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diff --git a/34331-8.txt b/34331-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..7b91c3b --- /dev/null +++ b/34331-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7951 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Minor Poems, by Rossiter Johnson + +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: Minor Poems + Little Classics, Vol. 15 + +Editor: Rossiter Johnson + +Release Date: November 15, 2010 [EBook #34331] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MINOR POEMS *** + + + + +Produced by Meredith Bach, Delphine Lettau and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + + + + + Fifteenth Volume + + LITTLE CLASSICS + + EDITED BY + + ROSSITER JOHNSON + + + Minor Poems + + + BOSTON AND NEW YORK + HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY + The Riverside Press, Cambridge + 1900 + + + COPYRIGHT, 1875, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. + ALL RIGHTS RESERVED + + + + +CONTENTS. + + + PAGE + AE FOND KISS _Robert Burns_ 52 + AGE OF WISDOM, THE _William Makepeace Thackeray_ 115 + ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD, THE _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 146 + ASTARTE _Robert Bulwer Lytton_ 54 + BETROTHED ANEW _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 86 + BLINDNESS, ON HIS _John Milton_ 143 + BRAVE AT HOME, THE _Thomas Buchanan Read_ 142 + BREAK, BREAK, BREAK _Alfred Tennyson_ 53 + BRIDAL DIRGE, A _Bryan Waller Procter_ 163 + BROOKSIDE, THE _Richard Monckton Milnes_ 36 + BUGLE-SONG _Alfred Tennyson_ 40 + CAVALIER'S SONG, THE _William Motherwell_ 132 + CHAMBERED NAUTILUS, THE _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 214 + CHANGES _Robert Bulwer Lytton_ 71 + CHILDREN'S HOUR, THE _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 152 + CHRISTMAS HYMN, A _Alfred Dommett_ 217 + CLOUD, THE _John Wilson_ 213 + COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM _Thomas Moore_ 46 + CORONACH _Sir Walter Scott_ 133 + COURTIN', THE _James Russell Lowell_ 26 + DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 65 + DEATH-BED, THE _Thomas Hood_ 160 + DEATH OF THE FLOWERS, THE _William Cullen Bryant_ 100 + DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST _James Shirley_ 182 + DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER _George Henry Boker_ 134 + DRAKE, JOSEPH RODMAN _Fitz-Greene Halleck_ 169 + DRIVING HOME THE COWS _Kate Putnam Osgood_ 140 + EAGLE, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 105 + ENTICED _William C. Wilkinson_ 224 + EPILOGUE _The Editor_ 231 + EVELYN HOPE _Robert Browning_ 161 + FAREWELL, A _Charles Kingsley_ 199 + FAREWELL, A _Alfred Tennyson_ 112 + GIRDLE, ON A _Edmund Waller_ 23 + GOING HOME _Benjamin F. Taylor_ 185 + GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD, THE _Felicia Hemans_ 174 + HAUNTED HOUSES _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 73 + HEALTH, A _Edward Coate Pinkney_ 21 + HERMIT, THE _James Beattie_ 175 + HEROES _Edna Dean Proctor_ 144 + HIGHLAND MARY _Robert Burns_ 166 + HOW'S MY BOY? _Sydney Dobell_ 150 + HYMN TO THE NIGHT _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 103 + ICHABOD _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 123 + INDIAN GOLD COIN, TO AN _John Leyden_ 183 + IN MEMORIAM _Thomas K. Hervey_ 173 + I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER _Thomas Hood_ 72 + IVY GREEN, THE _Charles Dickens_ 90 + KNIGHT'S TOMB, THE _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 133 + KUBLA KHAN _Samuel Taylor Coleridge_ 16 + LAMENT, A _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 192 + LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT _Lady Dufferin_ 158 + LAND OF LANDS, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 126 + LAND O' THE LEAL, THE _Lady Nairne_ 156 + LAST LEAF, THE _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 117 + LAST ROSE OF SUMMER, THE _Thomas Moore_ 111 + LIE, THE _Sir Walter Raleigh_ 204 + LIFE _Anna Lćtitia Barbauld_ 193 + LIFE _Henry King_ 192 + LINES ON A SKELETON _Anonymous_ 201 + LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 42 + LITTLE BLACK BOY, THE _William Blake_ 181 + LITTLE YEARS, THE _Robert T. S. Lowell_ 114 + LONG-AGO, THE _Richard Monckton Milnes_ 88 + LOST LEADER, THE _Robert Browning_ 119 + LOVE NOT _Caroline Norton_ 51 + LUCASTA, TO _Richard Lovelace_ 125 + MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART _Lord Byron_ 45 + MANGO TREE, THE _Charles Kingsley_ 59 + MAN'S MORTALITY _Simon Wastel_ 189 + MARIANA _Alfred Tennyson_ 37 + MARY IN HEAVEN, TO _Robert Bums_ 61 + MINSTREL'S SONG _Thomas Chatterton_ 171 + MONTEREY _Charles Fenno Hoffman_ 128 + MOORE, THOMAS, TO _Lord Byron_ 110 + MUSICAL INSTRUMENT, A _Elizabeth Barrett Browning_ 11 + MY CHILD _John Pierpont_ 154 + MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND _William Motherwell_ 56 + MY PSALM _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 221 + MY SLAIN _Richard Realf_ 219 + NICE CORRESPONDENT, A _Frederick Locker_ 24 + NIGHT AND DEATH _Joseph Blanco White_ 104 + NOT FAR TO GO _William Barnes_ 43 + ODE _William Collins_ 139 + ODE _Theodore P. Cook_ 137 + ODE _Sir William Jones_ 148 + ODE _Henry Timrod_ 136 + ODE ON A GRECIAN URN _John Keats_ 199 + OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT _Thomas Moore_ 64 + OLD FAMILIAR FACES, THE _Charles Lamb_ 66 + OLD MAN'S IDYL, AN _Richard Realf_ 84 + ON A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE _William Wordsworth_ 209 + OVER THE RIVER _Nancy Priest Wakefield_ 78 + O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF + MORTAL BE PROUD? _William Knox_ 177 + PAUPER'S DEATH-BED, THE _Caroline Bowles Southey_ 208 + PETITION TO TIME, A _Bryan Waller Procter_ 122 + PHILIP, MY KING _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik_ 149 + PROGRESS _Robert Bulwer Lytton_ 179 + QUA CURSUM VENTUS _Arthur Hugh Clough_ 69 + RIVER PATH, THE _John Greenleaf Whittier_ 82 + ST. AGNES _Alfred Tennyson_ 215 + SANDS OF DEE, THE _Charles Kingsley_ 102 + SERENADE _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 41 + SHE DIED IN BEAUTY _Charles Doyne Sillery_ 164 + SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND _Thomas Moore_ 170 + SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY _Lord Byron_ 34 + SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT _William Wordsworth_ 18 + SHE WAS NOT FAIR, NOR FULL + OF GRACE _Bryan Waller Procter_ 165 + SKYLARK, THE _James Hogg_ 104 + SKYLARK, TO THE _Percy Bysshe Shelley_ 106 + SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL, THE _William Barnes_ 20 + SNOW-STORM, A _Charles Gamage Eastman_ 97 + SOLDIER'S DREAM, THE _Thomas Campbell_ 127 + SONG,--"THE HEATH THIS + NIGHT" _Sir Walter Scott_ 124 + SONG FOR SEPTEMBER, A _Thomas William Parsons_ 63 + SONG OF THE CAMP, A _Bayard Taylor_ 130 + SONNETS _William Shakespeare_ 48 + SPINNING-WHEEL SONG, THE _John Francis Waller_ 32 + STANZAS,--"MY LIFE IS LIKE + THE SUMMER ROSE" _Richard Henry Wilde_ 113 + SUMMER LONGINGS _Denis Florence Mac-Carthy_ 91 + THANATOPSIS _William Cullen Bryant_ 75 + THEY ARE ALL GONE _Henry Vaughan_ 80 + THREE FISHERS, THE _Charles Kingsley_ 143 + TIGER, THE _William Blake_ 96 + TIME'S CHANGES _David Macbeth Moir_ 67 + TITHONUS _Alfred Tennyson_ 193 + TOM BOWLING _Charles Dibdin_ 168 + TOO LATE! _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik_ 167 + TOO LATE _Fitz-Hugh Ludlow_ 120 + TOUJOURS AMOUR _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 228 + TREASURES OF THE DEEP, THE _Felicia Hemans_ 212 + TWO WOMEN _Nathaniel Parker Willis_ 207 + UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY, THE _Edmund Clarence Stedman_ 220 + VIRTUE _George Herbert_ 203 + VOICELESS, THE _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 229 + VOYAGE, THE _Alfred Tennyson_ 13 + WEARINESS _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_ 227 + WELCOME, THE _Thomas Davis_ 35 + WHEN THE KYE COME HAME _James Hogg_ 30 + WOMAN OF THREE COWS, THE _James Clarence Mangan_ 196 + WOMAN'S QUESTION, A _Adelaide Anne Procter_ 46 + YARROW UNVISITED _William Wordsworth_ 93 + + * * * * * + + +A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. + + What was he doing, the great god Pan, + Down in the reeds by the river? + Spreading ruin and scattering ban, + Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, + And breaking the golden lilies afloat + With the dragon-fly on the river. + + He tore out a reed, the great god Pan, + From the deep cool bed of the river: + The limpid water turbidly ran, + And the broken lilies a-dying lay, + And the dragon-fly had fled away, + Ere he brought it out of the river. + + High on the shore sat the great god Pan, + While turbidly flowed the river; + And hacked and hewed as a great god can, + With his hard bleak steel at the patient reed, + Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed + To prove it fresh from the river. + + He cut it short, did the great god Pan, + (How tall it stood in the river!) + Then drew the pith, like the heart of a man, + Steadily from the outside ring, + And notched the poor dry empty thing + In holes, as he sat by the river. + + "This is the way," laughed the great god Pan + (Laughed while he sat by the river), + "The only way, since gods began + To make sweet music, they could succeed." + Then, dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, + He blew in power by the river. + + Sweet, sweet, sweet, O Pan! + Piercing sweet by the river! + Blinding sweet, O great god Pan! + The sun on the hill forgot to die, + And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly + Came back to dream on the river. + + Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, + To laugh as he sits by the river, + Making a poet out of a man: + The true gods sigh for the cost and pain,-- + For the reed which grows nevermore again + As a reed with the reeds in the river. + + _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ + + * * * * * + + +THE VOYAGE. + + We left behind the painted buoy + That tosses at the harbor-mouth: + And madly danced our hearts with joy, + As fast we fleeted to the south: + How fresh was every sight and sound + On open main or winding shore! + We knew the merry world was round, + And we might sail forevermore. + + Warm broke the breeze against the brow, + Dry sang the tackle, sang the sail: + The lady's-head upon the prow + Caught the shrill salt, and sheered the gale. + The broad seas swelled to meet the keel, + And swept behind: so quick the run, + We felt the good ship shake and reel, + We seemed to sail into the sun! + + How oft we saw the sun retire, + And burn the threshold of the night, + Fall from his ocean-lane of fire, + And sleep beneath his pillared light! + How oft the purple-skirted robe + Of twilight slowly downward drawn, + As through the slumber of the globe + Again we dashed into the dawn! + + New stars all night above the brim + Of waters lightened into view; + They climbed as quickly, for the rim + Changed every moment as we flew. + Far ran the naked moon across + The houseless ocean's heaving field, + Or flying shone, the silver boss + Of her own halo's dusky shield; + + The peaky islet shifted shapes, + High towns on hills were dimly seen, + We passed long lines of northern capes + And dewy northern meadows green. + We came to warmer waves, and deep + Across the boundless east we drove, + Where those long swells of breaker sweep + The nutmeg rocks and isles of clove. + + By peaks that flamed, or, all in shade, + Gloomed the low coast and quivering brine + With ashy rains, that spreading made + Fantastic plume or sable pine; + By sands and steaming flats, and floods + Of mighty mouth, we scudded fast, + And hills and scarlet-mingled woods + Glowed for a moment as we passed. + + O hundred shores of happy climes, + How swiftly streamed ye by the bark! + At times the whole sea burned, at times + With wakes of fire we tore the dark; + At times a carven craft would shoot + From havens hid in fairy bowers, + With naked limbs and flowers and fruit, + But we nor paused for fruits nor flowers. + + For one fair Vision ever fled + Down the waste waters day and night, + And still we followed where she led + In hope to gain upon her flight. + Her face was evermore unseen, + And fixed upon the far sea-line; + But each man murmured, "O my Queen, + I follow till I make thee mine." + + And now we lost her, now she gleamed + Like Fancy made of golden air, + Now nearer to the prow she seemed + Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, + Now high on waves that idly burst + Like Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea, + And now, the bloodless point reversed, + She bore the blade of Liberty. + + And only one among us,--him + We pleased not,--he was seldom pleased: + He saw not far: his eyes were dim: + But ours he swore were all diseased. + "A ship of fools!" he shrieked in spite, + "A ship of fools!" he sneered and wept. + And overboard one stormy night + He cast his body, and on we swept. + + And never sail of ours was furled + Nor anchor dropped at eve or morn; + We loved the glories of the world, + But laws of nature were our scorn; + For blasts would rise and rave and cease, + But whence were those that drove the sail + Across the whirlwind's heart of peace, + And to and through the counter-gale? + + Again to colder climes we came, + For still we followed where she led: + Now mate is blind and captain lame, + And half the crew are sick or dead. + But blind or lame or sick or sound, + We follow that which flies before: + We know the merry world is round, + And we may sail forevermore. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +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 oh! that deep romantic chasm, which slanted + Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! + A savage place! as holy and enchanted + As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted + By woman wailing for her demon-lover! + And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, + As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, + A mighty fountain momently was forced, + Amid whose swift, half-intermitted burst + Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, + Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail; + And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever + It flung up momently the sacred river. + Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion + Through wood and dale, the sacred river ran,-- + Then 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 symphony and song, + To such a deep delight 'twould win me + That, with music loud and long, + I would build that dome in air,-- + That sunny dome! those caves of ice! + And all who heard should see them there, + And all should cry, Beware! beware + His flashing eyes, his floating hair! + Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes with holy dread, + For he on honey-dew hath fed, + And drunk the milk of Paradise. + + _Samuel Taylor Coleridge._ + + * * * * * + + +SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. + + She was a phantom of delight + When first she gleamed upon my sight; + A lovely apparition, sent + To be a moment's ornament; + Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; + Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; + But all things else about her drawn + From May-time and the cheerful dawn; + A dancing shape, an image gay, + To haunt, to startle, and waylay. + + I saw her upon nearer view, + A spirit, yet a woman too! + Her household motions light and free, + And steps of virgin-liberty; + A countenance in which did meet + Sweet records, promises as sweet; + A creature not too bright or good + For human nature's daily food, + For transient sorrows, simple wiles, + Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. + + And now I see with eye serene + The very pulse of the machine; + A being breathing thoughtful breath, + A traveller between life and death: + The reason firm, the temperate will, + Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; + A perfect woman, nobly planned + To warn, to comfort, and command; + And yet a spirit still, and bright + With something of an angel-light. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + * * * * * + + +THE SLANTEN LIGHT O' FALL. + +(DORSET DIALECT.) + + Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you, + When you wer' christen'd, small an' light, + Wi' tiny earms o' red an' blue, + A-hangen in your robe o' white. + We brought ye to the hallow'd stwone, + Vor Christ to teake ye vor his own, + When harvest-work wer' all a-done, + An' time brought round October zun,-- + The slanten light o' Fall. + + An' I can mind the wind wer' rough, + An' gather'd clouds, but brought noo storms, + An' you wer' nessled warm enough, + 'Ithin your smilen mother's earms. + The whindlen grass did quiver light, + Among the stubble, feaded white, + An' if at times the zunlight broke + Upon the groun', or on the vo'k, + 'Twer' slanten light o' Fall. + + An' when we brought ye droo the door + O' Knapton church, a child o' greace, + There cluster'd roun' a'most a score + O' vo'k to zee your tiny feace. + An' there we all did veel so proud, + To zee an op'nen in the cloud, + An' then a stream o' light break droo, + A-sheenen brightly down on you,-- + The slanten light o' Fall. + + But now your time's a-come to stan' + In church a-blushen at my zide, + The while a bridegroom vrom my han' + Ha' took ye vor his faithvul bride. + Your christen neame we gi'd ye here, + When Fall did cool the weasten year; + An' now, agean, we brought ye droo + The doorway, wi' your surneame new, + In slanten light o' Fall. + + An' zoo vur, Jeane, your life is feair, + An' God ha' been your steadvast friend, + An' mid ye have mwore jay than ceare, + Vor ever, till your journey's end. + An' I've a-watch'd ye on wi' pride, + But now I soon mus' leave your zide, + Vor you ha' still life's springtide zun, + But my life, Jeane, is now a-run + To slanten light o' Fall. + + _William Barnes._ + + * * * * * + + +A HEALTH. + + I fill this cup to one made up + Of loveliness alone, + A woman, of her gentle sex + The seeming paragon; + To whom the better elements + And kindly stars have given + A form so fair, that, like the air, + 'Tis less of earth than heaven. + + Her every tone is music's own, + Like those of morning birds, + And something more than melody + Dwells ever in her words; + The coinage of her heart are they, + And from her lips each flows + As one may see the burdened bee + Forth issue from the rose. + + Affections are as thoughts to her, + The measures of her hours; + Her feelings have the fragrancy, + The freshness of young flowers; + And lovely passions, changing oft, + So fill her, she appears + The image of themselves by turns,-- + The idol of past years! + + Of her bright face one glance will trace + A picture on the brain, + And of her voice in echoing hearts + A sound must long remain; + But memory, such as mine of her, + So very much endears, + When death is nigh my latest sigh + Will not be life's, but hers. + + I fill this cup to one made up + Of loveliness alone, + A woman, of her gentle sex + The seeming paragon,-- + Her health! and would on earth there stood + Some more of such a frame, + That life might be all poetry, + And weariness a name. + + _Edward Coate Pinkney._ + + * * * * * + + +ON A GIRDLE. + + That which her slender waist confined + Shall now my joyful temples bind; + No monarch but would give his crown, + His arms might do what this hath done. + + It was my heaven's extremest sphere, + The pale which held that lovely deer: + My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, + Did all within this circle move. + + A narrow compass! and yet there + Dwelt all that's good, and all that's fair. + Give me but what this ribbon bound, + Take all the rest the sun goes round! + + _Edmund Waller._ + + * * * * * + + +A NICE CORRESPONDENT! + + The glow and the glory are plighted + To darkness, for evening is come; + The lamp in Glebe Cottage is lighted; + The birds and the sheep-bells are dumb. + I'm alone at my casement, for Pappy + Is summoned to dinner at Kew: + I'm alone, my dear Fred, but I'm happy,-- + I'm thinking of you. + + I wish you were here. Were I duller + Than dull, you'd be dearer than dear; + I am dressed in your favorite color,-- + Dear Fred, how I wish you were here! + I am wearing my lazuli necklace, + The necklace you fastened askew! + Was there ever so rude or so reckless + A darling as you? + + I want you to come and pass sentence + On two or three books with a plot; + Of course you know "Janet's Repentance"? + I'm reading Sir Waverley Scott, + The story of Edgar and Lucy, + How thrilling, romantic, and true; + The master (his bride was a goosey!) + Reminds me of you. + + To-day, in my ride, I've been crowning + The beacon; its magic still lures, + For up there you discoursed about Browning, + That stupid old Browning of yours. + His vogue and his verve are alarming, + I'm anxious to give him his due; + But, Fred, he's not nearly so charming + A poet as you. + + I heard how you shot at The Beeches, + I saw how you rode Chanticleer, + I have read the report of your speeches, + And echoed the echoing cheer. + There's a whisper of hearts you are breaking,-- + I envy their owners, I do! + Small marvel that Fortune is making + Her idol of you. + + Alas for the world, and its dearly + Bought triumph, and fugitive bliss! + Sometimes I half wish I were merely + A plain or a penniless miss; + But perhaps one is best with a measure + Of pelf, and I'm not sorry, too, + That I'm pretty, because it's a pleasure, + My dearest, to you. + + Your whim is for frolic and fashion, + Your taste is for letters and art; + This rhyme is the commonplace passion + That glows in a fond woman's heart. + Lay it by in a dainty deposit + For relics,--we all have a few!