my heart, O my soldiers, my veterans, + My heart gives you love. + + WALT WHITMAN. + + +_Stand by the Flag!_ + + Stand by the Flag! Its stars, like meteors gleaming, + Have lighted Arctic icebergs, southern seas, + And shone responsive to the stormy beaming + Of old Arcturus and the Pleiades. + + Stand by the Flag! Its stripes have streamed in glory, + To foes a fear, to friends a festal robe, + And spread in rhythmic lines the sacred story + Of Freedom's triumphs over all the globe. + + Stand by the Flag! On land and ocean billow + By it your fathers stood unmoved and true, + Living, defended; dying, from their pillow, + With their last blessing, passed it on to you. + + Stand by the Flag! Immortal heroes bore it + Through sulphurous smoke, deep moat and armed defence; + And their imperial Shades still hover o'er it, + A guard celestial from Omnipotence. + + JOHN NICHOLS WILDER. + + +_At Gibraltar_[23] + +I + + England, I stand on thy imperial ground, + Not all a stranger; as thy bugles blow, + I feel within my blood old battles flow-- + The blood whose ancient founts in thee are found, + Still surging dark against the Christian bound + Wide Islam presses; well its people know + Thy heights that watch them wandering below; + I think how Lucknow heard their gathering sound. + + I turn, and meet the cruel, turbaned face. + England, 'tis sweet to be so much thy son! + I feel the conqueror in my blood and race; + Last night Trafalgar awed me, and to-day + Gibraltar wakened; hark, thy evening gun + Startles the desert over Africa! + + GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY. + +[Footnote 23: _Taken from "North Shore Watch and Other Poems" +(copyrighted 1890). By courtesy of The Macmillan Company._] + + +_At Gibraltar_ + +II + + Thou art the rock of empire, set mid-seas + Between the East and West, that God has built; + Advance thy Roman borders where thou wilt, + While run thy armies true with his decrees; + Law, justice, liberty--great gifts are these; + Watch that they spread where English blood is spilt, + Lest, mixed and sullied with his country's guilt, + The soldier's life-stream flow, and Heaven displease! + + Two swords there are: one naked, apt to smite, + Thy blade of war; and, battle-storied, one + Rejoices in the sheath, and hides from light. + American I am; would wars were done! + Now westward, look, my country bids good-night-- + Peace to the world from ports without a gun! + + GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY. + + +_Faith and Freedom_ + + We must be free or die, who speak the tongue + That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold + Which Milton held.... + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + +_Our Mother Tongue_ + + Beyond the vague Atlantic deep, + Far as the farthest prairies sweep, + Where forest-glooms the nerve appal, + Where burns the radiant western fall, + One duty lies on old and young,-- + With filial piety to guard, + As on its greenest native sward, + The glory of the English tongue. + That ample speech! That subtle speech! + Apt for the need of all and each: + Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend + Wherever human feelings tend. + Preserve its force--expand its powers; + And through the maze of civic life, + In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, + Forget not it is yours and ours. + + LORD HOUGHTON. + + (Richard Monckton Milnes.) + + +_The English Language_ + + Give me of every language, first my vigorous English + Stored with imported wealth, rich in its natural mines-- + Grand in its rhythmical cadence, simple for household employment-- + Worthy the poet's song, fit for the speech of a man. + + * * * * + + Fitted for every use like a great majestical river, + Blending thy various streams, stately thou flowest along, + Bearing the white-winged ship of Poesy over thy bosom, + Laden with spices that come out of the tropical isles, + Fancy's pleasuring yacht with its bright and fluttering pennons, + Logic's frigates of war and the toil-worn barges of trade. + + How art thou freely obedient unto the poet or speaker + When, in a happy hour, thought into speech he translates; + Caught on the word's sharp angles flash the + bright hues of his fancy-- + Grandly the thought rides the words, as a good + horseman his steed. + + * * * * + + WILLIAM WETMORE STORY. + + +_To America_ + +On a Proposed Alliance Between Two Great Nations. + + What is the voice I hear + On the winds of the western sea? + Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear + And say what the voice may be. + 'Tis a proud free people calling loud to a people proud and free. + + And it says to them: "Kinsmen, hail; + We severed have been too long. + Now let us have done with a worn-out tale-- + The tale of ancient wrong-- + And our friendship last long as our love doth and be stronger + than death is strong." + + Answer them, sons of the self-same race, + And blood of the self-same clan; + Let us speak with each other face to face + And answer as man to man, + And loyally love and trust each other as none but free men can. + + Now fling them out the breeze, + Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose, + And the Star-Spangled Banner unfurl with these-- + A message to friends and foes + Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the war wind blows-- + + A message to bond and thrall to wake, + For wherever we come, we twain, + The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake, + And his menace be void and vain, + For you are lords of a strong land and we are lords of the main. + + Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale; + We severed have been too long, + But now we have done with a worn-out tale-- + The tale of an ancient wrong-- + And our friendship last long as love doth last and stronger than death is + strong. + + ALFRED AUSTIN. + + +_The Name of Old Glory_ + +1898 + + Old Glory! say, who + By the ships and the crew, + And the long, blended ranks of the Gray and the Blue-- + Who gave you Old Glory, the name that you bear + With such pride everywhere, + As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air, + And leap out full length, as we're wanting you to?-- + + Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, + And the honor and fame so becoming to you? + Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, + With your stars at their glittering best overhead-- + By day or by night + Their delightfulest light + Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! + Who gave you the name of Old Glory--say, who-- + Who gave you the name of Old Glory? + + _The old banner lifted and faltering then + In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again._ + + Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear + Is what the plain facts of your christening were,-- + For your name--just to hear it, + Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit + As salt as a tear;-- + And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, + There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye, + And an aching to live for you always--or die, + If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. + And so, by our love + For you, floating above, + And the scars of all wars and the sorrow thereof, + Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why + Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory? + + _Then the old banner leaped like a sail in the blast_ + _And fluttered an audible answer at last._ + + And it spake with a shake of the voice, and it said: + By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red + Of my bars and their heaven of stars overhead-- + By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, + As I float from the steeple or flap at the mast, + Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod,-- + My name is as old as the glory of God. + ... So I came by the name of Old Glory. + + JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. + + _From "Home Folks."_ + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_In Merry Mood_ + + _"Then cast away care, let sorrow cease, + A fig for melancholy."_ + + +All rules are suspended, grave affairs of state are laid aside, and the +Court Jester demands a hearing. Is it my fancy, or do young eyes +brighten, rosy cheeks dimple, lips part a little when he approaches? +Clad all in gay motley, swinging his bauble, his cap and bells making +merry music, he bounds upon the stage and bids us listen to his quips +and jokes. He is by turns Puck and Ariel, Harlequin, Punchinello, and +Court Fool. "Touchstone" we well may call him, this man of mirth, for +when he tests the world's metal the pure gold of laughter shines out +from the alloy. Seeing us smile even before he opens his lips he assumes +a solemn attitude and cries: + + _"Good people all, of every sort, + Give ear unto my song; + And if you find it wondrous short + It will not hold you long."_ + +Then hark how the "light-heeled numbers laughing go!" He tells us tales +that smooth out the wrinkles of dull Care and provoke Laughter to hold +both his sides, as well as others less jolly but full of wit and good +cheer. A quaint, breezy moral, too, creeps in here and there, for the +Court Fool, if you study him well, is sometimes a preacher; but whether +frolicking or preaching or philosophizing, he brings with him, like +Milton's nymph: + + _"Jest and youthful jollity, + Quips and cranks, and wanton Wiles, + Nods and Becks and Wreathed Smiles, + Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, + And love to live in dimple sleek."_ + + + + +XII + +IN MERRY MOOD + + +_On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes_ + + 'T was on a lofty vase's side + Where China's gayest art had dyed, + The azure flowers that blow, + Demurest of the tabby kind, + The pensive Selima, reclined, + Gazed on the lake below. + + Her conscious tail her joy declared: + The fair, round face, the snowy beard, + The velvet of her paws, + Her coat that with the tortoise vies, + Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes,-- + She saw, and purred applause. + + Still had she gazed, but 'midst the tide + Two angel forms were seen to glide, + The Genii of the stream: + Their scaly armor's Tyrian hue, + Through richest purple, to the view + Betrayed a golden gleam. + + The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: + A whisker first, and then a claw, + With many an ardent wish, + She stretched, in vain, to reach the prize,-- + What female heart can gold despise? + What cat's averse to fish? + + Presumptuous maid! with looks intent, + Again she stretched, again she bent, + Nor knew the gulf between,-- + Malignant Fate sat by and smiled,-- + The slippery verge her feet beguiled; + She tumbled headlong in! + + Eight times emerging from the flood, + She mewed to every watery god + Some speedy aid to send: + No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirred, + Nor cruel Tom nor Susan heard,-- + A favorite has no friend! + + From hence, ye Beauties! undeceived, + Know one false step is ne'er retrieved, + And be with caution bold: + Not all that tempts your wandering eyes + And heedless hearts is lawful prize, + Nor all that glitters gold! + + THOMAS GRAY. + + +_The Priest and the Mulberry Tree_ + + Did you hear of the curate who mounted his mare, + And merrily trotted along to the fair? + Of creature more tractable none ever heard; + In the height of her speed she would stop at a word; + But again with a word, when the curate said, "Hey," + She put forth her mettle and gallop'd away. + + As near to the gates of the city he rode, + While the sun of September all brilliantly glow'd, + The good priest discover'd, with eyes of desire, + A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild brier; + On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot, + Hung, large, black and glossy, the beautiful fruit. + + The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot; + He shrunk from the thorns, though he long'd for the fruit; + With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed, + And he stood up erect on the back of his steed; + On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, + And he gather'd the fruit till he took his good fill. + + "Sure never," he thought, "was a creature so rare, + So docile, so true, as my excellent mare; + Lo, here now I stand," and he gazed all around, + "As safe and as steady as if on the ground; + Yet how had it been, if some traveller this way, + Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry, 'Hey'?" + + He stood with his head in the mulberry tree, + And he spoke out aloud in his fond revery; + At the sound of the word the good mare made a push, + And down went the priest in the wild-brier bush. + He remember'd too late, on his thorny green bed, + Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said. + + THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. + + +_The Council of Horses_ + + Upon a time a neighing steed, + Who graz'd among a numerous breed, + With mutiny had fired the train, + And spread dissension through the plain + On matters that concern'd the state. + The council met in grand debate. + A colt whose eyeballs flamed with ire, + Elate with strength and youthful fire, + In haste stept forth before the rest, + And thus the listening throng address'd. + "Goodness, how abject is our race, + Condemn'd to slavery and disgrace! + Shall we our servitude retain, + Because our sires have borne the chain? + Consider, friends! your strength and might; + 'Tis conquest to assert your right. + How cumbrous is the gilded coach! + The pride of man is our reproach. + Were we design'd for daily toil, + To drag the ploughshare through the soil, + To sweat in harness through the road, + To groan beneath the carrier's load? + How feeble are the two-legg'd kind! + What force is in our nerves combin'd! + Shall then our nobler jaws submit + To foam and champ the galling bit? + Shall haughty man my back bestride? + Shall the sharp spur provoke my side? + Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein; + Your shame, your infamy, disdain. + Let him the lion first control, + And still the tiger's famish'd growl. + Let us, like them, our freedom claim, + And make him tremble at our name." + A general nod approv'd the cause, + And all the circle neigh'd applause. + When lo! with grave and solemn pace, + A steed advanc'd before the race, + With age and long experience wise; + Around he cast his thoughtful eyes, + And, to the murmurs of the train, + Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain. + "When I had health and strength like you + The toils of servitude I knew; + Now grateful man rewards my pains, + And gives me all these wide domains. + At will I crop the year's increase; + My latter life is rest and peace. + I grant, to man we lend our pains, + And aid him to correct the plains; + But doth not he divide the care, + Through all the labours of the year? + How many thousand structures rise, + To fence us from inclement skies! + For us he bears the sultry day, + And stores up all our winter's hay. + He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain; + We share the toil and share the grain. + Since every creature was decreed + To aid each other's mutual need, + Appease your discontented mind, + And act the part by heaven assign'd." + The tumult ceas'd, the colt submitted, + And, like his ancestors, was bitted. + + JOHN GAY. + + +_The Diverting History of John Gilpin_ + +Showing How He Went Farther Than He Intended, and Came Safe Home Again. + + John Gilpin was a citizen + Of credit and renown, + A train-band Captain eke was he + Of famous London town. + + John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, + "Though wedded we have been + These twice ten tedious years, yet we + No holiday have seen. + + To-morrow is our wedding day, + And we will then repair + Unto the Bell at Edmonton, + All in a chaise and pair. + + My sister and my sister's child, + Myself and children three, + Will fill the chaise, so you must ride + On horseback after we." + + He soon replied,--"I do admire + Of womankind but one, + And you are she, my dearest dear, + Therefore it shall be done. + + I am a linen-draper bold, + As all the world doth know, + And my good friend the Calender + Will lend his horse to go." + + Quoth Mrs. Gilpin,--"That's well said, + And for that wine is dear, + We will be furnish'd with our own, + Which is both bright and clear." + + John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; + O'erjoyed was he to find + That though on pleasure she was bent, + She had a frugal mind. + + The morning came, the chaise was brought, + But yet was not allow'd + To drive up to the door, lest all + Should say that she was proud. + + So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, + 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 got, in haste to ride, + But soon came down again; + For saddle-tree scarce reach'd had he, + His journey to begin, + When, turning round his head, he saw + Three customers come in. + + So down he came; for loss of time, + Although it grieved him sore, + Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, + Would trouble him much more. + + 'T was long before the customers + Were suited to their mind, + When Betty screaming, came downstairs, + "The wine is left behind!" + + "Good lack!" quoth he, "yet bring it me, + My leathern belt likewise, + In which I bear my trusty sword + When I do exercise." + + Now mistress Gilpin, careful soul! + Had two stone bottles found, + To hold the liquor that she loved, + And keep it safe and sound. + + Each bottle had a curling ear, + Through which the belt he drew, + And hung a bottle on each side, + To make his balance true. + + Then over all, that he might be + Equipp'd from top to toe, + His long red cloak, well brush'd 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 gall'd him in his seat, + + So "Fair and softly," John he cried, + But John he cried in vain; + That trot became a gallop soon, + In spite of curb and rein. + + So stooping down, as needs he must + Who cannot sit upright, + He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, + And eke with all his might. + + His horse, who never in that sort + Had handled been before, + What thing upon his back had got + Did wonder more and more. + + Away went Gilpin, neck or 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 scream'd, + Up flew the windows all, + And ev'ry soul cried out, "Well done!" + As loud as he could bawl. + + Away went Gilpin--who but he? + His fame soon spread around-- + "He carries weight!" "He rides a race!" + "'T is for a thousand pound!" + + And still, as fast as he drew near, + 'T was wonderful to view, + How in a trice the turnpike-men + Their gates wide open threw. + + And now, as he went bowing down + His reeking head full low, + The bottles twain behind his back + Were shattered at a blow. + + Down ran the wine into the road, + Most piteous to be seen, + Which made his horse's flanks to smoke + As they had basted been. + + But still he seem'd 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. + + 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, wond'ring much + To see how he did ride. + + "Stop, stop, John Gilpin!--Here's the house!" + They all at once did cry; + "The dinner waits and we are tired:" + Said Gilpin--"So am I!" + + But yet his horse was not a whit + Inclined to tarry there; + For why?--his owner had a house + Full ten miles off, at Ware, + So like an arrow swift he flew, + Shot by an archer strong; + So did he fly--which brings me to + The middle of my song. + + Away went Gilpin, out of breath. + And sore against his will, + Till at his friend the Calender's + His horse at last stood still. + + The Calender, amazed to see + His neighbour in such trim, + Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, + And thus accosted him:-- + + "What news? what news? your tidings tell, + Tell me you must and shall-- + Say why 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, + 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 flow'd behind, + A hat not much the worse for wear, + Each comely in its kind. + + He held them up, and in his turn + Thus show'd his ready wit:-- + "My head is twice as big as yours, + They therefore needs must fit. + + But let me scrape the dirt away + That hangs upon your face; + And stop and eat, for well you may + Be in a hungry case." + + Said John--"It is my wedding-day, + And all the world would stare, + If wife should dine at Edmonton, + And I should dine at Ware." + + So, turning to his horse, he said-- + "I am in haste to dine; + 'T was for your pleasure you came here, + You shall go back for mine." + + Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast! + For which he paid full dear; + For, while he spake, a braying ass + Did sing most loud and clear; + Whereat his horse did snort, as he + Had heard a lion roar, + And gallop'd off with all his might, + As he had done before. + + Away went Gilpin, and away + Went Gilpin's hat and wig! + He lost them sooner than at first, + For why?--they were too big! + + Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw + Her husband posting down + Into the country far away, + She pull'd 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 away + Went post-boy at his heels!-- + The post-boy's horse right glad to miss + The lumb'ring of the wheels. + + Six gentlemen upon the road, + Thus seeing Gilpin fly. + With post-boy scamp'ring 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 pass'd that way + Did join in the pursuit. + + And now the turnpike gates again + Flew open in short space; + The toll-men thinking, as before, + That Gilpin rode a race. + + And so he did, and won it too, + For he got first to town; + Nor stopp'd till where he had got up + He did again get down. + + Now let us sing, Long live the king, + And Gilpin, long live he; + And when he next doth ride abroad, + May I be there to see! + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + +_To a Child of Quality_ + +Five Years Old, 1704, the Author Then Forty. + + Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band + That wear the fair Miss Mary's fetters, + Were summoned by her high command + To show their passion by their letters. + + My pen amongst the rest I took, + Lest those bright eyes, that cannot read, + Should dart their kindling fires, and look + The power they have to be obey'd. + + Nor quality, nor reputation, + Forbid me yet my flame to tell; + Dear Five-years-old befriends my passion, + And I may write till she can spell. + + For, while she makes her silkworms beds + With all the tender things I swear; + Whilst all the house my passion reads, + In papers round her baby's hair; + + She may receive and own my flame; + For, though the strictest prudes should know it, + She'll pass for a most virtuous dame, + And I for an unhappy poet. + + Then too, alas! when she shall tear + The rhymes some younger rival sends, + She'll give me leave to write, I fear, + And we shall still continue friends. + + For, as our different ages move, + 'Tis so ordained (would Fate but mend it!), + That I shall be past making love + When she begins to comprehend it. + + Matthew Prior. + + +_Charade_ + +(Campbell.) + +(Thomas Campbell, the Poet.) + + Come from my First, ay, come! + For the battle hour is nigh: + And the screaming trump and thundering drum + Are calling thee to die! + Fight, as thy father fought! + Fall, as thy father fell! + Thy task is taught, thy shroud is wrought;-- + So--onward--and farewell. + + Toll ye my Second, toll! + Fling wide the flambeau's light, + And sing the hymn for a parted soul + Beneath the silent night. + With the wreath upon his head, + And the cross upon his breast, + Let the prayer be said, and the tear be shed;-- + So--take him to his rest + Call ye my Whole,--ay, call + The lord of lute and lay! + And let him greet the sable pall + With a noble song to-day! + Ay, call him by his name! + Nor fitter hand may crave + To light the flame of a soldier's fame + On the turf of a soldier's grave. + + WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED. + + +_A Riddle_ + +(A Book.) + + I'm a strange contradiction; I'm new, and I'm old, + I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold. + Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found; + Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound, + I'm always in black, and I'm always in white; + I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light-- + In form too I differ,--I'm thick and I'm thin, + I've no flesh and no bones, yet I'm covered with skin; + I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute; + I sing without voice, without speaking confute. + I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch; + Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much; + I often die soon, though I sometimes lives ages, + And no monarch alive has so many pages. + + HANNAH MORE. + + +_A Riddle_ + +(The Vowels.) + + We are little airy creatures, + All of different voice and features; + One of us in glass is set, + One of us you'll find in jet. + T'other you may see in tin, + And the fourth a box within. + If the fifth you should pursue, + It can never fly from you. + + JONATHAN SWIFT. + + +_A Riddle_ + +(The Letter H.) + + 'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in hell, + And echo caught faintly the sound as it fell; + On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, + And the depths of the ocean its presence confess'd; + 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, + Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder; + 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest breath, + Attends him at birth and awaits him in death, + Presides o'er his happiness, honor and health, + Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. + In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care, + But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir; + It begins every hope, every wish it must bound, + With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned; + Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, + But woe to the wretch who expels it from home! + In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, + Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned; + 'Twill soften the heart; but though deaf be the ear, + It will make it acutely and instantly hear. + Set in shade, let it rest like a delicate flower; + Ah! breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour. + + CATHERINE M. FANSHAWE. + + +_Feigned Courage_ + + Horatio, of ideal courage vain, + Was flourishing in air his father's cane, + And, as the fumes of valour swell'd his pate, + Now thought himself _this_ hero, and now _that_: + "And now," he cried, "I will Achilles be; + My sword I brandish; see, the Trojans flee! + Now I'll be Hector, when his angry blade + A lane through heaps of slaughter'd Grecians made! + And now my deeds, still braver I'll evince, + I am no less than Edward the Black Prince. + Give way, ye coward French!" As thus he spoke, + And aim'd in fancy a sufficient stroke + To fix the fate of Crecy or Poiotiers + (The Muse relates the Hero's fate with tears), + He struck his milk-white hand against a nail, + Sees his own blood, and feels his courage fail. + Ah! where is now that boasted valour flown, + That in the tented field so late was shown? + Achilles weeps, great Hector hangs his head, + And the Black Prince goes whimpering to bed. + + CHARLES AND MARY LAMB. + + +_Baucis and Philemon_ + + In ancient times, as story tells, + The saints would often leave their cells, + And stroll about, but hide their quality, + To try good people's hospitality. + + It happened on a winter night, + As authors of the legend write, + Two brother hermits, saints by trade, + Taking their tour in masquerade, + Disguised in tattered garments went + To a small village down in Kent; + Where, in the stroller's canting strain, + They begged from door to door in vain, + Tried every tone might pity win; + But not a soul would take them in. + + Our wandering saints, in woeful state, + Treated at this ungodly rate, + Having through all the village passed, + To a small cottage came at last + Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, + Call'd in the neighborhood Philemon; + Who kindly did these saints invite + In his poor hut to pass the night; + And then the hospitable sire + Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; + While he from out the chimney took + A flitch of bacon off the hook, + And freely from the fattest side + Cut out large slices to be fried; + Then stepped aside to fetch them drink, + Filled a large jug up to the brink, + And saw it fairly twice go round; + Yet (what is wonderful!) they found + 'Twas still replenished to the top, + As if they ne'er had touched a drop. + The good old couple were amazed, + And often on each other gazed; + For both were frightened to the heart, + And just began to cry, "What art!" + Then softly turned aside to view + Whether the lights were burning blue. + + "Good folks, you need not be afraid, + We are but saints," the hermits said; + "No hurt shall come to you or yours: + But for that pack of churlish boors, + Not fit to live on Christian ground, + They and their houses shall be drowned; + Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, + And grow a church before your eyes." + + They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft, + The roof began to mount aloft, + Aloft rose every beam and rafter, + The heavy wall climbed slowly after; + The chimney widened and grew higher, + Became a steeple with a spire. + The kettle to the top was hoist, + And there stood fastened to a joist; + Doomed ever in suspense to dwell, + 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. + A wooden jack which had almost + Lost by disuse the art to roast, + A sudden alteration feels, + Increased by new intestine wheels; + The jack and chimney, near allied, + Had never left each other's side: + The chimney to a steeple grown, + The jack would not be left alone; + But up against the steeple reared, + Became a clock, and still adhered. + The groaning chair began to crawl, + Like a huge snail along the wall; + There stuck aloft in public view, + And with small change a pulpit grew. + The cottage, by such feats as these, + Grown to a church by just degrees, + The hermits then desired the host + To ask for what he fancied most. + Philemon, having paused awhile, + Returned them thanks in homely style: + "I'm old, and fain would live at ease; + Make me the parson, if you please." + + Thus happy in their change of life + Were several years this man and wife. + When on a day which proved their last, + Discoursing on old stories past, + They went by chance, amidst their talk, + To the churchyard to take a walk; + When Baucis hastily cried out, + "My dear, I see your forehead sprout!" + "But yes! Methinks I feel it true; + And really yours is budding too. + Nay,--now I cannot stir my foot; + It feels as if 'twere taking root!" + Description would but tire my muse; + In short they both were turned to yews. + + JONATHAN SWIFT. + + +_The Lion and the Cub_ + + A lion cub, of sordid mind, + Avoided all the lion kind; + Fond of applause, he sought the feasts + Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; + With asses all his time he spent, + Their club's perpetual president. + He caught their manners, looks, and airs; + An ass in everything but ears! + If e'er his Highness meant a joke, + They grinn'd applause before he spoke; + But at each word what shouts of praise; + "Goodness! how natural he brays!" + + Elate with flattery and conceit, + He seeks his royal sire's retreat; + Forward and fond to show his parts, + His Highness brays; the lion starts. + "Puppy! that curs'd vociferation: + Betrays thy life and conversation: + Coxcombs, an ever-noisy race, + Are trumpets of their own disgrace." + "Why so severe?" the cub replies; + "Our senate always held me wise!" + "How weak is pride," returns the sire: + "All fools are vain when fools admire! + But know, what stupid asses prize, + Lions and noble beasts despise." + + JOHN GAY. + + +_Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog_ + + Good people all, of every sort, + Give ear unto my song; + And if you find it wondrous short-- + It cannot hold you long. + + In Islington there was a Man, + Of whom the world might say, + That still a godly race he ran-- + Whene'er he went to pray. + + A kind and gentle heart he had, + To comfort friends and foes: + The naked every day he clad,-- + When he put on his clothes. + + And in that town a Dog was found, + As many dogs there be, + Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, + And curs of low degree. + + This Dog and Man at first were friends; + But when a pique began, + The Dog, to gain some private ends, + Went mad, and bit the Man. + + Around from all the neighbouring streets + The wondering neighbours ran, + And swore the Dog had lost his wits, + To bite so good a Man! + + The wound it seem'd both sore and sad + To every Christian eye: + And while they swore the Dog was mad, + They swore the Man would die. + + But soon a wonder came to light, + That show'd the rogues they lied:-- + The Man recovered of the bite, + The Dog it was that died! + + OLIVER GOLDSMITH. + + +_The Walrus and the Carpenter_ + + The sun was shining on the sea, + Shining with all his might: + He did his very best to make + The billows smooth and bright-- + And this was odd, because it was + The middle of the night. + + The moon was shining sulkily, + Because she thought the sun + Had got no business to be there + After the day was done-- + "It's very rude of him," she said, + "To come and spoil the fun!" + + The sea was wet as wet could be, + The sands were dry as dry. + You could not see a cloud, because + No cloud was in the sky: + No birds were flying overhead-- + There were no birds to fly. + + The Walrus and the Carpenter + Were walking close at hand: + They wept like anything to see + Such quantities of sand: + "If this were only cleared away, + They said, "it _would_ be grand!" + + "If seven maids with seven mops + Swept it for half a year, + Do you suppose," the Walrus said, + "That they could get it clear?" + "I doubt it," said the Carpenter, + And shed a bitter tear. + + "O Oysters, come and walk with us!" + The Walrus did beseech. + "A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, + Along the briny beach: + We cannot do with more than four, + To give a hand to each." + + The eldest Oyster looked at him, + But never a word he said: + The eldest Oyster winked his eye, + And shook his heavy head-- + Meaning to say he did not choose + To leave the oyster-bed. + + But four young Oysters hurried up, + All eager for the treat: + Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, + Their shoes were clean and neat-- + And this was odd, because, you know, + They hadn't any feet. + + Four other Oysters followed them, + And yet another four; + And thick and fast they came at last, + And more, and more, and more-- + All hopping through the frothy waves, + And scrambling to the shore. + + The Walrus and the Carpenter + Walked on a mile or so, + And then they rested on a rock + Conveniently low: + And all the little Oysters stood + And waited in a row. + + "The time has come," the Walrus said, + "To talk of many things: + Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax-- + Of cabbages--and kings-- + And why the sea is boiling hot-- + And whether pigs have wings." + + "But wait a bit," the Oysters cried, + "Before we have our chat; + For some of us are out of breath, + And all of us are fat!" + "No hurry!" said the Carpenter. + They thanked him much for that. + + "A loaf of bread," the Walrus said, + "Is what we chiefly need: + Pepper and vinegar besides + Are very good indeed-- + Now, if you're ready, Oysters dear, + We can begin to feed." + + "But not on us!" the Oysters cried, + Turning a little blue. + "After such kindness, that would be + A dismal thing to do!" + "The night is fine," the Walrus said. + "Do you admire the view? + + "It was so kind of you to come! + And you are very nice!" + The Carpenter said nothing but + "Cut us another slice. + I wish you were not quite so deaf-- + I've had to ask you twice!" + + "It seems a shame," the Walrus said, + "To play them such a trick. + After we've brought them out so far, + And made them trot so quick!" + The Carpenter said nothing but + "The butter's spread too thick!" + + "I weep for you," the Walrus said: + "I deeply sympathize." + With sobs and tears he sorted out + Those of the largest size, + Holding his pocket-handkerchief + Before his streaming eyes. + + "O Oysters," said the Carpenter, + "You've had a pleasant run! + Shall we be trotting home again?" + But answer came there none-- + And this was scarcely odd, because + They'd eaten every one. + + LEWIS CARROLL. + + +_Song of the Turtle and Flamingo_ + + A lively young turtle lived down by the banks + Of a dark rolling stream called the Jingo, + And one summer day, as he went out to play, + Fell in love with a charming flamingo-- + An enormously genteel flamingo! + An expansively crimson flamingo! + A beautiful, bouncing flamingo! + + Spake the turtle in tones like a delicate wheeze: + "To the water I've oft seen you in go, + And your form has impressed itself deep on my shell, + You perfectly modeled flamingo! + You tremendously 'A1' flamingo! + You inex-pres-_si_-ble flamingo! + + To be sure I'm a turtle, and you are a belle, + And _my_ language is not your fine lingo; + But smile on me, tall one, and be my bright flame, + You miraculous, wondrous flamingo! + You blazingly beauteous flamingo! + You turtle-absorbing flamingo! + You inflammably gorgeous flamingo!" + + Then the proud bird blushed redder than ever before, + And that was quite un-nec-ces-sa-ry, + And she stood on one leg and looked out of one eye, + The position of things for to vary,-- + This aquatical, musing flamingo! + This dreamy, uncertain flamingo! + This embarrassing, harassing flamingo! + + Then she cried to the quadruped, greatly amazed: + "Why your passion toward _me_ do you hurtle? + I'm an ornithological wonder of grace, + And you're an illogical turtle,-- + A waddling, impossible turtle! + A low-minded, grass-eating turtle! + A highly improbable turtle!" + + Then the turtle sneaked off with his nose to the ground, + And never more looked at the lasses; + And falling asleep, while indulging his grief, + Was gobbled up whole by Agassiz,-- + The peripatetic Agassiz! + The turtle-dissecting Agassiz! + The illustrious, industrious Agassiz! + + Go with me to Cambridge some cool, pleasant day, + And the skeleton lover I'll show you: + He's in a hard case, but he'll look in your face, + Pretending (the rogue!) he don't know you! + Oh, the deeply deceptive young turtle! + The double-faced, glassy-cased turtle! + The _green_, but a very _mock_-turtle! + + JAMES T. FIELDS. + + +_Captain Reece_ + + Of all the ships upon the blue, + No ship contained a better crew + Than that of worthy Captain Reece, + Commanding of _The Mantelpiece_. + + He was adored by all his men, + For worthy Captain Reece, R. N., + Did all that lay within him to + Promote the comfort of his crew. + + If ever they were dull or sad, + Their captain danced to them like mad, + Or told, to make the time pass by, + Droll legends of his infancy. + + A feather-bed had every man, + Warm slippers and hot-water can, + Brown Windsor from the captain's store, + A valet, too, to every four. + + Did they with thirst in summer burn, + Lo, seltzogenes at every turn, + And on all very sultry days + Cream ices handed round on trays. + + Then currant wine and ginger-pops + Stood handily on all the "tops;" + And also, with amusement rife, + A "Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life." + + New volumes came across the sea + From Mister Mudie's libraree; + The _Times_ and _Saturday Review_ + Beguiled the leisure of the crew. + + Kind-hearted Captain Reece, R. N., + Was quite devoted to his men; + In point of fact, good Captain Reece + Beatified _The Mantelpiece_. + + One summer eve, at half-past ten, + He said (addressing all his men): + "Come, tell me, please, what I can do + To please and gratify my crew. + + "By any reasonable plan + I'll make you happy if I can; + My own convenience count as _nil_: + It is my duty, and I will." + + Then up and answered William Lee + (The kindly captain's coxswain he, + A nervous, shy, low-spoken man), + He cleared his throat and thus began: + + "You have a daughter, Captain Reece, + Ten female cousins and a niece, + A ma, if what I'm told is true, + Six sisters, and an aunt or two. + + "Now, somehow, sir, it seems to me, + More friendly like we all should be, + If you united of 'em to + Unmarried members of the crew. + + "If you'd ameliorate our life, + Let each select from them a wife; + And as for nervous me, old pal, + Give me your own enchanting gal!" + + Good Captain Reece, that worthy man, + Debated on his coxswain's plan: + "I quite agree," he said, "O Bill; + It is my duty, and I will. + + "My daughter, that enchanting gurl, + Has just been promised to an Earl, + And all my other familee + To peers of various degree. + + "But what are dukes and viscounts to + The happiness of all my crew? + The word I gave you I'll fulfil; + It is my duty, and I will. + + "As you desire it shall befall, + I'll settle thousands on you all, + And I shall be, despite my hoard, + The only bachelor on board." + + The boatswain of _The Mantelpiece_, + He blushed and spoke to Captain Reece: + "I beg your honour's leave," he said; + "If you would wish to go and wed, + + "I have a widowed mother who + Would be the very thing for you-- + She long has loved you from afar; + She washes for you, Captain R." + + The Captain saw the dame that day-- + Addressed her in his playful way-- + "And did it want a wedding ring? + It was a tempting ickle sing! + + "Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, + We'll all be married this day week + At yonder church upon the hill; + It is my duty, and I will!" + + The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, + And widowed ma of Captain Reece, + Attended there as they were bid; + It was their duty, and they did. + + WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT. + + +_The Cataract of Lodore_ + + "How does the Water + Come down at Lodore?" + My little boy ask'd me + Thus, once on a time; + And moreover he task'd me + To tell him in rhyme. + Anon at the word, + There first came one daughter, + And then came another, + To second and third + The request of their brother, + And to hear how the Water + Comes down at Lodore, + With its rush and its roar, + As many a time + They had seen it before. + So I told them in rhyme, + For of rhymes I had store; + And 'twas in my vocation + For their recreation + That so I should sing; + Because I was Laureate + To them and the King. + From its sources which well + In the Tarn on the fell; + From its fountains + In the mountains, + Its rills and its gills; + Through moss and through brake, + It runs and it creeps + For awhile, till it sleeps + In its own little Lake. + And thence at departing, + Awakening and starting, + It runs through the reeds, + And away it proceeds, + Through meadow and glade, + In sun and in shade, + And through the wood-shelter, + Among crags in its flurry, + Helter-skelter, + Hurry-scurry. + Here it comes sparkling, + And there it lies darkling; + Now smoking and frothing + Its tumult and wrath in, + Till in this rapid race + On which it is bent, + It reaches the place + Of its steep descent. + + The Cataract strong + Then plunges along, + Striking and raging + As if a war waging + Its caverns and rocks among; + Rising and leaping, + Sinking and creeping, + Swelling and sweeping, + Showering and springing, + Flying and flinging, + Writhing and ringing, + Eddying and whisking, + Spouting and frisking, + Turning and twisting, + Around and around + With endless rebound: + Smiting and fighting, + A sight to delight in; + Confounding, astounding, + Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. + + Collecting, projecting, + Receding and speeding, + And shocking and rocking, + And darting and parting, + And threading and spreading, + And whizzing and hissing, + And dripping and skipping, + And hitting and splitting, + And shining and twining, + And rattling and battling, + And shaking and quaking, + And pouring and roaring, + And waving and raving, + And tossing and crossing, + And flowing and going, + And running and stunning, + And foaming and roaming, + And dinning and spinning, + And dropping and hopping, + And working and jerking, + And guggling and struggling, + And heaving and cleaving, + And moaning and groaning; + And glittering and frittering, + And gathering and feathering, + And whitening and brightening, + And quivering and shivering, + And hurrying and skurrying, + And thundering and floundering; + + Dividing and gliding and sliding, + And falling and brawling and sprawling, + And driving and riving and striving, + And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, + And sounding and bounding and rounding, + And bubbling and troubling and doubling, + And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, + And clattering and battering and shattering; + + Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, + Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, + Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, + Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, + And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, + And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, + And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, + And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, + And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, + And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; + And so never ending, but always descending, + Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, + All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, + And this way the Water comes down at Lodore. + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + +_The Enchanted Shirt_ + + The king was sick. His cheek was red, + And his eye was clear and bright; + He ate and drank with kingly zest, + And peacefully snored at night. + + But he said he was sick, and a king should know, + And the 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 in 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-- + 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 couriers rode, + And fast their horses ran, + And many they saw, and to many they spoke, + But they found no Happy Man. + + They found poor men who would fain be rich, + And rich who thought they were poor; + And men who twisted their waists in stays, + And women who short hose wore. + + 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 couriers 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." + + "O yes, fair Sirs," the rascal laughed, + And his voice rang free and glad; + "An idle man has so much to do + That he never has time to be sad." + + "This is our man," the courier said; + "Our luck has led us aright. + I 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 haven't a shirt to my back." + + * * * * + + Each day to the king the reports came in + Of his unsuccessful spies, + And the sad panorama of human woes + Passed daily under his eyes. + + And he grew ashamed of his useless life, + And his maladies hatched in gloom; + He opened his windows and let the air + Of the free heaven into his room. + + And out he went in the world, and toiled + In his own appointed way; + And the people blessed him, the land was glad, + And the king was well and gay. + + JOHN HAY. + + +_Made in the Hot Weather_ + + Fountains that frisk and sprinkle + The moss they overspill; + Pools that the breezes crinkle; + The wheel beside the mill, + With its wet, weedy frill; + Wind-shadows in the wheat; + A water-cart in the street; + The fringe of foam that girds + An islet's ferneries; + A green sky's minor thirds-- + To live, I think of these! + + Of ice and glass the tinkle, + Pellucid, silver-shrill, + Peaches without a wrinkle; + Cherries and snow at will + From china bowls that fill + The senses with a sweet + Incuriousness of heat; + A melon's dripping sherds; + Cream-clotted strawberries; + Dusk dairies set with curds-- + To live, I think of these! + + Vale-lily and periwinkle; + Wet stone-crop on the sill; + The look of leaves a-twinkle + With windlets clear and still; + The feel of a forest rill + That wimples fresh and fleet + About one's naked feet; + The muzzles of drinking herds; + Lush flags and bulrushes; + The chirp of rain-bound birds-- + To live, I think of these! + + ENVOY + + Dark aisles, new packs of cards, + Mermaidens' tails, cool swards, + Dawn dews and starlit seas, + White marbles, whiter words-- + To live, I think of these! + + WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY. + + +_The Housekeeper_ + + The frugal snail, with forecast of repose, + Carries his house with him where'er he goes; + Peeps out,--and if there comes a shower of rain, + Retreats to his small domicile again. + Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well,-- + He curls up in his sanctuary shell. + He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay + Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day. + Himself he boards and lodges; both invites + And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights. + He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure + Chattels; himself is his own furniture, + And his sole riches. Wheresoe'er he roam,-- + Knock when you will,--he's sure to be at home. + + CHARLES LAMB. + + +_The Monkey_ + + Monkey, little merry fellow, + Thou art Nature's Punchinello; + Full of fun as Puck could be-- + Harlequin might learn of thee! + + * * * * + + In the very ark, no doubt, + You went frolicking about; + Never keeping in your mind + Drowned monkeys left behind! + + Have you no traditions--none, + Of the court of Solomon? + No memorial how you went + With Prince Hiram's armament? + + Look now at him! slyly peep; + He pretends he is asleep! + Fast asleep upon his bed, + With his arm beneath his head. + + Now that posture is not right, + And he is not settled quite; + There! that's better than before-- + And the knave pretends to snore! + + Ha! he is not half asleep: + See, he slyly takes a peep. + Monkey, though your eyes were shut, + You could see this little nut. + + You shall have it, pigmy brother! + What, another! and another! + Nay, your cheeks are like a sack-- + Sit down, and begin to crack. + + There the little ancient man + Cracks as fast as crack he can! + Now good-bye, you merry fellow, + Nature's primest Punchinello. + + MARY HOWITT. + + +_November_ + + No sun--no moon! + No morn--no noon-- + No dawn--no dusk--no proper time of day-- + No sky--no earthly view-- + No distance looking blue-- + No road--no street--no "t'other side the way"-- + No end to any Row-- + No indications where the crescents go-- + No top to any steeple-- + No recognitions of familiar people-- + No courtesies for showing 'em-- + No knowing 'em! + No traveling at all--no locomotion-- + No inkling of the way--no notion-- + "No go"--by land or ocean-- + No mail--no post-- + No news from any foreign coast-- + No park--no ring--no afternoon gentility-- + No company--no nobility-- + No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, + No comfortable feel in any member-- + No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, + No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds-- + November! + + THOMAS HOOD. + + +_Captain Sword_ + + Captain Sword got up one day, + Over the hills to march away, + Over the hills and through the towns, + They heard him coming across the downs, + Stepping in music and thunder sweet, + Which his drums sent before him into the street, + And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun; + For first came his foot, all marching like one, + With tranquil faces, and bristling steel, + And the flag full of honour as though it could feel, + And the officers gentle, the sword that hold + 'Gainst the shoulder, heavy with trembling gold, + And the massy tread, that in passing is heard, + Though the drums and the music say never a word. + And then came his horse, a clustering sound, + Of shapely potency forward bound. + Glossy black steeds, and riders tall + Rank after rank, each looking like all; + 'Midst moving repose and a threatening calm, + With mortal sharpness at each right arm, + And hues that painters and ladies love, + And ever the small flag blushed above. + + And ever and anon the kettledrums beat, + Hasty power 'midst order meet; + And ever and anon the drums and fifes + Came like motion's voice, and life's; + Or into the golden grandeurs fell + Of deeper instruments mingling well, + Burdens of beauty for winds to bear; + And the cymbals kissed in the shining air, + And the trumpets their visible voices rear'd, + Each looking forth with its tapestried beard, + Bidding the heavens and earth make way + For Captain Sword and his battle array. + + He, nevertheless, rode, indifferent-eyed, + As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride, + Whilst the ladies loved him the more for his scorn, + And thought him the noblest man ever was born, + And tears came into the bravest eyes, + And hearts swell'd after him double their size, + And all that was weak, and all that was strong, + Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be wrong, + Such love, though with bosom about to be gored, + Did sympathy get for brave Captain Sword. + + So half that night, as he stopped in the town, + 'Twas all one dance going merrily down, + With lights in windows and love in eyes + And a constant feeling of sweet surprise; + But all the next morning 'twas tears and sighs, + For the sound of his drums grew less and less, + Walking like carelessness off from distress; + And Captain Sword went whistling gay, + "Over the hills and far away." + + LEIGH HUNT. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_Story Poems: Romance and Reality_ + + +When the King in Lowell's poem asked his three daughters what fairings +he should bring them on his home-coming, the two elder ones demanded +jewels and rings, silks that would stand alone, and golden combs for the +hair. But the youngest Princess, she that was whiter than +thistledown--somehow it is always the youngest princess who is beloved +of the poets and romancers--asked as her fairing the Singing Leaves. The +King could not buy them in Vanity Fair, but in the deep heart of the +greenwood he found Walter, the little foot-page, who drew a thin packet +from his bosom and said, + + _"Now give you this to the Princess Anne, + The Singing Leaves are therein."_ + +She took them when the King met her at the castle gate, the lovely +little Princess with the golden crown shining dim in the blithesome gold +of her hair; took them with a smile that + + _"Lighted her tears as the summer sun + Transfigures the summer rain."_ + +The poems we give you here, young princes and princesses of the +twentieth century, are all Singing Leaves of one sort or another. There +are leaves that sing tragedies, like those in "Earl Haldan's Daughter," +"The High Tide," or "The Sands o' Dee"; there are leaves that sing +fantasies, like "The Forsaken Merman," "The Pied Piper," or the +enchanting "Lady of Shalott," weaving her magic web of colors gay. There +are Singing Leaves that grew on the Tree of Reality; leaves that tell +stories like Bret Harte's "Greyport Legend" or Browning's "Herve Riel"; +while in "Seven Times Two," the "Swan's Nest," "Lord Ullin," "Young +Lochinvar," and "Jock o' Hazledean" you have pure romances, sweet and +youthful, gay and daring. + + + + +XIII + +STORY POEMS: ROMANCE AND REALITY + + +_The Singing Leaves_ + + I + + "What fairings will ye that I bring?" + Said the King to his daughters three; + "For I to Vanity Fair am boun', + Now say what shall they be?" + + Then up and spake the eldest daughter, + That lady tall and grand: + "Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds great, + And gold rings for my hand." + + Thereafter spake the second daughter, + That was both white and red: + "For me bring silks that will stand alone, + And a gold comb for my head." + + Then came the turn of the least daughter, + That was whiter than thistle-down, + And among the gold of her blithesome hair + Dim shone the golden crown. + + "There came a bird this morning, + And sang 'neath my bower eaves, + Till I dreamed, as his music made me, + 'Ask thou for the Singing Leaves.'" + + Then the brow of the King swelled crimson + With a flush of angry scorn: + "Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, + And chosen as ye were born; + + "But she, like a thing of peasant race, + That is happy binding the sheaves;" + Then he saw her dead mother in her face, + And said, "Thou shalt have thy leaves." + + II + + He mounted and rode three days and nights + Till he came to Vanity Fair, + And 't was easy to buy the gems and the silk, + But no Singing Leaves were there. + + Then deep in the greenwood rode he, + And asked of every tree, + "Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf, + I pray you give it me!" + + But the trees all kept their counsel, + And never a word said they, + Only there sighed from the pine-tops + A music of seas far away. + + Only the pattering aspen + Made a sound of growing rain, + That fell ever faster and faster, + Then faltered to silence again. + + "Oh, where shall I find a little foot-page + That would win both hose and shoon, + And will bring to me the Singing Leaves + If they grow under the moon?" + + Then lightly turned him Walter the page, + By the stirrup as he ran: + "Now pledge you me the truesome word + Of a king and gentleman, + + "That you will give me the first, first thing + You meet at your castle-gate, + And the Princess shall get the Singing Leaves, + Or mine be a traitor's fate." + + The King's head dropt upon his breast + A moment, as it might be; + 'T will be my dog, he thought, and said, + "My faith I plight to thee." + + Then Walter took from next his heart + A packet small and thin, + "Now give you this to the Princess Anne, + The Singing Leaves are therein." + + III + + As the King rode in at his castle-gate, + A maiden to meet him ran, + And "Welcome, father!" she laughed and cried + Together, the Princess Anne. + + "Lo, here the Singing Leaves," quoth he, + "And woe, but they cost me dear!" + She took the packet, and the smile + Deepened down beneath the tear. + + It deepened down till it reached her heart, + And then gushed up again, + And lighted her tears as the sudden sun + Transfigures the summer rain. + + And the first Leaf, when it was opened, + Sang: "I am Walter the page, + And the songs I sing 'neath thy window + Are my only heritage." + + And the second Leaf sang: "But in the land + That is neither on earth nor sea, + My lute and I are lords of more + Than thrice this kingdom's fee." + + And the third Leaf sang, "Be mine! Be mine!" + And ever it sang, "Be mine!" + Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, + And said, "I am thine, thine, thine!" + + At the first Leaf she grew pale enough, + At the second she turned aside, + At the third, 't was as if a lily flushed + With a rose's red heart's tide. + + "Good counsel gave the bird," said she, + "I have my hope thrice o'er, + For they sing to my very heart," she said, + "And it sings to them evermore." + + She brought to him her beauty and truth, + But and broad earldoms three, + And he made her queen of the broader lands + He held of his lute in fee. + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + +_Seven Times Two_ + + You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, + How many soever they be, + And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges + Come over, come over to me! + + Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling + No magical sense conveys; + And bells have forgotten their old art of telling + The fortune of future days. + + "Turn again, turn again!" once they rang cheerily, + While a boy listened alone; + Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily + All by himself on a stone. + + Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are over, + And mine, they are yet to be; + No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover; + You leave the story to me. + + The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather, + And hangeth her hoods of snow; + She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: + Oh, children take long to grow! + + I wish and I wish that the spring would go faster, + Nor long summer bide so late; + And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, + For some things are ill to wait. + + I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, + While dear hands are laid on my head, + "The child is a woman--the book may close over, + For all the lessons are said." + + I wait for my story: the birds cannot sing it, + Not one, as he sits on the tree; + The bells cannot ring it, but long years, oh bring it! + Such as I wish it to be. + + JEAN INGELOW. + + +_The Long White Seam_ + + As I came round the harbor buoy, + The lights began to gleam, + No wave the land-locked harbor stirred, + The crags were white as cream; + And I marked my love by candlelight + Sewing her long white seam. + It's aye sewing ashore, my dear, + Watch and steer at sea, + It's reef and furl, and haul the line, + Set sail and think of thee. + + I climbed to reach her cottage door; + Oh sweetly my love sings! + Like a shaft of light her voice breaks forth, + My soul to meet it springs, + As the shining water leaped of old + When stirred by angel wings. + Aye longing to list anew, + Awake and in my dream, + But never a song she sang like this, + Sewing her long white seam. + + Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, + That brought me in to thee, + And peace drop down on that low roof, + For the sight that I did see, + And the voice, my dear, that rang so clear, + All for the love of me. + For O, for O, with brows bent low, + By the flickering candle's gleam, + Her wedding gown it was she wrought, + Sewing the long white seam. + + JEAN INGELOW. + + +_Hannah Binding Shoes_ + + Poor lone Hannah, + Sitting at the window, binding shoes! + Faded, wrinkled, + Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. + Bright-eyed beauty once was she, + When the bloom was on the tree;-- + Spring and winter, + Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + + Not a neighbor + Passing, nod or answer will refuse + To her whisper, + "Is there from the fishers any news?" + Oh, her heart's adrift with one + On an endless voyage gone;-- + Night and morning, + Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + + Fair young Hannah, + Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gaily wooes; + Hale and clever, + For a willing heart and hand he sues. + May-day skies are all aglow, + And the waves are laughing so! + For her wedding + Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. + + May is passing; + 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes; + Hannah shudders, + For the mild south-wester mischief brews. + Round the rocks of Marblehead, + Outward bound a schooner sped; + Silent, lonesome, + Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + + 'Tis November: + Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews, + From Newfoundland + Not a sail returning will she lose, + Whispering hoarsely: "Fishermen, + Have you, have you heard of Ben?" + Old with watching, + Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + + Twenty winters + Bleak and drear the ragged shore she views, + Twenty seasons! + Never one has brought her any news, + Still her dim eyes silently + Chase the white sails o'er the sea;-- + Hopeless, faithful, + Hannah's at the window, binding shoes. + + LUCY LARCOM. + + +_Lord Ullin's Daughter_ + + A Chieftain to the Highlands bound + Cries "Boatman, do not tarry! + And I'll give thee a silver pound + To row us o'er the ferry!" + + "Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle + This dark and stormy water?" + "O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, + And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. + + "And fast before her father's men + Three days we've fled together, + For should he find us in the glen, + My blood would stain the heather. + + "His horsemen hard behind us ride-- + Should they our steps discover, + Then who will cheer my bonny bride + When they have slain her lover!" + + Out spoke the hardy Highland wight + "I'll go, my chief, I'm ready; + It is not for your silver bright, + But for your winsome lady:-- + + "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." + + 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. + + "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, + "Though tempests round us gather; + I'll meet the raging of the skies, + But not an angry father." + + The boat has left a stormy land, + A stormy sea before her,-- + When, O! too strong for human hand + The tempest gather'd o'er her. + + And still they row'd amidst the roar + Of waters fast prevailing: + Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,-- + His wrath was changed to wailing. + + For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade + His child he did discover:-- + One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, + And one was round her lover. + + "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief + "Across this stormy water: + And I'll forgive your Highland chief, + My daughter!--O my daughter!" + + 'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, + Return or aid preventing: + The waters wild went o'er his child, + And he was left lamenting. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + +_The King of Denmark's Ride_ + + Word was brought to the Danish king, + (Hurry!) + That the love of his heart lay suffering, + And pined for the comfort his voice would bring + (Oh! ride as if you were flying!) + Better he loves each golden curl + On the brow of that Scandinavian girl + Than his rich crown-jewels of ruby and pearl; + And his Rose of the Isles is dying! + + Thirty nobles saddled with speed; + (Hurry!) + Each one mounted a gallant steed + Which he kept for battle and days of need; + (Oh! ride as though you were flying!) + Spurs were stuck in the foaming flank, + Worn-out chargers staggered and sank; + Bridles were slackened and girths were burst; + But, ride as they would, the king rode first, + For his Rose of the Isles lay dying. + + His nobles are beaten, one by one; + (Hurry!) + They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone; + His little fair page now follows alone, + For strength and for courage trying. + The king looked back at that faithful child, + Wan was the face that answering smiled. + They passed the drawbridge with clattering din, + Then he dropped, and only the king rode in + Where his Rose of the Isles lay dying. + + The king blew a blast on his bugle-horn, + (Silence!) + No answer came, but faint and forlorn + An echo returned on the cold gray morn, + Like the breath of a spirit sighing; + The castle portal stood grimly wide; + None welcomed the king from that weary ride! + For, dead in the light of the dawning day, + The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay, + Who had yearned for his voice while dying. + + The panting steed with a drooping crest + Stood weary; + The king returned from the chamber of rest, + The thick sobs choking in his breast, + And that dumb companion eying, + The tears gushed forth, which he strove to check; + He bowed his head on his charger's neck,-- + "O steed that every nerve didst strain, + Dear steed! our ride hath been in vain + To the halls where my love lay dying." + + CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON. + + +_The Shepherd to His Love_ + + Come live with me, and be my Love, + And we will all the pleasures prove, + That hills and valleys, dale and field, + And all the craggy mountains yield. + + There will we sit upon the rocks, + And see the shepherds feed their flocks + By shallow rivers, to whose falls + Melodious birds sing madrigals. + + There will I make thee beds of roses, + And a thousand fragrant posies, + A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, + Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle; + + A gown made of the finest wool, + Which from our pretty lambs we pull; + Fair-lined slippers for the cold, + With buckles of the purest gold; + + A belt of straw and ivy-buds, + With coral clasps and amber studs: + And if these pleasures may thee move, + Come live with me, and be my Love. + + Thy silver dishes for thy meat, + As precious as the gods do eat, + Shall, on an ivory table, be + Prepared each day for thee and me. + + The shepherd swains shall dance and sing + For thy delight each May-morning: + If these delights thy mind may move, + Then live with me, and be my Love. + + CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. + + +_Ballad_ + +A.D. 1400 + + It was Earl Haldan's daughter, + She looked across the sea; + She looked across the water, + And long and loud laughed she: + "The locks of six princesses + Must be my marriage fee: + So, hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny boat, + Who comes a-wooing me!" + + It was Earl Haldan's daughter, + She walked along the sand, + When she was aware of a knight so fair, + Came sailing to the land. + His sails were all of velvet, + His mast of beaten gold, + And "Hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny boat. + Who saileth here so bold?" + + "The locks of five princesses + I won beyond the sea; + I shore their golden tresses + To fringe a cloak for thee. + One handful yet is wanting, + But one of all the tale; + So, hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny boat, + Furl up thy velvet sail!" + + He leapt into the water, + That rover young and bold; + He gript Earl Haldan's daughter, + He shore her locks of gold: + "Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, + The tale is full to-day. + Now, hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny boat, + Sail Westward ho, and away!" + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +_Romance of the Swan's Nest_ + + Little Ellie sits alone + 'Mid the beeches of a meadow, + By a stream-side on the grass; + And the trees are showering down + Doubles of their leaves in shadow + On her shining hair and face. + + She has thrown her bonnet by; + And her feet she has been dipping + In the shallow water's flow-- + Now she holds them nakedly + In her hands, all sleek and dripping + While she rocketh to and fro. + + Little Ellie sits alone, + And the smile she softly uses, + Fills the silence like a speech; + While she thinks what shall be done,-- + And the sweetest pleasure chooses, + For her future within reach. + + Little Ellie in her smile + Chooseth ... "I will have a lover, + Riding on a steed of steeds! + He shall love me without guile; + And to _him_ I will discover + That swan's nest among the reeds. + + "And the steed shall be red-roan + And the lover shall be noble. + With an eye that takes the breath, + And the lute he plays upon, + Shall strike ladies into trouble, + As his sword strikes men to death. + + "And the steed it shall be shod + All in silver, housed in azure, + And the mane shall swim the wind: + And the hoofs along the sod + Shall flash onward and keep measure, + Till the shepherds look behind. + + "But my lover will not prize + All the glory that he rides in, + When he gazes in my face. + He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes + Build the shrine my soul abides in; + And I kneel here for thy grace.' + + "Then, ay, then--he shall kneel low + With the red-roan steed anear him + Which shall seem to understand-- + Till I answer, 'Rise and go! + For the world must love and fear him + Whom I gift with heart and hand.' + + "Then he will arise so pale, + I shall feel my own lips tremble + With a _yes_ I must not say-- + Nathless maiden-brave, 'Farewell,' + I will utter and dissemble-- + 'Light to-morrow with to-day.' + + "Then he'll ride among the hills + To the wide world past the river, + There to put away all wrong: + To make straight distorted wills, + And to empty the broad quiver + Which the wicked bear along. + + "Three times shall a young foot-page + Swim the stream and climb the mountain + And kneel down beside my feet-- + 'Lo! my master sends this gage, + Lady, for thy pity's counting! + What wilt thou exchange for it?' + + "And the first time, I will send + A white rosebud for a guerdon,-- + And the second time a glove: + But the third time--I may bend + From my pride, and answer--'Pardon-- + If he comes to take my love.' + + "Then the young foot-page will run-- + Then my lover will ride faster, + Till he kneeleth at my knee: + 'I am a duke's eldest son! + Thousand serfs do call me master,-- + But, O Love, I love but _thee_!' + + "He will kiss me on the mouth + Then; and lead me as a lover, + Through the crowds that praise his deeds: + And, when soul-tied by one troth, + Unto him I will discover + That swan's nest among the reeds." + + Little Ellie, with her smile + Not yet ended, rose up gayly, + Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe-- + And went homeward, round a mile, + Just to see, as she did daily, + What more eggs were with the _two_. + + Pushing through the elm-tree copse + Winding by the stream, light-hearted, + Where the osier pathway leads-- + Past the boughs she stoops--and stops! + Lo! the wild swan had deserted-- + And a rat had gnawed the reeds. + + Ellie went home sad and slow: + If she found the lover ever, + With his red-roan steed of steeds, + Sooth I know not! but I know + She could never show him--never, + That swan's nest among the reeds! + + ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. + + +_Lochinvar_ + + Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west; + Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; + And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; + He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. + So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, + There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. + + He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; + He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; + But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, + The bride had consented, the gallant came late: + For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, + Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. + + So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, + 'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all: + Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword + (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), + "Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, + Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" + + "I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied-- + Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; + And now I am come, with this lost love of mine + To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. + There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far + That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." + + The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up: + He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. + She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, + With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. + He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,-- + "Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. + + So stately his form, and so lovely her face, + That never a hall such a galliard did grace; + While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, + And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; + And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far + To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." + + One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, + When they 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! + "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur! + They'll have fleet steeds that follow!" quoth young Lochinvar. + + There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; + Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; + There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee; + But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. + So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, + Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + _From "Marmion."