-- + Love, some day they'll print it, because it + Was written to you. + + _Frederick Locker._ + + * * * * * + + +THE COURTIN'. + + God makes sech nights, all white an' still + Fur'z you can look or listen. + Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, + All silence an' all glisten. + + Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown + An' peeked in thru' the winder, + An' there sot Huldy all alone, + 'Ith no one nigh to hender. + + A fireplace filled the room's one side + With half a cord o' wood in,-- + There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) + To bake ye to a puddin'. + + The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out + Towards the pootiest, bless her! + An' leetle flames danced all about + The chiny on the dresser. + + Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, + An' in amongst 'em rusted + The ole queen's arm thet Gran'ther Young + Fetched back from Concord busted. + + The very room, coz she was in, + Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', + An' she looked full ez rosy agin + Ez the apples she was peelin'. + + 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look + On sech a blesséd cretur. + A dog-rose blushin' to a brook + Ain't modester nor sweeter. + + He was six foot o' man, Al, + Clean grit an' human natur'; + None couldn't quicker pitch a ton + Nor dror a furrer straighter. + + He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, + He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, + Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells,-- + All is, he couldn't love 'em. + + But long o' her his veins 'ould run + All crinkly like curled maple, + The side she breshed felt full o' sun + Ez a south slope in Ap'il. + + She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing + Ez hisn in the choir; + My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, + She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher. + + An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, + When her new meetin'-bunnet + Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair + O' blue eyes sot upon it. + + Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_! + She seemed to 've gut a new soul, + For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, + Down to her very shoe-sole. + + She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, + A-raspin' on the scraper,-- + All ways to once her feelin's flew + Like sparks in burnt-up paper. + + He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, + Some doubtfle o' the sekle; + His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, + But hern went pity Zekle. + + An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk + Ez though she wished him furder, + An' on her apples kep' to work, + Parin' away like murder. + + "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" + "Wal ... no ... I come dasignin'"-- + "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es + Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." + + To say why gals acts so or so, + Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; + Mebby to mean _yes_ an' say _no_ + Comes nateral to women. + + He stood a spell on one foot fust, + Then stood a spell on t' other, + An' on which one he felt the wust + He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. + + Says he, "I'd better call agin"; + Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; + Thet last word pricked him like a pin, + An' ... Wal, he up an' kist her. + + When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, + Huldy sot pale ez ashes, + All kin' o' smily roun' the lips + An' teary roun' the lashes. + + For she was jes' the quiet kind + Whose naturs never vary, + Like streams that keep a summer mind + Snowhid in Jenooary. + + The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued + Too tight for all expressin', + Tell mother see how metters stood, + And gin 'em both her blessin'. + + Then her red come back like the tide + Down to the Bay o' Fundy, + An' all I know is they was cried + In meetin' come nex' Sunday. + + _James Russell Lowell._ + + * * * * * + + +WHEN THE KYE COME HAME. + + Come, all ye jolly shepherds, + That whistle through the glen! + I'll tell ye o' a secret + That courtiers dinna ken: + What is the greatest bliss + That the tongue o' man can name? + 'Tis to woo a bonnie lassie + When the kye come hame. + When the kye come hame, + When the kye come hame,-- + 'Tween the gloamin' an' the mirk, + When the kye come hame. + + 'Tis not beneath the burgonet, + Nor yet beneath the crown; + 'Tis not on couch o' velvet, + Nor yet in bed o' down: + 'Tis beneath the spreading birk, + In the glen without the name, + Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, + When the kye come hame. + + There the blackbird bigs his nest + For the mate he lo'es to see, + And on the tapmost bough + O, a happy bird is he! + There he pours his melting ditty, + And love is a' the theme; + And he'll woo his bonnie lassie, + When the kye come hame. + + When the blewart bears a pearl, + And the daisy turns a pea, + And the bonnie lucken gowan + Has fauldit up his ee, + Then the laverock, frae the blue lift, + Draps down and thinks nae shame + To woo his bonnie lassie, + When the kye come hame. + + See yonder pawky shepherd, + That lingers on the hill: + His yowes are in the fauld, + And his lambs are lying still; + Yet he downa gang to bed, + For his heart is in a flame, + To meet his bonnie lassie + When the kye come hame. + + When the little wee bit heart + Rises high in the breast, + And the little wee bit starn + Rises red in the east, + O, there's a joy sae dear + That the heart can hardly frame! + Wi' a bonnie bonnie lassie, + When the kye come hame. + + Then since all nature joins + In this love without alloy, + O, wha wad prove a traitor + To nature's dearest joy? + Or wha wad choose a crown, + Wi' its perils an' its fame, + And miss his bonnie lassie, + When the kye come hame? + + _James Hogg._ + + * * * * * + + +THE SPINNING-WHEEL SONG. + + Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning; + Close by the window young Eileen is spinning; + Bent o'er the fire, her blind grandmother, sitting, + Is croaning, and moaning, and drowsily knitting,-- + "Eileen, achora, I hear some one tapping." + "'Tis the ivy, dear mother, against the glass flapping." + "Eileen, I surely hear somebody sighing." + "'Tis the sound, mother dear, of the summer wind dying." + Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, + Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; + Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, + Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. + + "What's that noise that I hear at the window, I wonder?" + "'Tis the little birds chirping the holly-bush under." + "What makes you be shoving and moving your stool on, + And singing all wrong that old song of 'The Coolun'?" + There's a form at the casement,--the form of her true-love,-- + And he whispers, with face bent, "I'm waiting for you, love; + Get up on the stool, through the lattice step lightly, + We'll rove in the grove while the moon's shining brightly." + Merrily, cheerily, noisily whirring, + Swings the wheel, spins the reel, while the foot's stirring; + Sprightly, and lightly, and airily ringing, + Thrills the sweet voice of the young maiden singing. + + The maid shakes her head, on her lip lays her fingers, + Steals up from her seat,--longs to go, and yet lingers; + A frightened glance turns to her drowsy grandmother, + Puts one foot on the stool, spins the wheel with the other. + Lazily, easily, swings now the wheel round; + Slowly and lowly is heard now the reel's sound; + Noiseless and light to the lattice above her + The maid steps,--then leaps to the arms of her lover. + Slower--and slower--and slower the wheel swings; + Lower--and lower--and lower the reel rings; + Ere the reel and the wheel stop their ringing and moving, + Through the grove the young lovers by moonlight are roving. + + _John Francis Waller._ + + * * * * * + + +SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. + + She walks in beauty like the night + Of cloudless climes and starry skies; + And all that's best of dark and bright + Meets in her aspect and her eyes; + Thus mellowed to that tender light + Which heaven to gaudy day denies. + + One shade the more, one ray the less, + Had half impaired the nameless grace + Which waves in every raven tress, + Or softly lightens o'er her face; + Where thoughts serenely sweet express + How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. + + And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, + So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, + The smiles that win, the tints that glow, + But tell of days in goodness spent, + A mind at peace with all below, + A heart whose love is innocent. + + _Lord Byron._ + + * * * * * + + +THE WELCOME. + + Come in the evening, or come in the morning; + Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; + Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, + And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! + Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; + Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; + The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, + And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!" + + I'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them! + Or, after you've kissed them, they'll lie on my bosom; + I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; + I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. + O, your step's like the rain to the summer-vexed farmer, + Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; + I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me, + Then, wandering, I'll wish you, in silence, to love me. + + We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyry; + We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy; + We'll look on the stars, and we'll list to the river, + Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her,-- + O, she'll whisper you, "Love, as unchangeably beaming, + And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming; + Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver, + As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." + + So come in the evening, or come in the morning: + Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; + Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, + And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! + Light is my heart since the day we were plighted; + Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted; + The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, + And the linnets are singing, "True lovers don't sever!" + + _Thomas Davis._ + + * * * * * + + +THE BROOKSIDE. + + I wandered by the brookside, + I wandered by the mill; + I could not hear the brook flow,-- + The noisy wheel was still. + There was no burr of grasshopper, + No chirp of any bird, + But the beating of my own heart + Was all the sound I heard. + + I sat beneath the elm-tree: + I watched the long, long shade, + And, as it grew still longer, + I did not feel afraid; + For I listened for a footfall, + I listened for a word,-- + But the beating of my own heart + Was all the sound I heard. + + He came not,--no, he came not,-- + The night came on alone,-- + The little stars sat one by one, + Each on his golden throne; + The evening wind passed by my cheek, + The leaves above were stirred,-- + But the beating of my own heart + Was all the sound I heard. + + Fast, silent tears were flowing, + When something stood behind: + A hand was on my shoulder,-- + I knew its touch was kind: + It drew me nearer--nearer-- + We did not speak one word, + For the beating of our own hearts + Was all the sound we heard. + + _Richard Monckton Milnes._ + + * * * * * + + +MARIANA. + +"Mariana in the moated grange."--_Measure for Measure._ + + With blackest moss the flower-pots + Were thickly crusted, one and all: + The rusted nails fell from the knots + That held the peach to the garden-wall. + The broken sheds looked sad and strange: + Unlifted was the clinking latch: + Weeded and worn the ancient thatch + Upon the lonely moated grange. + She only said, "My life is dreary, + He cometh not," she said; + She said, "I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!" + + Her tears fell with the dews at even; + Her tears fell ere the dews were dried; + She could not look on the sweet heaven, + Either at morn or eventide. + After the flitting of the bats, + When thickest dark did trance the sky, + She drew her casement-curtain by, + And glanced athwart the glooming flats. + She only said, "The night is dreary, + He cometh not," she said; + She said, "I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!" + + Upon the middle of the night, + Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: + The cock sung out an hour ere light: + From the dark fen the oxen's low + Came to her: without hope of change, + In sleep she seemed to walk forlorn, + Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn + About the lonely moated grange. + She only said, "The day is dreary, + He cometh not," she said; + She said, "I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!" + + About a stone-cast from the wall + A sluice with blackened waters slept, + And o'er it many, round and small, + The clustered marish-mosses crept. + Hard by a poplar shook alway, + All silver-green with gnarléd bark: + For leagues no other tree did mark + The level waste, the rounding gray. + She only said, "My life is dreary, + He cometh not," she said; + She said, "I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!" + + And ever when the moon was low, + And the shrill winds were up and away, + In the white curtain, to and fro, + She saw the gusty shadow sway. + But when the moon was very low, + And wild winds bound within their cell, + The shadow of the poplar fell + Upon her bed, across her brow. + She only said, "The night is dreary, + He cometh not," she said; + She said, "I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!" + + All day within the dreamy house, + The doors upon their hinges creaked; + The blue-fly sung i' the pane; the mouse + Behind the mouldering wainscot shrieked, + Or from the crevice peered about. + Old faces glimmered through the doors, + Old footsteps trod the upper floors, + Old voices called her from without. + She only said, "My life is dreary, + He cometh not," she said; + She said, "I am aweary, aweary, + I would that I were dead!" + + The sparrow's chirrup on the roof, + The slow clock ticking, and the sound + Which to the wooing wind aloof + The poplar made, did all confound + Her sense; but most she loathed the hour + When the thick-moted sunbeam lay + Athwart the chambers, and the day + Was sloping toward his western bower. + Then said she, "I am very dreary, + He will not come," she said; + She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, + O God, that I were dead!" + + _Alfred 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. + + O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, + And thinner, clearer, farther going! + O sweet and far from cliff and scar + The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! + Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: + Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. + + O love, they die in yon rich sky, + They faint on hill or field or river: + Our echoes roll from soul to soul, + And grow forever and forever. + Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, + And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +SERENADE. + + Stars of the summer night! + Far in yon azure deeps, + Hide, hide your golden light! + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + Moon of the summer night! + Far down yon western steeps, + Sink, sink in silver light! + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + Wind of the summer night! + Where yonder woodbine creeps, + Fold, fold thy pinions light! + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + Dreams of the summer night! + Tell her, her lover keeps + Watch, while in slumbers light + She sleeps! + My lady sleeps! + Sleeps! + + _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ + + * * * * * + + +LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. + + I arise from dreams of thee, + In the first sweet sleep of night, + When the winds are breathing low, + And the stars are shining bright; + I arise from dreams of thee, + And a spirit in my feet + Has led me,--who knows how? + To thy chamber-window, sweet! + + The wandering airs they faint + On the dark, the silent stream,-- + The champak odors fail, + Like sweet thoughts in a dream. + The nightingale's complaint + It dies upon her heart, + As I must die on thine, + O beloved as thou art! + + O lift me from the grass! + I die, I faint, I fail. + Let thy love in kisses rain + On my lips and eyelids pale. + My cheek is cold and white, alas! + My heart beats loud and fast. + Oh! press it close to thine again, + Where it will break at last. + + _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ + + * * * * * + + +NOT FAR TO GO. + + As upland fields were sunburnt brown, + And heat-dried brooks were running small, + And sheep were gathered, panting all, + Below the hawthorn on the down,-- + The while my mare, with dipping head, + Pulled on my cart above the bridge,-- + I saw come on, beside the ridge, + A maiden white in skin and thread, + And walking, with an elbow-load, + The way I drove along my road. + + As there with comely steps up hill + She rose by elm-trees all in ranks, + From shade to shade, by flowery banks, + Where flew the bird with whistling bill, + I kindly said, "Now won't you ride, + This burning weather, up the knap? + I have a seat that fits the trap, + And now is swung from side to side." + "O no," she cried, "I thank you, no. + I've little farther now to go." + + Then, up the timbered slope, I found + The prettiest house a good day's ride + Would bring you by, with porch and side + By rose and jessamine well bound; + And near at hand a spring and pool, + With lawn well sunned and bower cool; + And while the wicket fell behind + Her steps, I thought, "If I would find + A wife I need not blush to show, + I've little farther now to go." + + _William Barnes._ + + * * * * * + + +MAID OF ATHENS, ERE WE PART. + + Maid of Athens, ere we part, + Give, O give me back my heart! + Or, since that has left my breast, + Keep it now, and take the rest! + Hear my vow before I go, + [Greek: Zôę mou sas agapô.] + + By those tresses unconfined, + Wooed by each Ćgean wind; + By those lids whose jetty fringe + Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; + By those wild eyes like the roe, + [Greek: Zôę mou sas agapô.] + + By that lip I long to taste; + By that zone-encircled waist; + By all the token-flowers that tell + What words can never speak so well; + By love's alternate joy and woe, + [Greek: Zôę mou sas agapô.] + + Maid of Athens! I am gone. + Think of me, sweet! when alone. + Though I fly to Istambol, + Athens holds my heart and soul: + Can I cease to love thee? No! + [Greek: Zôę mou sas agapô.] + + _Lord Byron._ + + * * * * * + + +COME, REST IN THIS BOSOM. + + Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer: + Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; + Here still is the smile that no cloud can o'ercast, + And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. + + Oh! what was love made for, if 't is not the same + Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? + I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart, + I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. + + Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss, + And thy Angel I 'll be, 'mid the horrors of this, + Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, + And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too! + + _Thomas Moore._ + + * * * * * + + +A WOMAN'S QUESTION. + + Before I trust my fate to thee, + Or place my hand in thine, + Before I let thy future give + Color and form to mine, + Before I peril all for thee, + Question thy soul to-night for me. + + I break all slighter bonds, nor feel + A shadow of regret: + Is there one link within the past + That holds thy spirit yet? + Or is thy faith as clear and free + As that which I can pledge to thee? + + Does there within thy dimmest dreams + A possible future shine, + Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe, + Untouched, unshared by mine? + If so, at any pain or cost, + O, tell me before all is lost! + + Look deeper still: if thou canst feel, + Within thy inmost soul, + That thou hast kept a portion back, + While I have staked the whole, + Let no false pity spare the blow, + But in true mercy tell me so. + + Is there within thy heart a need + That mine cannot fulfil? + One chord that any other hand + Could better wake or still? + Speak now, lest at some future day + My whole life wither and decay. + + Lives there within thy nature hid + The demon-spirit, change, + Shedding a passing glory still + On all things new and strange? + It may not be thy fault alone,-- + But shield my heart against thine own. + + Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day + And answer to my claim, + That fate, and that to-day's mistake,-- + Not thou,--had been to blame? + Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou + Wilt surely warn and save me now. + + Nay, answer _not_,--I dare not hear,-- + The words would come too late; + Yet I would spare thee all remorse, + So comfort thee, my fate: + Whatever on my heart may fall, + Remember, I _would_ risk it all! + + _Adelaide Anne Procter._ + + * * * * * + + +SONNETS. + + When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, + And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, + Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now, + Will be a tattered weed, of small worth held: + Then being asked where all thy beauty lies, + Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; + To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes, + Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. + How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, + If thou couldst answer,--"This fair child of