_ + + +_Jock of Hazeldean_ + + "Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? + Why weep ye by the tide? + I'll wed ye to my youngest son, + And ye sall be his bride; + And ye sall be his bride, ladie, + Sae comely to be seen"-- + But aye she loot the tears down fa' + For Jock of Hazeldean. + + "Now let this wilfu' grief be done, + And dry that cheek so pale; + Young Frank is chief of Errington, + And lord of Langley-dale; + His step is first in peaceful ha', + His sword in battle keen"-- + But aye she loot the tears down fa' + For Jock of Hazeldean. + + "A chain of gold ye sall not lack, + Nor braid to bind your hair; + Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, + Nor palfrey fresh and fair; + And you, the foremost o' them a', + Shall ride our forest queen"-- + But aye she loot the tears down fa' + For Jock of Hazeldean. + + The kirk was decked at morning-tide, + The tapers glimmered fair; + The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, + And dame and knight are there. + They sought her baith by bower and ha', + The ladie was not seen! + She's o'er the Border, and awa' + Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + +_The Lady of Shalott_ + +Part I + + On either side the river lie + Long fields of barley and of rye, + That clothe the wold and meet the sky; + And through the fields the road runs by + To many-towered Camelot; + And up and down the people go, + Gazing where the lilies blow + Round an island there below, + The island of Shalott. + + Willows whiten, aspens quiver, + Little breezes dusk and shiver + Through the wave that runs forever + By the island in the river + Flowing down to Camelot; + Four gray walls, and four gray towers, + Overlook a space of flowers, + And the silent isle imbowers + The Lady of Shalott. + + By the margin, willow-veiled, + Slide the heavy barges trailed + By slow horses; and unhailed + The shallop flitteth silken-sailed, + Skimming down to Camelot: + But who hath seen her wave her hand? + Or at the casement seen her stand? + Or is she known in all the land, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Only reapers, reaping early + In among the bearded barley, + Hear a song that echoes cheerly, + From the river winding clearly, + Down to towered Camelot: + And by the moon the reaper weary, + Piling sheaves in uplands airy, + Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy + Lady of Shalott." + + Part II + + There she weaves by night and day + A magic web with colors gay. + She has heard a whisper say, + A curse is on her if she stay + To look down to Camelot. + She knows not what the curse may be + And so she weaveth steadily, + And little other care hath she, + The Lady of Shalott. + + And moving thro' a mirror clear + That hangs before her all the year, + Shadows of the world appear. + There she sees the highway near + Winding down to Camelot; + There the river eddy whirls, + And there the surly village churls, + And the red cloaks of market-girls, + Pass onward from Shalott. + + Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, + An abbot on an ambling pad, + Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, + Or long-haired page in crimson clad, + Goes by to towered Camelot; + And sometimes thro' the mirror blue + The knights come riding two and two: + She hath no loyal knight and true, + The Lady of Shalott. + + But in her web she still delights + To weave the mirror's magic sights, + For often thro' the silent nights + A funeral, with plumes and lights. + And music, went to Camelot: + Or when the moon was overhead, + Came two young lovers lately wed; + "I am half sick of shadows," said + The Lady of Shalott. + +Part III + + A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, + He rode between the barley-sheaves, + The sun came dazzling through the leaves, + And flamed upon the brazen greaves + Of bold Sir Lancelot. + A red-cross knight forever kneeled + To a lady in his shield, + That sparkled on the yellow field, + Beside remote Shalott. + + The gemmy bridle glittered free, + Like to some branch of stars we see + Hung in the golden Galaxy. + The bridle-bells rang merrily. + As he rode down to Camelot: + And from his blazoned baldric slung + A mighty silver bugle hung, + And as he rode his armor rung, + Beside remote Shalott. + + All in the blue unclouded weather + Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather, + The helmet and the helmet-feather + Burned like one burning flame together, + As he rode down to Camelot. + As often through the purple night, + Below the starry clusters bright, + Some bearded meteor, trailing light, + Moves over still Shalott. + + His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed; + On burnished hooves his war-horse trode; + From underneath his helmet flowed + His coal-black curls as on he rode, + As he rode down to Camelot. + From the bank and from the river + He flashed into the crystal mirror, + "Tirra lirra," by the river + Sang Sir Lancelot. + + She left the web, she left the loom, + She made three paces thro' the room, + She saw the water lily bloom, + She saw the helmet and the plume, + She looked down to Camelot. + Out flew the web and floated wide; + The mirror cracked from side to side; + "The curse is come upon me," cried + The Lady of Shalott. + +Part IV + + In the stormy east-wind straining, + The pale yellow woods were waning, + The broad stream in his banks complaining, + Heavily the low sky raining + Over towered Camelot; + Down she came and found a boat + Beneath a willow left afloat, + And round about the prow she wrote, + _The Lady of Shalott._ + + And down the river's dim expanse-- + Like some bold seer in a trance, + Seeing all his own mischance-- + With a glassy countenance + Did she look to Camelot. + And at the closing of the day + She loosed the chain, and down she lay; + The broad stream bore her far away, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Lying, robed in snowy white + That loosely flew to left and right-- + The leaves upon her falling light-- + Thro' the noises of the night + She floated down to Camelot: + And as the boat-head wound along + The willowy hills and fields among, + They heard her singing her last song, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Heard a carol, mournful, holy, + Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, + Till her blood was frozen slowly, + And her eyes were darkened wholly, + Turned to towered Camelot; + For ere she reached upon the tide + The first house by the water-side, + Singing in her song she died, + The Lady of Shalott. + + Under tower and balcony, + By garden wall and gallery, + A gleaming shape she floated by, + Dead-pale between the houses high, + Silent into Camelot. + Out upon the wharfs they came, + Knight and burgher, lord and dame, + And round the prow they read her name, + _The Lady of Shalott._ + + Who is this? and what is here, + And in the lighted palace near + Died the sound of royal cheer; + And they crossed themselves for fear, + All the knights at Camelot: + But Lancelot mused a little space; + He said, "She has a lovely face; + God in his mercy lend her grace, + The Lady of Shalott." + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire_ + + The old mayor climbed the belfry tower, + The ringers ran by two, by three; + "Pull, if ye never pulled before; + Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. + "Play uppe, play uppe, O Boston bells! + Play all your changes, all your swells, + Play uppe 'The Brides of Enderby.'" + + Men say it was a stolen tyde-- + The Lord that sent it, He knows all; + But in myne ears doth still abide + The message that the bells let fall: + And there was nought of strange, beside + The flights of mews and peewits pied + By millions crouched on the old sea wall. + + I sat and spun within the doore, + My thread brake off, I raised myne eyes; + The level sun, like ruddy ore, + Lay sinking in the barren skies; + And dark against day's golden death + She moved where Lindis wandereth, + My sonne's faire wife, Elizabeth. + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews were falling, + Farre away I heard her song. + "Cusha! Cusha!" all along; + Where the reedy Lindis floweth, + Floweth, floweth, + From the meads where melick groweth + Faintly came her milking song.-- + + "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling, + "For the dews will soone be falling; + Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, + Quit the stalks of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + From the clovers lift your head; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot, + Come uppe Jetty, rise and follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + + If it be long, aye, long ago, + When I beginne to think howe long, + Againe I hear the Lindis flow, + Swift as an arrowe, sharpe and strong; + And all the aire it seemeth mee + Bin full of floating bells (sayth shee), + That ring the tune of Enderby. + + Alle fresh the level pasture lay, + And not a shadowe mote be seene, + Save where full fyve good miles away + The steeple towered from out the greene; + And lo! the great bell farre and wide + Was heard in all the country side + That Saturday at eventide. + + The swannerds where their sedges are + Moved on in sunset's golden breath, + The shepherde lads I heard afarre, + And my sonne's wife, Elizabeth; + Till floating o'er the grassy sea + Came downe that kyndly message free, + The "Brides of Mavis Enderby." + + Then some looked uppe into the sky, + And all along where Lindis flows + To where the goodly vessels lie, + And where the lordly steeple shows. + They sayde, "And why should this thing be, + What danger lowers by land or sea? + They ring the tune of Enderby! + + "For evil news from Mablethorpe, + Of pyrate galleys warping down; + For shippes ashore beyond the scorpe, + They have not spared to wake the towne: + But while the west bin red to see, + And storms be none, and pyrates flee, + Why ring 'The Brides of Enderby'?" + + I looked without, and lo! my sonne + Came riding downe with might and main: + He raised a shout as he drew on, + Till all the welkin rang again, + "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" + (A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth.) + + "The olde sea wall (he cried) is downe, + The rising tide comes on apace, + And boats adrift in yonder towne + Go sailing uppe the market-place." + He shook as one that looks on death: + "God save you, mother!" straight he saith; + "Where is my wife, Elizabeth?" + + "Good sonne, where Lindis winds away + With her two bairns I marked her long; + And ere yon bells beganne to play + Afar I heard her milking song." + He looked across the grassy sea, + To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!" + They rang "The Brides of Enderby!" + + With that he cried and beat his breast; + For lo! along the river's bed + A mighty eygre reared his crest, + And uppe the Lindis raging sped. + It swept with thunderous noises loud; + Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud, + Or like a demon in a shroud. + + And rearing Lindis backward pressed, + Shook all her trembling bankes amaine; + Then madly at the eygre's breast + Flung uppe her weltering walls again. + Then bankes came downe with ruin and rout-- + Then beaten foam flew round about-- + Then all the mighty floods were out. + + So farre, so fast the eygre drave, + The heart had hardly time to beat, + Before a shallow seething wave + Sobbed in the grasses at oure feet: + The feet had hardly time to flee + Before it brake against the knee, + And all the world was in the sea. + + Upon the roofe we sate that night, + The noise of bells went sweeping by: + I marked the lofty beacon light + Stream from the church tower, red and high-- + A lurid mark and dread to see; + And awsome bells they were to mee, + That in the dark rang "Enderby." + + They rang the sailor lads to guide + From roofe to roofe who fearless rowed; + And I--my sonne was at my side. + And yet the ruddy beacon glowed; + And yet he moaned beneath his breath, + "O come in life, or come in death! + O lost! my love, Elizabeth." + + And didst thou visit him no more? + Thou didst, thou didst my daughter deare; + The waters laid thee at his doore, + Ere yet the early dawn was clear. + Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace, + The lifted sun shone on thy face, + Downe drifted to thy dwelling-place. + + That flow strewed wrecks about the grass, + That ebbe swept out the flocks to sea; + A fatal ebbe and flow, alas! + To manye more than myne and me: + But each will mourn his own (she saith) + And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath + Than my sonne's wife, Elizabeth. + + I shall never hear her more + By the reedy Lindis shore, + "Cusha, Cusha, Cusha!" calling, + Ere the early dews be falling; + I shall never hear her song, + "Cusha, Cusha!" all along, + Where the sunny Lindis floweth, + Goeth, floweth; + From the meads where melick groweth. + When the water winding down, + Onward floweth to the town. + + I shall never see her more + Where the reeds and rushes quiver. + Shiver, quiver; + Stand beside the sobbing river, + Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling, + To the sandy lonesome shore; + I shall never hear her calling, + "Leave your meadow grasses mellow, + Mellow, mellow; + + Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow; + Come uppe Whitefoot, come uppe Lightfoot; + Quit your pipes of parsley hollow, + Hollow, hollow; + Come uppe Lightfoot, rise and follow; + Lightfoot, Whitefoot, + From your clovers lift the head; + Come uppe Jetty, follow, follow, + Jetty, to the milking shed." + + JEAN INGELOW. + + +_The Forsaken Merman_ + + Come, dear children, let us away; + Down and away below. + Now my brothers call from the bay; + Now the great winds shoreward blow; + Now the salt tides seaward flow; + Now the wild white horses play, + Champ and chafe and toss in the spray. + Children dear, let us away, + This way, this way! + + Call her once before you go. + Call once yet, + In a voice that she will know: + "Margaret! Margaret!" + Children's voices should be dear + (Call once more) to a mother's ear: + Children's voices wild with pain. + Surely she will come again. + Call her once, and come away. + This way, this way! + "Mother dear, we cannot stay." + The wild white horses foam and fret, + Margaret! Margaret! + + Come, dear children, come away down. + Call no more. + One last look at the white-walled town, + And the little gray church on the windy shore, + Then come down. + She will not come though you call all day. + Come away, come away. + + Children dear, was it yesterday + We heard the sweet bells over the bay? + In the caverns where we lay, + Through the surf and through the swell, + The far-off sound of a silver bell? + Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep, + Where the winds are all asleep; + Where the spent lights quiver and gleam; + Where the salt weed sways in the stream; + Where the sea-beasts rang'd all round + Feed in the ooze of their pasture ground; + Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, + Dry their mail and bask in the brine; + Where great whales come sailing by, + Sail and sail, with unshut eye, + Round the world forever and aye? + When did music come this way? + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, was it yesterday + (Call yet once) that she went away? + Once she sat with you and me, + On a red-gold throne in the heart of the sea. + And the youngest sat on her knee. + She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well, + When down swung the sound of the far-off bell, + She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea, + She said, "I must go, for my kinsfolk pray + In the little gray church on the shore to-day. + + 'Twill be Easter-time in the world--ah me! + And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee." + I said, "Go up, dear heart, through the waves: + Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves." + She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay. + Children dear, was it yesterday? + + Children dear, were we long alone? + The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan; + "Long prayers," I said, "in the world they say." + "Come," I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay. + We went up the beach in the sandy down + Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-wall'd town, + Through the narrow paved streets, where all was still, + To the little gray church on the windy hill. + From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers, + But we stood without in the cold blowing airs. + We climb'd on the graves, on the stones worn with rains, + And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes. + She sate by the pillar; we saw her clear; + "Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here. + Dear heart," I said, "we are here alone. + The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan." + But, ah, she gave me never a look, + For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book. + Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door. + Come away, children, call no more, + Come away, come down, call no more. + + Down, down, down, + Down to the depths of the sea, + She sits at her wheel in the humming town, + Singing most joyfully. + Hark what she sings: "O joy, O joy, + For the humming street, and the child with its toy, + For the priest and the bell, and the holy well, + For the wheel where I spun, + And the blessed light of the sun." + And so she sings her fill, + Singing most joyfully, + Till the shuttle falls from her hand, + And the whizzing wheel stands still. + She steals to the window and looks at the sand; + And over the sand at the sea; + And her eyes are set in a stare; + And anon there breaks a sigh, + And anon there drops a tear, + From a sorrow clouded eye, + And a heart sorrow laden, + A long, long sigh, + For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden, + And the gleam of her golden hair. + + Come away, away, children, + Come children, come down. + The hoarse wind blows colder; + Lights shine in the town. + She will start from her slumber + When gusts shake the door; + She will hear the winds howling, + Will hear the waves roar. + We shall see, while above us + The waves roar and whirl, + A ceiling of amber, + A pavement of pearl. + Singing, "Here came a mortal, + But faithless was she, + And alone dwell forever + The kings of the sea." + + But, children, at midnight, + When soft the winds blow, + When clear falls the moonlight, + When spring-tides are low; + When sweet airs come seaward + From heaths starr'd with broom; + And high rocks throw mildly + On the blanch'd sands a gloom: + Up the still, glistening beaches, + Up the creeks we will hie; + Over banks of bright seaweed + The ebb-tide leaves dry. + We will gaze from the sand-hills + At the white sleeping town; + At the church on the hillside-- + And then come back, down. + Singing, "There dwells a loved one, + But cruel is she: + She left lonely forever + The kings of the sea." + + MATTHEW ARNOLD. + + +_The Sands of Dee_ + + I + + "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee;" + The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, + And all alone went she. + + II + + 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. + + III + + "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair-- + A tress o' golden hair, + A drowned maiden's hair + Above the nets at sea? + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes on Dee." + + IV + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea: + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home + Across the sands of Dee! + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +_The "Gray Swan"_ + + "Oh, tell me, sailor, tell me true, + Is my little lad, my Elihu, + A-sailing with your ship?" + The sailor's eyes were dim with dew. + "Your little lad, your Elihu?" + He said with trembling lip,-- + "What little lad? what ship?" + + "What little lad? as if there could be + Another such a one as he! + What little lad, do you say? + Why Elihu, that took to the sea + The moment I put him off my knee! + It was just the other day + The 'Gray Swan' sailed away." + + "The other day?" The sailor's eyes + Stood open with a great surprise: + "The other day? the 'Swan'?" + His heart began in his throat to rise. + "Ay, ay, sir, here in the cupboard lies + The jacket he had on." + "And so your lad is gone?" + + "Gone with the 'Swan'?"--"And did she stand + With her anchor clutching hold of the sand + For a month, and never stir?" + "Why, to be sure! I've seen from the land, + Like a lover kissing his lady's hand, + The wild sea kissing her,-- + A sight to remember, sir!" + + "But, my good mother, do you know + All this was twenty years ago? + I stood on the 'Gray Swan's' deck, + And to that lad I saw you throw, + Taking it off as it might be,--so!-- + The kerchief from your neck." + "Ay, and he'll bring it back!" + + "And did the little lawless lad, + That has made you sick and made you sad, + Sail with the 'Gray Swan's' crew?" + "Lawless! The man is going mad! + The best boy ever mother had!-- + Be sure he sailed with the crew! + What would you have him do?" + + "And has he never written line, + Nor sent you word, nor made you sign, + To say he was alive?" + "Hold! If 'twas wrong, the wrong is mine; + Besides, he may lie in the brine; + And could he write from the grave? + Tut, man! what would you have?" + + "Gone twenty years,--a long, long cruise! + 'Twas wicked thus your love to abuse! + But if the lad still live, + And come back home, think you you can + Forgive him?" "Miserable man! + You're mad as the sea, you rave! + What have I to forgive?" + + The sailor twitched his shirt so blue, + And from within his bosom drew + The kerchief. She was wild. + "O God, my Father! is it true? + My little lad, my Elihu! + My blessed boy, my child! + My dead, my living child!" + + ALICE CARY. + + +_The Wreck of the Hesperus_ + + It was the schooner Hesperus + That sailed the wintry sea; + And the skipper had taken his little daughter + To bear him company. + + Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, + Her cheeks like the dawn of day, + And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, + That ope in the month of May. + + The skipper he stood beside the helm, + His pipe was in his mouth, + And he watched how the veering flaw did blow + The smoke now West, now South. + + Then up and spake an old Sailor + Had sailed to the Spanish main, + "I pray thee put into yonder port, + For I fear a hurricane. + + "Last night the moon had a golden ring, + And to-night no moon we see!" + The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, + And a scornful laugh laughed he. + + Colder and colder blew the wind, + A gale from the Northeast; + The snow fell hissing in the brine, + And the billows frothed like yeast. + + Down came the storm, and smote amain + The vessel in its strength; + She shuddered and paused like a frighted steed, + Then leaped her cable's length. + + "Come hither! come hither! my little daughter, + And do not tremble so; + For I can weather the roughest gale + That ever wind did blow." + + He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat + Against the stinging blast; + He cut a rope from a broken spar, + And bound her to the mast. + + "O father! I hear the church-bells ring; + O say, what may it be?" + "'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!" + And he steered for the open sea. + + "O father! I hear the sound of guns; + O say, what may it be?" + "Some ship in distress, that cannot live + In such an angry sea!" + + "O father I see a gleaming light; + O say, what may it be?" + But the father answered never a word, + A frozen corpse was he. + + Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, + With his face turned to the skies, + The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow + On his fixed and glassy eyes. + + Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed + That saved she might be; + And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave + On the Lake of Galilee. + + And fast through the midnight dark and drear, + Through the whistling sleet and snow, + Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept + Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. + + And ever the fitful gusts between + A sound came from the land; + It was the sound of the trampling surf + On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. + + The breakers were right beneath her bows, + She drifted a dreary wreck, + And a whooping billow swept the crew + Like icicles from her deck. + + She struck where the white and fleecy waves + Looked soft as carded wool, + But the cruel rocks they gored her side + Like the horns of an angry bull. + + Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, + With the 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 on her breast, + The salt tears in her eyes; + And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed, + On the billows fall and rise. + + Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, + In the midnight and the snow! + Christ save us all from a death like this + On the reef of Norman's Woe! + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + +_A Greyport Legend_ + + They ran through the streets of the seaport town; + They peered from the decks of the ships that lay: + The cold sea-fog that comes whitening down + Was never as cold or white as they. + "Ho, Starbuck, and Pinckney, and Tenterden, + Run for your shallops, gather your men, + Scatter your boats on the lower bay!" + + Good cause for fear! In the thick midday + The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, + Filled with the children in happy play, + Parted its moorings and drifted clear; + Drifted clear beyond reach or call,-- + Thirteen children they were in all,-- + All adrift in the lower bay! + + Said a hard-faced skipper, "God help us all! + She will not float till the turning tide!" + Said his wife, "My darling will hear _my_ call, + Whether in sea or heaven she bide!" + And she lifted a quavering voice and high, + Wild and strange as a sea-bird's cry, + Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. + + The fog drove down on each laboring crew, + Veiled each from each and the sky and shore; + There was not a sound but the breath they drew, + And the lap of water and creak of oar. + And they felt the breath of the downs fresh blown + O'er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, + But not from the lips that had gone before. + + They came no more. But they tell the tale + That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, + The mackerel-fishers shorten sail; + For the signal they know will bring relief, + For the voices of children, still at play + In a phantom-hulk that drifts alway + Through channels whose waters never fail. + + It is but a foolish shipman's tale, + A theme for a poet's idle page; + But still, when the mists of doubt prevail, + And we lie becalmed by the shores of age, + We hear from the misty troubled shore + The voice of the children gone before, + Drawing the soul to its anchorage! + + BRET HARTE. + + +_The Glove and the Lions_ + + King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, + And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; + The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, + And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed: + And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, + Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below. + + Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; + They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; + With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, + Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; + The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; + Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there." + + De Lorge's love o'erheard the king,--a beauteous lively dame + With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: + She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; + He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; + King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; + I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine." + + She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; + He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: + His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, + Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. + "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: + "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that." + + LEIGH HUNT. + + +_How's My Boy?_ + + Ho, sailor of the sea! + How's my boy--my boy? + "What's your boy's name, good wife, + And in what good ship sailed he?" + + My boy John-- + He that went to sea-- + What care I for the ship, sailor? + My boy's my boy to me. + + You come back from sea + And not know my John? + I might as well have asked some landsman + Yonder down in the town. + There's not an ass in all the parish + But he knows my John. + + How's my boy--my boy? + And unless you let me know + I'll swear you are no sailor, + Blue jacket or no, + Brass button or no, sailor, + Anchor and crown or no! + Sure his ship was the _Jolly Briton_-- + "Speak low, woman, speak low!" + + And why should I speak low, sailor, + About my own boy John? + If I was loud as I am proud + I'd sing him over the town! + Why should I speak low, sailor? + "That good ship went down." + + How's my boy--my boy? + What care I for the ship, sailor, + I never was aboard her. + Be she afloat, or be she aground, + Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound + Her owners can afford her! + I say, how's my John? + "Every man on board went down, + Every man aboard her." + + How's my boy--my boy? + What care I for the men, sailor? + I'm not their mother-- + How's my boy--my boy? + Tell me of him and no other! + How's my boy--my boy? + + SYDNEY DOBELL. + + +_The Child-Musician_ + + He had played for his lordship's levee, + He had played for her ladyship's whim, + Till the poor little head was heavy, + And the poor little brain would swim. + + And the face grew peaked and eerie, + And the large eyes strange and bright; + And they said--too late--"He is weary! + He shall rest, for at least to-night!" + + But at dawn, when the birds were waking, + As they watched in the silent room, + With the sound of a strained cord breaking, + A something snapped in the gloom. + + 'Twas the string of his violoncello, + And they heard him stir in his bed:-- + "Make room for a tired little fellow, + "Kind God!" was the last he said. + + AUSTIN DOBSON. + + +_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; + "Good speed!" cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew, + "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 check-strap, chained slacker the bit, + Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. + + 'Twas a 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 Dueffeld 'twas morning as plain as could be; + And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime-- + So Joris broke silence with "Yet there is time!" + + 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,--ever that glance + O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance; + And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon + His fierce lips shook upward in galloping on. + + By Hasselt Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, "Stay spur! + Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her; + We'll remember at Aix"--for one heard the quick wheeze + Of her chest, saw the 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 "Gallop," gasped Joris, "for Aix is in sight!" + + "How they'll greet us!"--and all in a moment his roan + Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; + And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight + 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 stirrups, leaned, patted his ear, + Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer-- + Clapped my hands, laughed and sung, any noise, bad or good, + Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. + + And all I remember is friends flocking round, + As I sate 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 Ghent. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + +_The Inchcape Rock_ + + No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, + The ship was still as she could be; + Her sails from heaven received no motion; + Her keel was steady in the ocean. + + Without either sign or sound of their shock, + The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; + So little they rose, so little they fell, + They did not move the Inchcape Bell. + + The Abbot of Aberbrothok + Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; + On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, + And over the waves its warning rung. + + When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, + The mariners heard the warning Bell; + And then they knew the perilous Rock, + And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. + + The Sun in heaven was shining gay; + All things were joyful on that day; + The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round. + And there was joyance in their sound. + + The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen + A darker speck on the ocean green; + Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, + And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck. + + He felt the cheering power of spring; + It made him whistle, it made him sing; + His heart was mirthful to excess, + But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. + + His eye was on the Inchcape float; + Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat, + And row me to the Inchcape Rock, + And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + + The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, + And to the Inchcape Rock they go; + Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, + And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float. + + Down sunk the Bell with a gurgling sound; + The bubbles rose and burst around; + Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock + Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." + + Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away; + He scour'd the seas for many a day; + And now, grown rich with plunder'd store, + He steers his course for Scotland's shore. + + So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky, + They cannot see the Sun on high; + The wind hath blown a gale all day; + At evening it hath died away. + + On the deck the Rover takes his stand; + So dark it is they see no land. + Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be lighter soon, + For there is the dawn of the rising Moon." + + "Canst hear," said one, "the breakers roar? + For methinks we should be near the shore." + "Now where we are I cannot tell, + But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." + + They hear no sound; the swell is strong; + Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, + Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,-- + "Oh God! it is the Inchcape Rock!" + + Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; + He curs'd himself in his despair; + The waves rush in on every side; + The ship is sinking beneath the tide. + + But, even in his dying fear, + One dreadful sound could the Rover hear-- + A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, + The fiends below were ringing his knell. + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + +_A Night With a Wolf_ + + Little one, come to my knee! + Hark, how the rain is pouring + Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, + And the wind in the woods a-roaring! + + Hush, my darling, and listen, + Then pay for the story with kisses; + Father was lost in the pitch-black night, + In just such a storm as this is! + + High up on the lonely mountains, + Where the wild men watched and waited; + Wolves in the forest, and bears in the bush, + And I on my path belated. + + The rain and the night together + Came down, and the wind came after, + Bending the props of the pine-tree roof, + And snapping many a rafter. + + I crept along in the darkness, + Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,-- + Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, + And a sheltering rock behind it. + + There, from the blowing and raining, + Crouching, I sought to hide me: + Something rustled, two green eyes shone, + And a wolf lay down beside me. + + Little one, be not frightened; + I and the wolf together, + Side by side, through the long, long night + Hid from the awful weather. + + His wet fur pressed against me; + Each of us warmed the other; + Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, + That beast and man was brother. + + And when the falling forest + No longer crashed in warning, + Each of us went from our hiding-place + Forth in the wild, wet morning. + + Darling, kiss me in payment! + Hark, how the wind is roaring; + Father's house is a better place + When the stormy rain is pouring! + + BAYARD TAYLOR. + + +_The Dove of Dacca_ + + The freed dove flew to the Rajah's tower-- + Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings-- + And the thorns have covered the city of Gaur. + Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! + Little white traitor, with woe on thy wings! + + The Rajah of Dacca rode under the wall; + He set in his bosom a dove of flight-- + "If she return, be sure that I fall." + Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! + Pressed to his heart in the thick of the fight. + + "Fire the palace, the fort, and the keep-- + Leave to the foeman no spoil at all. + In the flame of the palace lie down and sleep + If the dove, if the dove--if the homing dove + Come and alone to the palace wall." + + The Kings of the North they were scattered abroad-- + The Rajah of Dacca he slew them all. + Hot from slaughter he stooped at the ford,-- + And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! + She thought of her cote on the palace wall. + + She opened her wings and she flew away-- + Fluttered away beyond recall; + She came to the palace at break of day. + Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! + Flying so fast for a kingdom's fall. + + The Queens of Dacca they slept in flame-- + Slept in the flame of the palace old-- + To save their honour from Moslem shame. + And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! + She cooed to her young where the smoke-cloud rolled. + + The Rajah of Dacca rode far and fleet, + Followed as fast as a horse could fly, + He came and the palace was black at his feet; + And the dove--the dove--oh, the homing dove! + Circled alone in the stainless sky. + + So the dove flew to the Rajah's tower-- + Fled from the slaughter of Moslem kings; + So the thorns covered the city of Gaur, + And Dacca was lost for a white dove's wings. + Dove--dove--oh, homing dove! + Dacca is lost from the roll of the kings! + + RUDYARD KIPLING. + + +_The Abbot of Inisfalen_ + + I + + The Abbot of Inisfalen + Awoke ere dawn of day; + Under the dewy green leaves + Went he forth to pray. + + The lake around his island + Lay smooth and dark and deep, + And, wrapt in a misty stillness, + The mountains were all asleep. + + Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, + When the dawn was dim and gray; + The prayers of his holy office + He faithfully 'gan say. + + Low kneel'd the Abbot Cormac, + When the dawn was waxing red, + And for his sins' forgiveness + A solemn prayer he said. + + Low kneel'd that holy Abbot + When the dawn was waxing clear; + And he pray'd with loving-kindness + For his convent brethren dear. + + Low kneel'd that blessed Abbot, + When the dawn was waxing bright; + He pray'd a great prayer for Ireland, + He pray'd with all his might. + + Low kneel'd that good old father, + While the sun began to dart; + He pray'd a prayer for all mankind, + He pray'd it from his heart. + + II + + The Abbot of Inisfalen + Arose upon his feet; + He heard a small bird singing, + And, oh, but it sung sweet! + + He heard a white bird singing well + Within a holly-tree; + A song so sweet and happy + Never before heard he. + + It sung upon a hazel, + It sung upon a thorn; + He had never heard such music + Since the hour that he was born. + + It sung upon a sycamore, + It sung upon a briar; + To follow the song and hearken + This Abbot could never tire. + + Till at last he well bethought him + He might no longer stay; + So he bless'd the little white singing-bird, + And gladly went his way. + + III + + But when he came to his Abbey walls, + He found a wondrous change; + He saw no friendly faces there, + For every face was strange. + + The strangers spoke unto him; + And he heard from all and each + The foreign tone of the Sassenach, + Not wholesome Irish speech. + + Then the oldest monk came forward, + In Irish tongue spake he: + "Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress, + And who hath given it to thee?" + + "I wear the holy Augustine's dress, + And Cormac is my name, + The Abbot of this good Abbey + By grace of God I am. + + "I went forth to pray, at the dawn of day; + And when my prayers were said, + I hearkened awhile to a little bird + That sung above my head." + + The monks to him made answer, + "Two hundred years have gone o'er, + Since our Abbot Cormac went through the gate, + And never was heard of more. + + "Matthias now is our Abbot, + And twenty have passed away. + The stranger is lord of Ireland; + We live in an evil day." + + IV + + "Now give me absolution; + For my time is come," said he. + And they gave him absolution + As speedily as might be. + + Then, close outside the window, + The sweetest song they heard + That ever yet since the world began + Was uttered by any bird. + + The monks looked out and saw the bird, + Its feathers all white and clean; + And there in a moment, beside it, + Another white bird was seen. + + Those two they sung together, + Waved their white wings, and fled; + Flew aloft, and vanished; + But the good old man was dead. + + They buried his blessed body + Where lake and greensward meet; + A carven cross above his head, + A holly-bush at his feet; + + Where spreads the beautiful water + To gay or cloudy skies, + And the purple peaks of Killarney + From ancient woods arise. + + WILLIAM ALLINGHAM. + + +_The Cavalier's Escape_ + + Trample! trample! went the roan, + Trap! trap! went the gray; + But pad! _pad!_ PAD! like a thing that was mad, + My chestnut broke away. + It was just five miles from Salisbury town, + And but one hour to day. + + Thud! THUD! came on the heavy roan, + Rap! RAP! the mettled gray; + But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare, + That she showed them all the way. + Spur on! spur on!--I doffed my hat, + And wished them all good-day. + + They splashed through miry rut and pool,-- + Splintered through fence and rail; + But chestnut Kate switched over the gate,-- + I saw them droop and tail. + To Salisbury town--but a mile of down, + Once over this brook and rail. + + Trap! trap! I heard their echoing hoofs + Past the walls of mossy stone; + The roan flew on at a staggering pace, + But blood is better than bone. + I patted old Kate, and gave her the spur, + For I knew it was all my own. + + But trample! trample! came their steeds, + And I saw their wolf's eyes burn; + I felt like a royal hart at bay, + And made me ready to turn. + I looked where highest grew the May, + And deepest arched the fern. + + I flew at the first knave's sallow throat; + One blow, and he was down. + The second rogue fired twice, and missed; + I sliced the villain's crown,-- + Clove through the rest, and flogged brave Kate, + _Fast, fast to Salisbury town!_ + + Pad! pad! they came on the level sward, + Thud! thud! upon the sand,-- + With a gleam of swords and a burning match, + And a shaking of flag and hand; + But one long bound, and I passed the gate, + Safe from the canting band. + + WALTER THORNBURY. + + +_The Pied Piper of Hamelin_ + + I + + Hamelin town's in Brunswick, + By famous Hanover city; + The River Weser, deep and wide, + Washes its walls on the southern side; + A pleasanter spot you never spied; + But, when begins my ditty, + Almost five hundred years ago, + To see the townsfolk suffer so + From vermin, was a pity. + + II + + Rats! + They fought the dogs and killed the cats, + And bit the babies in the cradles, + And ate the cheeses out of the vats, + And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles, + Split open the kegs of salted sprats, + Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, + And even spoiled the women's chats, + By drowning their speaking + With shrieking and squeaking + In fifty different sharps and flats. + + III + + At last the people in a body + To the Town Hall came flocking: + "'Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy, + "And as for our Corporation--shocking + "To think we buy gowns lined with ermine + "For dolts that can't or won't determine + "What's best to rid us of our vermin! + "You hope, because you're old and obese, + "To find in the furry civic robe ease? + "Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking + "To find the remedy we're lacking, + "Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" + At this the Mayor and Corporation + Quaked with a mighty consternation. + + IV + + An hour they sate in Council; + At length the Mayor broke silence: + "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; + "I wish I were a mile hence! + "It's easy to bid one rack one's brain-- + "I'm sure my poor head aches again, + "I've scratched it so, and all in vain. + "Oh, for a trap, a trap, a trap!" + Just as he said this, what should hap + At the chamber door, but a gentle tap? + "Bless us!" cried the Mayor, "what's that?" + (With the Corporation as he sat, + Looking little though wondrous fat; + Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister + Than a too-long-opened oyster, + Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous + For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.) + "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat! + "Anything like the sound of a rat + "Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!" + + V + + "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger, + And in did come the strangest figure! + His queer long coat, from heel to head + Was half of yellow and half of red; + And he himself was tall and thin, + With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, + And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, + No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, + But lips where smiles went out and in; + There was no guessing his kith and kin; + And nobody could enough admire + The tall man and his quaint attire. + Quoth one: "It's as if my great-grandsire, + "Starting up at the trump of Doom's tone, + "Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!" + + VI + + He advanced to the council table: + And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, + "By means of a secret charm, to draw + "All creatures living beneath the sun, + "That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, + "After me so as you never saw! + "And I chiefly use my charm + "On creatures that do people harm,-- + "The mole, the toad, the newt, the viper: + "And people call me the Pied Piper." + (And here they noticed round his neck + A scarf of red and yellow stripe + To match his coat of the self-same cheque; + And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; + And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying + As if impatient to be playing + Upon his pipe, as low it dangled + Over his vesture so old-fangled.) + "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, + "In Tartary I freed the Cham, + "Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; + "I eased in Asia the Nizam + "Of a monstrous brood of vampyre bats: + "And as for what your brain bewilders, + "If I can rid your town of rats + "Will you give me a thousand guilders?" + "One! fifty thousand!" was the exclamation + Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. + + VII + + Into the street the Piper stept, + Smiling first a little smile, + As if he knew what magic slept + In his quiet pipe the while; + Then, like a musical adept, + To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, + And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, + Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; + And ere three shrill notes the pipe had uttered, + You heard as if an army muttered; + And the muttering grew to a grumbling; + And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; + And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. + Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, + Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, + Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, + Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, + Cocking tails, and pricking whiskers, + Families by tens and dozens, + Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives-- + Followed the Piper for their lives. + From street to street he piped, advancing, + And step for step they followed dancing, + Until they came to the River Weser, + Wherein all plunged and perished! + --Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, + Swam across and lived to carry + (As he, the manuscript he cherished) + To Rat-land home his commentary: + Which was, "At the first shrill note of the pipe + "I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, + "And putting apples, wondrous ripe, + "Into a cider-press's gripe: + "And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, + "And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, + "And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, + "And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: + "And it seemed as if a voice + "(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery + "Is breathed) called out, 'Oh, rats, rejoice! + "The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! + "So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, + "Breakfast, dinner, supper, luncheon!' + "And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, + "All ready staved, like a great sun shone + "Glorious, scarce an inch before me, + "Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!' + "--I found the Weser rolling o'er me." + + VIII + + You should have heard the Hamelin people + Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. + "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, + "Poke out the nests, and block up the holes! + "Consult with carpenters and builders, + "And leave in our town not even a trace + "Of the rats!" When suddenly, up the face + Of the Piper perked in the market-place, + With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!" + + IX + + A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; + So did the Corporation, too. + For council dinners made rare havoc + With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; + And half the money would replenish + Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. + To pay this sum to a wandering fellow, + With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! + "Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, + "Our business was done at the river's brink; + "We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, + "And what's dead can't come to life, I think. + "So friend, we're not the folks to shrink + "From the duty of giving you something to drink, + "And a matter of money to put in your poke; + "But, as for the guilders, what we spoke + "Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. + "Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. + "A thousand guilders! come, take fifty!" + + X + + The Piper's face fell, and he cried, + "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! + "I've promised to visit by dinner-time + "Bagdad, and accept the prime + "Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, + "For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, + "Of a nest of scorpions no survivor. + "With him I proved no bargain-driver; + "With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! + "And folks who put me in a passion + "May find me pipe after another fashion." + + XI + + "How!" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook + "Being worse treated than a Cook? + "Insulted by a lazy ribald + "With idle pipe and vesture piebald! + "You threaten us, fellow! Do your worst; + "Blow your pipe there till you burst!" + + XII + + Once more he stept into the street, + And to his lips again + Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane; + And ere he blew three notes (such sweet + Soft notes as yet musician's cunning + Never gave the enraptured air) + There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling + Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, + Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, + Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, + And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scattering, + Out came the children running. + And all the little boys and girls, + With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, + And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, + Tripping and skipping ran merrily after + The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. + + XIII + + The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood + As if they were changed into blocks of wood, + Unable to move a step, or cry + To the children merrily skipping by, + --Could only follow with the eye + That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. + And now the Mayor was on the rack, + And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, + As the piper turned from the High Street + To where the Weser rolled its waters + Right in the way of their sons and daughters! + However he turned from South to West, + And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, + And after him the children pressed; + Great was the joy in every breast. + "He never can cross that mighty top! + "He's forced to let the piping drop, + "And we shall see our children stop!" + When, lo, as they reached the mountain side, + A wondrous portal opened wide, + As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; + And the Piper advanced, and the children followed, + And when all were in to the very last, + The door in the mountain-side shut fast. + Did I say all? No! One was lame, + And could not dance the whole of the way; + And in after years, if you would blame + His sadness, he was used to say,-- + "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! + "I can't forget that I'm bereft + "Of all the pleasant sights they see, + "Which the Piper also promised me: + "For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, + "Joining the town and just at hand, + "Where waters gushed and fruit trees grew, + "And flowers put forth a fairer hue, + "And everything was strange and new; + "The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, + "And their dogs outran our fallow-deer, + "And honey-bees had lost their stings, + "And horses were born with eagles' wings: + "And just as I became assured + "My lame foot would be speedily cured, + "The music stopped, and I stood still, + "And found myself outside the hill, + "Left alone against my will, + "To go now limping as before, + "And never hear of that country more!" + + XIV + + Alas, alas for Hamelin! + There came into many a burgher's pate + A text which says that Heaven's gate + Opes to the rich at as easy rate + As the needle's eye takes a camel in! + The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, + To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, + Wherever it was man's lot to find him, + Silver and gold to his heart's content, + If he'd only return the way he went, + And bring the children behind him. + But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, + And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, + They made a decree that lawyers never + Should think their records dated duly + If, after the day of the month and the year, + These words did not as well appear, + "And so long after what happened here + "On the Twenty-second of July, + "Thirteen hundred and seventy-six": + And the better in memory to fix + The place of the children's last retreat, + They called it, the Pied Piper's Street-- + Where any one playing on pipe or tabor + Was sure for the future to lose his labour. + Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern + To shock with mirth a street so solemn; + But opposite the place of the cavern + They wrote the story on a column, + And on the great church-window painted + The same, to make the world acquainted + How their children were stolen away, + And there it stands to this very day. + And I must not omit to say + That in Transylvania there's a tribe + Of alien people that ascribe + The outlandish ways and dress + On which their neighbours lay such stress, + To their fathers and mothers having risen + Out of some subterraneous prison + Into which they were trepanned + Long ago in a mighty band + Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, + But how or why, they don't understand. + + XV + + So, Willy, let you and me be wipers + Of scores out with all men,--especially pipers! + And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, + If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + +_Herve Riel_ + + On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, + Did the English fight the French,--woe to France! + And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter thro' the blue, + Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks pursue, + Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Rance, + With the English fleet in view. + + 'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full chase; + First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Damfreville; + Close on him fled, great and small, + Twenty-two good ships in all; + And they signalled to the place + "Help the winners of a race! + Get us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick--or, quicker still, + Here's the English can and will!" + + Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on board; + "Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass?" laughed they: + "Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred and scored, + Shall the _Formidable_ here with her twelve and eighty guns + Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, + Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, + And with flow at full beside? + Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. + Reach the mooring? Rather say, + While rock stands or water runs, + Not a ship will leave the bay!" + + Then was called a council straight. + Brief and bitter the debate: + "Here's the English at our heels; would you have them take in tow + All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, + For a prize to Plymouth Sound? + Better run the ships aground!" + (Ended Damfreville his speech.) + Not a minute more to wait! + "Let the Captains all and each + Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach! + France must undergo her fate. + + "Give the word!" But no such word + Was ever spoke or heard; + For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these + --A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate--first, second, third? + No such man of mark, and meet + With his betters to compete! + But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the fleet, + A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. + And, "What mockery or malice have we here?" cries Herve Riel: + "Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or rogues? + Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, tell + On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell + 'Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river disembogues? + Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? + Morn and eve, night and day, + Have I piloted your bay, + Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor. + + "Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than fitty Hogues! + Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me there's a way! + Only let me lead the line, + Have the biggest ship to steer, + Get this _Formidable_ clear, + Make the others follow mine, + And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, + Right to Solidor past Greve, + And there lay them safe and sound; + And if one ship misbehave, + --Keel so much as grate the ground, + Why, I've nothing but my life,--here's my head!" cries Herve Riel. + + Not a minute more to wait. + "Steer us in, then, small and great! + Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron!" cried his chief. + "Captains, give the sailor place! + He is Admiral, in brief." + Still the north-wind, by God's grace! + See the noble fellow's face, + As the big ship with a bound, + Clears the entry like a hound, + Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas profound! + See, safe thro' shoal and rock, + How they follow in a flock, + Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the ground, + Not a spar that comes to grief! + The peril, see, is past, + All are harboured to the last, + And just as Herve Riel hollas "Anchor!"--sure as fate + Up the English come, too late! + + So, the storm subsides to calm: + They see the green trees wave + On the heights o'erlooking Greve. + Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. + "Just our rapture to enhance, + Let the English rake the bay, + Gnash their teeth and glare askance, + As they cannonade away! + 'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Rance!" + How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance! + Out burst all with one accord, + "This is Paradise for Hell! + Let France, let France's King + Thank the man that did the thing!" + What a shout, and all one word, + "Herve Riel!" + + As he stepped in front once more, + Not a symptom of surprise + In the frank blue Breton eyes, + Just the same man as before. + + Then said Damfreville, "My friend, + I must speak out at the end, + Though I find the speaking hard. + Praise is deeper than the lips: + You have saved the King his ships, + You must name your own reward. + 'Faith our sun was near eclipse! + Demand whate'er you will, + France remains your debtor still. + Ask to heart's content and have! or my name's not Damfreville." + + Then a beam of fun outbroke + On the bearded mouth that spoke, + As the honest heart laughed through + Those frank eyes of Breton blue: + "Since I needs must say my say, + Since on board the duty's done, + And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a run?-- + Since 'tis ask and have, I may-- + Since the others go ashore-- + Come! A good whole holiday! + Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle Aurore!" + That he asked and that he got,--nothing more. + + Name and deed alike are lost: + Not a pillar nor a post + In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; + Not a head in white and black + On a single fishing smack, + In memory of the man but for whom had gone to + wrack + All that France saved from the fight whence + England bore the bell. + Go to Paris: rank on rank + Search the heroes flung pell-mell + On the Louvre, face and flank! + You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. + So, for better and for worse, + Herve Riel, accept my verse! + In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more + Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife, the Belle Aurore! + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + +_Vision of Belshazzar._ + + The King was on his throne, + The Satraps throng'd the hall: + A thousand bright lamps shone + O'er that high festival. + A thousand cups of gold, + In Judah deem'd divine-- + Jehovah's vessels hold + The godless Heathen's wine. + + In that same hour and hall, + The fingers of a hand + Came forth against the wall, + And wrote as if on sand: + The fingers of a man-- + A solitary hand + Along the letters ran, + And traced them like a wand. + + The monarch saw, and shook, + And bade no more rejoice; + All bloodless wax'd his look, + And tremulous his voice. + "Let the men of lore appear, + The wisest of the earth, + And expound the words of fear, + Which mar our royal mirth." + + Chaldea's seers are good, + But here they have no skill; + And the unknown letters stood + Untold and awful still. + And Babel's men of age + Are wise and deep in lore; + But now they were not sage, + They saw--but knew no more. + + A captive in the land, + A stranger and a youth, + He heard the king's command, + He saw that writing's truth. + The lamps around were bright, + The prophecy in view; + He read it on that night-- + The morrow proved it true. + + "Belshazzar's grave is made, + His kingdom pass'd away, + He, in the balance weigh'd, + Is light and worthless clay; + The shroud his robe of state, + His canopy the stone; + The Mede is at his gate! + The Persian on his throne!" + + GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. + + +_Solomon and the Bees_ + + When Solomon was reigning in his glory, + Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba came-- + (So in the Talmud you may read the story)-- + Drawn by the magic of the monarch's fame, + To see the splendors of his court, and bring + Some fitting tribute to the mighty King. + + Nor this alone: much had her highness heard + What flowers of learning graced the royal speech; + What gems of wisdom dropped with every word; + What wholesome lessons he was wont to teach + In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, in sooth, + To know if Rumor spoke the simple truth. + + Besides, the Queen had heard (which piqued her most) + How through the deepest riddles he could spy; + How all the curious arts that women boast + Were quite transparent to his piercing eye; + And so the Queen had come--a royal guest-- + To put the sage's cunning to the test. + + And straight she held before the monarch's view, + In either hand, a radiant wreath of flowers; + The one bedecked with every charming hue, + Was newly culled from Nature's choicest bowers; + The other, no less fair in every part, + Was the rare product of divinest Art. + + "Which is the true, and which the false?" she said. + Great Solomon was silent. All amazed, + Each wondering courtier shook his puzzled head; + While at the garlands long the monarch gazed, + As one who sees a miracle, and fain + For very rapture, ne'er would speak again. + + "Which is the true?" once more the woman asked, + Pleased at the fond amazement of the King; + "So wise a head should not be hardly tasked, + Most learned Liege, with such a trivial thing!" + But still the sage was silent; it was plain + A deepening doubt perplexed the royal brain. + + While thus he pondered, presently he sees, + Hard by the casement--so the story goes-- + A little band of busy bustling bees, + Hunting for honey in a withered rose. + The monarch smiled, and raised his royal head; + "Open the window!"--that was all he said. + + The window opened at the King's command; + Within the rooms the eager insects flew, + And sought the flowers in Sheba's dexter hand! + And so the King and all the courtiers knew + That wreath was Nature's; and the baffled Queen + Returned to tell the wonders she had seen. + + My story teaches (every tale should bear + A fitting moral) that the wise may find + In trifles light as atoms of the air + Some useful lesson to enrich the mind-- + Some truth designed to profit or to please-- + As Israel's King learned wisdom from the bees. + + JOHN G. SAXE. + + +_The Burial of Moses_ + +"And He buried him in a valley in the land of Moab, over against +Beth-peor: but no man knoweth of his sepulchre unto this day."--Deut. +xxxiv. 6. + + By Nebo's lonely mountain, + On this side Jordan's wave, + In a vale in the land of Moab + There lies a lonely grave. + And no man knows that sepulchre, + And no man saw it e'er, + For the angels of God upturn'd the sod, + And laid the dead man there. + + That was the grandest funeral + That ever passed on earth; + But no man heard the trampling, + Or saw the train go forth-- + Noiselessly as the daylight + Comes back when night is done, + And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek + Grows into the great sun; + + Noiselessly as the spring-time + Her crown of verdure weaves, + And all the trees on all the hills, + Open their thousand leaves; + So without sound of music, + Or voice of them that wept, + Silently down from the mountain's crown, + The great procession swept. + + Perchance the bald old eagle, + On grey Beth-peor's height, + Out of his lonely eyrie + Look'd on the wondrous sight; + Perchance the lion stalking, + Still shuns that hallow'd spot, + For beast and bird have seen and heard + That which man knoweth not. + + But when the warrior dieth, + His comrades in the war, + With arms reversed and muffled drum, + Follow his funeral car; + They show the banners taken, + They tell his battles won, + And after him lead his masterless steed + While peals the minute gun. + + Amid the noblest of the land + We lay the sage to rest, + And give the bard an honour'd place + With costly marble drest, + In the great minster transept + Where lights like glories fall + (And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings) + Along the emblazon'd wall. + + This was the truest warrior + That ever buckled sword; + This the most gifted poet + That ever breathed a word. + And never earth's philosopher + Traced with his golden pen + On the deathless page truths half so sage + As he wrote down for men. + + And had he not high honour, + The hill-side for a pall, + To lie in state, while angels wait + With stars for tapers tall, + And the dark rock-pines, like tossing plumes, + Over his bier to wave, + And God's own hand in that lonely land + To lay him in the grave. + + In that strange grave without a name, + Whence his uncoffin'd clay + Shall break again, O wondrous thought! + Before the Judgment Day, + And stand with glory wrapt around + On the hills he never trod, + And speak of the strife, that won our life, + With the Incarnate Son of God. + + O lonely grave in Moab's land! + O dark Beth-peor's hill! + Speak to these curious hearts of ours, + And teach them to be still. + God hath his mysteries of grace, + Ways that we cannot tell, + He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep + Of him he loved so well. + + CECIL FRANCES ALEXANDER. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_When Banners Are Waving_ + + +Here are poems of Valor, Fortitude, Fearlessness, Courage. Give yourself +up to the martial swing of the verse, with its clang of armor, its +champing of war-steed, its sound of pibroch, its blare of trumpet, fife, +and drum, its dancing of plumes and glitter of helmets. Pray Heaven that +the fighting be all in a good cause and that the tramp, tramp of +soldierly feet be that of the armies of Right, for there is no resisting +this spirit of daring and bearing when it is voiced so nobly. + + _"When cannon are roaring, + And hot bullets flying, + He that would honor win + Must not fear dying."_ + +Here are hymns in praise of famous battles that have changed the fate of +nations; here, records of gallant deeds that make the blood leap in the +veins. Into the Valley of Death rode the immortal Six Hundred, and into +that same Valley plunged "furious Frank and fiery Hun," Scot, Turk, +Greek, and the brave Huguenot charging at Ivry for the Golden Lilies of +France. Here are the songs of triumph, the loud hurrahs when the red +field is won; here tales of glorious defeats and no less splendid +failures; here, too, the dirge for the storied Brave, who lie at rest by +all their Country's wishes blest. + +The banners that once beckoned on the armed hosts are hanging to-day in +dim cathedrals, tattered, faded, and torn; high-hung banners that with +every "opened door seem the old wave of battle to remember." And as for +the heroes who carried them, can we not say, as of Marco Bozzaris, + + _"For ye are Freedom's now, and Fame's, + Among the few, th' immortal names + That were not born to die."_ + + + + +XIV + +WHEN BANNERS ARE WAVING + + +_When Banners Are Waving_ + + When banners are waving, + And lances a-pushing; + When captains are shouting, + And war-horses rushing; + When cannon are roaring, + And hot bullets flying, + He that would honour win, + Must not fear dying. + + Though shafts fly so thick + That it seems to be snowing; + Though streamlets with blood + More than water are flowing; + Though with sabre and bullet + Our bravest are dying, + We speak of revenge, but + We ne'er speak of flying. + + Come, stand to it, heroes! + The heathen are coming; + Horsemen are round the walls, + Riding and running; + Maidens and matrons all + Arm! arm! are crying, + From petards the wildfire's + Flashing and flying. + + The trumpets from turrets high + Loudly are braying; + The steeds for the onset + Are snorting and neighing; + As waves in the ocean, + The dark plumes are dancing; + As stars in the blue sky, + The helmets are glancing. + + Their ladders are planting, + Their sabres are sweeping; + Now swords from our sheaths + By the thousand are leaping; + Like the flash of the levin + Ere men hearken thunder, + Swords gleam, and the steel caps + Are cloven asunder. + + The shouting has ceased, + And the flashing of cannon! + I looked from the turret + For crescent and pennon: + As flax touched by fire, + As hail in the river, + They were smote, they were fallen, + And had melted for ever. + + UNKNOWN. + + +_Battle of the Baltic_ + + Of Nelson and the north + Sing the glorious day's renown, + When to battle fierce came forth + All the might of Denmark's crown, + And her arms along the deep proudly shone; + By each gun the lighted brand + In a bold, determined hand, + And the prince of all the land + Led them on. + + Like leviathans afloat + Lay their bulwarks on the brine; + While the sign of battle flew + On the lofty British line-- + It was ten of April morn by the chime. + As they drifted on their path + There was silence deep as death; + And the boldest held his breath + For a time. + + But the might of England flushed + To anticipate the scene; + And her van the fleeter rushed + O'er the deadly space between. + "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun + From its adamantine lips + Spread a death-shade round the ships, + Like the hurricane eclipse + Of the sun. + + Again! again! again! + And the havoc did not slack, + Till a feeble cheer the Dane + To our cheering sent us back; + Their shots along the deep slowly boom-- + Then ceased--and all is wail, + As they strike the shattered sail, + Or in conflagration pale, + Light the gloom. + + Out spoke the victor then, + As he hailed them o'er the wave: + "Ye are brothers! ye are men! + And we conquer but to save; + So peace instead of death let us bring; + But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, + With the crews, at England's feet, + And make submission meet + To our king." + + Then Denmark blessed our chief, + That he gave her wounds repose; + And the sounds of joy and grief + From her people wildly rose, + As death withdrew his shades from the day. + While the sun looked smiling bright + O'er a wide and woeful sight, + Where the fires of funeral light + Died away. + + Now joy, old England, raise! + For the tidings of thy might, + By the festal cities' blaze, + Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; + And yet, amidst that joy and uproar, + Let us think of them that sleep + Full many a fathom deep, + By thy wild and stormy steep, + Elsinore! + + Brave hearts! to Britain's pride + Once so faithful and so true, + On the deck of fame that died, + With the gallant, good Riou-- + Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! + While the billow mournful rolls, + And the mermaid's song condoles, + Singing glory to the souls + Of the brave! + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + +_The Pipes at Lucknow_ + + Pipes of the misty moorlands, + Voice of the glens and hills; + The droning of the torrents, + The treble of the rills! + Not the braes of broom and heather, + Nor the mountains dark with rain, + Nor maiden bower, nor border tower, + Have heard your sweetest strain! + + Dear to the Lowland reaper, + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The Scottish pipes are dear;-- + Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch + O'er mountain, loch, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The pipes at Lucknow played. + + Day by day the Indian tiger + Louder yelled, and nearer crept; + Round and round, the jungle-serpent + Near and nearer circles swept. + "Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,-- + Pray to-day!" the soldier said, + "To-morrow, death's between us + And the wrong and shame we dread." + + Oh, they listened, looked, and waited, + Till their hope became despair; + And the sobs of low bewailing + Filled the pauses of their prayer. + Then up spake a Scottish maiden, + With her ear unto the ground: + "Dinna ye hear it?--dinna ye hear it? + The pipes o' Havelock sound!" + + Hushed the wounded man his groaning; + Hushed the wife her little ones; + Alone they heard the drum-roll + And the roar of Sepoy guns. + But to sounds of home and childhood + The Highland ear was true;-- + As her mother's cradle crooning + The mountain pipes she knew. + + Like the march of soundless music + Through the vision of the seer, + More of feeling than of hearing, + Of the heart than of the ear, + She knew the droning pibroch, + She knew the Campbell's call: + "Hark! hear ye no' MacGregor's, + The grandest o' them all!" + + O, they listened, dumb and breathless, + And they caught the sound at last; + Faint and far beyond the Goomtee + Rose and fell the piper's blast! + Then a burst of wild thanksgiving + Mingled woman's voice and man's; + "God be praised!