mine + Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse--" + Proving his beauty by succession thine. + This were to be new-made when thou art old, + And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. + + * * * * * + + + When I do count the clock that tells the time, + And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; + When I behold the violet past prime, + And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; + When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, + Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, + And summer's green all girded up in sheaves, + Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard; + Then, of thy beauty do I question make, + That thou among the wastes of time must go, + Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, + And die as fast as they see others grow; + And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, + Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. + + * * * * * + + + My glass shall not persuade me I am old, + So long as youth and thou are of one date; + But when in thee Time's furrows I behold, + Then look I death my days should expiate. + For all that beauty that doth cover thee + Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, + Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me; + How can I then be elder than thou art? + O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary, + As I not for myself but for thee will; + Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary + As tender nurse her babe from faring ill. + Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain; + Thou gav'st me thine, not to give back again. + + * * * * * + + + As an unperfect actor on the stage, + Who with his fear is put beside his part, + Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, + Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart; + So I, for fear of trust, forget to say + The perfect ceremony of love's rite, + And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, + O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might. + O let my books be then the eloquence + And dumb presagers of my speaking breast; + Who plead for love, and look for recompense, + More than that tongue that more hath more expressed. + O learn to read what silent love hath writ: + To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit. + + * * * * * + + + Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? + Thou art more lovely and more temperate: + Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, + And summer's lease hath all too short a date: + Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, + And often is his gold complexion dimmed; + And every fair from fair sometime declines, + By chance, or nature's changing coarse, untrimmed; + But thy eternal summer shall not fade, + Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; + Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, + When in eternal lines to time thou growest; + So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, + So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. + + _William Shakespeare._ + + * * * * * + + +LOVE NOT. + + Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay! + Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers,-- + Things that are made to fade and fall away + Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. + Love not! + + Love not! the thing ye love may change; + The rosy lip may cease to smile on you, + The kindly-beaming eye grow cold and strange, + The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. + Love not! + + Love not! the thing you love may die,-- + May perish from the gay and gladsome earth; + The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, + Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. + Love not! + + Love not! O warning vainly said + In present hours as in years gone by! + Love flings a halo round the dear ones' head, + Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. + Love not! + + _Caroline Norton._ + + * * * * * + + +AE FOND KISS. + + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae fareweel, alas! forever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; + Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. + Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, + While the star of hope she leaves him? + Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; + Dark despair around benights me. + + I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,-- + Naething could resist my Nancy: + But to see her was to love her, + Love but her, and love forever. + Had we never loved sae kindly, + Had we never loved sae blindly, + Never met,--or never parted, + We had ne'er been broken-hearted. + + Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest! + Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest! + Thine be ilka joy and treasure, + Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! + Ae fareweel, alas! forever! + Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee; + Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. + + _Robert Burns._ + + * * * * * + + +BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. + + Break, break, break, + On thy cold gray stones, O sea! + And I would that my tongue could utter + The thoughts that arise in me. + + O well for the fisherman's boy + That he shouts with his sister at play! + O well for the sailor lad + That he sings in his boat on the bay! + + And the stately ships go on, + To the haven under the hill; + But O for the touch of a vanished hand, + And the sound of a voice that is still! + + Break, break, break, + At the foot of thy crags, O sea! + But the tender grace of a day that is dead + Will never come back to me. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +ASTARTE. + + When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with, + Ere we slumber in the spirit and the brain, + We drowse back, in dreams, to days that life begun with, + And their tender light returns to us again. + + I have cast away the tangle and the torment + Of the cords that bound my life up in a mesh; + And the pulse begins to throb that long lay dormant + 'Neath their pressure; and the old wounds bleed afresh. + + I am touched again with shades of early sadness, + Like the summer-cloud's light shadow in my hair; + I am thrilled again with breaths of boyish gladness, + Like the scent of some last primrose on the air. + + And again she comes, with all her silent graces, + The lost woman of my youth, yet unpossessed; + And her cold face so unlike the other faces + Of the women whose dead lips I since have pressed. + + The motion and the fragrance of her garments + Seem about me, all the day long, in the room; + And her face, with its bewildering old endearments, + Comes at night, between the curtains, in the gloom. + + When vain dreams are stirred with sighing, near the morning, + To my own her phantom lips I feel approach; + And her smile, at eve, breaks o'er me without warning + From its speechless, pale, perpetual reproach. + + When life's dawning glimmer yet had all the tint there + Of the orient, in the freshness of the grass + (Ah, what feet since then have trodden out the print there!) + Did her soft, her silent footsteps fall, and pass. + + They fell lightly, as the dew falls, 'mid ungathered + Meadow-flowers, and lightly lingered with the dew. + But the dew is gone, the grass is dried and withered, + And the traces of those steps have faded too. + + Other footsteps fall about me,--faint, uncertain, + In the shadow of the world, as it recedes; + Other forms peer through the half-uplifted curtain + Of that mystery which hangs behind the creeds. + + What is gone, is gone forever. And new fashions + May replace old forms which nothing can restore; + But I turn from sighing back departed passions, + With that pining at the bosom as of yore. + + I remember to have murmured, morn and even, + "Though the Earth dispart these Earthlies, face from face, + Yet the Heavenlies shall surely join in Heaven, + For the spirit hath no bonds in time or space. + + "Where it listeth, there it bloweth; all existence + Is its region; and it houseth where it will. + I shall feel her through immeasurable distance, + And grow nearer and be gathered to her still. + + "If I fail to find her out by her gold tresses, + Brows, and breast, and lips, and language of sweet strains, + I shall know her by the traces of dead kisses, + And that portion of myself which she retains." + + But my being is confused with new experience, + And changed to something other than it was; + And the Future with the Past is set at variance; + And Life falters with the burthens which it has. + + Earth's old sins press fast behind me, weakly wailing; + Faint before me fleets the good I have not done; + And my search for her may still be unavailing + 'Mid the spirits that have passed beyond the sun. + + _Robert Bulwer Lytton._ + + * * * * * + + +MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. + + My heid is like to rend, Willie, + My heart is like to break; + I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, + I'm dyin' for your sake! + O, lay your cheek to mine, Willie, + Your hand on my briest-bane,-- + O, say ye'll think on me, Willie, + When I am deid and gane! + + It's vain to comfort me, Willie, + Sair grief maun ha'e its will; + But let me rest upon your briest + To sab and greet my fill. + Let me sit on your knee, Willie, + Let me shed by your hair, + And look into the face, Willie, + I never sall see mair! + + I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie, + For the last time in my life,-- + A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, + A mither, yet nae wife. + Ay, press your hand upon my heart, + And press it mair and mair, + Or it will burst the silken twine, + Sae strang is its despair. + + O, wae's me for the hour, Willie, + When we thegither met,-- + O, wae's me for the time, Willie, + That our first tryst was set! + O, wae's me for the loanin' green + Where we were wont to gae,-- + And wae's me for the destinie + That gart me luve thee sae! + + O, dinna mind my words, Willie, + I downa seek to blame; + But O, it's hard to live, Willie, + And dree a warld's shame! + Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, + And hailin' ower your chin; + Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, + For sorrow, and for sin? + + I'm weary o' this warld, Willie, + And sick wi' a' I see, + I canna live as I ha'e lived, + Or be as I should be. + But fauld unto your heart, Willie, + The heart that still is thine, + And kiss ance mair the white, white cheel + Ye said was red langsyne. + + A stoun' gaes through my heid, Willie, + A sair stoun' through my heart; + O, haud me up and let me kiss + Thy brow ere we twa pairt. + Anither, and anither yet!-- + How fast my life-strings break!-- + Fareweel! fareweel! through yon kirk-yard + Step lichtly for my sake! + + The laverock in the lift, Willie, + That lilts far ower our heid, + Will sing the morn as merrilie + Abune the clay-cauld deid; + And this green turf we're sittin' on, + Wi' dew-draps shimmerin' sheen, + Will hap the heart that luvit thee + As warld has seldom seen. + + But O, remember me, Willie, + On land where'er ye be; + And O, think on the leal, leal heart, + That ne'er luvit ane but thee! + And O, think on the cauld, cauld mools + That file my yellow hair, + That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin + Ye never sall kiss mair! + + _William Motherwell._ + + * * * * * + + +THE MANGO TREE. + + He wiled me through the furzy croft; + He wiled me down the sandy lane; + He told his boy's love, soft and oft, + Until I told him mine again. + + We married, and we sailed the main,-- + A soldier, and a soldier's wife. + We marched through many a burning plain; + We sighed for many a gallant life. + + But his--God keep it safe from harm. + He toiled, and dared, and earned command, + And those three stripes upon his arm + Were more to me than gold or land. + + Sure he would win some great renown; + Our lives were strong, our hearts were high. + One night the fever struck him down. + I sat, and stared, and saw him die. + + I had his children,--one, two, three. + One week I had them, blithe and sound. + The next--beneath this mango tree + By him in barrack burying-ground. + + I sit beneath the mango shade; + I live my five years' life all o'er,-- + Round yonder stems his children played; + He mounted guard at yonder door. + + 'Tis I, not they, am gone and dead. + They live, they know, they feel, they see. + Their spirits light the golden shade + Beneath the giant mango tree. + + All things, save I, are full of life: + The minas, pluming velvet breasts; + The monkeys, in their foolish strife; + The swooping hawks, the swinging nests; + + The lizards basking on the soil; + The butterflies who sun their wings; + The bees about their household toil;-- + They live, they love, the blissful things! + + Each tender purple mango shoot, + That folds and droops so bashful down, + It lives, it sucks some hidden root, + It rears at last a broad green crown. + + It blossoms: and the children cry, + "Watch when the mango apples fall." + It lives; but rootless, fruitless, I,-- + I breathe and dream,--and that is all. + + Thus am I dead, yet cannot die; + But still within my foolish brain + There hangs a pale blue evening sky, + A furzy croft, a sandy lane. + + _Charles Kingsley._ + + * * * * * + + +TO MARY IN HEAVEN. + + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray, + That lov'st to greet the early morn, + Again thou usherest in the day + My Mary from my soul was torn. + O Mary! dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + That sacred hour can I forget, + Can I forget the hallowed grove, + Where by the winding Ayr we met, + To live one day of parting love? + Eternity will not efface + Those records dear of transports past; + Thy image at our last embrace; + Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! + + Ayr gurgling kissed his pebbled shore, + O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; + The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, + Twined amorous round the raptured scene; + The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, + The birds sang love on every spray,-- + Till too, too soon, the glowing west + Proclaimed the speed of wingéd day. + + Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, + And fondly broods with miser care! + Time but the impression deeper makes, + As streams their channels deeper wear. + My Mary, dear departed shade! + Where is thy place of blissful rest? + See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? + Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? + + _Robert Burns._ + + * * * * * + + +A SONG FOR SEPTEMBER. + + September strews the woodland o'er + With many a brilliant color; + The world is brighter than before,-- + Why should our hearts be duller? + Sorrow and the scarlet leaf, + Sad thoughts and sunny weather! + Ah me! this glory and this grief + Agree not well together. + + This is the parting season,--this + The time when friends are flying; + And lovers now, with many a kiss, + Their long farewells are sighing. + Why is Earth so gayly dressed? + This pomp, that Autumn beareth, + A funeral seems where every guest + A bridal garment weareth. + + Each one of us, perchance, may here, + On some blue morn hereafter, + Return to view the gaudy year, + But not with boyish laughter. + We shall then be wrinkled men, + Our brows with silver laden, + And thou this glen may'st seek again, + But nevermore a maiden! + + Nature perhaps foresees that Spring + Will touch her teeming bosom, + And that a few brief months will bring + The bird, the bee, the blossom; + Ah! these forests do not know-- + Or would less brightly wither-- + The virgin that adorns them so + Will nevermore come hither! + + _Thomas William Parsons._ + + * * * * * + + +OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. + + Oft in the stilly night, + Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, + Fond Memory brings the light + Of other days around me; + The smiles, the tears, + Of boyhood's years, + The words of love then spoken; + The eyes that shone, + Now dimmed and gone, + The cheerful hearts now broken! + Thus in the stilly night, + Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, + Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + When I remember all + The friends, so linked together, + I've seen around me fall, + Like leaves in wintry weather, + I feel like one + Who treads alone + Some banquet-hall deserted, + Whose lights are fled, + Whose garlands dead, + And all but he departed! + Thus in the stilly night, + Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, + Sad Memory brings the light + Of other days around me. + + _Thomas Moore._ + + * * * * * + + +THE DAYS THAT ARE NO MORE. + + Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, + Tears from the depth of some divine despair + Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, + In looking on the happy autumn fields, + And thinking of the days that are no more. + + Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail + That brings our friends up from the under world, + Sad as the last which reddens over one + That sinks with all we love below the verge,-- + So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. + + Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns + The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds + To dying ears, when unto dying eyes + The casement slowly grows a glimmering square,-- + So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. + + Dear as remembered kisses after death, + And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned + On lips that are for others; deep as love, + Deep as first love, and wild with all regret, + O death in life! the days that are no more. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. + + I have had playmates, I have had companions, + In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + + I have been laughing, I have been carousing, + Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + + I loved a love once, fairest among women; + Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her; + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. + + I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; + Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly,-- + Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. + + Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood. + Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, + Seeking to find the old familiar faces. + + Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, + Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling? + So might we talk of the old familiar faces,-- + + How some they have died, and some they have left me, + And some are taken from me; all are departed, + All, all are gone, the old familiar faces! + + _Charles Lamb._ + + * * * * * + + +TIME'S CHANGES. + + I saw her once,--so freshly fair, + That, like a blossom just unfolding, + She opened to life's cloudless air, + And Nature joyed to view its moulding: + Her smile, it haunts my memory yet; + Her cheek's fine hue divinely glowing; + Her rosebud mouth, her eyes of jet, + Around on all their light bestowing. + O, who could look on such a form, + So nobly free, so softly tender, + And darkly dream that earthly storm + Should dim such sweet, delicious splendor? + For in her mien, and in her face, + And in her young step's fairy lightness, + Naught could the raptured gazer trace + But beauty's glow and pleasure's brightness. + + I saw her twice,--an altered charm, + But still of magic richest, rarest, + Than girlhood's talisman less warm, + Though yet of earthly sights the fairest; + Upon her breast she held a child, + The very image of its mother, + Which ever to her smiling smiled,-- + They seemed to live but in each other. + But matron cares or lurking woe + Her thoughtless, sinless look had banished, + And from her cheeks the roseate glow + Of girlhood's balmy morn had vanished; + Within her eyes, upon her brow, + Lay something softer, fonder, deeper, + As if in dreams some visioned woe + Had broke the Elysium of the sleeper. + + I saw her thrice,--Fate's dark decree + In widow's garments had arrayed her; + Yet beautiful she seemed to be + As even my reveries portrayed her; + The glow, the glance, had passed away, + The sunshine and the sparkling glitter,-- + Still, though I noted pale decay, + The retrospect was scarcely bitter; + For in their place a calmness dwelt, + Serene, subduing, soothing, holy,-- + In feeling which, the bosom felt + That every louder mirth is folly,-- + A pensiveness which is not grief; + A stillness as of sunset streaming; + A fairy glow on flower and leaf, + Till earth looks like a landscape dreaming. + + A last time,--and unmoved she lay, + Beyond life's dim, uncertain river, + A glorious mould of fading clay, + From whence the spark had fled forever! + I gazed--my heart was like to burst-- + And, as I thought of years departed-- + The years wherein I saw her first, + When she, a girl, was lightsome-hearted-- + And as I mused on later days, + When moved she in her matron duty, + A happy mother, in the blaze + Of ripened hope and sunny beauty,-- + I felt the chill--I turned aside-- + Bleak Desolation's cloud came o'er me; + And Being seemed a troubled tide, + Whose wrecks in darkness swam before me! + + _David Macbeth Moir._ + + * * * * * + + +QUA CURSUM VENTUS. + + As ships becalmed at eve, that lay + With canvas drooping, side by side, + Two towers of sail at dawn of day + Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried; + + When fell the night, upsprung the breeze, + And all the darkling hours they plied, + Nor dreamt but each the selfsame seas + By each was cleaving, side by side: + + E'en so,--but why the tale reveal + Of those whom, year by year unchanged, + Brief absence joined anew to feel, + Astounded, soul from soul estranged? + + At dead of night their sails were filled, + And onward each rejoicing steered; + Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, + Or wist, what first with dawn appeared! + + To veer, how vain! On, onward strain, + Brave barks! In light, in darkness too, + Through winds and tides one compass guides,-- + To that, and your own selves, be true. + + But O blithe breeze, and O great seas, + Though ne'er, that earliest parting past, + On your wide plain they join again, + Together lead them home at last! + + One port, methought, alike they sought, + One purpose hold where'er they fare,-- + O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, + At last, at last, unite them there! + + _Arthur Hugh Clough._ + + * * * * * + + +CHANGES. + + Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed. + Time rules us all. And life, indeed, is not + The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead. + And then, we women cannot choose our lot. + + Much must be borne which it is hard to bear; + Much given away which it were sweet to keep. + God help us all! who need, indeed, his care. + And yet I know the Shepherd loves his sheep. + + My little boy begins to babble now + Upon my knee his earliest infant prayer. + He has his father's eager eyes, I know; + And, they say, too, his mother's sunny hair. + + But when he sleeps and smiles upon my knee, + And I can feel his light breath come and go, + I think of one (Heaven help and pity me!) + Who loved me, and whom I loved, long ago; + + Who might have been ... ah, what I dare not think! + We are all changed. God judges for us best. + God help us do our duty, and not shrink, + And trust in Heaven humbly for the rest. + + But blame us women not, if some appear + Too cold at times; and some too gay and light. + Some griefs gnaw deep. Some woes are hard to bear. + Who knows the past? and who can judge us right? + + Ah, were we judged by what we might have been, + And not by what we are,--too apt to fall! + My little child,--he sleeps and smiles between + These thoughts and me. In heaven we shall know all! + + _Robert Bulwer Lytton._ + + * * * * * + + +I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. + + I remember, I remember + The house where I was born, + The little window where the sun + Came peeping in at morn; + He never came a wink too soon, + Nor brought too long a day; + But now, I often wish the night + Had borne my breath away! + + I remember, I remember + The roses, red and white, + The violets, and the lily-cups,-- + Those flowers made of light! + The lilacs where the robin built, + And where my brother set + The laburnum on his birthday,-- + The tree is living yet! + + I remember, I remember + Where I was used to swing, + And thought the air must rush as fresh + To swallows on the wing; + My spirit flew in feathers then, + That is so heavy now, + And summer pool could hardly cool + The fever on my brow! + + I remember, I remember + The fir-trees dark and high; + I used to think their slender tops + Were close against the sky. + It was a childish ignorance, + But now 'tis little joy + To know I'm farther off from heaven + Than when I was a boy. + + _Thomas Hood._ + + * * * * * + + +HAUNTED HOUSES. + + All houses wherein men have lived and died + Are haunted houses. Through the open doors + The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, + With feet that make no sound upon the floors. + + We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, + Along the passages they come and go, + Impalpable impressions on the air, + A sense of something moving to and fro. + + There are more guests at table than the hosts + Invited; the illuminated hall + Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, + As silent as the pictures on the wall. + + The stranger at my fireside cannot see + The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear; + He but perceives what is; while unto me + All that has been is visible and clear. + + We have no title-deeds to house or lands; + Owners and occupants of earlier dates + From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, + And hold in mortmain still their old estates. + + The spirit-world around this world of sense + Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere + Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense + A vital breath of more ethereal air. + + Our little lives are kept in equipoise + By opposite attractions and desires! + The struggle of the instinct that enjoys + And the more noble instinct that aspires. + + These perturbations, this perpetual jar + Of earthly wants and aspirations high, + Come from the influence of an unseen star, + An undiscovered planet in our sky. + + And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud + Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, + Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd + Into the realm of mystery and night,-- + + So from the world of spirits there descends + A bridge of light, connecting it with this, + O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends, + Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss. + + _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ + + * * * * * + + +THANATOPSIS. + + To him who in the love of nature holds + Communion with her visible forms, she speaks + A various language: for his gayer hours + She has a voice of gladness, and a smile + And eloquence of beauty; and she glides + Into his darker musings with a mild + And healing sympathy, that steals away + Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts + Of the last bitter hour come like a blight + Over thy spirit, and sad images + Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, + And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, + Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart, + Go forth under the open sky, and list + To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- + Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- + Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee + The all-beholding sun shall see no more + In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, + Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, + Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist + Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim + Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; + And, lost each human trace, surrendering up + Thine individual being, shalt thou go + To mix forever with the elements,-- + To be a brother to the insensible rock, + And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain + Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak + Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. + + Yet not to thine eternal resting-place + Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish + Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down + With patriarchs of the infant world,--with kings, + The powerful of the earth,--the wise, the good,-- + Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, + All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, + Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,--the vales + Stretching in pensive quietness between,-- + The venerable woods,--rivers that move + In majesty, and the complaining brooks + That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, + Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- + Are but the solemn decorations all + Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, + The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, + Are shining on the sad abodes of death, + Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread + The globe are but a handful to the tribes + That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings + Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands, + Or lose thyself in the continuous woods + Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound + Save his own dashings,--yet the dead are there; + And millions in those solitudes, since first + The flight of years began, have laid them down + In their last sleep,--the dead reign there alone. + So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw + In silence from the living, and no friend + Take note of thy departure? All that breathe + Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh + When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care + Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase + His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave + Their mirth and their employments, and shall come + And make their bed with thee. As the long train + Of ages glide away, the sons of men-- + The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes + In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, + And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- + Shall one by one be gathered to thy side + By those who in their turn shall follow them. + + So live that when thy summons comes to join + The innumerable caravan which moves + To that mysterious realm where each shall take + His chamber in the silent halls of death, + Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, + Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed + By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave + Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch + About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + * * * * * + + +OVER THE RIVER. + + Over the river they beckon to me, + Loved ones who've crossed to the farther side, + The gleam of their snowy robes I see, + But their voices are lost in the dashing tide. + There's one with ringlets of sunny gold, + And eyes the reflection of heaven's own blue; + He crossed in the twilight gray and cold, + And the pale mist hid him from mortal view. + We saw not the angels who met him there, + The gates of the city we could not see: + Over the river, over the river, + My brother stands waiting to welcome me. + + Over the river the boatman pale + Carried another, the household pet; + Her brown curls waved in the gentle gale, + Darling Minnie! I see her yet. + She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands, + And fearlessly entered the phantom bark; + We felt it glide from the silver sands, + And all our sunshine grew strangely dark; + We know she is safe on the farther side, + Where all the ransomed and angels be: + Over the river, the mystic river, + My childhood's idol is waiting for me. + + For none return from those quiet shores, + Who cross with the boatman cold and pale; + We hear the dip of the golden oars, + And catch a gleam of the snowy sail; + And lo! they have passed from our yearning heart, + They cross the stream and are gone for aye; + We may not sunder the veil apart + That hides from our vision the gates of day; + We only know that their barks no more + May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; + Yet somewhere, I know, on the unseen shore, + They watch, and beckon, and wait for me. + + And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold + Is flushing river and hill and shore, + I shall one day stand by the water cold, + And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; + I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping sail, + I shall hear the boat as it gains the strand, + I shall pass from sight with the boatman pale, + To the better shore of the spirit-land. + I shall know the loved who have gone before, + And joyfully sweet will the meeting be, + When over the river, the peaceful river, + The angel of death shall carry me. + + _Nancy Priest Wakefield._ + + * * * * * + + +THEY ARE ALL GONE. + + They are all gone into the world of light, + And I alone sit lingering here! + Their very memory is fair and bright, + And my sad thoughts doth clear; + + It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, + Like stars upon some gloomy grove,-- + Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed + After the sun's remove. + + I see them walking in an air of glory, + Whose light doth trample on my days,-- + My days which are at best but dull and hoary, + Mere glimmerings and decays. + + O holy hope! and high humility,-- + High as the heavens above! + These are your walks, and you have showed them me + To kindle my cold love. + + Dear, beauteous death,--the jewel of the just,-- + Shining nowhere but in the dark! + What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, + Could man outlook that mark! + + He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know, + At first sight, if the bird be flown, + But what fair dell or grove he sings in now, + That is to him unknown. + + And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams + Call to the soul when man doth sleep, + So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, + And into glory peep. + + If a star were confined into a tomb, + Her captive flames must needs burn there; + But when the hand that locked her up gives room, + She'll shine through all the sphere. + + O Father of eternal life, and all + Created glories under Thee! + Resume thy spirit from this world of thrall + Into true liberty. + + Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill + My perspective still as they pass; + Or else remove me hence unto that hill + Where I shall need no glass. + + _Henry Vaughan._ + + * * * * * + + +THE RIVER PATH. + + No bird-song floated down the hill, + The tangled bank below was still; + + No rustle from the birchen stem, + No ripple from the water's hem. + + The dusk of twilight round us grew, + We felt the falling of the dew; + + For from us, ere the day was done, + The wooded hills shut out the sun. + + But on the river's farther side, + We saw the hill-tops glorified,-- + + A tender glow, exceeding fair, + A dream of day without its glare. + + With us the damp, the chill, the gloom; + With them the sunset's rosy bloom; + + While dark, through willowy vistas seen, + The river rolled in shade between. + + From out the darkness where we trod, + We gazed upon those hills of God, + + Whose light seemed not of morn or sun; + We spake not, but our thought was one. + + We paused, as if from that bright shore + Beckoned our dear ones gone before; + + And stilled our beating hearts to hear + The voices lost to mortal ear! + + Sudden our pathway turned from night; + The hills swung open to the light; + + Through their green gates the sunshine showed, + A long slant splendor downward flowed. + + Down glade and glen and bank it rolled; + It bridged the shaded stream with gold; + + And, borne on piers of mist, allied + The shadowy with the sunlit side! + + "So," prayed we, "when our feet draw near + The river dark with mortal fear, + + "And the night cometh, chill with dew, + O Father, let thy light break through! + + "So let the hills of doubt divide, + To bridge with faith the sunless tide! + + "So let the eyes that fail on earth + On thy eternal hills look forth, + + "And in thy beckoning angels know + The dear ones whom we loved below!" + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + * * * * * + + +AN OLD MAN'S IDYL. + + By the waters of Life we sat together, + Hand in hand, in the golden days + Of the beautiful early summer weather, + When hours were anthems and speech was praise; + When the heart kept time to the carol of birds, + And the birds kept tune to the songs that ran + Through shimmer of flowers on grassy swards, + And trees with voices Ćolian. + + By the rivers of Life we walked together, + I and my darling, unafraid; + And lighter than any linnet's feather + The burdens of being on us weighed; + And Love's sweet miracles o'er us threw + Mantles of joy outlasting Time; + And up from the rosy morrows grew + A sound that seemed like a marriage-chime. + + In the gardens of Life we roamed together; + And the luscious apples were ripe and red, + And the languid lilac and honeyed heather + Swooned with the fragrance which they shed. + And under the trees the Angels walked, + And up in the air a sense of wings + Awed us sacredly while we talked + Softly in tender communings. + + In the meadows of life we strayed together, + Watching the waving harvests grow; + And under the benison of the Father + Our hearts like the lambs skipped to and fro. + And the cowslips, hearing our low replies, + Broidered fairer the emerald banks; + And glad tears shone in the daisies' eyes, + And the timid violet glistened thanks. + + Who was with us, and what was round us, + Neither myself nor darling guessed; + Only we knew that something crowned us + Out from the heavens with crowns of rest. + Only we knew that something bright + Lingered lovingly where we stood, + Clothed with the incandescent light + Of something higher than humanhood. + + O the riches Love doth inherit! + Ah the alchemy which doth change + Dross of body and dregs of spirit + Into sanctities rare and strange! + My flesh is feeble, and dry, and old, + My darling's beautiful hair is gray; + But our elixir and precious gold + Laugh at the footsteps of decay. + + Harms of the world have come upon us, + Cups of sorrow we yet shall drain; + But we have a secret which doth show us + Wonderful rainbows through the rain; + And we hear the tread of the years go by, + And the sun is setting behind the hills; + But my darling does not fear to die, + And I am happy in what God wills. + + So we sit by our household fires together, + Dreaming the dreams of long ago. + Then it was balmy summer weather, + And now the valleys are laid in snow, + Icicles hang from the slippery eaves, + The wind grows cold,--it is growing late. + Well, well,--we have garnered all our sheaves, + I and my darling,--and we wait. + + _Richard Realf._ + + * * * * * + + +BETROTHED ANEW. + + The sunlight fills the trembling air, + And balmy days their guerdons bring; + The Earth again is young and fair, + And amorous with musky spring. + + The golden nurslings of the May + In splendor strew the spangled green, + And hues of tender beauty play, + Entangled where the willows lean. + + Mark how the rippled currents flow; + What lustres on the meadows lie! + And hark! the songsters come and go, + And trill between the earth and sky. + + Who told us that the years had fled, + Or borne afar our blissful youth? + Such joys are all about us spread, + We know the whisper was not truth. + + The birds that break from grass and grove + Sing every carol that they sung + When first our veins were rich with love, + And May her mantle round us flung. + + O fresh-lit dawn! immortal life! + O Earth's betrothal, sweet and true, + With whose delights our souls are rife, + And aye their vernal vows renew! + + Then, darling, walk with me this morn, + Let your brown tresses drink its sheen; + These violets, within them worn, + Of floral fays shall make you queen. + + What though there comes a time of pain + When autumn winds forebode decay? + The days of love are born again; + That fabled time is far away! + + And never seemed the land so fair + As now, nor birds such notes to sing, + Since first within your shining hair + I wove the blossoms of the spring. + + _Edmund Clarence Stedman._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LONG-AGO. + + Eyes which can but ill define + Shapes that rise about and near, + Through the far horizon's line + Stretch a vision free and clear; + Memories feeble to retrace + Yesterday's immediate flow, + Find a dear familiar face + In each hour of Long-Ago. + + Follow yon majestic train + Down the slopes of old renown; + Knightly forms without disdain, + Sainted heads without a frown, + Emperors of thought and hand, + Congregate, a glorious show, + Met from every age and land, + In the plains of Long-Ago. + + As the heart of childhood brings + Something of eternal joy + From its own unsounded springs, + Such as life can scarce destroy, + So, remindful of the prime, + Spirits wandering to and fro + Rest upon the resting-time + In the peace of Long-Ago. + + Youthful Hope's religious fire, + When it burns no longer, leaves + Ashes of impure desire + On the altars it bereaves; + But the light that fills the past + Sheds a still diviner glow, + Ever farther it is cast + O'er the scenes of Long-Ago. + + Many a growth of pain and care, + Cumbering all the present hour, + Yields, when once transplanted there, + Healthy fruit or pleasant flower. + Thoughts that hardly flourish here, + Feelings long have ceased to blow, + Breathe a native atmosphere + In the world of Long-Ago. + + On that deep-retiring shore + Frequent pearls of beauty lie, + Where the passion-waves of yore + Fiercely beat and mounted high; + Sorrows that are sorrows still, + Lose the bitter taste of woe; + Nothing's altogether ill + In the griefs of Long-Ago. + + Tombs where lonely love repines, + Ghastly tenements of tears, + Wear the look of happy shrines + Through the golden mist of years; + Death, to those who trust in good, + Vindicates his hardest blow; + O, we would not, if we could, + Wake the sleep of Long-Ago! + + Though the doom of swift decay + Shocks the soul where life is strong; + Though for frailer hearts the day + Lingers sad and over-long; + Still the weight will find a leaven, + Still the spoiler's hand is slow, + While the future has its Heaven, + And the past its Long-Ago. + + _Richard Monckton Milnes._ + + * * * * * + + +THE IVY GREEN. + + O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, + That creepeth o'er ruins old! + Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, + In his cell so lone and cold. + The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, + To pleasure his dainty whim; + And the mouldering dust that years have made + Is a merry meal for him. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, + And a stanch old heart has he! + How closely he twineth, how tight he clings + To his friend, the huge oak-tree! + And slyly he traileth along the ground, + And his leaves he gently waves, + And he joyously twines and hugs around + The rich mould of dead men's graves. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, + And nations have scattered been; + But the stout old ivy shall never fade + From its hale and hearty green. + The brave old plant in its lonely days + Shall fatten upon the past; + For the stateliest building man can raise + Is the ivy's food at last. + Creeping where no life is seen, + A rare old plant is the ivy green. + + _Charles Dickens._ + + * * * * * + + +SUMMER LONGINGS. + + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May,-- + Waiting for the pleasant rambles + Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, + With the woodbine alternating, + Scent the dewy way. + Ah! my heart is weary waiting, + Waiting for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May,-- + Longing to escape from study, + To the young face fair and ruddy, + And the thousand charms belonging + To the summer's day. + Ah! my heart is sick with longing, + Longing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May,-- + Sighing for their sure returning, + When the summer beams are burning, + Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, + All the winter lay. + Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, + Sighing for the May. + + Ah! my heart is pained with throbbing, + Throbbing for the May,-- + Throbbing for the seaside billows, + Or the water-wooing willows; + Where, in laughing and in sobbing, + Glide the streams away. + Ah! my heart, my heart is throbbing, + Throbbing for the May. + + Waiting sad, dejected, weary, + Waiting for the May: + Spring goes by with wasted warnings,-- + Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings,-- + Summer comes, yet dark and dreary + Life still ebbs away; + Man is ever weary, weary, + Waiting for the May! + + _Denis Florence Mac-Carthy._ + + * * * * * + + +YARROW UNVISITED. + + From Stirling castle we had seen + The mazy Forth unravelled; + Had trod the banks of Clyde and Tay, + And with the Tweed had travelled; + And when we came to Clovenford, + Then said my "winsome Marrow," + "Whate'er betide, we'll turn aside, + And see the braes of Yarrow." + + "Let Yarrow folk, frae Selkirk town, + Who have been buying, selling, + Go back to Yarrow; 'tis their own,-- + Each maiden to her dwelling! + On Yarrow's banks let herons feed, + Hares couch, and rabbits burrow! + But we will downward with the Tweed, + Nor turn aside to Yarrow. + + "There's Galla Water, Leader Haughs, + Both lying right before us; + And Dryborough, where with chiming Tweed + The lintwhites sing in chorus; + There's pleasant Teviot-dale, a land + Made blithe with plough and harrow: + Why throw away a needful day + To go in search of Yarrow? + + "What's Yarrow but a river bare, + That glides the dark hills under? + There are a thousand such elsewhere, + As worthy of your wonder." + Strange words they seemed, of slight and scorn; + My true-love sighed for sorrow, + And looked me in the face, to think + I thus could speak of Yarrow! + + "O, green," said I, "are Yarrow's holms, + And sweet is Yarrow flowing! + Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, + But we will leave it growing. + O'er hilly path and open strath + We'll wander Scotland thorough; + But, though so near, we will not turn + Into the dale of Yarrow. + + "Let beeves and homebred kine partake + The sweets of Burn-mill meadow; + The swan on still St. Mary's Lake + Float double, swan and shadow! + We will not see them; will not go + To-day, nor yet to-morrow; + Enough, if in our hearts we know + There's such a place as Yarrow. + + "Be Yarrow stream unseen, unknown! + It must, or we shall rue it: + We have a vision of our own; + Ah! why should we undo it? + The treasured dreams of times long past, + We'll keep them, winsome Marrow! + For when we're there, although 'tis fair, + 'Twill be another Yarrow! + + "If care with freezing years should come, + And wandering seem but folly,-- + Should we be loath to stir from home, + And yet be melancholy,-- + Should life be dull, and spirits low, + 'Twill soothe us in our sorrow, + That earth has something yet to show,-- + The bonny holms of Yarrow!" + + _William Wordsworth._ + + * * * * * + + +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 + Burned the fire of thine eyes? + On what wings dare he aspire? + What the hand dare seize the fire? + + And what shoulder, and what art, + Could twist the sinews of thine heart? + And when thy heart began to beat, + What dread hand? and what dread feet? + + What the hammer? what the chain? + In what furnace was thy brain? + What the anvil? what dread grasp + Dare its deadly terrors clasp? + + When the stars threw down their spears, + And watered heaven with their tears, + Did he smile his work to see? + Did He who made the lamb make thee? + + Tiger! Tiger! burning bright, + In the forests of the night, + What immortal hand or eye + Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? + + _William Blake._ + + * * * * * + + +A SNOW-STORM. + + I. + + 'Tis a fearful night in the winter time, + As cold as it ever can be; + The roar of the blast is heard like the chime + Of the waves on an angry sea. + The moon is full; but her silver light + The storm dashes out with its wings to-night; + And over the sky from south to north + Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth + In the strength of a mighty glee. + + II. + + All day had the snow come down,--all day + As it never came down before; + And over the hills, at sunset, lay + Some two or three feet, or more; + The fence was lost, and the wall of stone; + The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone; + The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, + And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, + As it lay by the farmer's door. + + The night sets in on a world of snow, + While the air grows sharp and chill, + And the warning roar of a fearful blow + Is heard on the distant hill; + And the norther, see! on the mountain peak + In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek! + He shouts on the plain, ho-ho! ho-ho! + He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, + And growls with a savage will. + + III. + + Such a night as this to be found abroad, + In the drifts and the freezing air, + Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, + With the snow in his shaggy hair. + He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls; + He lifts his head, and moans and howls; + Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, + His nose is pressed on his quivering feet,-- + Pray, what does the dog do there? + + A farmer came from the village plain,-- + But he lost the travelled way; + And for hours he trod with might and main + A path for his horse and sleigh; + But colder still the cold winds blew, + And deeper still the deep drifts grew, + And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, + At last in her struggles floundered down, + Where a log in a hollow lay. + + In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, + She plunged in the drifting snow, + While her master urged, till his breath grew short, + With a word and a gentle blow; + But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; + His hands were numb and had lost their might; + So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh, + And strove to shelter himself till day, + With his coat and the buffalo. + + IV. + + He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, + To rouse up his dying steed; + And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain + For help in his master's need. + For a while he strives with a wistful cry + To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, + And wags his tail if the rude winds flap + The skirt of the buffalo over his lap, + And whines when he takes no heed. + + V. + + The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,-- + 'Tis the hour of midnight, past; + The old trees writhe and bend no more + In the whirl of the rushing blast. + The silent moon with her peaceful light + Looks down on the hills with snow all white, + And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, + The blasted pine and the ghostly stump, + Afar on the plain are cast. + + But cold and dead by the hidden log + Are they who came from the town,-- + The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog, + And his beautiful Morgan brown,-- + In the wide snow-desert, far and grand, + With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand,-- + The dog with his nose on his master's feet, + And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, + Where she lay when she floundered down. + + _Charles Gamage Eastman._ + + * * * * * + + +THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. + + The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, + Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. + Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn 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 orchis died amid the summer glow; + But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, + And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, + Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague + on men, + And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and + glen. + + 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. + + And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, + The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side. + In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forests cast the leaf, + And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; + Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, + So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. + + _William Cullen Bryant._ + + * * * * * + + +THE SANDS OF DEE. + + "O Mary, go and call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + And call the cattle home, + Across the sands of Dee." + The western wind was wild and dank with foam, + And all alone went she. + + The western tide crept up along the sand, + And o'er and o'er the sand, + And round and round the sand, + As far as eye could see. + The rolling mist came down and hid the land: + And never home came she. + + "Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,-- + A tress of golden hair, + A drownéd maiden's hair, + Above the nets at sea? + Was never salmon yet that shone so fair + Among the stakes on Dee." + + They rowed her in across the rolling foam, + The cruel crawling foam, + The cruel hungry foam, + To her grave beside the sea. + But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, + Across the sands of Dee. + + _Charles Kingsley._ + + * * * * * + + +HYMN TO THE NIGHT. + + I heard the trailing garments of the Night + Sweep through her marble halls! + I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light + From the celestial walls! + + I felt her presence, by its spell of might, + Stoop o'er me from above; + The calm, majestic presence of the Night, + As of the one I love. + + I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, + The manifold, soft chimes, + That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, + Like some old poet's rhymes. + + From the cool cisterns of the midnight air + My spirit drank repose; + The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-- + From those deep cisterns flows. + + O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear + What man has borne before! + Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, + And they complain no more. + + Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! + Descend with broad-winged flight, + The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, + The best-belovéd Night! + + _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ + + * * * * * + + +NIGHT AND DEATH. + + Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew + Thee from report divine, and heard thy name, + Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, + This glorious canopy of light and blue? + Yet 'neath the curtain of translucent dew, + Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, + Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came; + And lo! creation widened in man's view. + Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed + Within thy beams, O Sun? or who could find, + While fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed, + That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind? + Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?-- + If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life? + + _Joseph Blanco White._ + + * * * * * + + +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,-- + O, to abide in the desert with thee! + Wild is thy lay and loud + Far in the downy cloud, + Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. + Where, on thy dewy wing, + Where art thou journeying? + Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. + O'er fell and fountain sheen, + O'er moor and mountain green, + O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, + Over the cloudlet dim, + Over the rainbow's rim, + Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! + Then, when the gloaming comes, + Low in the heather blooms + Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! + Emblem of happiness, + Blest is thy dwelling-place, + O, to abide in the desert with thee! + + _James Hogg._ + + * * * * * + + +THE EAGLE. + + He clasps the crag with hookéd hands; + Close to the sun in lonely lands, + Ringed 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 Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +TO THE SKYLARK. + + Hail to thee, blithe spirit! + Bird thou never wert,-- + That from heaven, or near it, + Pourest thy full heart + In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. + + Higher still and higher + From the earth thou springest, + Like a cloud of fire; + The blue deep thou wingest, + And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. + + In the golden lightning + Of the setting sun, + O'er which clouds are brightening, + 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 overflowed. + + 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 embowered + In its own green leaves, + By warm winds deflowered, + Till the scent it gives + Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingéd thieves. + + Sound of vernal showers + On the twinkling grass, + Rain-awakened flowers, + All that ever was + Joyous and fresh and clear 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 triumphant 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 could come near. + + Better than all measures + Of delight and sound, + Better than all treasures + That in books are found, + Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground. + + Teach me half the gladness + That thy brain must know, + Such harmonious madness + From my lips would flow, + The world should listen then, as I am listening now. + + _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ + + * * * * * + + +TO THOMAS MOORE. + + My boat is on the shore, + And my bark is on the sea; + But, before I go, Tom Moore, + Here's a double health to thee! + + Here's a sigh for those that love me, + And a smile for those who hate; + And, whatever sky's above me, + Here's a heart for every fate. + + Though the ocean roar around me, + Yet it still shall bear me on; + Though a desert should surround me, + It hath springs that may be won. + + Were 't the last drop in the well, + As I gasped upon the brink, + Ere my fainting spirit fell + 'Tis to thee that I would drink. + + With that water, as this wine, + The libation I would pour + Should be,--Peace with thine and mine, + And a health to thee, Tom Moore! + + _Lord Byron._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. + + 'Tis the last rose of summer, + Left blooming alone; + All her lovely companions + Are faded and gone; + No flower of her kindred, + No rosebud is nigh, + To reflect back her blushes, + Or give sigh for sigh! + + I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! + To pine on the stem; + Since the lovely are sleeping, + Go, sleep thou with them; + Thus kindly I scatter + Thy leaves o'er the bed + Where thy mates of the garden + Lie scentless and dead. + + So soon may I follow, + When friendships decay, + And from love's shining circle + The gems drop away! + When true hearts lie withered, + And fond ones are flown, + O, who would inhabit + This bleak world alone? + + _Thomas Moore._ + + * * * * * + + +A FAREWELL. + + Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, + Thy tribute wave deliver; + No more by thee my steps shall be, + Forever and forever. + + Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, + A rivulet, then a river; + Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, + Forever and forever. + + But here will sigh thine alder-tree, + And here thine aspen shiver; + And here by thee will hum the bee, + Forever and forever. + + A thousand suns will stream on thee, + A thousand moons will quiver; + But not by thee my steps shall be, + Forever and forever. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +STANZAS. + + My life is like the summer rose + That opens to the morning sky, + But, ere the shades of evening close, + Is scattered on the ground--to die! + Yet on the rose's humble bed + The sweetest dews of night are shed, + As if she wept the waste to see,-- + But none shall weep a tear for me! + + My life is like the autumn leaf + That trembles in the moon's pale ray; + Its hold is frail--its date is brief, + Restless--and soon to pass away! + Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, + The parent tree will mourn its shade, + The winds bewail the leafless tree,-- + But none shall breathe a sigh for me! + + My life is like the prints which feet + Have left on Tampa's desert strand; + Soon as the rising tide shall beat, + All trace will vanish from the sand; + Yet, as if grieving to efface + All vestige of the human race, + On that lone shore loud moans the sea,-- + But none, alas! shall mourn for me! + + _Richard Henry Wilde._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LITTLE YEARS. + + These years! these years! these naughty years! + Once they were pretty things: + Their fairy footfalls met our ears, + Our eyes their glancing wings. + They flitted by our school-boy way; + We chased the little imps at play. + + We knew them, soon, for tricksy elves: + They brought the college gown, + With thoughtful books filled up our shelves, + Darkened our lips with down, + Played with our throat, and lo! the tone + Of manhood had become our own. + + They smiling stretched our childish size; + Their soft hands trimmed our hair; + Cast the deep thought within our eyes, + And left it glowing there; + Sang songs of hope in college halls, + Bright fancies drew upon the walls. + + They flashed upon us love's bright gem; + They showed us gleams of fame; + Stout-hearted work we learned from them, + And honor more than name: + And so they came, and went away; + We said not go, we said not stay. + + But one sweet day, when quiet skies + And still leaves brought me thought, + When hazy hills drew forth my eyes, + And woods with deep shade fraught, + That day I carelessly found out + What work these elves had been about. + + Alas! those little rogues, the years, + Had fooled me many a day, + Plucked half the locks above my ears, + And tinged the rest all gray. + They'd left me wrinkles great and small. + I fear that they have tricked us all. + + Well,--give the little years their way; + Think, speak, and act the while; + Lift up the bare front to the day, + And make their wrinkles smile. + They mould the noblest living head; + They carve the best tomb for the dead. + + _Robert T. S. Lowell._ + + * * * * * + + +THE AGE OF WISDOM. + + Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chin, + That never has known the barber's shear, + All your wish is woman to win; + This is the way that boys begin,-- + Wait till you come to forty year. + + Curly gold locks cover foolish brains; + Billing and cooing is all your cheer,-- + Sighing, and singing of midnight strains, + Under Bonnybell's window-panes,-- + Wait till you come to forty year. + + Forty times over let Michaelmas pass; + Grizzling hair the brain doth clear; + Then you know a boy is an ass, + Then you know the worth of a lass,-- + Once you have come to forty year. + + Pledge me round; I bid ye declare, + All good fellows whose beards are gray,-- + Did not the fairest of the fair + Common grow and wearisome ere + Ever a month was passed away? + + The reddest lips that ever have kissed, + The brightest eyes that ever have shone, + May pray and whisper and we not list, + Or look away and never be missed,-- + Ere yet ever a month is gone. + + Gillian's dead! God rest her bier,-- + How I loved her twenty years syne! + Marian's married; but I sit here, + Alone and merry at forty year, + Dipping my nose in the Gascon wine. + + _William Makepeace Thackeray._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LAST LEAF. + + I saw him once before, + As he passed by the door; + And again + The pavement-stones resound + As he totters o'er the ground + With his cane. + + They say that in his prime, + Ere the pruning-knife of time + Cut him down, + Not a better man was found + By the crier on his round + Through the town. + + But now he walks the streets, + And he looks at all he meets + Sad and wan; + And he shakes his feeble head, + That it seems as if he said, + "They are gone." + + The mossy marbles rest + On the lips that he has pressed + In their bloom; + And the names he loved to hear + Have been carved for many a year + On the tomb. + + My grandmamma has said-- + Poor old lady! she is dead + Long ago-- + That he had a Roman nose, + And his cheek was like a rose + In the snow. + + But now his nose is thin, + And it rests upon his chin + Like a staff; + And a crook is in his back, + And a melancholy crack + In his laugh. + + I know it is a sin + For me to sit and grin + At him here, + But the old three-cornered hat, + And the breeches,--and all that, + Are so queer! + + And if I should live to be + The last leaf upon the tree + In the spring, + Let them smile, as I do now, + At the old forsaken bough + Where I cling. + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LOST LEADER. + + Just for a handful of silver he left us: + Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat,-- + Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us, + Lost