--the march of Havelock! + The piping of the clans!" + + Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance, + Sharp and shrill as swords at strife, + Came the wild MacGregor's clan-call, + Stinging all the air to life. + But when the far-off dust cloud + To plaided legions grew, + Full tenderly and blithesomely + The pipes of rescue blew! + + Round the silver domes of Lucknow, + Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine, + Breathed the air to Britons dearest, + The air of Auld Lang Syne. + O'er the cruel roll of war drums + Rose that sweet and homelike strain; + And the tartan clove the turban + As the Goomtee cleaves the plain. + + Dear to the corn-land reaper + And plaided mountaineer,-- + To the cottage and the castle + The piper's song is dear. + Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch + O'er mountain, glen, and glade; + But the sweetest of all music + The pipes at Lucknow played! + +JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. + + +_The Battle of Agincourt_ + + Fair stood the wind for France, + When we our sails advance, + Nor now to prove our chance + Longer will tarry; + But putting to the main, + At Caux, the mouth of Seine, + With all his martial train, + Landed King Harry. + + And taking many a fort, + Furnished in warlike sort, + Marched towards Agincourt + In happy hour-- + Skirmishing day by day + With those that stopped his way, + Where the French general lay + With all his power. + + Which in his height of pride, + King Henry to deride, + His ransom to provide + To the king sending. + Which he neglects the while, + As from a nation vile, + Yet with an angry smile + Their fall portending. + + And turning to his men, + Quoth our brave Henry then, + "Though they be one to ten, + Be not amazed; + Yet have we well begun, + Battles so bravely won + Have ever to the sun + By fame been raised. + + "And for myself," quoth he, + "This my full rest shall be, + England ne'er mourn for me, + Nor more esteem me. + Victor I will remain, + Or on this earth lie slain, + Never shall she sustain + Loss to redeem me." + + Poitiers and Cressy tell, + When most their pride did swell, + Under our swords they fell; + No less our skill is + Than when our grandsire great, + Claiming the regal seat, + By many a warlike feat + Lopped the French lilies. + + The Duke of York so dread + The eager vaward led; + With the main Henry sped, + Amongst his henchmen. + Excester had the rear-- + A braver man not there: + O Lord! how hot they were + On the false Frenchmen! + + They now to fight are gone; + Armor on armor shone; + Drum now to drum did groan-- + To hear was wonder; + That with the cries they make + The very earth did shake; + Trumpet to trumpet spake, + Thunder to thunder. + + Well it thine age became, + O noble Erpingham! + Which did the signal aim + To our hid forces; + When, from a meadow by, + Like a storm suddenly, + The English archery + Struck the French horses, + With Spanish yew so strong, + Arrows a cloth-yard long, + That like to serpents stung, + Piercing the weather; + None from his fellow starts, + But playing manly parts, + And like true English hearts, + Stuck close together. + + When down their bows they threw, + And forth their bilboes drew, + And on the French they flew, + Not one was tardy; + Arms were from shoulders sent, + Scalps to the teeth were rent, + Down the French peasants went, + Our men were hardy. + + This while our noble King, + His broad sword brandishing, + Down the French host did ding, + As to o'erwhelm it; + And many a deep wound lent, + His arms with blood besprent, + And many a cruel dent + Bruised his helmet. + + Gloucester, that duke so good, + Next of the royal blood, + For famous England stood, + With his brave brother, + Clarence, in steel so bright, + Though but a maiden knight, + Yet in that furious fight + Scarce such another. + + Warwick in blood did wade; + Oxford the foe invade, + And cruel slaughter made, + Still as they ran up. + Suffolk his axe did ply; + Beaumont and Willoughby + Bare them right doughtily, + Ferrers and Fanhope. + + Upon Saint Crispin's Day + Fought was this noble fray, + Which fame did not delay + To England to carry; + Oh, when shall Englishmen + With such acts fill a pen, + Or England breed again + Such a King Harry? + + MICHAEL DRAYTON. + + +_The Battle of Blenheim_ + + It was a summer's evening, + Old Kaspar's work was done, + And he before his cottage door + Was sitting in the sun; + And by him sported on the green + His little grandchild Wilhelmine. + + She saw her brother Peterkin + Roll something large and round, + Which he, beside the rivulet, + In playing there, had found. + He came to ask what he had found, + That was so large, and smooth, and round. + + Old Kaspar 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!" + + "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 that great victory!" + + "Now tell 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 each other for." + + "It was the English," Kaspar cried, + "Who put the French to rout; + But what they killed each other for + I could not well make out. + But everybody said," quoth he, + "That 'twas a famous victory! + + "My father lived at Blenheim then, + Yon little stream hard by: + They burned his dwelling to the ground, + And he was forced to fly; + So with his wife and child he fled, + Nor had he where to rest his head. + + "With fire and sword the country round + Was wasted far and wide; + And many a childing mother then + And new-born baby died. + But things like that, you know, must be + At every famous victory. + + "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 Marlborough won, + And our good Prince Eugene." + "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" + Said little Wilhelmine. + "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, + "It was a famous victory! + + "And everybody praised the Duke + Who this great fight did win." + "But what good came of it at last?" + Quoth little Peterkin. + "Why that I cannot tell," said he, + "But 'twas a famous victory." + + ROBERT SOUTHEY. + + +_The Armada: A Fragment_ + + Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise; + I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, + When that great fleet invincible against her bore, in vain + The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain. + It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, + There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay; + The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, + At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile. + At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial grace; + And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase. + Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall; + The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecumbe's lofty hall; + Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the coast; + And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post. + + With his white hair unbonneted, the stout old sheriff comes; + Behind him march the halberdiers; before him sound the drums: + The yeoman round the market cross make clear an ample space; + For there behooves him to set up the standard of Her Grace: + And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells, + As slow upon the laboring wind the royal blazon swells. + + Look how the Lion of the sea lifts up his ancient crown, + And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down. + So stalked he when he turned to flight, on that famed Picard field, + Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Caesar's eagle shield. + So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned to bay, + And crushed and torn beneath his claws the princely hunters lay. + Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, Sir Knight: ho! scatter flowers, fair maids: + Ho! gunners, fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades: + Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes, waft her wide; + Our glorious _Semper Eadem_, the banner of our pride. + + The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold; + The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold; + Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea, + Such night in England ne'er had been, nor e'er again shall be. + From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay, + That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day; + + For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly war-flame spread, + High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head. + Far o'er the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire, + Cape beyond cape, in endless range those twinkling points of fire. + The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering waves: + The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves: + O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew: + He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu. + Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town, + And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton Down; + The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night, + And saw o'erhanging Richmond Hill, that streak of blood-red light: + Then bugle's note and cannon's roar the death-like silence broke, + And with one start, and with one cry, the royal city woke. + At once on all her stately gates arose the answering fires; + At once the wild alarum clashed from all her reeling spires; + From all the batteries of the Tower pealed loud the voice of fear; + And all the thousand masts of Thames sent back a louder cheer: + And from the furthest wards was heard the rush of hurrying feet, + And the broad streams of pikes and flags rushed down each roaring street; + And broader still became the blaze, and louder still the din, + As fast from every village round the horse came spurring in; + And eastward straight from wild Blackheath the warlike errand went, + And roused in many an ancient hall the gallant squires of Kent: + Southward from Surrey's pleasant hills flew those bright couriers forth; + High on bleak Hampstead's swarthy moor they started for the north; + And on, and on, without a pause, untired they bounded still; + All night from tower to tower they sprang; they sprang from hill to hill; + Till the proud Peak unfurled the flag o'er Darwin's rocky dales; + Till like volcanoes flared to heaven the stormy hills of Wales; + Till twelve fair counties saw the blaze on Malvern's lonely height; + Till streamed in crimson on the wind the Wrekin's crest of light; + Till broad and fierce the star came forth, on Ely's stately fane, + And tower and hamlet rose in arms o'er all the boundless plain; + Till Belvoir's lordly terraces the sign to Lincoln sent, + And Lincoln sped the message on o'er the wide vale of Trent: + Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burned on Gaunt's embattled pile, + And the red glare on Skiddaw roused the burghers of Carlisle. + + THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULEY. + + +_Ivry_ + +A Song of the Huguenots. + + Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! + And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre! + Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, + Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! + And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, + Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. + As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, + For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. + Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, + Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. + + Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day + We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; + With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, + And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears. + There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; + And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: + And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, + And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; + And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, + To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. + + The King is come to marshal us, in all his armor 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, "God save our Lord the King!" + + "And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may-- + For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray-- + Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, + And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." + + Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din + Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. + The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint Andre's plain, + With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. + Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, + Charge for the Golden Lilies--upon them with the lance! + A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, + A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; + And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, + Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre. + + Now, God be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein; + D'Aumale hath cried for quarter; the Flemish Count is slain; + Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; + The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. + And then, we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, + "Remember St. Bartholomew!" was passed from man to man; + But out spake gentle Henry--"No Frenchman is my foe: + Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go." + Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, + As our Sovereign Lord King Henry, the soldier of Navarre! + + Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; + And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey. + But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; + And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white-- + Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, + The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. + Up with it high; unfurl it wide--that all the host may know + How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. + Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, + Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. + + Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne, + Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. + Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, + That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. + Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; + Ho! burghers of 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 valor of the brave. + Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; + And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre! + + THOMAS BABINGTON, LORD MACAULAY. + + +_On the Loss of the Royal George_ + +Written when the News Arrived, September, 1782. + + Toll for the brave! + The brave that are no more! + All sunk beneath the wave, + Fast by their native shore! + + Eight hundred of the brave, + Whose courage well was tried, + Had made the vessel heel, + And laid her on her side. + + A land breeze shook the shrouds, + And she was overset; + Down went the Royal George, + With all her crew complete. + + Toll for the brave! + Brave Kempenfelt is gone; + His last sea-fight is fought; + His work of glory done. + + It was not in the battle; + No tempest gave the shock; + She sprang no fatal leak; + She ran upon no rock. + + His sword was in its sheath; + His fingers held the pen, + When Kempenfelt went down, + With twice four hundred men. + + Weigh the vessel up, + Once dreaded by our foes! + And mingle with our cup + The tear that England owes. + + Her timbers yet are sound, + And she may float again, + Full charged with England's thunder, + And plough the distant main. + + But Kempenfelt is gone, + His victories are o'er, + And he and his eight hundred + Must plough the waves no more. + + WILLIAM COWPER. + + +_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. + "Forward, the Light Brigade! + Charge for the guns!" he said: + Into the valley of Death + Rode the six hundred. + + "Forward, the Light Brigade!" + Was there a man dismayed? + Not though the soldier knew + Some one had blundered; + 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 + Volleyed and thundered; + Stormed at with shot and shell, + Boldly they rode and well; + Into the jaws of Death, + Into the mouth of Hell + Rode the six hundred. + + Flashed all their sabres bare, + Flashed as they turned in air, + Sabring the gunners there, + Charging an army, while + All the world wondered: + Plunged in the battery smoke, + Right through the line they broke; + Cossack and Russian + Reeled from the sabre-stroke + Shattered and sundered. + Then they rode back, but not-- + Not the six hundred. + + Cannon to right of them, + Cannon to left of them, + Cannon behind them + Volleyed and thundered. + Stormed at with shot and shell, + While horse and hero fell, + Those that had fought so well + Came through 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? + Oh, the wild charge they made! + All the world wondered. + Honor the charge they made! + Honor the Light Brigade! + Noble six hundred! + + ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. + + +_Bannockburn_ + +Robert Bruce's Address to his Army. + + Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, + Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, + Welcome to your gory bed + Or to victorie! + + Now's the day, and now's the hour; + See the front o' battle lower; + See approach proud Edward's power-- + Chains and slaverie! + + Wha will be a traitor knave? + Wha can fill a coward's grave? + Wha sae base as be a slave? + Let him turn and flee! + + Wha for Scotland's king and law + Freedom's sword will strongly draw, + Freeman stand, or freeman fa', + Let him follow me! + + By oppression's woes and pains! + By your sons in servile chains! + We 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! + + ROBERT BURNS. + + +_The Night Before Waterloo_ + + There was a sound of revelry by night. + And Belgium's capital had gather'd then + Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright + The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; + A thousand hearts beat happily; and when + Music arose with its voluptuous swell, + Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, + And all went merry as a marriage bell; + But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! + + Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind, + Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; + On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; + No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet + To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. + But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, + As if the clouds its echo would repeat; + And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! + Arm! arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar! + + * * * * + + Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, + And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, + And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago + Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; + And there were sudden partings, such as press + The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs + Which ne'er might be repeated: who 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 peal afar; + And near, the beat of the alarming drum + Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; + While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, + Or whispering with white lips--"The foe! + They come! they come!" + Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, + Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, + The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, + The morn the marshalling in arms--the day + Battle's magnificently stern array! + The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent + The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, + Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, + Rider and horse--friend, foe,--in one red burial blent! + + GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. + + _From "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage."_ + + +_Hohenlinden_ + + On Linden when the sun was low, + All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, + And dark as winter was the flow + 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 array'd + Each horseman drew his battle-blade, + And furious every charger neigh'd, + To join the dreadful revelry. + + Then shook the hills with thunder riven, + Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, + And louder than the bolts of heaven + Far flash'd the red artillery. + + But redder yet that light shall glow + On Linden's hills of stained snow, + And darker yet shall be the flow + Of Iser, rolling rapidly. + + 'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun + Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, + Where furious Frank and fiery Hun + Shout in their sulphurous 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-sheet, + And every turf beneath their feet + Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. + + THOMAS CAMPBELL. + + +_Incident of the French Camp_ + + You know we French stormed Ratisbon: + A mile or so away, + On a little mound, Napoleon + Stood on our storming day; + With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, + Legs wide, arms locked behind, + As if to balance the prone brow + Oppressive with its mind. + + Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans + That soar, to earth may fall + Let once my army-leader Lannes + Waver at yonder wall,"-- + Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew + A rider, bound on bound + Full-galloping; nor bridle drew + Until he reached the mound. + + Then off there flung in smiling joy, + And held himself erect + By just his horse's mane, a boy: + You hardly could suspect-- + (So tight he kept his lips compressed, + Scarce any blood came through,) + You looked twice e'er you saw his breast, + Was all but shot in two. + + "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace + We've got you Ratisbon! + The marshal's in the market-place, + And you'll be there anon + To see your flag-bird flap his vans + Where I, to heart's desire, + Perched him." The chief's eye flashed; his plans + Soared up again like fire. + + The chief's eye flashed; but presently + Softened itself, as sheathes + A film the mother eagle's eye + When her bruised eaglet breathes: + "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride + Touched to the quick, he said; + "I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, + Smiling, the boy fell dead. + + ROBERT BROWNING. + + +_Marco Bozzaris_ + + At midnight, in his guarded tent, + The Turk was dreaming of the hour + When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, + Should tremble at his power; + In dreams, through camp and court he bore + The trophies of a conqueror; + In dreams, his song of triumph heard; + Then wore his monarch's signet-ring; + Then press'd that monarch's throne--a king: + As wild his thoughts, as gay of wing, + As Eden's garden bird. + + At midnight in the forest shades, + Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band, + True as the steel of their tried blades, + Heroes in heart and hand. + There had the Persian's thousands stood, + There had the glad earth drunk their blood, + On old Plataea's day; + And now there breathed that haunted air + The sons of sires who conquer'd there, + With arm to strike, and soul to dare, + As quick, as far, as they. + + An hour pass'd on: the Turk awoke: + That bright dream was his last. + He woke to hear his sentries shriek, + "To arms! they come! the Greek! the Greek!" + He woke, to die 'midst flame and smoke, + And shout, and groan, and sabre-stroke, + And death-shots falling thick and fast + As lightnings from the mountain cloud, + And heard, with voice as trumpet loud, + Bozzaris cheer his band: + "Strike!--till the last arm'd foe expires; + Strike!--for your altars and your fires; + Strike!--for the green graves of your sires; + God, and your native land!" + + They fought like brave men, long and well; + They piled that ground with Moslem slain; + They conquer'd;--but Bozzaris fell, + Bleeding at every vein. + His few surviving comrades saw + His smile when rang their loud hurrah, + And the red field was won; + Then saw in death his eyelids close, + Calmly as to a night's repose,-- + Like flowers at set of sun. + + * * * * + + Bozzaris! with the storied brave + Greece nurtured in her glory's time, + Rest thee: there is no prouder grave, + Even in her own proud clime. + She wore no funeral weeds for thee, + Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, + Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, + In sorrow's pomp and pageantry, + The heartless luxury of the tomb; + But she remembers thee as one + Long loved, and for a season gone; + + For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed; + Her marble wrought, her music breathed; + For thee she rings the birthday bells; + Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; + For thee her evening prayer is said + At palace-couch and cottage-bed; + Her soldier, closing with the foe, + Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; + His plighted maiden, when she fears + For him, the joy of her young years, + Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; + And she, the mother of thy boys, + Though in her eye and faded cheek + Is read the grief she will not speak, + The memory of her buried joys,-- + And even she who gave thee birth + Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth, + Talk of thy doom without a sigh; + For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, + One of the few, th' immortal names + That were not born to die. + + FITZ-GREENE HALLECK. + + +_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 wither'd and strown. + + For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, + And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd; + And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, + And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still! + + And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, + But through it there roll'd not the breath of his pride; + And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, + And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. + + And there lay the rider distorted and pale, + With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; + And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, + The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. + + And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, + And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal! + And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, + Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord! + + GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_Tales of the Olden Time_ + + +These ancient ballads have come down to us from the long ago, having +been told, like the old nursery tales, from generation to generation, +altered, abbreviated, patched, and added to, as they passed from mouth +to mouth of poet, high harper, gleeman, wandering minstrel, +ballad-monger, and camp-follower. Some of them were repeated by the +humble stroller who paid for a corner in the chimney-nook by the +practice of his rude art; others were sung by minstrels of the court; +most of them were chanted to a tune which served for a score of similar +songs, while the verses were frequently interrupted by refrains of one +sort or another, as, for instance, in "Hynde Horn," which is sometimes +printed as follows: + + "Near the King's Court was a young child born + _With a hey lillalu and a how lo lan;_ + And his name it was called Young Hynde Horn + _And the birk and the broom blooms bonnie."_ + +Many of the ballads are gloomy and tragic stories, but told simply and +with right feeling; others are gay tales of true love ending happily. +Some, like "Sir Patrick Spens" and "Chevy Chace," are built upon +historical foundations, and others, while not following history, have a +real personage for hero or heroine. Lord Beichan, for instance, is +supposed to be Gilbert Becket, father of the famous Saint Thomas of +Canterbury, while Glenlogie is Sir George, one of the "gay Gordons," but +whoever they are, wise abbots, jolly friars, or noble outlaws, they are +always bold fellows, true lovers, and merry men. + +Inconsequent, fascinating, high-handed, impossible, picturesque, these +old ballads have come to us from the childhood of the world, and still +speak to the child-heart in us all. + + + + +XV + +TALES OF THE OLDEN TIME + + +_Sir Patrick Spens_ + + The king sits in Dunfermline town, + Drinking the blude-red wine; + "O whare will I get a skeely skipper, + To sail this new ship o' mine!" + + O up and spake an eldern knight, + Sat at the king's right knee,-- + "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, + That ever sail'd the sea." + + The king has written a braid letter, + And seal'd it with his hand, + And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, + Was walking on the strand. + + "To Noroway, to Noroway, + To Noroway o'er the faem; + The king's daughter of Noroway, + 'Tis thou maun bring her hame." + + The first word that Sir Patrick read, + Sae loud, loud laughed he; + The neist word that Sir Patrick read, + The tear blinded his e'e. + + "O wha is this has done this deed, + And tauld the king o' me, + To send us out, at this time of the year, + To sail upon the sea? + + Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, + Our ship must sail the faem; + The king's daughter of Noroway, + 'Tis we must fetch her hame." + + They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, + Wi' a' the speed they may; + They hae landed in Noroway, + Upon a Wodensday. + + They hadna been a week, a week, + In Noroway, but twae, + When that the lords o' Noroway + Began aloud to say,-- + + "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, + And a' our queenis fee." + "Ye lee, ye lee, ye liars loud! + Fu' loud I hear ye lee. + + "For I brought as much white monie, + As gane my men and me, + And I brought a half-fou o' gude red goud, + Out o'er the sea wi' me. + + "Mak' ready, mak' ready, my merry men a'! + Our gude ship sails the morn." + "Now, ever alake, my master dear, + I fear a deadly storm! + + "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, + Wi' the auld moon in her arm; + And, if we gang to sea, master, + I fear we'll come to harm." + + They had not sailed a league, a league, + A league but barely three, + When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, + And gurly grew the sea. + + The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, + It was sic a deadly storm; + And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, + Till a' her sides were torn. + + "O where will I get a gude sailor, + To tak' my helm in hand, + Till I get up to the tall top-mast, + To see if I can spy land?" + + "O here am I, a sailor gude, + To take the helm in hand, + Till you go up to the tall top-mast; + But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." + + He hadna gane a step, a step, + A step but barely ane, + When a bout flew out o' our goodly ship, + And the salt sea it came in. + + "Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, + Anither o' the twine, + And wap them into our ship's side, + And letna the sea come in." + + They fetched a web o' the silken claith, + Anither of the twine, + And wapped them round that gude ship's side, + But still the sea cam' in. + + O laith, laith were our gude Scots lords + To weet their cork-heel'd shoon! + But lang or a' the play was play'd, + They wat their hats aboon. + + And mony was the feather-bed, + That floated o'er the faem; + And mony was the gude lord's son, + That never mair came hame. + + The ladyes wrang their fingers white, + The maidens tore their hair, + A' for the sake of their true loves; + For them they'll see na mair. + + O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, + Wi' their fans into their hand, + Before they see Sir Patrick Spens + Come sailing to the strand! + + And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, + Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, + A' waiting for their ain dear loves! + For them they'll see na mair. + + Half ower, half ower to Aberdour, + It's fifty fathoms deep, + And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, + Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington_ + + There was a youthe, and a well-beloved youthe, + And he was a squire's son; + He loved the bayliffe's daughter deare, + That lived in Islington. + + Yet she was coye, and would not believe + That he did love her soe, + Noe nor at any time would she + Any countenance to him showe. + + But when his friendes did understand + His fond and foolish minde, + They sent him up to faire London, + An apprentice for to binde. + + And when he had been seven long yeares, + And never his love could see,-- + "Many a teare have I shed for her sake, + When she little thought of mee." + + Then all the maids of Islington + Went forth to sport and playe, + All but the bayliffe's daughter deare; + She secretly stole awaye. + + She pulled off her gowne of greene, + And put on ragged attire, + And to faire London she would go + Her true love to enquire. + + And as she went along the high road, + The weather being hot and drye, + She sat her downe upon a green bank, + And her true love came riding bye. + + She started up, with a colour soe redd, + Catching hold of his bridle-reine; + "One penny, one penny, kind sir," she sayd, + "Will ease me of much paine." + + "Before I give you one penny, sweet-heart, + Praye tell me where you were borne." + "At Islington, kind sir," sayd shee, + "Where I have had many a scorne." + + "I prythee, sweet-heart, then tell to mee, + O tell me, whether you knowe + The bayliffe's daughter of Islington." + "She is dead, sir, long agoe." + + "If she be dead, then take my horse, + My saddle and bridle also; + For I will into some farr countrye, + Where noe man shall me knowe." + + "O staye, O staye, thou goodlye youthe, + She standeth by thy side; + She is here alive, she is not dead, + And readye to be thy bride." + + "O farewell griefe, and welcome joye, + Ten thousand times therefore; + For nowe I have founde mine owne true love, + Whom I thought I should never see more." + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_King John and the Abbot of Canterbury_ + + An ancient story I'll tell you anon + Of a notable prince, that was called King John; + And he ruled England with main and with might, + For he did great wrong and maintained little right. + + And I'll tell you a story, a story so merry, + Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; + How for his housekeeping and high renown, + They rode post for him to fair London town. + + An hundred men, the King did hear say, + The Abbot kept in his house every day; + And fifty gold chains, without any doubt, + In velvet coats waited the Abbot about. + + "How now, Father Abbot, I hear it of thee, + Thou keepest a far better house than me; + And for thy housekeeping and high renown, + I fear thou work'st treason against my crown." + + "My liege," quo' the Abbot, "I would it were knowne, + I never spend nothing but what is my owne; + And I trust your Grace will not put me in fear, + For spending of my owne true-gotten gear." + + "Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is highe, + And now for the same thou needst must dye; + For except thou canst answer me questions three, + Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie. + + "And first," quo' the King, "when I'm in this stead, + With my crowne of golde so faire on my head, + Among all my liege-men, so noble of birthe, + Thou must tell to one penny what I am worthe. + + "Secondlye, tell me, without any doubt, + How soone I may ride the whole world about, + And at the third question thou must not shrink, + But tell me here truly what I do think." + + "Oh, these are hard questions for my shallow witt, + Nor I cannot answer your Grace as yet; + But if you will give me but three weekes space, + Ile do my endeavour to answer your Grace." + + "Now three weeks' space to thee will I give, + And that is the longest time thou hast to live; + For if thou dost not answer my questions three, + Thy land and thy livings are forfeit to me." + + Away rode the Abbot all sad at that word, + And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford; + But never a doctor there was so wise, + That could with his learning an answer devise. + + Then home rode the Abbot of comfort so cold, + And he met his Shepherd a-going to fold: + "How now, my Lord Abbot, you are welcome home; + What news do you bring us from good King John?" + + "Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I must give, + That I have but three days more to live; + I must answer the King his questions three, + Or my head will be smitten from my bodie. + + "The first is to tell him, there in that stead, + With his crown of gold so fair on his head, + Among all his liegemen so noble of birth, + To within one penny of what he is worth. + + "The seconde, to tell him, without any doubt, + How soone he may ride this whole world about: + And at the third question I must not shrinke, + But tell him there truly what he does thinke." + + "Now cheare up, Sire Abbot, did you never hear yet, + That a fool he may learne a wise man witt? + Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel, + And I'll ride to London to answere your quarrel. + + "Nay frowne not, if it hath bin told unto mee, + I am like your Lordship, as ever may bee: + And if you will but lend me your gowne, + There is none shall knowe us in fair London towne." + + "Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have, + With sumptuous array most gallant and brave; + With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, and cope, + Fit to appear 'fore our Father the Pope." + + "Now welcome, Sire Abbot," the king he did say, + "'Tis well thou'rt come back to keepe thy day; + For and if thou canst answer my questions three, + Thy life and thy living both saved shall bee. + + "And first, when thou seest me, here in this stead, + With my crown of golde so fair on my head, + Among all my liege-men so noble of birthe, + Tell me to one penny what I am worth." + + "For thirty pence our Saviour was sold + Among the false Jewes, as I have bin told: + And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, + For I thinke, thou art one penny worse than he." + + The King he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel, + "I did not think I had been worth so little! + Now secondly tell me, without any doubt, + How soon I may ride this whole world about." + + "You must rise with the sun, and ride with the same, + Until the next morning he riseth again; + And then your Grace need not make any doubt + But in twenty-four hours you'll ride it about." + + The King he laughed, and swore by St. Jone, + "I did not think it could be gone so soon. + Now from the third question thou must not shrink, + But tell me here truly what do I think." + + "Yea, that I shall do and make your Grace merry; + You think I'm the Abbot of Canterbury; + But I'm his poor shepherd, as plain you may see, + That am come to beg pardon for him and for me." + + The King he laughed, and swore by the mass, + "I'll make thee Lord Abbot this day in his place!" + "Nay, nay, my Liege, be not in such speed, + For alack, I can neither write nor read." + + "Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee, + For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me; + And tell the old Abbot, when thou gettest home, + Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John." + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_Lord Beichan and Susie Pye_ + + Lord Beichan was a noble lord, + A noble lord of high degree; + But he was ta'en by a savage Moor, + Who treated him right cruellie. + + In ilka shoulder was put a bore, + In ilka bore was put a tree; + And heavy loads they made him draw, + Till he was sick, and like to dee. + + Then he was cast in a dungeon deep, + Where he cou'd neither hear nor see; + And seven long years they kept him there, + Both cold and hunger sore to dree. + + The Moor he had an only daughter, + The damsel's name was Susie Pye; + And ilka day as she took the air, + Lord Beichan's prison she pass'd by. + + Young Susie Pye had a tender heart, + Tho' she was come of a cruel kin; + And sore she sigh'd, she knew not why, + For him who lay that dungeon in. + + "Oh, were I but the prison keeper, + As I'm a lady of high degree, + I soon wou'd set this youth at large, + And send him to his own countrie." + + She gave the keeper a piece of gold, + And many pieces of white monie, + To unlock to her the prison doors, + That she Lord Beichan might go see. + + Lord Beichan he did marvel sore, + The Moor's fair daughter there to see; + But took her for some captive maid, + Brought from some land in Christendie. + + For when she saw his wretched plight, + Her tears fell fast and bitterlie; + And thus the Moor's fair daughter spake + Unto Lord Beichan tenderlie: + + "Oh, have ye any lands," she said, + "Or castles in your own countrie, + That ye cou'd give to a lady fair, + From prison strong to set you free?" + + "Oh, I have lands both fair and braid, + And I have castles fair to see; + But I wou'd give them all," he said, + "From prison strong to be set free." + + "Plight me the truth of your right hand, + The truth of it here plight to me, + That till seven years are past and gone, + No lady ye will wed but me." + + "For seven long years I do make a vow, + And seven long years I'll keep it true, + If you wed with no other man, + No other lady I'll wed but you." + + Then she has bribed the prison-keeper, + With store of gold and white monie, + To loose the chain that bound him so, + And set Lord Beichan once more free. + + A ring she from her finger broke, + And half of it to him gave she,-- + "Keep it, to mind you of the maid + Who out of prison set you free." + + She had him put on good shipboard, + That he might safely cross the main; + Then said, "Adieu! my Christian lord, + I fear we ne'er may meet again." + + Lord Beichan turn'd him round about, + And lowly, lowly bent his knee; + "Ere seven years are come and gone, + I'll take you to my own countrie." + + But Susie Pye cou'd get no rest, + Nor day nor night cou'd happy be; + For something whisper'd in her breast, + "Lord Beichan will prove false to thee." + + So she set foot on good shipboard, + Well mann'd and fitted gallantlie; + She bade adieu to her father's towers, + And left behind her own countrie. + + Then she sailed west, and she sailed north, + She sailed far o'er the salt sea faem; + And after many weary days, + Unto fair England's shore she came. + + Then she went to Lord Beichan's gate, + And she tirl'd gently at the pin, + And ask'd--"Is this Lord Beichan's hall, + And is that noble lord within?" + + The porter ready answer made,-- + "Oh yes, this is Lord Beichan's hall; + And he is also here within, + With bride and guests assembled all." + + "And has he betroth'd another love, + And has he quite forgotten me, + To whom he plighted his love and troth, + When from prison I did him free? + + "Bear to your lord, ye proud porter, + This parted ring, the plighted token + Of mutual love, and mutual vows, + By him, alas! now falsely broken. + + "And bid him send one bit of bread, + And bid him send one cup of wine, + Unto the maid he hath betray'd, + Tho' she freed him from cruel pine." + + The porter hasten'd to his lord, + And fell down on his bended knee: + "My lord, a lady stands at your gate, + The fairest lady I e'er did see. + + "On every finger she has a ring, + And on her middle finger three; + With as much gold above her brow + As wou'd buy an earldom to me." + + It's out then spake the bride's mother, + Both loud and angry out spake she,-- + "Ye might have excepted our bonnie bride, + If not more of this companie." + + "My dame, your daughter's fair enough, + Her beauty's not denied by me; + But were she ten times fairer still, + With this lady ne'er compare cou'd she. + + "My lord, she asks one bit of bread, + And bids you send one cup of wine; + And to remember the lady's love, + Who freed you out of cruel pine." + + Lord Beichan hied him down the stair,-- + Of fifteen steps he made but three, + Until he came to Susie Pye, + Whom he did kiss most tenderlie. + + He's ta'en her by the lily hand, + And led her to his noble hall, + Where stood his sore-bewilder'd bride, + And wedding guests assembled all. + + Fair Susie blushing look'd around, + Upon the lords and ladies gay; + Then with the tear-drops in her eyes, + Unto Lord Beichan she did say: + + "Oh, have ye ta'en another bride, + And broke your plighted vows to me? + Then fare thee well, my Christian lord, + I'll try to think no more on thee. + + "But sadly I will wend my way, + And sadly I will cross the sea, + And sadly will with grief and shame + Return unto my own countrie." + + "Oh, never, never, Susie Pye, + Oh, never more shall you leave me; + This night you'll be my wedded wife, + And lady of my lands so free." + + Syne up then spake the bride's mother, + She ne'er before did speak so free,-- + "You'll not forsake my dear daughter, + For sake of her from Pagandie." + + "Take home, take home your daughter dear, + She's not a pin the worse of me; + She came to me on horseback riding, + But shall go back in a coach and three." + + Lord Beichan got ready another wedding, + And sang, with heart brimful of glee,-- + "Oh, I'll range no more in foreign lands, + Since Susie Pye has cross'd the sea." + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_The Gay Gos-hawk_ + + "O well is me, my gay gos-hawk, + That you can speak and flee; + For you can carry a love-letter + To my true love frae me." + + "O how can I carry a letter to her, + Or how should I her know? + I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spak', + And eyes that ne'er her saw." + + "The white o' my love's skin is white + As down o' dove or maw; + The red o' my love's cheek is red + As blood that's spilt on snaw. + + "When ye come to the castle, + Light on the tree of ash, + And sit you there and sing our loves + As she comes frae the mass. + + "Four and twenty fair ladies + Will to the mass repair; + And weel may ye my lady ken, + The fairest lady there." + + When the gos-hawk flew to that castle, + He lighted on the ash; + And there he sat and sang their loves + As she came frae the mass. + + "Stay where ye be, my maidens a', + And sip red wine anon, + Till I go to my west window + And hear a birdie's moan." + + She's gane unto her west window, + The bolt she fainly drew; + And unto that lady's white, white neck + The bird a letter threw. + + "Ye're bidden to send your love a send, + For he has sent you twa; + And tell him where he may see you soon, + Or he cannot live ava." + + "I send him the ring from my finger, + The garland off my hair, + I send him the heart that's in my breast; + What would my love have mair? + And at the fourth kirk in fair Scotland, + Ye'll bid him wait for me there." + + She hied her to her father dear + As fast as gang could she: + "I'm sick at the heart, my father dear; + An asking grant you me!" + "Ask me na for that Scottish lord, + For him ye'll never see!" + + "An asking, an asking, dear father!" she says, + "An asking grant you me; + That if I die in fair England, + In Scotland ye'll bury me. + + "At the first kirk o' fair Scotland, + You cause the bells be rung; + At the second kirk o' fair Scotland, + You cause the mass be sung; + + "At the third kirk o' fair Scotland, + You deal gold for my sake; + At the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland, + O there you'll bury me at! + + "This is all my asking, father, + I pray you grant it me!" + "Your asking is but small," he said; + "Weel granted it shall be. + But why do ye talk o' suchlike things? + For ye arena going to dee." + + The lady's gane to her chamber, + And a moanfu' woman was she, + As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash, + And were about to dee. + + The lady's gane to her chamber + As fast as she could fare; + And she has drunk a sleepy draught, + She mix'd it wi' mickle care. + + She's fallen into a heavy trance, + And pale and cold was she; + She seemed to be as surely dead + As ony corpse could be. + + Out and spak' an auld witch-wife, + At the fireside sat she: + "Gin she has killed herself for love, + I wot it weel may be: + + "But drap the het lead on her cheek, + And drap in on her chin, + And rap it on her bosom white, + And she'll maybe speak again. + 'Tis much that a young lady will do + To her true love to win." + + They drapped the het lead on her cheek, + They drapped it on her chin, + They drapped it on her bosom white, + But she spake none again. + + Her brothers they went to a room, + To make to her a bier; + The boards were a' o' the cedar wood, + The edges o' silver clear. + + Her sisters they went to a room, + To make to her a sark; + The cloth was a' o' the satin fine, + And the stitching silken-wark. + + "Now well is me, my gay gos-hawk, + That ye can speak and flee! + Come show me any love-tokens + That you have brought to me." + + "She sends you the ring frae her white finger, + The garland frae her hair; + She sends you the heart within her breast; + And what would you have mair? + And at the fourth kirk o' fair Scotland, + She bids you wait for her there." + + "Come hither, all my merry young men! + And drink the good red wine; + For we must on towards fair England + To free my love frae pine." + + The funeral came into fair Scotland, + And they gart the bells be rung; + And when it came to the second kirk, + They gart the mass be sung. + + And when it came to the third kirk, + They dealt gold for her sake; + And when it came to the fourth kirk, + Her love was waiting thereat. + + At the fourth kirk in fair Scotland + Stood spearmen in a row; + And up and started her ain true love, + The chieftain over them a'. + + "Set down, set down the bier," he says, + "Till I look upon the dead; + The last time that I saw her face, + Its color was warm and red." + + He stripped the sheet from aff her face + A little below the chin; + The lady then she open'd her eyes, + And looked full on him. + + "O give me a shive o' your bread, love, + O give me a cup o' your wine! + Long have I fasted for your sake, + And now I fain would dine. + + "Gae hame, gae hame, my seven brothers, + Gae hame and blaw the horn! + And ye may say that ye sought my skaith, + And that I hae gi'en you the scorn. + + "I cam' na here to bonny Scotland + To lie down in the clay; + But I cam' here to bonny Scotland + To wear the silks sae gay! + + "I cam' na here to bonny Scotland + Amang the dead to rest; + But I cam' here to bonny Scotland + To the man that I lo'e best!" + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_Earl Mar's Daughter_ + + It was intill a pleasant time, + Upon a simmer's day, + The noble Earl of Mar's daughter + Went forth to sport and play. + + And as she played and sported + Below a green aik tree, + There she saw a sprightly doo + Set on a branch sae hie. + + "O Coo-my-doo, my love sae true, + If ye'll come doun to me, + Ye'se hae a cage o' gude red goud + Instead o' simple tree. + + "I'll tak' ye hame and pet ye weel, + Within my bower and ha'; + I'll gar ye shine as fair a bird + As ony o' them a'!" + + And she had nae these words weel spoke, + Nor yet these words weel said, + Till Coo-my-doo flew frae the branch, + And lighted on her head. + + Then she has brought this pretty bird + Hame to her bower and ha', + And made him shine as fair a bird + As ony o' them a'. + + When day was gane, and night was come, + About the evening-tide, + This lady spied a bonny youth + Stand straight up by her side. + + "Now whence come ye, young man," she said, + "To put me into fear? + My door was bolted right secure, + And what way cam' ye here?" + + "O haud your tongue, my lady fair, + Lat a' your folly be; + Mind ye not o' your turtle-doo + Ye coax'd from aff the tree?" + + "O wha are ye, young man?" she said, + "What country come ye frae?" + "I flew across the sea," he said, + "'Twas but this verra day. + + "My mither is a queen," he says, + Likewise of magic skill; + 'Twas she that turned me in a doo, + To fly where'er I will. + + "And it was but this verra day + That I cam' ower the sea: + I loved you at a single look; + With you I'll live and dee." + + "O Coo-my-doo, my love sae true, + Nae mair frae me ye'se gae." + "That's never my intent, my love; + As ye said, it shall be sae." + + There he has lived in bower wi' her, + For six lang years and ane; + Till sax young sons to him she bare, + And the seventh she's brought hame. + + But aye, as soon's a child was born, + He carried them away, + And brought them to his mither's care, + As fast as he could fly. + + Thus he has stay'd in bower wi' her + For seven lang years and mair; + Till there cam' a lord o' hie renown + To court that lady fair. + + But still his proffer she refused, + And a' his presents too; + Says, "I'm content to live alane + Wi' my bird Coo-my-doo!" + + Her father sware an angry oath, + He sware it wi' ill-will: + "To-morrow, ere I eat or drink, + That bird I'll surely kill." + + The bird was sitting in his cage, + And heard what he did say; + He jumped upon the window-sill: + "'Tis time I was away." + + Then Coo-my-doo took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea, + And lighted at his mither's castle, + Upon a tower sae hie. + + The Queen his mither was walking out, + To see what she could see, + And there she saw her darling son + Set on the tower sae hie. + + "Get dancers here to dance," she said, + "And minstrels for to play; + For here's my dear son Florentine + Come back wi' me to stay." + + "Get nae dancers to dance, mither, + Nor minstrels for to play; + For the mither o' my seven sons, + The morn's her wedding day." + + "Now tell me, dear son Florentine, + O tell, and tell me true; + Tell me this day, without delay, + What sall I do for you?" + + "Instead of dancers to dance, mither, + Or minstrels for to play, + Turn four-and-twenty well-wight men, + Like storks, in feathers gray; + + "My seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And I myself a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o' high degree." + + Then, sighing, said the Queen to hersell, + "That thing's too high for me!" + But she applied to an auld woman, + Who had mair skill than she. + + Instead o' dancers to dance a dance, + Or minstrels for to play, + Were four-and-twenty well-wight men + Turn'd birds o' feathers gray; + + Her seven sons in seven swans, + Aboon their heads to flee; + And he himsell a gay gos-hawk, + A bird o' high degree. + + This flook o' birds took flight and flew + Beyond the raging sea; + They landed near the Earl Mar's castle, + Took shelter in every tree. + + They were a flock o' pretty birds, + Right wondrous to be seen; + The weddin'eers they looked at them + Whilst walking on the green. + + These birds flew up frae bush and tree, + And, lighted on the ha'; + And, when the wedding-train cam' forth, + Flew down amang them a'. + + The storks they seized the boldest men, + That they could not fight or flee; + The swans they bound the bridegroom fast + Unto a green aik tree. + + They flew around the bride-maidens, + Around the bride's own head; + And, wi' the twinkling o' an ee, + The bride and they were fled. + + There's ancient men at weddings been + For eighty years or more; + But siccan a curious wedding-day + They never saw before. + + For naething could the company do, + Nor naething could they say; + But they saw a flock o' pretty birds + That took their bride away. + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_Chevy-Chace_ + + God prosper long our noble king, + Our lives and safeties all; + A woful hunting once there did + In Chevy-Chace befall. + + To drive the deer with hound and horn + Earl Percy took his way; + The child may rue that is unborn + The hunting of that day. + + The stout Earl of Northumberland + A vow to God did make, + His pleasure in the Scottish woods + Three summer days to take,-- + + The chiefest harts in Chevy-Chace + To kill and bear away. + These tidings to Earl Douglas came, + In Scotland where he lay; + + Who sent Earl Percy present word + He would prevent his sport. + The English earl, not fearing that, + Did to the woods resort + + With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, + All chosen men of might, + Who knew full well in time of need + To aim their shafts aright. + + The gallant greyhounds swiftly ran + To chase the fallow deer; + On Monday they began to hunt + Ere daylight did appear; + + And long before high noon they had + A hundred fat bucks slain; + Then having dined, the drovers went + To rouse the deer again. + + The bowmen mustered on the hills, + Well able to endure; + And all their rear, with special care, + That day was guarded sure. + + The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, + The nimble deer to take, + That with their cries the hills and dales + An echo shrill did make. + + Lord Percy to the quarry went, + To view the slaughtered deer; + Quoth he, "Earl Douglas promised + This day to meet me here; + + "But if I thought he would not come, + No longer would I stay;" + With that a brave young gentleman + Thus to the Earl did say: + + "Lo, yonder doth Earl Douglas come, + His men in armor bright; + Full twenty hundred Scottish spears + All marching in our sight; + + "All men of pleasant Teviotdale, + Fast by the river Tweed;" + "Then cease your sports," Earl Percy said, + "And take your bows with speed; + + "And now with me, my countrymen, + Your courage forth advance; + For never was there champion yet, + In Scotland or in France, + + "That ever did on horseback come, + But if my hap it were, + I durst encounter man for man, + With him to break a spear." + + Earl Douglas on his milk-white steed, + Most like a baron bold, + Rode foremost of his company, + Whose armor shone like gold. + + "Show me," said he, "whose men you be, + That hunt so boldly here, + That, without my consent, do chase + And kill my fallow-deer." + + The first man that did answer make, + Was noble Percy he-- + Who said, "We list not to declare, + Nor show whose men we be: + + "Yet will we spend our dearest blood + Thy chiefest harts to slay." + Then Douglas swore a solemn oath, + And thus in rage did say: + + "Ere thus I will out-braved be, + One of us two shall die; + I know thee well, an earl thou art-- + Lord Percy, so am I. + + "But trust me, Percy, pity it were, + And great offence, to kill + Any of these our guiltless men, + For they have done no ill. + + "Let thou and I the battle try, + And set our men aside." + "Accursed be he," Earl Percy said, + "By whom this is denied." + + Then stepped a gallant squire forth, + Witherington was his name, + Who said, "I would not have it told + To Henry, our king, for shame, + + "That e'er my captain fought on foot, + And I stood looking on. + You two be earls," said Witherington, + "And I a squire alone; + + "I'll do the best that do I may, + While I have power to stand; + While I have power to wield my sword, + I'll fight with heart and hand." + + Our English archers bent their bows-- + Their hearts were good and true; + At the first flight of arrows sent, + Full fourscore Scots they slew. + + Yet stays Earl Douglas on the bent, + As Chieftain stout and good; + As valiant Captain, all unmoved, + The shock he firmly stood. + + His host he parted had in three, + As leader ware and tried; + And soon his spearmen on their foes + Bore down on every side. + + Throughout the English archery + They dealt full many a wound; + But still our valiant Englishmen + All firmly kept their ground. + + And throwing straight their bows away, + They grasped their swords so bright; + And now sharp blows, a heavy shower, + On shields and helmets light. + + They closed full fast on every side-- + No slackness there was found; + And many a gallant gentleman + Lay gasping on the ground. + + In truth, it was a grief to see + How each one chose his spear, + And how the blood out of their breasts + Did gush like water clear. + + At last these two stout earls did meet; + Like captains of great might, + Like lions wode, they laid on lode, + And made a cruel fight. + + They fought until they both did sweat, + With swords of tempered steel, + Until the blood, like drops of rain, + They trickling down did feel. + + "Yield thee, Lord Percy," Douglas said; + "In faith I will thee bring + Where thou shalt high advanced be + By James, our Scottish king. + + "Thy ransom I will freely give, + And this report of thee, + Thou art the most courageous knight + That ever I did see." + + "No, Douglas," saith Earl Percy then, + "Thy proffer I do scorn; + I will not yield to any Scot + That ever yet was born." + + With that there came an arrow keen + Out of an English bow, + Which struck Earl Douglas to the heart, + A deep and deadly blow; + + Who never spake more words than these: + "Fight on, my merry men all; + For why, my life is at an end; + Lord Percy sees my fall." + + Then leaving life, Earl Percy took + The dead man by the hand; + And said, "Earl Douglas, for thy life + Would I had lost my land! + + "In truth, my very heart doth bleed + With sorrow for thy sake; + For sure a more redoubted knight + Mischance did never take." + + A knight amongst the Scots there was + Who saw Earl Douglas die, + Who straight in wrath did vow revenge + Upon the Earl Percy. + + Sir Hugh Montgomery was he called, + Who, with a spear full bright, + Well mounted on a gallant steed, + Ran fiercely through the fight; + + And past the English archers all, + Without a dread or fear; + And through Earl Percy's body then + He thrust his hateful spear; + + With such vehement force and might + He did his body gore, + The staff ran through the other side + A large cloth-yard and more. + + So thus did both these nobles die, + Whose courage none could stain. + An English archer then perceived + The noble Earl was slain. + + He had a bow bent in his hand, + Made of a trusty tree; + An arrow of a cloth-yard long + To the hard head haled he. + + Against Sir Hugh Montgomery + So right the shaft he set, + The gray goose wing that was thereon + In his heart's blood was wet. + + This fight did last from break of day + Till setting of the sun: + For when they rung the evening-bell, + The battle scarce was done. + + With stout Earl Percy there was slain + Sir John of Egerton, + Sir Robert Ratcliff, and Sir John, + Sir James, that bold baron. + + And with Sir George and stout Sir James, + Both knights of good account, + Good Sir Ralph Raby there was slain, + Whose prowess did surmount. + + For Witherington needs must I wail + As one in doleful dumps; + For when his legs were smitten off, + He fought upon his stumps. + + And with Earl Douglas there was slain + Sir Hugh Montgomery, + Sir Charles Murray, that from the field, + One foot would never flee. + + Sir Charles Murray of Ratcliff, too-- + His sister's son was he; + Sir David Lamb, so well esteemed, + But saved he could not be. + + And the Lord Maxwell in like case + Did with Earl Douglas die: + Of twenty hundred Scottish spears, + Scarce fifty-five did fly. + + Of fifteen hundred Englishmen, + Went home but fifty-three; + The rest on Chevy-Chace were slain, + Under the greenwood tree. + + Next day did many widows come, + Their husbands to bewail; + They washed their wounds in brinish tears, + But all would not prevail. + + Their bodies, bathed in purple blood, + They bore with them away; + They kissed them dead a thousand times, + Ere they were clad in clay. + + The news was brought to Edinburgh, + Where Scotland's king did reign, + That brave Earl Douglas suddenly + Was with an arrow slain: + + "Oh heavy news," King James did say; + "Scotland can witness be + I have not any captain more + Of such account as he." + + Like tidings to King Henry came + Within as short a space, + That Percy of Northumberland + Was slain in Chevy-Chace: + + "Now God be with him," said our king, + "Since 'twill no better be; + I trust I have within my realm + Five hundred as good as he: + + "Yet shall not Scots or Scotland say + But I will vengeance take: + I'll be revenged on them all, + For brave Earl Percy's sake." + + This vow full well the king performed + After at Humbledown; + In one day fifty knights were slain, + With lords of high renown; + + And of the rest, of small account, + Did many hundreds die: + Thus endeth the hunting of Chevy-Chace, + Made by the Earl Percy. + + God save the king, and bless this land, + With plenty, joy and peace; + And grant, henceforth, that foul debate + 'Twixt noblemen may cease! + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_Hynde Horn_ + + "Oh, it's Hynde Horn fair, and it's Hynde Horn free; + Oh, where were you born, and in what countrie?" + "In a far distant countrie I was born; + But of home and friends I am quite forlorn." + + Oh, it's seven long years he served the king, + But wages from him he ne'er got a thing: + Oh, it's seven long years he served, I ween, + And all for love of the king's daughter Jean. + + Oh, he gave to his love a silver wand, + Her sceptre of rule over fair Scotland; + With three singing laverocks set thereon, + For to mind her of him when he was gone. + + And his love gave to him a gay gold ring, + With three shining diamonds set therein; + Oh, his love gave to him this gay gold ring, + Of virtue and value above all thing; + Saying--"While the diamonds do keep their hue, + You will know that my love holds fast and true; + But when the diamonds grow pale and wan, + I'll be dead, or wed to another man." + + Then the sails were spread, and away sail'd he; + Oh, he sail'd away to a far countrie; + And when he had been seven years to sea, + Hynde Horn look'd to see how his ring might be. + + But when Hynde Horn look'd the diamonds upon, + Oh, he saw that they were both pale and wan; + And at once he knew, from their alter'd hue, + That his love was dead or had proved untrue. + + Oh, the sails were spread, and away sail'd he + Back over the sea to his own countrie; + Then he left the ship when it came to land, + And he met an auld beggar upon the strand. + + "What news, thou auld beggar man?" said he; + "For full seven years I've been over the sea." + Then the auld man said--"The strangest of all + Is the curious wedding in our king's hall. + + "For there's a king's daughter, came frae the wast, + Has been married to him these nine days past; + But unto him a wife the bride winna be, + For love of Hynde Horn, far over the sea." + + "Now, auld man, give to me your begging weed, + And I will give to thee my riding steed; + And, auld man, give to me your staff of tree, + And my scarlet cloak I will give to thee. + + "And you must teach me the auld beggar's role, + As he goes his rounds, and receives his dole." + The auld man he did as young Hynde Horn said, + And taught him the way to beg for his bread. + + Then Hynde Horn bent him to his staff of tree, + And to the king's palace away hobbled he; + And when he arrived at the king's palace gate, + To the porter he thus his petition did state: + + "Good porter, I pray, for Saints Peter and Paul, + And for sake of the Saviour who died for us all, + For one cup of wine, and one bit of bread, + To an auld man with travel and hunger bestead. + + "And ask the fair bride, for the sake of Hynde Horn, + To hand them to one so sadly forlorn." + Then the porter for pity the message convey'd, + And told the fair bride all the beggar man said. + + And when she did hear it, she tripp'd down the stair, + And in her fair hands did lovingly bear + A cup of red wine, and a farle of cake, + To give the old man, for loved Hynde Horn's sake. + + And when she came to where Hynde Horn did stand, + With joy he did take the cup from her hand; + Then pledged the fair bride, the cup out did drain, + Dropp'd in it the ring, and return'd it again. + + "Oh, found you that ring by sea or on land, + Or got you that ring off a dead man's hand?" + "Oh, I found not that ring by sea or on land, + But I got that ring from a fair lady's hand. + + "As a pledge of true love she gave it to me, + Full seven years ago, as I sail'd o'er the sea; + But now that the diamonds are chang'd in their hue, + I know that my love has to me proved untrue." + + "Oh, I will cast off my gay costly gown, + And follow thee on from town unto town, + And I will take the gold combs from my hair, + And follow my true love for ever mair." + + "You need not cast off your gay costly gown, + To follow me on from town unto town; + You need not take the gold combs from your hair, + For Hynde Horn has gold enough, and to spare." + + He stood up erect, let his beggar weed fall, + And shone there the foremost and noblest of all; + Then the bridegrooms were chang'd, and the lady re-wed, + To Hynde Horn thus come back, like one from the dead. + + OLD BALLAD. + + +_Glenlogie_ + + There was monie a braw noble + Came to our Queen's ha'; + But the bonnie Glenlogie + Was the flower of them a'. + And the young Ladye Jeanie, + Sae gude and sae fair, + She fancied Glenlogie + Aboon a' that were there. + + She speired at his footman, + That ran by his side, + His name, and his sirname, + And where he did bide. + "He bides at Glenlogie, + When he is at hame; + He's of the gay Gordons, + And George is his name." + + She wrote to Glenlogie, + To tell him her mind: + "My love is laid on you, + Oh, will you prove kind?" + He turn'd about lightly, + As the Gordons do a': + "I thank you, fair Ladye, + But I'm promis'd awa." + + She call'd on her maidens + Her jewels to take, + And to lay her in bed, + For her heart it did break. + "Glenlogie! Glenlogie! + "Glenlogie!" said she; + "If I getna Glenlogie, + I'm sure I will dee." + + "Oh, hold your tongue, daughter, + And weep na sae sair; + For you'll get Drumfindlay, + His father's young heir." + "Oh, hold your tongue, father, + And let me alane; + If I getna Glenlogie, + I'll never wed ane." + + Then her father's old chaplain-- + A man of great skill-- + He wrote to Glenlogie, + The cause of this ill; + And her father, he sent off + This letter with speed, + By a trusty retainer, + Who rode his best steed. + + The first line that he read, + A light laugh gave he; + The next line that he read, + The tear fill'd each e'e: + "Oh, what a man am I, + That a leal heart should break? + Or that sic a fair maid + Should die for my sake? + + "Go, saddle my horse, + Go, saddle him soon, + Go, saddle the swiftest + E'er rode frae the toun." + But ere it was saddled, + And brought to the door, + Glenlogie was on the road + Three miles or more. + + When he came to her father's, + Great grief there was there; + There was weepin' and wailin', + And sabbin' full sair. + Oh, pale and wan was she + When Glenlogie gaed in; + But she grew red and rosy + When Glenlogie gaed ben. + + Then out spake her father, + With tears in each e'e: + "You're welcome, Glenlogie, + You're welcome to me." + And out spake her mother: + "You're welcome," said she; + "You're welcome, Glenlogie, + Your Jeanie to see." + + "Oh, turn, Ladye Jeanie, + Turn round to this side, + And I'll be the bridegroom, + And you'll be the bride." + Oh, it was a blythe wedding, + As ever was seen; + And bonnie Jeanie Melville + Was scarcely sixteen. + + OLD BALLAD. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_Life Lessons_ + + + _"They also serve who only stand and wait."_ + + MILTON. + + _"Small service is true service while it lasts."_ + + WORDSWORTH. + + _"Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll!"_ + + HOLMES. + + _"When Duty whispers low 'Thou must,' + The youth replies, 'I can.'"_ + + EMERSON. + + _"Thou must be true thyself, + If thou the truth wouldst teach."_ + + BONAR. + + _"I am content with what I have, + Little be it, or much."_ + + BUNYAN. + + _"As one lamp lights another, nor grows less, + So nobleness enkindleth nobleness."_ + + LOWELL. + + _"Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws + Makes that and th' action fine."_ + + HERBERT. + + "_This above all--to thine own self be true; + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou canst not then be false to any man._" + + SHAKESPEARE. + + + + +XVI + +LIFE LESSONS + + +_Life_ + +* * * * + + 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 labor and to wait. + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + _From the "Psalm of Life."_ + + +_In a Child's Album_ + + Small service is true service while it lasts; + Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one; + The Daisy, by the shadow that it casts, + Protects the lingering dew-drop from the sun. + + WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. + + +_To-Day_ + + So here hath been dawning + Another blue day: + Think, wilt thou let it + Slip useless away. + + Out of Eternity + This new day was born; + Into Eternity, + At night, will return. + + Behold it aforetime + No eye ever did; + So soon it for ever + From all eyes is hid. + + Here hath been dawning + Another blue day: + Think, wilt thou let it + Slip useless away. + + THOMAS CARLYLE. + + +_The Noble Nature_ + + It is not growing like a tree + In bulk doth make Man better be; + Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, + To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: + A lily of a day + Is fairer far in May, + Although it fall and die that night,-- + It was the plant and flower of Light: + In small proportions we just beauties see, + And in short measures life may perfect be. + + BEN JONSON. + + +_Forbearance_ + + Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? + Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? + At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? + Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? + And loved so well a high behavior, + In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, + Nobility more nobly to repay? + O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine! + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_The Chambered Nautilus_ + + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, + Sails the unshadowed main,-- + The venturous bark that flings + On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings + In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, + And coral reefs lie bare, + Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. + + Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; + Wrecked is the ship of pearl! + And every chambered cell, + Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, + As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, + Before thee lies revealed,-- + Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! + + Year after year beheld the silent toil + That spread his lustrous coil; + Still, as the spiral grew, + He left the past year's dwelling for the new, + Stole with soft step its shining archway through, + Built up its idle door, + Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. + + Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, + Child of the wandering sea, + Cast from her lap, forlorn! + From thy dead lips a clearer note is born + Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! + While on mine ear it rings, + Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- + + Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, + As the swift seasons roll! + Leave thy low-vaulted past! + Let each new temple, nobler than the last, + Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, + Till thou at length art free, + Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! + + OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. + + +_Duty_ + + So nigh is grandeur to our dust, + So near is God to man; + When Duty whispers low "Thou must," + The youth replies, "I can." + + RALPH WALDO EMERSON. + + +_On His Blindness_ + + When I consider how my light is spent + Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, + And that one Talent which is death to hide, + Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent + To serve therewith my Maker, and present + My true account, lest he returning chide,-- + Doth God exact day-labor, light denied, + I fondly ask:--But Patience, to prevent + That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need + Either man's work or his own gifts; who best + Bear his mild yoke, they serve Him best: His State + Is Kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, + And post o'er Land and Ocean without rest:-- + They also serve who only stand and wait." + + JOHN MILTON. + + +_Sir Launfal and the Leper_ + + As Sir Launfal made morn through the darksome gate, + He was ware of a leper, crouched by the same, + Who begged with his hand and moaned as he sate; + And a loathing over Sir Launfal came; + The sunshine went out of his soul with a thrill, + The flesh 'neath his armor did shrink and crawl, + And midway its leap his heart stood still + Like a frozen waterfall; + For this man, so foul and bent of stature, + Rasped harshly against his dainty nature, + And seemed the one blot on the summer morn,-- + So he tossed him a piece of gold in scorn. + + The leper raised not the gold from the dust: + "Better to me the poor man's crust, + Better the blessing of the poor, + Though I turn me empty from his door; + That is no true alms which the hand can hold; + He gives nothing but worthless gold + Who gives from a sense of duty; + But he who gives a slender mite, + And gives to that which is out of sight, + That thread of the all-sustaining Beauty + Which runs through all and doth all unite,-- + The hand cannot clasp the whole of his alms, + The heart outstretches its eager palms, + For a god goes with it and makes it store + To the soul that was starving in darkness before." + + JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. + + _From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."