all the others she lets us devote. + They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, + So much was theirs who so little allowed: + How all our copper had gone for his service! + Rags,--were they purple, his heart had been proud! + We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, + Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, + Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, + Made him our pattern to live and to die! + Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, + Burns, Shelley, were with us,--they watch from their graves! + He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, + He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves! + + We shall march prospering,--not through his presence; + Songs may inspirit us,--not from his lyre: + Deeds will be done,--while he boasts his quiescence, + Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. + Blot out his name then,--record one lost soul more, + One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, + One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels, + One wrong more to man, one more insult to God! + Life's night begins; let him never come back to us! + There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain; + Forced praise on our part,--the glimmer of twilight, + Never glad, confident morning again! + Best fight on well, for we taught him,--strike gallantly, + Aim at our heart, ere we pierce through his own; + Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, + Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne! + + _Robert Browning._ + + * * * * * + + +TOO LATE. + +"Ah! si la jeunesse savait,--si la vieillenne pouvait!" + + There sat an old man on a rock, + And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,-- + That concern where we all must take stock + Though our vote has no hearing or weight; + And the old man sang him an old, old song,-- + Never sang voice so clear and strong + That it could drown the old man's long, + For he sang the song "Too late! too late!" + + "When we want, we have for our pains + The promise that if we but wait + Till the want has burned out of our brains, + Every means shall be present to sate; + While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, + While the bonnet is trimming the face grows old, + When we've matched our buttons the pattern is sold, + And everything comes too late,--too late! + + "When strawberries seemed like red heavens,-- + Terrapin stew a wild dream,-- + When my brain was at sixes and sevens, + If my mother had "folks" and ice-cream, + Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger + At the restaurant-man and fruit-monger,-- + But oh! how I wished I were younger + When the goodies all came in a stream, in a stream! + + "I've a splendid blood horse, and--a liver + That it jars into torture to trot; + My row-boat's the gem of the river,-- + Gout makes every knuckle a knot! + I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, + But no palate for _ménus_,--no eyes for a dome,-- + _Those_ belonged to the youth who must tarry at home, + When no home but an attic he'd got,--he'd got! + + "How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, + Where the tiles baked my brains all July, + For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, + Two pigs of my own in a sty, + A rosebush,--a little thatched cottage,-- + Two spoons--love--a basin of pottage!-- + Now in freestone I sit,--and my dotage,-- + With a woman's chair empty close by,--close by! + + "Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, + I have shared one seat with the great; + I have sat--knowing naught of the clock-- + On love's high throne of state; + But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, + To a mouth grown stern with delay were pressed, + And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed + Had they only not come too late,--too late!" + + _Fitz-Hugh Ludlow._ + + * * * * * + + +A PETITION TO TIME. + + Touch us gently, Time! + Let us glide adown thy stream + Gently,--as we sometimes glide + Through a quiet dream! + Humble voyagers are we, + Husband, wife, and children three,-- + (One is lost,--an angel, fled + To the azure overhead!) + + Touch us gently, Time! + We've not proud nor soaring wings, + Our ambition, our content, + Lies in simple things. + Humble voyagers are we, + O'er Life's dim, unsounded sea, + Seeking only some calm clime;-- + Touch us gently, gentle Time! + + _Bryan Waller Procter._ + + * * * * * + + +ICHABOD. + + So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn + Which once he wore! + The glory from his gray hairs gone + Forevermore! + + Revile him not,--the tempter hath + A snare for all! + And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, + Befit his fall! + + Oh! dumb is passion's stormy rage, + When he who might + Have lighted up and led his age, + Falls back in night. + + Scorn! Would the angels laugh, to mark + A bright soul driven, + Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, + From hope and heaven? + + Let not the land, once proud of him, + Insult him now; + Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, + Dishonored brow. + + But let its humbled sons, instead, + From sea to lake, + A long lament, as for the dead, + In sadness make. + + Of all we loved and honored, naught + Save power remains,-- + A fallen angel's pride of thought, + Still strong in chains. + + All else is gone; from those great eyes + The soul has fled: + When faith is lost, when honor dies, + The man is dead! + + Then, pay the reverence of old days + To his dead fame; + Walk backward, with averted gaze, + And hide the shame! + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + * * * * * + + +SONG. + + The heath this night must be my bed, + The bracken curtain for my head, + My lullaby the warder's tread, + Far, far from love and thee, Mary; + To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, + My couch may be my bloody plaid, + My vesper-song thy wail, sweet maid! + It will not waken me, Mary! + + I may not, dare not, fancy now + The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; + I dare not think upon thy vow, + And all it promised me, Mary. + No fond regret must Norman know; + When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, + His heart must be like bended bow, + His foot like arrow free, Mary. + + A time will come with feeling fraught! + For, if I fall in battle fought, + Thy hapless lover's dying thought + Shall be a thought on thee, Mary: + And if returned from conquered foes, + How blithely will the evening close, + How sweet the linnet sing repose + To my young bride and me, Mary. + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + * * * * * + + +TO LUCASTA, + +ON GOING TO THE WARS. + + Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde, + That from the nunnerie + Of thy chaste breast and quiet minde, + To warre and armes I flee. + + True, a new mistresse now I chase,-- + The first foe in the field; + And with a stronger faith imbrace + A sword, a horse, a shield. + + Yet this inconstancy is such + As you, too, should adore; + I could not love thee, deare, so much, + Loved I not honor more. + + _Richard Lovelace._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LAND OF LANDS. + + You ask me, why, though ill at ease, + Within this region I subsist, + Whose spirits falter in the mist, + And languish for the purple seas? + + It is the land that freemen till, + That sober-suited Freedom chose, + The land where, girt with friends or foes, + A man may speak the thing he will; + + A land of settled government, + A land of just and old renown, + Where Freedom broadens slowly down + From precedent to precedent; + + Where faction seldom gathers head, + But by degrees to fulness wrought, + The strength of some diffusive thought + Hath time and space to work and spread. + + Should banded unions persecute + Opinion, and induce a time + When single thought is civil crime, + And individual freedom mute; + + Though Power should make from land to land + The name of Britain trebly great,-- + Though every channel of the state + Should almost choke with golden sand,-- + + Yet waft me from the harbor-mouth, + Wild wind! I seek a warmer sky, + And I will see before I die + The palms and temples of the South. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. + + Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered, + And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; + And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,-- + The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. + + When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, + By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, + At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, + And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. + + Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array + Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track: + 'Twas autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way + To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. + + I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft + In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; + I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, + And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. + + Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore + From my home and my weeping friends never to part; + My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, + And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. + + Stay, stay with us!--rest; thou art weary and worn!-- + And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; + But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, + And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. + + _Thomas Campbell._ + + * * * * * + + +MONTEREY. + + We were not many,--we who stood + Before the iron sleet that day; + Yet many a gallant spirit would + Give half his years if but he could + Have been with us at Monterey. + + Now here, now there, the shot it hailed + In deadly drifts of fiery spray, + Yet not a single soldier quailed + When wounded comrades round them wailed + Their dying shout at Monterey. + + And on, still on our column kept, + Through walls of flame, its withering way; + Where fell the dead, the living stept, + Still charging on the guns which swept + The slippery streets of Monterey. + + The foe himself recoiled aghast, + When, striking where he strongest lay, + We swooped his flanking batteries past, + And, braving full their murderous blast, + Stormed home the towers of Monterey. + + Our banners on those turrets wave, + And there our evening bugles play; + Where orange-boughs above their grave + Keep green the memory of the brave + Who fought and fell at Monterey. + + We are not many,--we who pressed + Beside the brave who fell that day; + But who of us has not confessed + He'd rather share their warrior rest + Than not have been at Monterey? + + _Charles Fenno Hoffman._ + + * * * * * + + +A SONG OF THE CAMP. + + "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, + The outer trenches guarding, + When the heated guns of the camp 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._ + + * * * * * + + +THE CAVALIER'S SONG. + + A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, + A sword of metal keene! + All else to noble hearts 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 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._ + + * * * * * + + +CORONACH. + + He is gone on the mountain, + He is lost to the forest, + Like a summer-dried fountain, + When our need was the sorest. + The fount reappearing + From the rain-drops shall borrow; + But to us comes no cheering, + To Duncan no morrow! + + The hand of the reaper + Takes the ears that are hoary, + But the voice of the weeper + Wails manhood in glory. + The autumn winds, rushing, + Waft the leaves that are searest, + But our flower was in flushing + When blighting was nearest. + + Fleet foot on the correi, + Sage counsel in cumber, + Red hand in the foray, + How sound is thy slumber! + Like the dew on the mountain, + Like the foam on the river, + Like the bubble on the fountain, + Thou art gone, and forever. + + _Sir Walter Scott._ + + * * * * * + + +DIRGE FOR A SOLDIER. + + Close his eyes; his work is done! + What to him is friend or foeman, + Rise of moon or set of sun, + Hand of man or kiss of woman? + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he cannot know; + Lay him low! + + As man may, he fought his fight, + Proved his truth by his endeavor; + Let him sleep in solemn night, + Sleep forever and forever. + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he cannot know; + Lay him low! + + Fold him in his country's stars, + Roll the drum and fire the volley! + What to him are all our wars?-- + What but death bemocking folly? + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he cannot know; + Lay him low! + + Leave him to God's watching eye; + Trust him to the hand that made him. + Mortal love weeps idly by; + God alone has power to aid him. + Lay him low, lay him low, + In the clover or the snow! + What cares he? he cannot know; + Lay him low! + + _George Henry Boker._ + + * * * * * + + +ODE. + +Sung on the occasion of decorating the graves of the Confederate dead at +Magnolia Cemetery, Charleston, S. C., 1867. + + Sleep sweetly in your humble graves,-- + Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause! + Though yet no marble column craves + The pilgrim here to pause, + + In seeds of laurel in the earth + The blossom of your fame is blown, + And somewhere, waiting for its birth, + The shaft is in the stone! + + Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years + Which keep in trust your storied tombs, + Behold! your sisters bring their tears, + And these memorial blooms. + + Small tributes! but your shades will smile + More proudly on these wreaths to-day, + Than when some cannon-moulded pile + Shall overlook this bay. + + Stoop, angels, hither from the skies! + There is no holier spot of ground + Than where defeated valor lies, + By mourning beauty crowned! + + _Henry Timrod._ + + * * * * * + + +ODE. + +Read at Utica, N. Y., on the occasion of decorating the graves of the +Federal dead, May 30, 1872. + + They sleep so calm and stately, + Each in his graveyard bed, + It scarcely seems that lately + They trod the fields blood-red, + With fearless tread. + + They marched and never halted, + They scaled the parapet, + The triple lines assaulted, + And paid without regret + The final debt. + + The debt of slow accruing + A guilty nation made, + The debt of evil doing, + Of justice long delayed, + 'Twas this they paid. + + On fields where Strife held riot, + And Slaughter fed his hounds, + Where came no sense of quiet, + Nor any gentle sounds, + They made their rounds. + + They wrought without repining, + Till, weary watches o'er, + They passed the bounds confining + Our green, familiar shore, + Forevermore. + + And now they sleep so stately, + Each in his graveyard bed, + So calmly and sedately + They rest, that once I said: + "These men are dead. + + "They know not what sweet duty + We come each year to pay, + Nor heed the blooms of beauty, + The garland gifts of May, + Strewn here to-day. + + "The night-time and the day-time, + The rise and set of sun, + The winter and the May-time, + To them whose work is done, + Are all as one." + + Then o'er mine eyes there floated + A vision of the Land + Where their brave souls, promoted + To Heaven's own armies, stand + At God's right hand. + + From out the mighty distance + I seemed to see them gaze + Back on their old existence, + Back on the battle-blaze + Of war's dread days. + + "The flowers shall fade and perish + (In larger faith spake I), + But these dear names we cherish + Are written in the sky, + And cannot die." + + _Theodore P. Cook._ + + * * * * * + + +ODE. + + How sleep the brave who sink to rest + By all their country's wishes blessed! + 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._ + + * * * * * + + +DRIVING HOME THE COWS. + + Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass + He turned them into the river-lane; + One after another he let them pass, + Then fastened the meadow bars again. + + Under the willows, and over the hill, + He patiently followed their sober pace; + The merry whistle for once was still, + And something shadowed the sunny face. + + Only a boy! and his father had said + He never could let his youngest go; + Two already were lying dead + Under the feet of the trampling foe. + + But after the evening work was done, + And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, + Over his shoulder he slung his gun + And stealthily followed the foot-path damp. + + Across the clover and through the wheat + With resolute heart and purpose grim, + Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, + And the blind bat's flitting startled him. + + Thrice since then had the lanes been white, + And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; + And now, when the cows came back at night, + The feeble father drove them home. + + For news had come to the lonely farm + That three were lying where two had lain; + And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm + Could never lean on a son's again. + + The summer day grew cool and late, + He went for the cows when the work was done; + But down the lane, as he opened the gate, + He saw them coming one by one,-- + + Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, + Shaking their horns in the evening wind; + Cropping the buttercups out of the grass,-- + But who was it following close behind? + + Loosely swung in the idle air + The empty sleeve of army blue; + And worn and pale, from the crisping hair + Looked out a face that the father knew. + + For Southern prisons will sometimes yawn, + And yield their dead unto life again; + And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn + In golden glory at last may wane. + + The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; + For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb; + And under the silent evening skies + Together they followed the cattle home. + + _Kate Putnam Osgood._ + + * * * * * + + +THE BRAVE AT HOME. + + The maid who binds her warrior's sash + With smile that well her pain dissembles, + The while beneath her drooping lash + One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, + Though Heaven alone records the tear, + And Fame shall never know her story, + Her heart has shed a drop as dear + As e'er bedewed the field of glory! + + The wife who girds her husband's sword, + 'Mid little ones who weep or wonder, + And bravely speaks the cheering word, + What though her heart be rent asunder, + Doomed nightly in her dreams to hear + The bolts of death around him rattle, + Hath shed as sacred blood as e'er + Was poured upon the field of battle! + + The mother who conceals her grief + While to her breast her son she presses, + Then breathes a few brave words and brief, + Kissing the patriot brow she blesses, + With no one but her secret God + To know the pain that weighs upon her, + Sheds holy blood as e'er the sod + Received on Freedom's field of honor! + + _Thomas Buchanan Read._ + + * * * * * + + +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._ + + * * * * * + + +THE THREE FISHERS. + + Three fishers went sailing out into the west, + Out into the west, as the sun went down, + Each thought on the woman who loved him the best, + And the children stood watching them out of the town; + For men must work, and women must weep, + And there's little to earn, and many to keep, + Though the harbor-bar be moaning. + + Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, + And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; + They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, + And the night-rack came rolling up ragged and brown; + But men must work, and women must weep, + Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, + And the harbor-bar be moaning. + + Three corpses lie out on the shining sands, + In the morning gleam, as the tide goes down, + And the women are weeping and wringing their hands, + For those who will never come home to the town. + For men must work, and women must weep, + And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, + And good by to the bar and its moaning. + + _Charles Kingsley._ + + * * * * * + + +HEROES. + + The winds that once the Argo bore + Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines: + And her hull is the drift of the deep-sea floor, + Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. + You may seek her crew on every isle + Fair in the foam of Ćgean seas; + But out of their rest no charm can wile + Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. + + And Priam's wail is heard no more + By windy Ilion's sea-built walls; + Nor great Achilles, stained with gore, + Cries, "O ye gods, 'tis Hector falls!" + On Ida's mount is the shining snow; + But Jove has gone from its brow away; + And red on the plain the poppies grow + Where the Greek and the Trojan fought that day. + + Mother Earth, are the heroes dead? + Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? + Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red + All that is left of the brave of yore? + Are there none to fight as Theseus fought, + Far in the young world's misty dawn? + Or to teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught? + Mother Earth, are the heroes gone? + + Gone? In a grander form they rise! + Dead? We may clasp their hands in ours, + And catch the light of their clearer eyes, + And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers! + Wherever a noble deed is done, + 'Tis the pulse of a hero's heart is stirred; + Wherever the Right has a triumph won, + There are the heroes' voices heard. + + Their armor rings on a fairer field + Than the Greek or the Trojan ever trod: + For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, + And the light above is the smile of God. + So in his isle of calm delight + Jason may sleep the years away; + For the heroes live, and the skies are bright, + And the world is a braver world to-day. + + _Edna Dean Proctor._ + + * * * * * + + +THE ARSENAL AT SPRINGFIELD. + + This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling, + Like a huge organ, rise the burnished arms; + But from their silent pipes no anthem pealing + Startles the villages with strange alarms. + + Ah! what a sound will rise, how wild and dreary, + When the death-angel touches those swift keys! + What loud lament and dismal Miserere + Will mingle with their awful symphonies! + + I hear even now the infinite fierce chorus,-- + The cries of agony, the endless groan, + Which, through the ages that have gone before us, + In long reverberations reach our own. + + On helm and harness rings the Saxon hammer; + Through Cimbric forest roars the Norseman's song; + And loud, amid the universal clamor, + O'er distant deserts sounds the Tartar gong. + + I hear the Florentine, who from his palace + Wheels out his battle-bell with dreadful din; + And Aztec priests upon their teocallis + Beat the wild war-drums made of serpent's skin; + + The tumult of each sacked and burning village; + The shout that every prayer for mercy drowns; + The soldiers' revels in the midst of pillage; + The wail of famine in beleaguered towns; + + The bursting shell, the gateway wrenched asunder, + The rattling musketry, the clashing blade; + And ever and anon, in tones of thunder, + The diapason of the cannonade. + + Is it, O man, with such discordant noises, + With such accursed instruments as these, + Thou drownest Nature's sweet and kindly voices, + And jarrest the celestial harmonies? + + Were half the power that fills the world with terror, + Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, + Given to redeem the human mind from error, + There were no need of arsenals or forts; + + The warrior's name would be a name abhorréd; + And every nation that should lift again + Its hand against a brother, on its forehead + Would wear forevermore the curse of Cain! + + Down the dark future, through long generations, + The echoing sounds grow fainter and then cease; + And like a bell, with solemn, sweet vibrations, + I hear once more the voice of Christ say, "Peace!" + + Peace!