_ + + +_Opportunity_ + + This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-- + There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; + And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged + A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords + Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner + Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. + A craven hung along the battle's edge, + And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-- + That blue blade that the king's son bears,--but this + Blunt thing!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, + And lowering crept away and left the field. + Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, + And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, + Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, + And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout + Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, + And saved a great cause that heroic day. + + EDWARD ROWLAND SILL. + + +_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:-- + Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, + And to the Presence in the room he said, + "What writest thou?"--The Vision raised its head, + And with a look made of all sweet accord + Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." + "And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so," + Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, + But cheerily still, and said, "I pray thee, then, + Write me as one that loves his fellow men." + + The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night + It came again with a great wakening light, + And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, + And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest. + + LEIGH HUNT. + + +_Be True_ + + Thou must be true thyself, + If thou the truth wouldst teach; + Thy soul must overflow, if thou + Another's soul wouldst reach! + It needs the overflow of heart + To give the lips full speech. + + Think truly, and thy thoughts + Shall the world's famine feed; + Speak truly, and each word of thine + Shall be a fruitful seed; + Live truly, and thy life shall be + A great and noble creed. + + HORATIO BONAR. + + +_The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation_ + + He that is down needs fear no fall, + He that is low, no pride; + He that is humble ever shall + Have God to be his guide. + + I am content with what I have, + Little be it or much: + And, Lord, contentment still I crave, + Because Thou savest such. + + Fullness to such a burden is + That go on pilgrimage: + Here little, and hereafter bliss, + Is best from age to age. + + JOHN BUNYAN. + + +_A Turkish Legend_ + + A certain pasha, dead five thousand years, + Once from his harem fled in sudden tears, + + And had this sentence on the city's gate + Deeply engraven, "Only God is great." + + So these four words above the city's noise + Hung like the accents of an angel's voice. + + And evermore from the high barbican, + Saluted each returning caravan. + + Lost is that city's glory. Every gust + Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown pasha's dust, + + And all is ruin, save one wrinkled gate + Whereon is written, "Only God is great." + + THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. + + +_Elegy written in a Country Churchyard_ + + The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, + The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, + The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, + And leaves the world to darkness and to me. + + Now fades the glimmering 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 tow'r, + 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, + The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, + No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. + + For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, + Or busy housewife ply her evening 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 tomb no trophies raise, + Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, + The pealing anthem swells 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, + Or Flatt'ry soothe the dull cold ear of death? + + 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 repress'd their noble rage, + And froze the genial current of the soul. + + Full many a gem of purest ray serene + The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: + Full many a flower 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 circumscribed alone + Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; + 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, + 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 vale of life + They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. + + Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect + Some frail memorial still erected nigh, + With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, + Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. + + Their name, 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 Forgetfulness 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; + E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, + E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. + + For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, + Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; + If chance, by lonely contemplation led, + Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, + + Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, + "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn + Brushing with hasty steps the dews 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 noontide would he stretch, + And pore upon 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. + + "One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, + Along the heath, and near his fav'rite tree; + Another came; nor yet beside the rill, + Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he: + + "The next, with dirges due in sad array, + Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne.-- + Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay + Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." + + + THE EPITAPH + + _Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth + A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown; + Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, + And Melancholy mark'd him for her own._ + + _Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, + Heav'n did a recompense as largely send: + He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear, + He gain'd from Heav'n ('t was all he wish'd) a friend._ + + _No farther seek his merits to disclose, + Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, + (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) + The bosom of his Father and his God._ + + THOMAS GRAY. + + +_Polonius to Laertes_ + + And these few precepts in thy memory + Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue + Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. + Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar + The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, + Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel; + But do not dull thy palm with entertainment + Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware + Of entrance to a quarrel; but, being in, + Bear't, that th' opposer may beware of thee. + Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; + Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment. + Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, + But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy: + For the apparel oft proclaims the man; + And they in France, of the best rank and station, + Are of a most select and generous choice in that. + Neither a borrower, nor a lender be; + For loan oft loses both itself and friend, + And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. + This above all,--to thine own self be true; + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou canst not then be false to any man. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "Hamlet."_ + + +_The Olive Tree_ + + Said an ancient hermit, bending + Half in prayer upon his knee, + "Oil I need for midnight watching, + I desire an olive tree." + + Then he took a tender sapling, + Planted it before his cave, + Spread his trembling hands above it, + As his benison he gave. + + But he thought, the rain it needeth, + That the root may drink and swell; + "God! I pray Thee send Thy showers!" + So a gentle shower fell. + + "Lord, I ask for beams of summer, + Cherishing this little child." + Then the dripping clouds divided, + And the sun looked down and smiled. + + "Send it frost to brace its tissues, + O my God!" the hermit cried. + Then the plant was bright and hoary, + But at evensong it died. + + Went the hermit to a brother + Sitting in his rocky cell: + "Thou an olive tree possessest; + How is this, my brother, tell? + + "I have planted one, and prayed, + Now for sunshine, now for rain; + God hath granted each petition, + Yet my olive tree hath slain!" + + Said the other, "I entrusted + To its God my little tree; + He who made knew what it needed, + Better than a man like me. + + "Laid I on him no condition, + Fixed no ways and means; so I + Wonder not my olive thriveth, + Whilst thy olive tree did die." + + SABINE BARING-GOULD. + + +_Coronation_ + + At the king's gate the subtle noon + Wove filmy yellow nets of sun; + Into the drowsy snare too soon + The guards fell one by one. + + Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, + A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings + Me chance, at last, to see if men + Fare better, being kings." + + The king sat bowed beneath his crown, + Propping his face with listless hand; + Watching the hour-glass sifting down + Too slow its shining sand. + + "Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?" + The beggar turned, and pitying, + Replied, like one in dream, "Of thee, + Nothing. I want the king." + + Uprose the king, and from his head + Shook off the crown, and threw it by. + "O man! thou must have known," he said, + "A greater king than I." + + Through all the gates, unquestioned then, + Went king and beggar hand in hand. + Whispered the king, "Shall I know when + Before _his_ throne I stand?" + + The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste + Were wiping from the king's hot brow + The crimson lines the crown had traced. + "This is his presence now." + + At the king's gate, the crafty noon + Unwove its yellow nets of sun; + Out of their sleep in terror soon + The guards waked one by one. + + "Ho there! Ho there! Has no man seen + The king?" The cry ran to and fro; + Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween, + The laugh that free men know. + + On the king's gate the moss grew gray; + The king came not. They called him dead; + And made his eldest son one day + Slave in his father's stead. + + H. H. + + +_December_ + + In a drear-nighted December, + Too happy, happy tree, + Thy branches ne'er remember + Their green felicity: + The north cannot undo them, + With a sleety whistle through them; + Nor frozen thawings glue them + From budding at the prime. + + In a drear-nighted December, + Too happy, happy brook, + Thy bubblings ne'er remember + Apollo's summer look; + But with a sweet forgetting, + They stay their crystal fretting, + Never, never petting + About the frozen time. + + Ah! would 'twere so with many + A gentle girl and boy! + But were there ever any + Writhed not at passed joy? + To know the change and feel it, + When there is none to heal it, + Nor numbed sense to steal it, + Was never said in rhyme. + + JOHN KEATS. + + +_The End of the Play_ + + The play is done; the curtain drops, + Slow falling to the prompter's bell: + A moment yet the actor stops, + And looks around, to say farewell. + It is an irksome word and task; + And, when he's laughed and said his say, + He shows, as he removes the mask, + A face that's anything but gay. + + One word, ere yet the evening ends, + Let's close it with a parting rhyme, + And pledge a hand to all young friends, + As fits the merry Christmas time. + On life's wide scenes you, too, have parts, + That Fate ere long shall bid you play; + Good-night! with honest gentle hearts + A kindly greeting go alway! + + * * * * + + Come wealth or want, come good or ill, + Let young and old accept their part, + And bow before the Awful Will, + And bear it with ah honest heart. + Who misses, or who wins the prize? + Go, lose or conquer as you can: + But if you fail, or if you rise, + Be each, pray God, a gentleman. + + A gentleman, or old or young! + (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) + The sacred chorus first was sung + Upon the first of Christmas days: + The shepherds heard it overhead-- + The joyful angels raised it then: + Glory to Heaven on high, it said, + And peace on earth to gentle men. + + My song, save this, is little worth; + I lay the weary pen aside, + And wish you health, and love, and mirth, + As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. + As fits the holy Christmas birth, + Be this, good friends, our carol still-- + Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, + To men of gentle will. + + WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. + + _From "Dr. Birch and his Young Friends."_ + + +_A Farewell_ + + My fairest child, I have no song to give you; + No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray; + Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you + For every day. + + * * * * + + Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; + Do noble things, not dream them, all day long: + And so make life, death, and that vast forever + One grand, sweet song. + + CHARLES KINGSLEY. + + +_A Boy's Prayer_ + + God who created me + Nimble and light of limb, + In three elements free, + To run, to ride, to swim: + Not when the sense is dim, + But now from the heart of joy, + I would remember Him: + Take the thanks of a boy. + + * * * * + + HENRY CHARLES BEECHING. + + +_Chartless_ + + I never saw a moor, + I never saw the sea; + Yet know I how the heather looks, + And what a wave must be. + + I never spoke with God, + Nor visited in heaven; + Yet certain am I of the spot + As if the chart were given. + + EMILY DICKINSON. + + +_Peace_ + + My soul, there is a country, + Afar beyond the stars, + Where stands a winged sentry, + All skilful in the wars. + There, above noise and danger, + Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, + And One born in a manger + Commands the beauteous files. + He is thy gracious friend, + And (O my soul, awake!) + Did in pure love descend, + To die here for thy sake. + + If thou canst get but thither, + There grows the flower of peace, + The rose that cannot wither, + Thy fortress, and thy ease. + Leave then thy foolish ranges; + For none can thee secure, + But One who never changes, + Thy God, thy Life, thy Cure. + + HENRY VAUGHAN. + + +_Consider_ + + Consider + The lilies of the field, whose bloom is brief-- + We are as they; + Like them we fade away, + As doth a leaf. + + Consider + The sparrows of the air, of small account: + Our God doth view + Whether they fall or mount-- + He guards us too. + + Consider + The lilies, that do neither spin nor toil, + Yet are most fair-- + What profits all this care, + And all this coil? + + Consider + The birds, that have no barn nor harvest-weeks; + God gives them food-- + Much more our Father seeks + To do us good. + + CHRISTINA G. ROSSETTI. + + +_The Elixir_ + + Teach me, my God and King, + In all things Thee to see, + And what I do in anything, + To do it as for Thee. + + * * * * + + All may of Thee partake: + Nothing can be so mean + Which with this tincture (for Thy sake) + Will not grow bright and clean. + + A servant with this clause + Makes drudgery divine: + Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws, + Makes that and th' action fine. + + This is the famous stone + That turneth all to gold; + For that which God doth touch and own + Cannot for less be told. + + GEORGE HERBERT. + + +_One by One_ + + One by one the sands are flowing, + One by one the moments fall; + Some are coming, some are going; + Do not strive to grasp them all. + + One by one thy duties wait thee-- + Let thy whole strength go to each, + Let no future dreams elate thee, + Learn thou first what these can teach. + + One by one (bright gifts from heaven) + Joys are sent thee here below; + Take them readily when given-- + Ready, too, to let them go. + + One by one thy griefs shall meet thee; + Do not fear an armed band; + One will fade as others greet thee-- + Shadows passing through the land. + + Do not look at life's long sorrow; + See how small each moment's pain; + God will help thee for to-morrow, + So each day begin again. + + Every hour that fleets so slowly + Has its task to do or bear; + Luminous the crown, and holy, + When each gem is set with care. + + Do not linger with regretting, + Or for passing hours despond; + Nor, thy daily toil forgetting, + Look too eagerly beyond. + + Hours are golden links, God's token, + Reaching heaven; but, one by one, + Take them, lest the chain be broken + Ere the pilgrimage be done. + + ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. + + +_The Commonwealth of the Bees_ + +(Type of a Well-ordered State.) + + For government, though high, and low, and lower, + Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, + Congreeing in a full and natural close, + Like music. + Therefore doth heaven divide + The state of man in divers functions, + Setting endeavor in continual motion; + To which is fixed, as an aim or butt, + Obedience; for so work the honey-bees, + Creatures that, by a rule in nature, teach + The art of order to a peopled kingdom: + They have a king and officers of state, + Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, + Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, + Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, + Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds; + Which pillage they with merry march bring home + To the tent-royal of their emperor; + Who, busied in his majesty, surveys + The singing masons building roofs of gold, + The civil citizens kneading up the honey, + The poor mechanic porters crowding in + Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate; + The sad-eyed Justice, with his surly hum, + Delivering o'er to executors pale + The lazy, yawning drone. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "King Henry V."_ + + +_The Pilgrim_ + + Who would true valor see + Let him come hither! + One here will constant be, + Come wind, come weather: + There's no discouragement + Shall make him once relent + His first-avow'd intent + To be a Pilgrim. + + Whoso beset him round + With dismal stories, + Do but themselves confound; + His strength the more is. + No lion can him fright; + He'll with a giant fight; + But he will have a right + To be a Pilgrim. + + Nor enemy, nor fiend, + Can daunt his spirit; + He knows he at the end + Shall Life inherit:-- + Then, fancies, fly away; + He'll not fear what men say; + He'll labor, night and day, + To be a Pilgrim. + + JOHN BUNYAN. + + +_Be Useful_ + + Be useful where thou livest, that they may + Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still. + ----Find out men's wants and will, + And meet them there. All worldly joys go less + To the one joy of doing kindnesses. + + GEORGE HERBERT. + + + + +INTERLEAVES + +_The Glad Evangel_ + + +When the Child of Nazareth was born, the sun, according to the Bosnian +legend, "leaped in the heavens, and the stars around it danced. A peace +came over mountain and forest. Even the rotten stump stood straight and +healthy on the green hill-side. The grass was beflowered with open +blossoms, incense sweet as myrrh pervaded upland and forest, birds sang +on the mountain top, and all gave thanks to the great God." + +It is naught but an old folk-tale, but it has truth hidden at its heart, +for a strange, subtle force, a spirit of genial good-will, a new-born +kindness, seem to animate child and man alike when the world pays its +tribute to the "heaven-sent youngling," as the poet Drummond calls the +infant Christ. + +When the Three Wise Men rode from the East into the West on that "first, +best Christmas night," they bore on their saddle-bows three caskets +filled with gold and frankincense and myrrh, to be laid at the feet of +the manger-cradled babe of Bethlehem. Beginning with this old, old +journey, the spirit of giving crept into the world's heart. As the Magi +came bearing gifts, so do we also; gifts that relieve want, gifts that +are sweet and fragrant with friendship, gifts that breathe love, gifts +that mean service, gifts inspired still by the star that shone over the +City of David nearly two thousand years ago. + +Then hang the green coronet of the Christmas-tree with glittering +baubles and jewels of flame; heap offerings on its emerald branches; +bring the Yule log to the firing; deck the house with holly and +mistletoe, + + _"And all the bells on earth shall ring + On Christmas day in the morning."_ + + + + +XVII + +THE GLAD EVANGEL + + +_A Christmas Carol_[24] + + There's a song in the air! + There's a star in the sky! + There's a mother's deep prayer + And a baby's low cry! + And the star rains its fire while the Beautiful sing, + For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king. + + There's a tumult of joy + O'er the wonderful birth, + For the virgin's sweet boy + Is the Lord of the earth, + Ay! the star rains its fire and the Beautiful sing, + For the manger of Bethlehem cradles a king! + + In the light of that star + Lie the ages impearled; + And that song from afar + Has swept over the world. + Every hearth is aflame, and the Beautiful sing + In the homes of the nations that Jesus is king. + + We rejoice in the light, + And we echo the song + That comes down through the night + From the heavenly throng. + Ay! we shout to the lovely evangel they bring, + And we greet in his cradle our Saviour and King! + + JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. + +[Footnote 24: _From "The Poetical Works of J. G. Holland." Copyright, +1881, by Charles Scribner's Sons._] + + +_The Angels_ + + Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. + We bring the best of news; be not dismayed: + A Saviour there is born more old than years, + Amidst heaven's rolling height this earth who stayed. + In a poor cottage inned, a virgin maid, + A weakling did him bear, who all upbears; + There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, + To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres: + Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth. + This is that night--no, day, grown great with bliss, + In which the power of Satan broken is: + In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth! + Thus singing, through the air the angels swam, + And cope of stars re-echoed the same. + + WILLIAM DRUMMOND. + + +"_While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night"_ + + Like small curled feathers, white and soft, + The little clouds went by, + Across the moon, and past the stars, + And down the western sky: + In upland pastures, where the grass + With frosted dew was white, + Like snowy clouds the young sheep lay, + That first, best Christmas night. + + The shepherds slept; and, glimmering faint, + With twist of thin, blue smoke, + Only their fire's crackling flames + The tender silence broke-- + Save when a young lamb raised his head, + Or, when the night wind blew, + A nesting bird would softly stir, + Where dusky olives grew-- + + With finger on her solemn lip, + Night hushed the shadowy earth, + And only stars and angels saw + The little Saviour's birth; + Then came such flash of silver light + Across the bending skies, + The wondering shepherds woke, and hid + Their frightened, dazzled eyes! + + And all their gentle sleepy flock + Looked up, then slept again, + Nor knew the light that dimmed the stars + Brought endless Peace to men-- + Nor even heard the gracious words + That down the ages ring-- + "The Christ is born! the Lord has come, + Good-will on earth to bring!" + + Then o'er the moonlit, misty fields, + Dumb with the world's great joy, + The shepherds sought the white-walled town, + Where lay the baby boy-- + And oh, the gladness of the world, + The glory of the skies, + Because the longed-for Christ looked up + In Mary's happy eyes! + + MARGARET DELAND. + + +_The Star Song_ + + Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue, + Where is the Babe but lately sprung? + Lies he the lily-banks among? + + Or say, if this new Birth of ours + Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers, + Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear + All doubts, and manifest the where. + + Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek + Him in the morning's blushing cheek, + Or search the beds of spices through, + To find him out? + + _Star._--No, this ye need not do; + But only come and see Him rest, + A princely babe, in's mother's breast. + + ROBERT HERRICK. + + +_Hymn for Christmas_ + + Oh! lovely voices of the sky + Which hymned the Saviour's birth, + Are ye not singing still on high, + Ye that sang, "Peace on earth"? + To us yet speak the strains + Wherewith, in time gone by, + Ye blessed the Syrian swains, + Oh! voices of the sky! + + Oh! clear and shining light, whose beams + That hour Heaven's glory shed, + Around the palms, and o'er the streams, + And on the shepherd's head. + Be near, through life and death, + As in that holiest night + Of hope, and joy, and faith-- + Oh! clear and shining light! + + * * * * + + FELICIA HEMANS. + + +_New Prince, New Pomp_ + + Behold a simple, tender Babe, + In freezing winter night, + In homely manger trembling lies; + Alas! a piteous sight. + + The inns are full; no man will yield + This little Pilgrim bed; + But forced he is with silly beasts + In crib to shroud his head. + + Despise him not for lying there; + First what he is inquire: + An Orient pearl is often found + In depth of dirty mire. + + Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish, + Nor beasts that by him feed; + Weigh not his mother's poor attire, + Nor Joseph's simple weed. + This stable is a Prince's court, + The crib his chair of state; + The beasts are parcel of his pomp, + The wooden dish his plate. + + The persons in that poor attire + His royal liveries wear; + The Prince himself is come from heaven: + This pomp is praised there. + + With joy approach, O Christian wight! + Do homage to thy King; + And highly praise this humble pomp, + Which he from heaven doth bring. + + ROBERT SOUTHWELL. + + +_The Three Kings_ + + Three Kings came riding from far away, + Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar; + Three Wise Men out of the East were they, + And they travelled by night and they slept by day, + For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star. + + The star was so beautiful, large and clear, + That all the other stars of the sky + Became a white mist in the atmosphere; + And by this they knew that the coming was near + Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy. + + Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows, + Three caskets of gold with golden keys; + Their robes were of crimson silk, with rows + Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows, + Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. + + And so the Three Kings rode into the West, + Through the dusk of night over hills and dells, + And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast, + And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest, + With the people they met at the wayside wells. + + "Of the child that is born," said Baltasar, + "Good people, I pray you, tell us the news; + For we in the East have seen his star, + And have ridden fast, and have ridden far, + To find and worship the King of the Jews." + + And the people answered, "You ask in vain; + We know of no king but Herod the Great!" + They thought the Wise Men were men insane, + As they spurred their horses across the plain + Like riders in haste who cannot wait. + + And when they came to Jerusalem, + Herod the Great, who had heard this thing, + Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them; + And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem, + And bring me tidings of this new king." + + So they rode away, and the star stood still, + The only one in the gray of morn; + Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will, + Right over Bethlehem on the hill, + The city of David where Christ was born. + + And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard, + Through the silent street, till their horses turned + And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard; + But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred, + And only a light in the stable burned. + + And cradled there in the scented hay, + In the air made sweet by the breath of kine, + The little child in the manger lay, + The Child that would be King one day + Of a kingdom not human, but divine. + + His mother, Mary of Nazareth, + Sat watching beside his place of rest, + Watching the even flow of his breath, + For the joy of life and the terror of death + Were mingled together in her breast. + + They laid their offerings at his feet: + The gold was their tribute to a King; + The frankincense, with its odor sweet, + Was for the Priest, the Paraclete; + The myrrh for the body's burying. + + And the mother wondered and bowed her head, + And sat as still as a statue of stone; + Her heart was troubled yet comforted, + Remembering what the angel had said + Of an endless reign and of David's throne. + + Then the Kings rode out of the city gate, + With a clatter of hoofs in proud array; + But they went not back to Herod the Great, + For they knew his malice and feared his hate, + And returned to their homes by another way. + + HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. + + +_The Three Kings_[25] + + From out Cologne there came three kings + To worship Jesus Christ, their King; + To him they sought fine herbs they brought + And many a beauteous golden thing; + They brought their gifts to Bethlehem town + And in that manger set them down. + + Then spake the first king, and he said: + "O Child most heavenly, bright and fair, + I bring this crown to Bethlehem town + For Thee, and only Thee, to wear; + So give a heavenly crown to me + When I shall come at last to Thee." + + The second then: "I bring thee here + This royal robe, O Child!" he cried; + "Of silk 'tis spun and such an one + There is not in the world beside! + So in the day of doom requite + Me with a heavenly robe of white!" + + The third king gave his gift, and quoth: + "Spikenard and myrrh to Thee I bring, + And with these twain would I most fain + Anoint the body of my King. + So may their incense some time rise + To plead for me in yonder skies." + + Thus spake the three kings of Cologne + That gave their gifts and went their way; + And now kneel I in prayer hard-by + The cradle of the Child to-day; + Nor crown, nor robe, nor spice I bring + As offering unto Christ my King. + + Yet have I brought a gift the Child + May not despise, however small; + For here I lay my heart to-day, + And it is fun of love to all! + Take Thou the poor, but loyal thing, + My only tribute, Christ, my King. + + EUGENE FIELD. + +[Footnote 25: _From "With Trumpet and Drum" by Eugene Field Copyright, +1892, by Charles Scribner's Sons._] + + +_A Christmas Hymn_ + + It was the calm and silent night! + Seven hundred years and fifty-three + Had Rome been growing up to might, + And now was queen of land and sea. + No sound was heard of clashing wars-- + Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: + Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars + Held undisturbed their ancient reign, + In the solemn midnight, + Centuries ago. + + 'Twas in the calm and silent night! + The senator of haughty Rome, + Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, + From lordly revel rolling home; + Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell + His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; + What recked the Roman what befell + A paltry province far away, + In the solemn midnight, + Centuries ago? + + Within that province far away + Went plodding home a weary boor; + A streak of light before him lay, + Falling through a half-shut stable-door + Across his path. He passed--for naught + Told what was going on within; + How keen the stars, his only thought-- + The air how calm, and cold, and thin, + In the solemn midnight, + Centuries ago! + + Oh, strange indifference! low and high + Drowsed over common joys and cares; + The earth was still--but knew not why, + The world was listening, unawares. + How calm a moment may precede + One that shall thrill the world for ever! + To that still moment, none would heed, + Man's doom was linked no more to sever-- + In the solemn midnight, + Centuries ago! + + It is the calm and solemn night! + A thousand bells ring out, and throw + Their joyous peals abroad, and smite + The darkness--charmed and holy now! + The night that erst no name had worn, + To it a happy name is given; + For in that stable lay, new-born, + The peaceful prince of earth and heaven, + In the solemn midnight, + Centuries ago! + + ALFRED DOMMETT. + + +_O Little Town of Bethlehem_ + + O little town of Bethlehem, + How still we see thee lie! + Above thy deep and dreamless sleep + The silent stars go by; + Yet in thy dark streets shineth + The everlasting Light; + The hopes and fears of all the years + Are met in thee to-night. + + For Christ is born of Mary, + And, gathered all above, + While mortals sleep, the angels keep + Their watch of wondering love. + O morning stars, together + Proclaim the holy birth! + And praises sing to God the King, + And peace to men on earth. + + How silently, how silently, + The wondrous gift is given! + So God imparts to human hearts + The blessings of His heaven. + No ear may hear His coming, + But in this world of sin, + Where meek souls will receive Him still, + The dear Christ enters in. + + O holy Child of Bethlehem! + Descend to us, we pray; + Cast out our sin, and enter in, + Be born in us to-day. + We hear the Christmas angels + The great glad tidings tell; + Oh, come to us, abide with us, + Our Lord Emmanuel! + + PHILLIPS BROOKS. + + +_While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night_ + + While shepherds watched their flocks by night, + All seated on the ground, + The angel of the Lord came down, + And glory shone around. + + "Fear not," said he, for mighty dread + Had seized their troubled mind; + "Glad tidings of great joy I bring + To you and all mankind. + + "To you, in David's town, this day + Is born, of David's line, + The Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, + And this shall be the sign: + + "The heavenly babe you there shall find + To human view displayed, + All meanly wrapped in swaddling bands, + And in a manger laid." + + Thus spake the seraph; and forthwith + Appeared a shining throng + Of angels, praising God, who thus + Addressed their joyful song: + + "All glory be to God on high, + And to the earth be peace; + Good will henceforth from Heaven to men + Begin and never cease." + + NAHUM TATE. + + +_Christmas Carol_ + + As Joseph was a-walking, + He heard an angel sing, + "This night shall be the birthnight + Of Christ our heavenly King. + + "His birth-bed shall be neither + In housen nor in hall, + Nor in the place of paradise, + But in the oxen's stall. + + "He neither shall be rocked + In silver nor in gold, + But in the wooden manger + That lieth in the mould. + + "He neither shall be washen + With white wine nor with red, + But with the fair spring water + That on you shall be shed. + + "He neither shall be clothed + In purple nor in pall, + But in the fair, white linen + That usen babies all." + + As Joseph was a-walking, + Thus did the angel sing, + And Mary's son at midnight + Was born to be our King. + + Then be you glad, good people, + At this time of the year; + And light you up your candles, + For His star it shineth clear. + + OLD ENGLISH. + + +_Old Christmas_ + + Now he who knows old Christmas, + He knows a carle of worth; + For he is as good a fellow + As any upon earth. + + He comes warm cloaked and coated, + And buttoned up to the chin, + And soon as he comes a-nigh the door + We open and let him in. + + We know that he will not fail us, + So we sweep the hearth up clean; + We set him in the old arm-chair, + And a cushion whereon to lean. + + And with sprigs of holly and ivy + We make the house look gay, + Just out of an old regard to him, + For it was his ancient way. + + * * * * + + He must be a rich old fellow: + What money he gives away! + There is not a lord in England + Could equal him any day. + + Good luck unto old Christmas, + And long life, let us sing, + For he doth more good unto the poor + Than many a crowned king! + + MARY HOWITT. + + +_God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen_ + + God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay, + For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day. + The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars shone through the gray, + When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day. + + God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright, + For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night; + Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleeping lay, + When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas-day. + + God rest ye, all good Christians; upon this blessed morn + The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman born: + Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your sins He takes away; + For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day. + + DINAH MARIA MULOCK. + + +_Minstrels and Maids_ + + Outlanders, whence come ye last? + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + Through what green seas and great have ye past? + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + From far away, O masters mine, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + We come to bear you goodly wine, + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + From far away we come to you, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + To tell of great tidings strange and true, + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + News, news of the Trinity, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + And Mary and Joseph from over the sea! + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + For as we wandered far and wide, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + What hap do you deem there should us betide! + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + Under a bent when the night was deep, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + There lay three shepherds tending their sheep. + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + "O ye shepherds, what have ye seen, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + To slay your sorrow, and heal your teen?" + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + "In an ox-stall this night we saw, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + A babe and a maid without a flaw. + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + "There was an old man there beside, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + His hair was white and his hood was wide. + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + "And as we gazed this thing upon, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + Those twain knelt down to the Little One, + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + "And a marvellous song we straight did hear, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + That slew our sorrow and healed our care." + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + News of a fair and marvellous thing, + _The snow in the street and the wind on the door._ + Nowell, nowell, nowell, we sing! + _Minstrels and maids, stand forth on the floor._ + + WILLIAM MORRIS. + + +_An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour_ + + In numbers, and but these few, + I sing thy birth, O Jesu! + Thou pretty baby, born here + With sup'rabundant scorn here: + Who for thy princely port here, + Hadst for thy place + Of birth, a base + Out-stable for thy court here. + + Instead of neat enclosures + Of interwoven osiers, + Instead of fragrant posies + Of daffodils and roses, + Thy cradle, kingly stranger, + As gospel tells, + Was nothing else + But here a homely manger. + + But we with silks, not crewels, + With sundry precious jewels, + And lily work will dress thee; + And, as we dispossess thee + Of clouts, we'll make a chamber, + Sweet babe, for thee + Of ivory, + And plaster'd round with amber. + + * * * * + + ROBERT HERRICK. + + +_Old Christmas Returned_ + + All you that to feasting and mirth are inclined, + Come here is good news for to pleasure your mind, + Old Christmas is come for to keep open house, + He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse: + Then come, boys, and welcome for diet the chief, + Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef. + + The holly and ivy about the walls wind + And show that we ought to our neighbors be kind, + Inviting each other for pastime and sport, + And where we best fare, there we most do resort; + We fail not of victuals, and that of the chief, + Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef. + + All travellers, as they do pass on their way, + At gentlemen's halls are invited to stay, + Themselves to refresh, and their horses to rest, + Since that he must be Old Christmas's guest; + Nay, the poor shall not want, but have for relief, + Plum-pudding, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef. + + OLD CAROL. + + +_Ceremonies for Christmas_ + + Come, bring with a noise, + My merry, merry boys, + The Christmas log to the firing, + While my good dame, she + Bids ye all be free, + And drink to your heart's desiring. + + With the last year's brand + Light the new block, and + For good success in his spending, + On your psalteries play, + That sweet luck may + Come while the log is a-teending. + + Drink now the strong beer, + Cut the white loaf here, + The while the meat is a-shredding; + For the rare mince-pie, + And the plums stand by, + To fill the paste that's a-kneading. + + ROBERT HERRICK. + + +_Christmas in England._ + + Heap on more wood!--the wind is chill; + But let it whistle as it will, + We'll keep our Christmas merry still; + Each age has deem'd the new-born year + The fittest time for festal cheer; + Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane + At Iol more deep the mead did drain; + High on the beach his galleys drew, + And feasted all his pirate crew. + + * * * * + + On Christmas Eve the bells were rung; + On Christmas Eve the mass was sung: + That only night in all the year + Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. + The damsel donned her kirtle sheen; + The hall was dressed with holly green; + Forth to the wood did merry-men go, + To gather in the mistletoe; + Then open'd wide the baron's hall + To vassal, tenant, serf, and all. + Power laid his rod of rule aside, + And Ceremony doffed his pride. + The heir, with roses in his shoes, + That night might village partner choose; + The Lord, underogating, share + The vulgar game of "Post and pair." + All hail'd with uncontroll'd delight + And general voice the happy night, + That to the cottage, as the crown, + Brought tidings of salvation down. + + * * * * + + "England was merry England when + Old Christmas brought his sports again. + 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; + 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale; + A Christmas gambol oft could cheer + The poor man's heart through half the year." + + SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + _From "Marmion."_ + + +_The Gracious Time_ + + Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes + Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, + The bird of dawning singeth all night long: + And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; + The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike, + No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, + So hallow'd and so gracious is the time. + + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. + + _From "Hamlet."_ + + +_Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning_ + + Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! + Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! + Star of the East, the horizon adorning, + Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid! + + Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are shining, + Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; + Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, + Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! + + Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, + Odors of Edom and offerings divine? + Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean, + Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine? + + Vainly we offer each ample oblation; + Vainly with gifts would His favor secure: + Richer by far is the heart's adoration; + Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. + + Brightest and best of the Sons of the morning! + Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid! + Star of the East, the horizon adorning, + Guide where our Infant Redeemer is laid! + + REGINALD HEBER. + + +THE END + + + + +INDEX BY AUTHORS + + +ADDISON, JOSEPH [1672-1719]: + _The Spacious Firmament on High_, 54. + +ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY [1836--]: + _Maple Leaves_, 17; + _Before the Rain_, 31; + _Tiger-Lilies_, 71; + _A Turkish Legend_, 611. + +ALEXANDER, CECIL FRANCES [1830-1895]: + _The Burial of Moses_, 504. + +ALLINGHAM, WILLIAM [1824-1889]: + _Wild Rose_, 70; + _The Fairy Folk_, 174; + _Blowing Bubbles_, 195; + _Windlass Song_, 268; + _The Abbot of Inisfalen_, 474. + +ANDERSON, ALEXANDER [1845--]: + _Cuddle Doon_, 126. + +ARNOLD, EDWIN [1831--]: + _Almond Blossom_, 69. + +ARNOLD, GEORGE [1834-1865]: + _Sweet September_, 15. + +ARNOLD, MATTHEW [1822-1888]: + _The Forsaken Merman_, 444. + +AUSTIN, ALFRED [1835--]: + _To America_, 347. + +AYTOUN, WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE [1813-1865]: + _The Old Scottish Cavalier_, 281. + + +BALLADS, OLD: + _Sir Patrick Spens_, 551; + _The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington_, 555; + _King John and the Abbot of Canterbury_, 558; + _Lord Beichan and Susie Pye_, 563; + _The Gay Gos-hawk_, 569; + _Earl Mar's Daughter_, 576; + _Chevy-Chace,_ 582; + _Hynde Horn,_ 593; + _Glenlogie,_ 597. + +BARING-GOULD, SABINE [1834--]: + _The Olive Tree_, 619. + +BEECHING, HENRY CHARLES [1859--]: + _Bicycling Song_, 196; + _A Boy's Prayer_, 626. + +BENNETT, HENRY HOLCOMB [1863--]: + _The Flag Goes By_, 324. + +BENNETT, WILLIAM COX [1820-1895]: + _Invocation to Rain in Summer_, 34; + _To a Cricket_, 113. + +BLAKE, WILLIAM [1757-1828]: + _The Tiger_, 53. + +BOKER, GEORGE HENRY [1823-1890]: + _The Black Regiment_, 326. + +BONAR, HORATIO [1808-1890]: + _Be True_, 610. + +BROOKS, PHILLIPS [1835-1893]: + _O Little Town of Bethlehem,_ 648. + +BROWNELL, HENRY HOWARD [1820-1872]: + _Abraham Lincoln_, 321; + _Night Quarters_, 329. + +BROWNING, ELIZABETH BARRETT [1809-1861]: + _Reading_ (from "Aurora Leigh"), 209; + _A Portrait_, 231; + _Romance of the Swan's Nest_, 423. + +BROWNING, ROBERT [1812-1889]: + _April in England_, 8; + _How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix_, 464; + _The Pied Piper of Hamelin_, 480; + _Herve Riel_, 493; + _Incident of the French Camp_, 544. + +BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN [1794-1878]: + _March_, 6; + _The Planting of the Apple Tree_, 59; + _To the Fringed Gentian_, 72; + _The Death of the Flowers_, 88; + _To a Waterfowl_, 105; + _The Twenty-second of December_, 306. + +BUNYAN, JOHN [1628-1688]: + _The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation_, 610; + _The Pilgrim_, 632. + +BURNS, ROBERT [1759-1796]: + _To a Mountain Daisy_, 73; + _Chloe_, 238; + _O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet_, 239; + _I Love My Jean_, 252; + _My Nannie's Awa'_, 253; + _My Heart's in the Highlands_, 277; + _Bannockburn_, 539. + +BYRON, GEORGE GORDON, LORD [1788-1824]: + _Swimming_ (from "The Two Foscari"), 202; + _To the Ocean_ (from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"), 225; + _Vision of Belshazzar_, 500; + _The Night before Waterloo_ (from "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"), 540; + _The Destruction of Sennacherib_, 548. + + +CAMPBELL, THOMAS [1777-1844]: + _Ye Mariners of England_, 290; + _Lord Ullin's Daughter_, 416; + _Battle of the Baltic_, 511; + _Hohenlinden_, 542. + +CAREW, THOMAS [1589-1639]: + _Spring_, 7. + +CARLYLE, THOMAS [1795-1881]: + _To-Day_, 602. + +CARMAN, BLISS [1861--]: + _A Vagabond Song_, 201. + +CARROLL, LEWIS (REV. CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON)[1832-1890]: + _A Song of Love_, 122; + _The Walrus and the Carpenter_, 381. + +CARY, ALICE [1820-1871]: + The "_Gray Swan_," 452. + +CLOUGH, ARTHUR HUGH [1819-1861]: + _Where Lies the Land?_ 273. + +COLERIDGE, SAMUEL TAYLOR [1772-1834]: + _Kubla Khan_, 160; + _The Knight's Tomb_, 292. + +COLLINS, WILLIAM [1720-1756]: + _How Sleep the Brave!_ 292. + +COOLIDGE, SUSAN (SARAH C. WOOLSEY) [1845-1905]: + _Bind-Weed_, 74; + _Time to Go_, 86. + +CORNWALL, BARRY (BRYAN WALLER PROCTER) [1790-1874]: + _The Hunter's Song_, 223; + _The Blood Horse_, 225; + _The Sea_, 258. + +COWPER, WILLIAM [1731-1800]: + _The Diverting History of John Gilpin_, 359; + _On the Loss of the Royal George_, 535. + +CRANCH, CHRISTOPHER PEARSE [1813-1892]: + _The Bobolinks_, 103. + +CUNNINGHAM, ALLAN [1784-1842]: + _A Sea-Song_, 259; + _Loyalty_, 276. + + +DELAND, MARGARET [1857--]: + _While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night_, 637. + +DICKINSON, EMILY [1830-1886]: + _The Grass_, 81; + _The Bee_, 116; + _Chartless_, 626. + +DOBELL, SYDNEY [1824-1874]: + _The Procession of the Flowers_, 67; + _How's My Boy?_ 462. + +DOBSON, AUSTIN [1840--]: + _The Child-Musician_, 463. + +DOMMETT, ALFRED [1811-1887]: + _A Christmas Hymn_, 646. + +DOUGLAS OF FINGLAND, WILLIAM: + _Annie Laurie_, 243. + +DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN [1795-1820]: + _The Culprit Fay_ (Extracts), 168; + _The American Flag_ (Extract), 311. + +DRAYTON, MICHAEL [1563-1631]: + _A Fine Day_, 5; + _The Arming of Pigwiggen_ (from "Nymphidia"), 149; + _The Battle of Agincourt_, 517. + +DRUMMOND, WILLIAM [1585-1649]: + _Phyllis_, 251; + _The Angels_, 636. + +DRYDEN, JOHN [1631-1700]: + _Alexander's Feast_ (from "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day"), 158; + _Fife and Drum_ (from "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day"), 280. + + +ELIOT, GEORGE [1820-1880]: + _I Am Lonely_ (from "The Spanish Gypsy"), 128; + _Brother and Sister_, 129. + +EMERSON, RALPH WALDO [1803-1882]: + _April and May_ (from "May-Day"), 9; + _The Snow Storm_, 21; + _The Rhodora_, 76; + _The Humble-Bee_, 116; + _Concord Hymn_, 315; + _Ode Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, July 4, 1857_, 316; + _Forbearance_, 603; + _Duty_, 605. + + +FANSHAWE, CATHERINE M. [1765-1834]: + _A Riddle_, 373. + +FLETCHER, JOHN [1576-1625]: + _Evening Song_, 3. + +FORD, ROBERT [1846--]: + _The Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl'_, 125. + +FIELD, EUGENE [1850-1895]: + _The Three Kings_, 644. + +FIELDS, JAMES T. [1816-1881]: + _Song of the Turtle and Flamingo_, 385. + +FITZGERALD, EDWARD [1809-1883]: + _Old Song_, 213. + + +GAY, JOHN [1688-1732]: + _The Council of Horses_, 356; + _The Lion and the Cub_, 378. + +GILBERT, WILLIAM SCHWENCK [1836--]: + _Captain Reece_, 387. + +GOLDSMITH, OLIVER [1728-1774]: + _The First, Best Country_ (from "The Traveller"), 275; + _Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog_, 379. + +GRAY, THOMAS [1746-1771]: + _On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes_, 353; + _Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard_, 612. + +HALLECK, FITZ-GREENE [1790-1867]: + _Marco Bozzaris_, 545. + +HARTE, BRET [1839-1902]: + _Jessie_, 246; + _The Reveille_, 288; + _A Greyport Legend_, 458. + +HAY, JOHN [1838--]: + _The Enchanted Shirt_, 395. + +HEBER, REGINALD [1783-1826]: + _Providence_, 119; + _Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning_, 661. + +H. H. (HELEN HUNT JACKSON) [1831-1885]: + _October's Bright Blue Weather_, 16; + _Down to Sleep_, 18; + _Coronation_, 620. + +HEMANS, FELICIA [1749-1835]: + _Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers_, 305; + _Hymn for Christmas_, 639. + +HENLEY, WILLIAM ERNEST [1849-1903]: + _Home_, 131; + _Made in the Hot Weather_, 398. + +HERBERT, GEORGE [1593-1632]: + _The Elixir_, 629; + _Be Useful_, 633. + +HERRICK, ROBERT [1591-1674]: + _To Daffodils_, 78; + _Going A-Maying_, 197; + _The Star Song_, 638; + _An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour_, 656; + _Ceremonies for Christmas_, 658. + +HIGGINSON, THOMAS WENTWORTH [1823--]: + _The Snowing of the Pines_, 66. + +HOGG, JAMES (THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD) [1772-1835]: + _The Skylark_, 102. + +HOLLAND, JOSIAH GILBERT [1819-1881]: + _A Christmas Carol_, 635. + +"HOLM, SAXE": + _A Song of Clover_, 76. + +HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL [1809-1894]: + _Old Ironsides_ (U. S. S. "Constitution"), 312; + _The Chambered Nautilus_, 604. + +HOOD, THOMAS [1798-1845]: + _Ruth_, 242; + _November_, 402. + +HOUGHTON, LORD (RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES) [1809-1885]: + _Our Mother Tongue_, 345. + +HOWE, JULIA WARD [1819--]: + _Battle-Hymn of the Republic_, 331. + +HOWELLS, WILLIAM DEAN [1837--]: + _In August_, 14. + +HOWITT, MARY [1804-1888]: + _The Monkey_, 401; + _Old Christmas_, 652. + +HOWITT, WILLIAM [1792-1879]: + _The Northern Seas_, 226. + +HUNT, JAMES HENRY LEIGH [1784-1859]: + _To the Grasshopper and the Cricket_, 115; + _Two Heavens_, 121; + _Captain Sword_, 403; + _The Glove and the Lions_, 460; + _Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel_, 609. + + +INGELOW, JEAN [1830-1897]: + _Seven Times Two_, 411; + _The Long White Seam_, 413; + _The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire_, 438. + + +JONSON, BEN [1574-1637]: + _Hesperus' Song_ (from "Cynthia's Revels"), 151; + _So Sweet Is She_ (from "The Triumph of Charis"), 251; + _The Noble Nature_, 603. + + +KEATS, JOHN [1796-1820]: + _Morning_, 1; + _Minnows_, 45; + _The Sigh of Silence_, 58; + _Sweet Peas_, 68; + _Goldfinches_, 107; + _On the Grasshopper and Cricket_, 114; + _On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer_, 210; + _December_, 622. + +KINGSLEY, CHARLES [1819-1875]: + _Ode to the Northeast Wind_, 36; + _Clear and Cool_ (from "The Water-Babies"), 44; + _A Myth_, 173; + _Ballad_, 422; + _The Sands of Dee_, 450; + _A Farewell_, 625. + +KIPLING, RUDYARD [1865--]: + _Recessional_, 297; + _The Dove of Dacca_, 472. + + +LARCOM, LUCY [1826-1893]: + _Hannah Binding Shoes_, 414. + +LONGFELLOW, HENRY WADSWORTH [1807-1882]: + _The Harvest Moon_, 27; + _Rain in Summer_, 32; + _A New Household_, 121; + _Home Song_, 138; + _The Wreck of the Hesperus_, 454; + _Life_ (from the "Psalm of Life"), 601; + _The Three Kings_, 641. + +LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL [1819-1891]: + _June Weather_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 11; + _A Winter Morning_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 20; + _The Brook in Winter_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 42; + _To the Dandelion_ (Extract), 77; + _The Fatherland_, 298; + _Washington_ (from "Under the Old Elm"), 307; + _Stanzas on Freedom_, 317; + _The Singing Leaves_, 407; + _Sir Launfal and the Leper_ (from "The Vision of Sir Launfal"), 606. + +LAMB, CHARLES [1775-1834] AND MARY [1765-1847]: + _Feigned Courage_, 374. + +LAMB, CHARLES: + _The Housekeeper_, 400. + +LANG, ANDREW [1844--]: + _Scythe Song_, 86. + +LANIER, SIDNEY [1842-1881]: + _Dear Land of All My Love_ (from "The Centennial Ode," 1876), 301. + + +MACAULAY, LORD (THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY) [1800-1859]: + _The Armada: A Fragment_, 524; + _Ivry_, 530. + +MACDONALD, GEORGE [1824--]: + _Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable_, 99 + +MARKHAM, EDWIN [1852--]: + _Lincoln the Great Commoner_, 319. + +MARLOWE, CHRISTOPHER [1564-1593]: + _The Shepherd to His Love_, 420. + +MARTIN, WILLIAM [1834-1896]: + _An Apple Orchard in the Spring_, 63. + +MARVELL, ANDREW [1621-1678]: + _Bermudas_, 272. + +McMASTER, GUY HUMPHREYS [1829-1887]: + _Carmen Bellicosum_, 309. + +MEREDITH, OWEN (EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON) [1831-1892]: + _The White Anemone_, 80. + +MICKLE, WILLIAM J. [1734-1788]: + _The Sailor's Wife_, 134. + +MILLER, JOAQUIN [1841--]: + _Columbus_, 301; + _Crossing the Plains_, 314. + +MILNES, RICHARD MONCKTON. See Houghton, Lord. + +MILTON, JOHN [1608-1674]: + _Evening in Paradise_ (from "Paradise Lost"), 2; + _The Eternal Spring_, 5; + _Song on May Morning_, 10; + _The World Beautiful_ (from "Paradise Lost"), 27; + _A Scene in Paradise_ (from "Paradise Lost"), 52; + _L'Allegro_ (Extracts), 152; + _Sabrina Fair_ (from "Comus"), 157; + _On His Blindness_, 606. + +MITCHELL, WALTER [1826--]: + _Tacking Ship Off Shore_, 265. + +MORE, HANNAH [1745-1853]: + _A Riddle_, 371. + +MOORE, THOMAS [1779-1852]: + _The Minstrel-Boy_, 278; + _The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls_, 279. + +MORRIS, WILLIAM [1834-1899]: + _Minstrels and Maids_, 654. + +MOTHERWELL, WILLIAM [1797-1835]: + _Sing On, Blithe Bird!_ 93; + _The Cavalier's Song_, 280. + +MULOCK, DINAH MARIA (MRS. CRAIK) [1826-1887]: + _Autumn's Processional_, 16; + _Highland Cattle_, 50; + _Green Things Growing_, 57; + _God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen_, 653. + + +NOEL, THOMAS [1799-1861]: + _Old Winter_, 22. + +NORTON, CAROLINE ELIZABETH (LADY STIRLING-MAXWELL) [1808-1876]: + _The King of Denmark's Ride_, 418. + + +PARSONS, THOMAS WILLIAM [1819-1892]: + _Dirge for One Who Fell in Battle_, 293. + +PEACOCK, THOMAS LOVE [1785-1866]: + _The Priest and the Mulberry Tree_, 355. + +PECK, SAMUEL MINTURN [1854--]: + _Autumn's Mirth_, 90. + +PERCIVAL, JAMES GATES [1795-1856]: + _The Coral Grove_, 269. + +PIERPONT, JOHN [1785-1866]: + _Whittling_, 220; + _Warren's Address_, 308. + +POE, EDGAR ALLAN [1809-1849]: + _The Raven_, 182; + _The Bells_, 189. + +POPE, ALEXANDER [1688-1744]: + _Descend, Ye Nine_ (from "Ode on St. Cecilia's Day"), 212. + +PRAED, WINTHROP MACKWORTH [1802-1839]: + _Charade_, 370. + +PRIOR, MATTHEW [1664-1721]: + _To a Child of Quality_, 369. + +PROCTER, ADELAIDE ANNE [1826-1864]: + _One by One_, 629. + +PROCTER, BRYAN WALLER. See Cornwall, Barry. + +PROCTOR, EDNA DEAN [1838--]: + _Columbia's Emblem_, 84. + + +RAMSAY, ALLAN [1713-1784]: + _My Peggy_ (from "The Gentle Shepherd"), 243. + +READ, THOMAS BUCHANAN [1822-1872]: + _The Windy Night_, 39; + _Drifting_, 262; + _Sheridan's Ride_, 332. + +RILEY, JAMES WHITCOMB [1853--]: + _The Name of Old Glory_ (from "Home Folks"), 349. + +ROSSETTI, CHRISTINA G. [1830-1894]: + _Child's Talk in April_, 109; + _All Things Wait Upon Thee_, 119; + _Consider_, 628. + +ROSSETTI, DANTE GABRIEL [1828-1882]: + _A Young Fir-Wood_, 65. + + +SARGENT, EPES [1813-1880]: + _A Life on the Ocean Wave_, 257. + +SAXE, JOHN G. [1816-1887]: + _Solomon and the Bees_, 502. + +SCOTT, SIR WALTER [1771-1832]: + _Hunting Song_, 222; + _My Native Land_ (from "The Lay of the Last Minstrel"), 276; + _Border Ballad_ (from "The Monastery"), 286; + _Gathering Song of Donuil Dhu_, 287; + _Soldier, Rest!_ (from "The Lady of the Lake"), 296; + _Lochinvar_ (from "Marmion"), 427; + _Jock of Hazeldean_, 430; + _Christmas in England_ (from "Marmion"), 659. + +SHAKESPEARE, WILLIAM [1564-1616]: + _A Morning Song_ (from "Cymbeline"), 2; + _When Icicles Hang by the Wall_ (from "Love's Labor's Lost"), 19; + _Under the Greenwood Tree_ (from "As You Like It"), 59; + _Fairyland_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 145; + _Puck and the Fairy_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 145; + _Lullaby for Titania_ (from "Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 146; + _Oberon and Titania to the Fairy Train_ (from "Midsummer-Night's +Dream"), 147; + _Ariel's Songs_ (from "The Tempest"), 147; + _Orpheus with His Lute_ (from "King Henry VIII."), 149; + _Jog On, Jog On_ (from "A Winter's Tale"), 200; + _Music's Silver Sound_ (from "Romeo and Juliet"), 210; + _The Power of Music_ (from "The Merchant of Venice"), 211; + _Who Is Silvia?_ (from "The Two Gentlemen of Verona"), 240; + _Helena and Hermia_ (from "A Midsummer-Night's Dream"), 250; + _Polonius to Laertes_ (from "Hamlet"), 618; + _The Commonwealth of the Bees_ (from "King Henry V."), 631; + _The Gracious Time_ (from "Hamlet"), 661. + +SHELLEY, PERCY BYSSHE [1792-1822]: + _Daybreak_, 1; + _Dirge for the Year_, 25; + _The Cloud_, 28; + _To a Skylark_, 94; + _The Magic Car Moved On_ (from "Queen Mab"), 162; + _Arethusa_, 165; + _A Child of Twelve_ (from "The Revolt of Islam"), 237. + +SHENSTONE, WILLIAM [1714-1763]: + _The Shepherd's Home_, 112. + +SILL, EDWARD ROWLAND [1841-1887]: + _Opportunity_, 608. + +SKELTON, JOHN [1460-1529]: + _To Mistress Margaret Hussey_, 240. + +SOUTHEY, ROBERT [1774-1843]: + _Night_, 4; + _The Cataract of Lodore_, 391; + _The Inchcape Rock_, 468; + _The Battle of Blenheim_, 522. + +SOUTHWELL, ROBERT [1556-1595]: + _New Prince, New Pomp_, 640. + +SPENSER, EDMUND [1552-1599]: + _The Seasons_ (from "The Faerie Queene"), 5; + _May_, 9; + _Summer_ (from "The Faerie Queene"), 10; + _August_, 14; + _Autumn_ (from "The Faerie Queene"), 15; + _Winter_, 19. + +SPOFFORD, HARRIET PRESCOTT [1835--]: + _A Snowdrop_, 69. + +SPRAGUE, CHARLES [1791-1875]: + _Indians_, 313. + +STEDMAN, EDMUND CLARENCE [1833--]: + _The Flight of the Birds_, 111; + _Going A-Nutting_, 219. + +STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS [1850-1894]: + _The Wind_, 35; + _A Visit from the Sea_, 261. + +STODDARD, RICHARD HENRY [1825-1909]: + _Abraham Lincoln_, 318. + +STODDART, THOMAS TOD [1810-1880]: + _The Angler's Invitation_, 207. + +STORY, WILLIAM WETMORE [1819-1895]: + _The English Language_ (Extracts), 346. + +SWETT, SUSAN HARTLEY: + _July_, 13. + +SWIFT, JONATHAN [1667-1745]: + _A Riddle_, 372; + _Baucis and Philemon_, 375. + +SWINBURNE, ALGERNON CHARLES [1837-1909]: + _Etude Realiste_, 139; + _Swimming_ (from "Tristram of Lyonesse"), 201. + + +TABB, JOHN B. [1845--]: + _The Tax-Gatherer_, 114. + +TATE, NAHUM [1652-1715]: + _While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night_, 649. + +TAYLOR, BAYARD [1825-1878]: + _The Song of the Camp_, 284; + _A Night With a Wolf_, 471. + +TENNYSON, ALFRED, LORD [1809-1892]: + _The Brook_, 40; + _The Eagle_ (Fragment), 109; + _The Merman_, 177; + _The Mermaid_, 178; + _Bugle Song_ (from "The Princess"), 181; + _Leolin and Edith_ (from "Aylmer's Field"), 218; + _Olivia_ (from "The Talking Oak"), 247; + _The Shell_, 270; + _The Lady of Shalott_, 431; + _The Charge of the Light Brigade_, 537. + +TENNYSON, FREDERICK [1807-1898]: + _The Skylark_, 101. + +THACKERAY, WILLIAM MAKEPEACE [1811-1863]: + _Pocahontas_, 303; + _The End of the Play_ (from "Dr. Birch and His Young Friends"), 623. + +THAXTER, CELIA [1836-1894]: + _The Sandpiper_, 107; + _Nikolina_, 248. + +THORNBURY, GEORGE WALTER [1828-1876]: + _The Cavalier's Escape_, 479. + +TROWBRIDGE, JOHN TOWNSEND [1827--]: + _Midwinter_, 23; + _Evening at the Farm_, 136. + + +UNKNOWN: + _Mother's Song_ (West of England Lullaby), 123; + _Love Will Find Out the Way_ (Old English), 133; + _When Banners Are Waving_, 509; + _Christmas Carol_ (Old English), 650; + _Old Christmas Returned_ (Old Carol), 657. + + +VAN DYKE, HENRY [1852--]: + _The Angler's Reveille_, 203. + +VAUGHAN, HENRY [1621-1695]: + _Peace_, 627. + +VERY, JONES [1813-1880]: + _The Latter Rain_, 35; + _The Tree_, 65. + + +WATSON, WILLIAM [1858--]: + _Song to April_, 7. + +WESTWOOD, THOMAS [1850-1888]: + _Mine Host of "The Golden Apple,"_ 64; + _Little Bell_, 234. + +WHITMAN, WALT [1819-1892]: + _O Captain! My Captain!_ 323; + _Two Veterans_, 340. + +WHITTIER, JOHN GREENLEAF [1807-1892]: + _Snow-Bound_ (Extracts), 46; + _The Corn-Song_, 82; + _The Barefoot Boy_, 214; + _Song of the Negro Boatman_, 335; + _Barbara Frietchie_, 337; + _The Pipes at Lucknow_, 514. + +WILDER, JOHN NICHOLS [1814-1858]: + _Stand by the Flag_, 342. + +WOLFE, CHARLES [1791-1823]: + _The Burial of Sir John Moore_, 295. + +WOODBERRY, GEORGE EDWARD [1855--]: + _At Gibraltar_, 343, 344. + +WOODWORTH, SAMUEL: + _The Needle_, 228. + +WORDSWORTH, WILLIAM [1770-1850]: + _The Daffodils_, 79; + _We Are Seven_, 141; + _Skating_ (from "The Prelude"), 207; + _Lucy_, 245; + _The Solitary Reaper_, 249; + _Faith and Freedom_, 345; + _In a Child's Album_, 602. + + + + +INDEX BY TITLES + + +Abbot of Inisfalen, The, 474 + +Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel, 609 + +Abraham Lincoln (Brownell), 321 + +Abraham Lincoln (Stoddard), 318 + +Alexander's Feast, 158 + +Allegro, L', 152 + +All Things Wait Upon Thee, 119 + +Almond Blossoms, 69 + +American Flag, The, 311 + +Angels, The, 636 + +Angler's Invitation, The, 207 + +Angler's Reveille, The, 203 + +Annie Laurie, 243 + +Apple Orchard in the Spring, An, 63 + +April and May, 9 + +April in England, 8 + +Arethusa, 165 + +Ariel's Songs, 147 + +Armada, The, 524 + +Arming of Pigwiggen, The, 149 + +At Gibraltar, 343, 344 + +August, 14 + +Autumn, 15 + +Autumn's Mirth, 90 + +Autumn's Processional, 16 + + +Bailiff's Daughter of Islington, The, 555 + +Ballad, 422 + +Bannockburn, 539 + +Barbara Frietchie, 337 + +Barefoot Boy, The, 214 + +Battle of Agincourt, The, 517 + +Battle of Blenheim, The, 522 + +Battle of the Baltic, 511 + +Battle-Hymn of the Republic, 331 + +Baucis and Philemon, 375 + +Bee, The, 116 + +Bees, Commonwealth of the, 631 + +Before the Rain, 31 + +Bells, The, 189 + +Belshazzar, Vision of, 500 + +Bermudas, 272 + +Be True, 610 + +Be Useful, 633 + +Bicycling Song, 196 + +Bind-Weed, 74 + +Black Regiment, The, 326 + +Blood Horse, The, 225 + +Blowing Bubbles, 195 + +Bobolinks, The, 103 + +Bonniest Bairn in a' the Warl', The, 125 + +Border Ballad, 286 + +Boy's Prayer, A, 626 + +Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning, 661 + +Brook, The, 40 + +Brook in Winter, The, 42 + +Brother and Sister, 129 + +Bugle Song, 181 + +Burial of Moses, The, 504 + +Burial of Sir John Moore, The, 295 + + +Captain Reece, 387 + +Captain Sword, 403 + +Carmen Bellicosum, 309 + +Cataract of Lodore, The, 391 + +Cavalier's Escape, The, 479 + +Cavalier's Song, The, 280 + +Ceremonies for Christmas, 658 + +Chambered Nautilus, The, 604 + +Chanted Calendar, A, 1 + +Charade, 370 + +Charge of the Light Brigade, The, 537 + +Chartless, 626 + +Chevy-Chace, 582 + +Child-Musician, The, 463 + +Child of Twelve, A, 237 + +Child's Talk in April, 109 + +Chloe, 238 + +Christmas Carol, 650 + +Christmas Carol, A, 635 + +Christmas Hymn, A, 646 + +Christmas in England, 659 + +Clear and Cool, 44 + +Cloud, The, 28 + +Columbia's Emblem, 84 + +Columbus, 301 + +Commonwealth of the Bees, The, 631 + +Concord Hymn, 315 + +Consider, 628 + +Coral Grove, The, 269 + +Corn-Song, The, 82 + +Coronation, 620 + +Council of Horses, The, 356 + +Cricket, To a, 113 + +Crossing the Plains, 314 + +Cuddle Doon, 126 + +Culprit Fay, The (Extracts), 168 + + +Daffodils, The, 79 + +Daffodils, To, 78 + +Daybreak, 1 + +Dear Land of All My Love, 301 + +Death of the Flowers, The, 88 + +December, 622 + +Descend, Ye Nine, 212 + +Destruction of Sennacherib, The, 548 + +Dirge, for One Who Fell in Battle, 293 + +Dirge for the Year, 25 + +Diverting History of John Gilpin, The, 359 + +Dove of Dacca, The, 472 + +"Down to Sleep," 18 + +Drifting, 262 + +Duty, 605 + + +Eagle, The, 109 + +Earl Mar's Daughter, 576 + +Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 379 + +Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard, 612 + +Elixir, The, 629 + +Enchanted Shirt, The, 395 + +End of the Play, The, 623 + +English Language, The (Extracts), 346 + +Eternal Spring, The, 5 + +Etude Realiste, 139 + +Evening at the Farm, 136 + +Evening in Paradise, 2 + +Evening Song, 3 + +Extracts from "L'Allegro," 152 + + +Fairy Folk, The, 174 + +Fairy Land, 145 + +Fairy Songs and Songs of Fancy, 145 + +Faith and Freedom, 345 + +Farewell, A, 625 + +Fatherland, The, 298 + +Feigned Courage, 374 + +Fife and Drum, 280 + +Fine Day, A, 5 + +First, Best Country, The, 275 + +Flag Goes By, The, 324 + +Flight of the Birds, The, 111 + +For Home and Country, 275 + +Forbearance, 603 + +Forsaken, Merman, The, 444 + + +Garden of Girls, A, 231 + +Gathering Song of Donuil Dhu, 287 + +Glad Evangel, The, 635 + +Glenlogie, 597 + +Glove and the Lions, The, 460 + +God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen, 653 + +Going A-Maying, 197 + +Going A-Nutting, 219 + +Goldfinches, 107 + +Gos-hawk, The Gay, 569 + +Gracious Time, The, 661 + +Grass, The, 81 + +Grasshopper and Cricket, On the, 114 + +Grasshopper and the Cricket, To the, 115 + +"Gray Swan," The, 452 + +Green Things Growing, 57 + +Greyport Legend, A, 458 + + +Hannah Binding Shoes, 414 + +Harp that Once Through Tara's Halls, The, 279 + +Harvest Moon, The, 27 + +Helena and Hermia, 250 + +Herve Riel, 493 + +Hesperus' Song, 151 + +High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire, The, 438 + +Highland Cattle, 50 + +Hohenlinden, 542 + +Home, 131 + +Home Song, 138 + +Housekeeper, The, 400 + +How Sleep the Brave! 292 + +How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix, 464 + +How's My Boy? 462 + +Humble-Bee, The, 116 + +Hunter's Song, The, 223 + +Hunting Song, 222 + +Hymn for Christmas, 639 + +Hynde Horn, 593 + + +I Am Lonely, 128 + +I Love My Jean, 252 + +In a Child's Album, 602 + +In August, 14 + +In Merry Mood, 353 + +Inchcape Rock, The, 468 + +Incident of the French Camp, 544 + +Indians, 313 + +Inglenook, The, 121 + +Invocation to Rain in Summer, 34 + +Ivry, 530 + + +Jessie, 246 + +Jock of Hazeldean, 430 + +Jog On, Jog On, 200 + +July, 13 + +June Weather, 11 + + +King John and the Abbot of Canterbury, 558 + +King of Denmark's Ride, The, 418 + +Knight's Tomb, The, 292 + +Kubla Khan, 160 + + +Lady of Shalott, The, 431 + +Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, 305 + +Latter Rain, The, 35 + +Leolin and Edith, 218 + +Life, 601 + +Life Lessons, 601 + +Life on the Ocean Wave, A, 257 + +Lincoln, the Great Commoner, 319 + +Lion and the Cub, The, 378 + +Little Bell, 234 + +Lochinvar, 427 + +Long White Seam, The, 413 + +Lord Beichan and Susie Pye, 563 + +Lord Ullin's Daughter, 416 + +Love Will Find Out the Way, 133 + +Loyalty, 276 + +Lucy, 245 + +Lullaby for Titania, 146 + + +Made in the Hot Weather, 398 + +Magic Car Moved On, The, 162 + +Maple Leaves, 17 + +March, 6 + +Marco Bozzaris, 545 + +May, 9 + +Mermaid, The, 178 + +Merman, The, 177 + +Midwinter, 23 + +Mine Host of "The Golden Apple," 64 + +Minnows, 45 + +Minstrel-Boy, The, 278 + +Minstrels and Maids, 654 + +Monkey, The, 401 + +Morning, 1 + +Morning Song, A, 2 + +Mother's Song, 123 + +Music's Silver Sound, 210 + +My Heart's in the Highlands, 277 + +My Nannie's Awa', 253 + +My Native Land, 276 + +My Peggy, 243 + +Myth, A, 173 + + +Name of Old Glory, The, 349 + +Needle, The, 228 + +New Household, A, 121 + +New Prince, New Pomp, 640 + +New World and Old Glory, 301 + +Night, 4 + +Night Before Waterloo, The, 540 + +Night Quarters, 329 + +Night With a Wolf, A, 471 + +Nikolina, 248 + +Noble Nature, The, 603 + +Northern Seas, The, 226 + +November, 402 + + +Oberon and Titania to the Fairy Train, 147 + +O Captain! My Captain! 323 + +O Little Town of Bethlehem, 648 + +October's Bright Blue Weather, 16 + +Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour, An, 656 + +Ode Sung in the Town Hall, Concord, 316 + +Ode to the Northeast Wind, 36 + +Old Christmas, 652 + +Old Christmas Returned, 657 + +Old Ironsides, 312 + +Old Scottish Cavalier, The, 281 + +Old Song, 213 + +Old Winter, 22 + +Olive Tree, The, 619 + +Olivia, 247 + +O Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet, 239 + +On a Favorite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes, 353 + +On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer, 210 + +On His Blindness, 606 + +On the Grasshopper and Cricket, 114 + +On the Loss of the Royal George, 535 + +On the Wing, 93 + +One by One, 629 + +Opportunity, 608 + +Orpheus with His Lute, 149 + +Our Mother Tongue, 345 + + +Peace, 627 + +Phyllis, 251 + +Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, 480 + +Pigwiggen, The Arming of, 149 + +Pilgrim, The, 632 + +Pipes at Lucknow, The, 514 + +Planting of the Apple Tree, The, 59 + +Pocahontas, 303 + +Polonius to Laertes, 618 + +Portrait, A, 231 + +Power of Music, The, 211 + +Priest and the Mulberry Tree, The, 355 + +Procession of the Flowers, The, 67 + +Providence, 119 + +Puck and the Fairy, 145 + + +Rain in Summer, 32 + +Raven, The, 182 + +Reading, 209 + +Recessional, 297 + +Reveille, The, 288 + +Rhodora, The, 76 + +Riddle, A (A Book), 371 + +Riddle, A (The Letter H), 373 + +Riddle, A (The Vowels), 372 + +Romance and Reality, 407 + +Romance of the Swan's Nest, 423 + +Ruth, 242 + + +Sabrina Fair, 157 + +Sailor's Wife, The, 134 + +Sandpiper, The, 107 + +Sands of Dee, The, 450 + +Scene in Paradise, A, 52 + +Scythe Song, 86 + +Sea, The, 258 + +Sea-Song, A, 259 + +Seasons, The, 5 + +Seven Times Two, 411 + +Shell, The, 270 + +Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation, The, 610 + +Shepherd to His Love, The, 420 + +Shepherd's Home, The, 112 + +Sheridan's Ride, 332 + +Sigh of Silence, The, 58 + +Sing on, Blithe Bird! 93 + +Singing Leaves, The, 407 + +Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable, 99 + +Sir Launfal and the Leper, 606 + +Sir Patrick Spens, 551 + +Skating, 207 + +Skylark, The (Hogg), 102 + +Skylark, The (Tennyson), 101 + +Snow-Bound (Extracts), 46 + +Snowdrop, A, 69 + +Snowing of the Pines, The, 66 + +Snow Storm, The, 21 + +Soldier, Rest! 296 + +Solitary Reaper, The, 249 + +Solomon and the Bees, 502 + +Song of Clover, A, 76 + +Song of Love, A, 122 + +Song of the Camp, The, 284 + +Song of the Negro Boatman, 335 + +Song of the Turtle and Flamingo, 385 + +Song on May Morning, 10 + +Song to April, 7 + +So Sweet is She, 251 + +Spacious Firmament on High, The, 54 + +Sports and Pastimes, 195 + +Spring, 7 + +Stand by the Flag! 342 + +Stanzas on Freedom, 317 + +Star Song, The, 638 + +Summer, 10 + +Sweet Peas, 68 + +Sweet September, 15 + +Swimming (Byron), 202 + +Swimming (Swinburne), 201 + + +Tacking Ship Off Shore, 265 + +Tales of the Olden Time, 551 + +Tax-Gatherer, The, 114 + +Three Kings, The (Field), 644 + +Three Kings, The (Longfellow), 641 + +Tiger, The, 53 + +Tiger-Lilies, 71 + +Time to Go, 86 + +To a Child of Quality, 369 + +To a Cricket, 113 + +To a Mountain Daisy, 73 + +To a Skylark, 94 + +To a Waterfowl, 105 + +To America, 347 + +To Daffodils, 78 + +To-day, 602 + +To Mistress Margaret Hussey, 240 + +To the Dandelion, 77 + +To the Fringed Gentian, 72 + +To the Grasshopper and the Cricket, 115 + +To the Ocean, 255 + +Tree, The, 65 + +Turkish Legend, A, 611 + +Twenty-second of December, The, 306 + +Two Heavens, 121 + +Two Veterans, 340 + + +Under the Greenwood Tree, 59 + + +Vagabond Song, A, 201 + +Vision of Belshazzar, The, 500 + +Visit from the Sea, A, 261 + + +Walrus and the Carpenter, The, 381 + +Warren's Address, 308 + +Washington, 307 + +Waterfowl, To a, 105 + +Waterloo, The Night Before, 540 + +We are Seven, 141 + +When Banners are Waving, 509 + +When Icicles Hang by the Wall, 19 + +Where Lies the Land? 273 + +While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night (Deland), 637 + +While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night (Tate), 649 + +White Anemone, The, 80 + +Whittling, 220 + +Who is Silvia? 240 + +Wild Rose, 70 + +Wind, The, 35 + +Windlass Song, 268 + +Windy Night, The, 39 + +Winter, 19 + +Winter Morning, A, 20 + +World Beautiful, The, 27 + +World of Waters, The, 255 + +Wreck of the Hesperus, The, 454 + + +Ye Mariners of England, 290 + +Young Fir-wood, A, 65 + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Golden Numbers, by Various + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GOLDEN NUMBERS *** + +***** This file should be named 34237.txt or 34237.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/2/3/34237/ + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci and the +Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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