--and no longer from its brazen portals + The blast of war's great organ shakes the skies; + But, beautiful as songs of the immortals, + The holy melodies of love arise. + + _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ + + * * * * * + + +ODE. + + What constitutes a state? + Not high raised battlement or labored mound, + Thick wall or moated gate; + Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned; + Not bays and broad-armed ports, + Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride; + Not starred and spangled courts, + Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to pride. + No: men, high-minded men, + With powers as far above dull brutes endued + In forest, brake, or den, + As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude,-- + Men who their duties know, + But know their rights, and, knowing, dare maintain, + Prevent the long-aimed blow, + And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain; + These constitute a state; + And sovereign law, that state's collected will, + O'er thrones and globes elate, + Sits empress, crowning good, repressing ill. + Smit by her sacred frown, + The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks; + And e'en the all-dazzling crown + Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding shrinks. + Such was this heaven-loved isle, + Than Lesbos fairer and the Cretan shore! + No more shall freedom smile? + Shall Britons languish, and be men no more? + Since all must life resign, + Those sweet rewards which decorate the brave + 'Tis folly to decline, + And steal inglorious to the silent grave. + + _Sir William Jones._ + + * * * * * + + +PHILIP, MY KING. + + "Who bears upon his baby brow the round + And top of sovereignty." + + Look at me with thy large brown eyes, + Philip, my king! + For round thee the purple shadow lies + Of babyhood's royal dignities. + Lay on my neck thy tiny hand + With Love's invisible sceptre laden; + I am thine Esther, to command + Till thou shalt find thy queen-handmaiden, + Philip, my king! + + O, the day when thou goest a-wooing, + Philip, my king! + When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, + And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, + Thou dost enter, love-crowned, and there + Sittest love-glorified!--Rule kindly, + Tenderly over thy kingdom fair; + For we that love, ah! we love so blindly, + Philip, my king! + + Up from thy sweet mouth,--up to thy brow, + Philip, my king! + The spirit that there lies sleeping now + May rise like a giant, and make men bow + As to one Heaven-chosen amongst his peers. + My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer + Let me behold thee in future years! + Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, + Philip, my king;-- + + A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day, + Philip, my king, + Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way + Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray; + Rebels within thee and foes without + Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, glorious, + Martyr, yet monarch; till angels shout, + As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, + "Philip, the king!" + + _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik._ + + * * * * * + + +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 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 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 buttons 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 was never 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 CHILDREN'S HOUR. + + Between the dark and the daylight, + When the night is beginning to lower, + Comes a pause in the day's occupations + That is known as the children's hour, + + I hear in the chamber above me + The patter of little feet, + The sound of a door that is opened, + And voices soft and sweet. + + From my study I see in the lamplight, + Descending the broad hall-stair, + Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, + And Edith with golden hair. + + A whisper, and then a silence; + Yet I know by their merry eyes + They are plotting and planning together + To take me by surprise. + + A sudden rush from the stairway, + A sudden raid from the hall: + By three doors left unguarded + They enter my castle wall. + + They climb up into my turret + O'er the arms and back of my chair; + If I try to escape, they surround me: + They seem to be everywhere. + + They almost devour me with kisses; + Their arms about me entwine, + Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen + In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine. + + Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti! + Because you have scaled the wall, + Such an old mustache as I am + Is not a match for you all? + + I have you fast in my fortress, + And will not let you depart, + But put you down into the dungeon + In the round tower of my heart. + + And there will I keep you forever,-- + Yes, forever and a day, + Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, + And moulder in dust away. + + _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ + + * * * * * + + +MY CHILD. + + I cannot make him dead! + His fair sunshiny head + Is ever bounding round my study chair; + Yet when my eyes, now dim + With tears, I turn to him, + The vision vanishes,--he is not there! + + I walk my parlor floor, + And through the open door + I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; + I'm stepping toward the hall + To give the boy a call; + And then bethink me that--he is not there! + + I thread the crowded street; + A satchelled lad I meet, + With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; + And, as he's running by, + Follow him with my eye, + Scarcely believing that--he is not there! + + I know his face is hid + Under the coffin lid; + Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; + My hand that marble felt; + O'er it in prayer I knelt; + Yet my heart whispers that--he is not there! + + I cannot make him dead! + When passing by the bed, + So long watched over with parental care, + My spirit and my eye + Seek him inquiringly, + Before the thought comes that--he is not there! + + When, at the cool gray break + Of day, from sleep I wake, + With my first breathing of the morning air + My soul goes up, with joy, + To Him who gave my boy; + Then comes the sad thought that--he is not there! + + When at the day's calm close, + Before we seek repose, + I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; + Whate'er I may be saying, + I am in spirit praying + For our boy's spirit, though--he is not there! + + Not there!--Where, then, is he? + The form I used to see + Was but the raiment that he used to wear. + The grave, that now doth press + Upon that cast-off dress, + Is but his wardrobe locked;--he is not there! + + He lives!--In all the past + He lives; nor, to the last, + Of seeing him again will I despair; + In dreams I see him now; + And on his angel brow + I see it written, "Thou shalt see me _there_!" + + Yes, we all live to God! + Father, thy chastening rod + So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, + That in the spirit-land, + Meeting at thy right hand, + 'Twill be our heaven to find that--he is there! + + _John Pierpont._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LAND O' THE LEAL. + + I'm wearin' awa', John, + Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, John, + I'm wearin' awa' + To the land o' the leal. + There's nae sorrow there, John, + There's neither cauld nor care, John, + The day is aye fair + In the land o' the leal. + + Our bonnie bairn's there, John, + She was baith gude and fair, John, + And oh! we grudged her sair + To the land o' the leal. + But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, + And joy's a-comin' fast, John, + The joy that's aye to last + In the land o' the leal. + + Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, + Sae free the battle fought, John, + That sinfu' man e'er brought + To the land o' the leal. + Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John, + My saul langs to be free, John, + And angels beckon me + To the land o' the leal. + + Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, + Your day it's wearin' thro', John, + And I'll welcome you + To the land o' the leal. + Now fare ye weel, my ain John, + This warld's cares are vain, John, + We'll meet, and we'll be fain, + In the land o' the leal. + + _Lady Nairne._ + + * * * * * + + +LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. + + I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, + Where we sat side by side + On a bright May mornin' long ago, + When first you were my bride; + The corn was springin' fresh and green, + And the lark sang loud and high; + And the red was on your lip, Mary, + And the love-light in your eye. + + The place is little changed, Mary; + The day is bright as then; + The lark's loud song is in my ear, + And the corn is green again; + But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, + And your breath, warm on my cheek; + And I still keep list'nin' for the words + You never more will speak. + + 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, + And the little church stands near,-- + The church where we were wed, Mary; + I see the spire from here. + But the graveyard lies between, Mary, + And my step might break your rest,-- + For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, + With your baby on your breast. + + I'm very lonely now, Mary,-- + For the poor make no new friends; + But, oh! they love the better still + The few our Father sends! + And you were all I had, Mary,-- + My blessin' and my pride: + There's nothing left to care for now, + Since my poor Mary died. + + Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, + That still kept hoping on, + When the trust in God had left my soul, + And my arm's young strength was gone; + There was comfort ever on your lip, + And the kind look on your brow,-- + I bless you, Mary, for that same, + Though you cannot hear me now. + + I thank you for the patient smile + When your heart was fit to break,-- + When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there, + And you hid it for my sake; + I bless you for the pleasant word, + When your heart was sad and sore,-- + Oh! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, + Where grief can't reach you more! + + I'm biddin' you a long farewell, + My Mary,--kind and true! + But I'll not forget you, darling, + In the land I'm goin' to; + They say there's bread and work for all, + And the sun shines always there,-- + But I'll not forget old Ireland, + Were it fifty times as fair! + + And often in those grand old woods + I'll sit, and shut my eyes, + And my heart will travel back again + To the place where Mary lies; + And I'll think I see the little stile + Where we sat side by side, + And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, + When first you were my bride. + + _Lady Dufferin._ + + * * * * * + + +THE DEATH-BED. + + We watched her breathing through the night, + Her breathing soft and low, + As in her breast the wave of life + Kept heaving to and fro. + + So silently we seemed to speak, + So slowly moved about, + As we had lent her half our powers + To eke her living out. + + Our very hopes belied our fears, + Our fears our hopes belied,-- + We thought her dying when she slept, + And sleeping when she died. + + For when the morn came, dim and sad, + And chill with early showers, + Her quiet eyelids closed,--she had + Another morn than ours. + + _Thomas Hood._ + + * * * * * + + +EVELYN HOPE. + + Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead,-- + Sit and watch by her side an hour. + That is her book-shelf, this her bed; + She plucked that piece of geranium flower, + Beginning to die, too, in the glass. + Little has yet been changed, I think,-- + The shutters are shut, no light may pass, + Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. + + Sixteen years old when she died! + Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name,-- + It was not her time to love: beside, + Her life had many a hope and aim, + Duties enough and little cares; + And now was quiet, now astir,-- + Till God's hand beckoned unawares, + And the sweet white brow is all of her. + + Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? + What! your soul was pure and true; + The good stars met in your horoscope, + Made you of spirit, fire, and dew,-- + And just because I was thrice as old, + And our paths in the world diverged so wide, + Each was naught to each, must I be told? + We were fellow-mortals,--naught beside? + + No, indeed! for God above + Is great to grant, as mighty to make, + And creates the love to reward the love,-- + I claim you still, for my own love's sake! + Delayed, it may be, for more lives yet, + Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few,-- + Much is to learn and much to forget + Ere the time be come for taking you. + + But the time will come--at last it will-- + When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, + In the lower earth, in the years long still, + That body and soul so pure and gay? + Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, + And your mouth of your own geranium's red,-- + And what you would do with me, in fine, + In the new life come in the old one's stead. + + I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, + Given up myself so many times, + Gained me the gains of various men, + Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; + Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, + Either I missed or itself missed me,-- + And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope! + What is the issue? let us see! + + I loved you, Evelyn, all the while; + My heart seemed full as it could hold,-- + There was space and to spare for the frank young smile, + And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. + So hush,--I will give you this leaf to keep,-- + See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. + There, that is our secret! go to sleep; + You will wake, and remember, and understand. + + _Robert Browning._ + + * * * * * + + +A BRIDAL DIRGE. + + Weave no more the marriage-chain! + All unmated is the lover; + Death has ta'en the place of Pain; + Love doth call on Love in vain: + Life and years of hope are over! + + No more want of marriage-bell! + No more need of bridal favor! + Where is she to wear them well? + You beside the lover tell! + Gone,--with all the love he gave her! + + Paler than the stone she lies; + Colder than the winter's morning! + Wherefore did she thus despise + (She with pity in her eyes) + Mother's care and lover's warning? + + Youth and beauty,--shall they not + Last beyond a brief to-morrow? + No: a prayer, and then forgot! + This the truest lover's lot; + This the sum of human sorrow! + + _Bryan Waller Procter._ + + * * * * * + + +SHE DIED IN BEAUTY. + + She died in beauty,--like a rose + Blown from its parent stem; + She died in beauty,--like a pearl + Dropped from some diadem. + + She died in beauty,--like a lay + Along a moonlit lake; + She died in beauty,--like the song + Of birds amid the brake. + + She died in beauty,--like the snow + On flowers dissolved away; + She died in beauty,--like a star + Lost on the brow of day. + + She lives in glory,--like night's gems + Set round the silver moon; + She lives in glory,--like the sun + Amid the blue of June. + + _Charles Doyne Sillery._ + + * * * * * + + +SHE WAS NOT FAIR, NOR FULL OF GRACE. + + She was not fair, nor full of grace, + Nor crowned with thought or aught beside; + Nor wealth had she, of mind or face, + To win our love or raise our pride; + No lover's thought her cheek did touch; + No poet's dream was round her thrown; + And yet we miss her,--ah, too much, + Now--she hath flown! + + We miss her when the morning calls, + As one that mingled in our mirth; + We miss her when the evening falls,-- + A trifle wanted on the earth! + Some fancy small, or subtile thought, + Is checked ere to its blossom grown; + Some chain is broken that we wrought, + Now--she hath flown! + + No solid good, nor hope defined, + Is marred now she has sunk in night; + And yet the strong immortal Mind + Is stopped in its triumphant flight! + Perhaps some grain lost to its sphere + Might cast the great Sun from his throne; + For all we know is--"She was here," + And--"She hath flown!" + + _Bryan Waller Procter._ + + * * * * * + + +HIGHLAND MARY. + + Ye banks, and braes, and streams around + The castle o' Montgomery, + Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, + Your waters never drumlie! + There simmer first unfald her robes, + And there the langest tarry! + For there I took the last fareweel + O' my sweet Highland Mary. + + How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk! + How rich the hawthorn blossom! + As, underneath their fragrant shade, + I clasped her to my bosom! + The golden hours, on angel wings, + Flew o'er me and my dearie; + For dear to me as light and life + Was my sweet Highland Mary. + + Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace + Our parting was fu' tender; + And pledging aft to meet again, + We tore ourselves asunder; + But oh! fell death's untimely frost, + That nipt my flower sae early! + Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, + That wraps my Highland Mary! + + O pale, pale now, those rosy lips + I aft hae kissed sae fondly! + And closed for aye the sparkling glance + That dwelt on me sae kindly! + And mouldering now in silent dust + That heart that lo'ed me dearly! + But still within my bosom's core + Shall live my Highland Mary. + + _Robert Burns._ + + * * * * * + + +TOO LATE! + +"Douglas, Douglas, tendir and treu." + + Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas, + In the old likeness that I knew, + I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + + Never a scornful word should grieve ye, + I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do,-- + Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + + O to call back the days that are not! + My eyes were blinded, your words were few; + Do you know the truth now up in heaven, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true? + + I never was worthy of you, Douglas, + Not half worthy the like of you; + Now all men beside seem to me like shadows,-- + I love _you_, Douglas, tender and true. + + Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, + Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew, + As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, + Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. + + _Dinah Maria Mulock Craik._ + + * * * * * + + +TOM BOWLING. + + Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, + The darling of our crew; + No more he'll hear the tempest howling,-- + For death has broached him to. + His form was of the manliest beauty; + His heart was kind and soft; + Faithful below, he did his duty; + But now he's gone aloft. + + Tom never from his word departed,-- + His virtues were so rare; + His friends were many and true-hearted; + His Poll was kind and fair. + And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,-- + Ah, many's the time and oft! + But mirth is turned to melancholy, + For Tom is gone aloft. + + Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, + When He, who all commands, + Shall give, to call life's crew together, + The word to pipe all hands. + Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, + In vain Tom's life has doffed; + For, though his body's under hatches, + His soul is gone aloft. + + _Charles Dibdin._ + + * * * * * + + +JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. + + Green be the turf above thee, + Friend of my better days! + None knew thee but to love thee, + Nor named thee but to praise. + + Tears fell, when thou wert dying, + From eyes unused to weep, + And long, where thou art lying, + Will tears the cold turf steep. + + When hearts whose truth was proven, + Like thine, are laid in earth, + There should a wreath be woven + To tell the world their worth; + + And I, who woke each morrow + To clasp thy hand in mine, + Who shared thy joy and sorrow, + Whose weal and woe were thine,-- + + It should be mine to braid it + Around thy faded brow, + But I've in vain essayed it, + And feel I cannot now. + + While memory bids me weep thee, + Nor thoughts nor words are free, + The grief is fixed too deeply + That mourns a man like thee. + + _Fitz-Greene Halleck._ + + * * * * * + + +SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND. + + She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, + And lovers are round her sighing; + But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, + For her heart in his grave is lying! + + She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, + Every note which he loved awaking; + Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, + How the heart of the minstrel is breaking! + + He had lived for his love, for his country he died, + They were all that to life had entwined him; + Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, + Nor long will his love stay behind him. + + Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, + When they promise a glorious morrow; + They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west, + From her own loved island of sorrow! + + _Thomas Moore._ + + * * * * * + + +MINSTREL'S SONG. + + O sing unto my roundelay! + O, drop the briny tear with me! + Dance no more at holiday; + Like a running river be. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + Black his hair as the winter night, + White his neck as the summer snow, + Ruddy his face as the morning light; + Cold he lies in the grave below. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; + Quick in dance as thought can be; + Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; + O, he lies by the willow tree! + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + Hark! the raven flaps his wing + In the briered dell below; + Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing + To the nightmares as they go. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + See! the white moon shines on high; + Whiter is my true-love's shroud, + Whiter than the morning sky, + Whiter than the evening cloud. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + Here, upon my true-love's grave + Shall the barren flowers be laid, + Nor one holy saint to save + All the coldness of a maid. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + With my hands I'll bind the briers + Round his holy corse to gre; + Ouphant fairy, light your fires; + Here my body still shall be. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, + Drain my heart's blood all away; + Life and all its good I scorn, + Dance by night, or feast by day. + My love is dead, + Gone to his death bed, + All under the willow tree. + + Water-witches, crowned with reytes, + Bear me to your lethal tide. + I die! I come! my true-love waits. + Thus the damsel spake, and died. + + _Thomas Chatterton._ + + * * * * * + + +IN MEMORIAM. + + Farewell! since nevermore for thee + The sun comes up our earthly skies, + Less bright henceforth shall sunshine be + To some fond hearts and saddened eyes. + + There are who for thy last long sleep + Shall sleep as sweetly nevermore, + Shall weep because thou canst not weep, + And grieve that all thy griefs are o'er. + + Sad thrift of love! the loving breast, + On which the aching head was thrown, + Gave up the weary head to rest, + But kept the aching for its own. + + _Thomas K. Hervey._ + + * * * * * + + +THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. + + They grew in beauty, side by side, + They filled one home with glee,-- + Their graves are severed far and wide, + By mount, and stream, and sea. + + The same fond mother bent at night + O'er each fair sleeping brow; + She had each folded flower in sight,-- + Where are those dreamers now? + + One, 'midst the forests of the West, + By a dark stream is laid,-- + The Indian knows his place of rest, + Far in the cedar shade. + + The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one; + He lies where pearls lie deep; + He was the loved of all, yet none + O'er his low bed may weep. + + One sleeps where southern vines are dressed + Above the noble slain; + He wrapped his colors round his breast, + On a blood-red field of Spain. + + And one,--o'er her the myrtle showers + Its leaves, by soft winds fanned; + She faded 'midst Italian flowers, + The last of that bright band. + + And parted thus they rest, who played + Beneath the same green tree; + Whose voices mingled as they prayed + Around one parent knee! + + They that with smiles lit up the hall, + And cheered with song the hearth,-- + Alas for love! if _thou_ wert all, + And naught beyond, O earth! + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + * * * * * + + +THE HERMIT. + + At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, + And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, + When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, + And naught but the nightingale's song in the grove, + 'Twas thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, + While his harp rang symphonious, a hermit began; + No more with himself or with nature at war, + He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man: + + "Ah! why, all abandoned to darkness and woe, + Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall? + For spring shall return, and a lover bestow, + And sorrow no longer thy bosom enthrall. + But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay,-- + Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn! + O, soothe him whose pleasures like thine pass away! + Full quickly they pass,--but they never return. + + "Now, gliding remote on the verge of the sky, + The moon, half extinguished, her crescent displays; + But lately I marked when majestic on high + She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. + Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue + The path that conducts thee to splendor again! + But man's faded glory what change shall renew? + Ah, fool! to exult in a glory so vain! + + "'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more. + I mourn,--but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you; + For morn is approaching your charms to restore, + Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew. + Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn,-- + Kind nature the embryo blossom will save; + But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? + O, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave? + + "'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, + That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind, + My thoughts wont to roam from shade onward to shade, + Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. + 'O pity, great Father of light,' then I cried, + 'Thy creature, who fain would not wander from thee! + Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride; + From doubt and from darkness thou only canst free.' + + "And darkness and doubt are now flying away: + No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn. + So breaks on the traveller, faint and astray, + The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. + See truth, love, and mercy in triumph descending, + And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom! + On the cold cheek of death smiles and roses are blending, + And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb." + + _James Beattie._ + + * * * * * + + +O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? + + O why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, + A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, + Man passes from life to his rest in the grave. + + The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, + Be scattered around and together be laid; + And the young and the old, and the low and the high, + Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie. + + The infant a mother attended and loved, + The mother that infant's affection who proved, + The husband that mother and infant who blessed, + Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. + + The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, + Shone beauty and pleasure,--her triumphs are by; + And the memory of those who have loved her and praised, + Are alike from the minds of the living erased. + + The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, + The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, + The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, + Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. + + The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap, + The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep, + The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, + Have faded away like the grass that we tread. + + The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, + The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, + The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, + Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. + + So the multitude goes, like the flower or the weed + That withers away to let others succeed; + So the multitude comes, even those we behold, + To repeat every tale that has often been told. + + For we are the same that our fathers have been; + We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,-- + We drink the same stream, and we view the same sun, + And run the same course that our fathers have run. + + The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; + From the death that we shrink from our fathers would shrink; + To the life that we cling to they also would cling; + But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. + + They loved, but the story we cannot unfold; + They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold; + They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; + They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. + + They died, ay! they died: and we things that are now, + Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow, + Who make in their dwelling a transient abode, + Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. + + Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain, + We mingle together in sunshine and rain; + And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, + Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. + + 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, + From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, + From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-- + O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? + + _William Knox._ + + * * * * * + + +PROGRESS. + + When Liberty lives loud on every lip, + But Freedom moans, + Trampled by nations whose faint footfalls slip + Round bloody thrones; + When, here and there, in dungeon and in thrall, + Or exile pale, + Like torches dying at a funeral, + Brave natures fail; + When Truth, the armed archangel, stretches wide + God's tromp in vain, + And the world, drowsing, turns upon its side + To drowse again;-- + O Man, whose course hath called itself sublime + Since it began, + What art thou in such dying age of time, + As man to man? + + When Love's last wrong hath been forgotten coldly, + As First Love's face; + And, like a rat that comes to wanton boldly + In some lone place, + Once festal, in the realm of light and laughter + Grim Doubt appears, + Whilst weird suggestions from Death's vague Hereafter, + O'er ruined years, + Creep, dark and darker, with new dread to mutter + Through life's long shade, + Yet make no more in the chill breast the flutter + Which once they made: + Whether it be, that all doth at the grave + Round to its term, + That nothing lives in that last darkness, save + The little worm, + Or whether the tired spirit prolong its course + Through realms unseen,-- + Secure, that unknown world cannot be worse + Than this hath been: + Then when thro' Thought's gold chain, so frail and slender, + No link will meet; + When all the broken harps of Language render + No sound that's sweet; + When, like torn books, sad days weigh down each other + I' the dusty shelf;-- + O Man, what art thou, O my friend, my brother, + Even to thyself? + + _Robert Bulwer Lytton._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. + + My mother bore me in the southern wild, + And I am black; but, O, my soul is white! + White as an angel is the English child, + But I am black as if bereaved of light. + + My mother taught me underneath a tree; + And, sitting down before the heat of day, + She took me on her lap, and kisséd me, + And, pointing to the east, began to say:-- + + "Look on the rising sun; there God does live, + And gives his light, and gives his heat away; + And flowers and trees, and beasts and men, receive + Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday. + + "And we are put on earth a little space, + That we may learn to bear the beams of love, + And these black bodies and this sunburnt face + Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. + + "For when our souls have learned the heat to bear, + The clouds will vanish; we shall hear his voice, + Saving: 'Come from the grove, my love and care, + And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.'" + + Thus did my mother say and kisséd me, + And thus I say to little English boy; + When I from black, and he from white cloud free, + And round the tent of God like lambs we joy, + + I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear + To lean in joy upon our Father's knee; + And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair, + And be like him, and he will then love me. + + _William Blake._ + + * * * * * + + +DEATHS FINAL CONQUEST. + + The glories of our birth and state + Are shadows, not substantial things; + There is no armor against fate,-- + Death lays his icy hands on kings; + Sceptre and crown + Must tumble down, + And in the dust be equal made + With the poor crooked scythe and spade. + + Some men with swords may reap the field, + And plant fresh laurels where they kill; + But their strong nerves at last must yield,-- + They tame but one another still; + Early or late + They stoop to fate, + And must give up their murmuring breath, + When they, pale captives, creep to death. + + The garlands wither on your brow,-- + Then boast no more your mighty deeds; + Upon death's purple altar, now, + See where the victor victim bleeds! + All heads must come + To the cold tomb,-- + Only the actions of the just + Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. + + _James Shirley._ + + * * * * * + + +TO AN INDIAN GOLD COIN. + + Slave of the dark and dirty mine, + What vanity has brought thee here? + How can I love to see thee shine + So bright, whom I have bought so dear? + The tent-ropes flapping lone I hear + For twilight converse, arm in arm; + The jackal's shriek bursts on mine ear + When mirth and music wont to charm. + + By Cherical's dark wandering streams, + Where cane-tufts shadow all the wild, + Sweet visions haunt my waking dreams + Of Teviot loved while still a child, + Of castled rocks stupendous piled + By Esk or Eden's classic wave, + Where loves of youth and friendship smiled, + Uncursed by thee, vile yellow slave! + + Fade, day-dreams sweet, from memory fade! + The perished bliss of youth's first prime, + That once so bright on fancy played, + Revives no more in after-time. + Far from my sacred natal clime, + I haste to an untimely grave; + The daring thoughts that soared sublime + Are sunk in ocean's southern wave. + + Slave of the mine, thy yellow light + Gleams baleful as the tomb-fire drear. + A gentle vision comes by night + My lonely widowed heart to cheer: + Her eyes are dim with many a tear, + That once were guiding stars to mine: + Her fond heart throbs with many a fear! + I cannot bear to see thee shine. + + For thee, for thee, vile yellow slave, + I left a heart that loved me true! + I crossed the tedious ocean-wave, + To roam in climes unkind and new. + The cold wind of the stranger blew + Chill on my withered heart; the grave + Dark and untimely met my view,-- + And all for thee, vile yellow slave! + + Ha! com'st thou now so late to mock + A wanderer's banished heart forlorn, + Now that his frame the lightning shock + Of sun-rays tipped with death has borne? + From love, from friendship, country, torn, + To memory's fond regrets the prey, + Vile slave, thy yellow dross I scorn! + Go mix thee with thy kindred clay! + + _John Leyden._ + + * * * * * + + +GOING HOME. + + Drawn by horses with decorous feet, + A carriage for one went through the street, + Polished as anthracite out of the mine, + Tossing its plumes so stately and fine, + As nods to the night a Norway pine. + + The passenger lay in Parian rest, + As if, by the sculptor's hand caressed, + A mortal life through the marble stole, + And then till an angel calls the roll + It waits awhile for a human soul. + + He rode in state, but his carriage-fare + Was left unpaid to his only heir; + Hardly a man, from hovel to throne, + Takes to this route in coach of his own, + But borrows at last and travels alone. + + The driver sat in his silent seat; + The world, as still as a field of wheat, + Gave all the road to the speechless twain, + And thought the passenger never again + Should travel that way with living men. + + Not a robin held its little breath, + But sang right on in the face of death; + You never would dream, to see the sky + Give glance for glance to the violet's eye, + That aught between them could ever die. + + A wain bound east met the hearse bound west, + Halted a moment, and passed abreast; + And I verily think a stranger pair + Have never met on a thoroughfare, + Or a dim by-road, or anywhere: + + The hearse as slim and glossy and still + As silken thread at a woman's will, + Who watches her work with tears unshed, + Broiders a grief with needle and thread, + Mourns in pansies and cypress the dead; + + Spotless the steeds in a satin dress, + That run for two worlds the Lord's Express,-- + Long as the route of Arcturus's ray, + Brief as the Publican's trying to pray, + No other steeds by no other way + Could go so far in a single day. + + From wagon broad and heavy and rude + A group looking out from a single hood; + Striped with the flirt of a heedless lash, + Dappled and dimmed with many a splash, + "Gathered" behind like an old calash. + + It made you think of a schooner's sail + Mildewed with weather, tattered by gale, + Down "by the run" from mizzen and main,-- + That canvas mapped with stipple and stain + Of Western earth and the prairie rain. + + The watch-dog walked in his ribs between + The hinder wheels, with sleepy mien; + A dangling pail to the axle slung; + Astern of the wain a manger hung,-- + A schooner's boat by the davits swung. + + The white-faced boys sat three in a row, + With eyes of wonder and heads of tow; + Father looked sadly over his brood; + Mother just lifted a flap of the hood; + All saw the hearse,--and two understood. + + They thought of the one-eyed cabin small, + Hid like a nest in the grasses tall, + Where plains swept boldly off in the air, + Grooved into heaven everywhere,-- + So near the stars' invisible stair + + That planets and prairie almost met,-- + Just cleared its edges as they set! + They thought of the level world's "divide," + And their hearts flowed down its other side + To the grave of the little girl that died. + + They thought of childhood's neighborly hills, + With sunshine aprons and ribbons of rills, + That drew so near when the day went down, + Put on a crimson and golden crown, + And sat together in mantles brown; + + The Dawn's red plume in their winter caps, + And Night asleep in their drowsy laps, + Lightening the load of the shouldered wood + By shedding the shadows as they could, + That gathered round where the homestead stood. + + They thought,--that pair in the rugged wain, + Thinking with bosom rather than brain; + They'll never know till their dying day + That what they thought and never could say, + Their hearts throbbed out in an Alpine lay, + The old Waldensian song again; + Thank God for the mountains, and amen! + + The wain gave a lurch, the hearse moved on,-- + A moment or two, and both were gone; + The wain bound east, the hearse bound west, + Both going home, both looking for rest. + The Lord save all, and his name be blest! + + _Benjamin F. Taylor._ + + * * * * * + + +MAN'S MORTALITY. + + Like as the damask rose you see, + Or like the blossoms on the tree, + Or like the dainty flower of May, + Or like the morning of the day, + Or like the sun, or like the shade, + Or like the gourd which Jonas had; + Even such is man, whose thread is spun, + Drawn out and cut, and so is done. + The rose withers, the blossom blasteth, + The flower fades, the morning hasteth, + The sun sets, the shadow flies, + The gourd consumes, and man,--he dies! + + Like to the grass that's newly sprung, + Or like a tale that's new begun, + Or like the bird that's here to-day, + Or like the pearléd dew of May, + Or like an hour, or like a span, + Or like the singing of a swan; + Even such is man, who lives by breath, + Is here, now there, in life and death. + The grass withers, the tale is ended, + The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended, + The hour is short, the span not long, + The swan near death,--man's life is done! + + Like to a bubble in the brook, + Or in a glass much like a look, + Or like a shuttle in a weaver's hand, + Or like the writing on the sand, + Or like a thought, or like a dream, + Or like the gliding of a stream; + Even such is man, who lives by breath, + Is here, now there, in life and death. + The bubble 's out, the look 's forgot, + The shuttle 's flung, the writing 's blot, + The thought is past, the dream is gone, + The water glides,--man's life is done! + + Like to a blaze of fond delight, + Or like a morning clear and bright, + Or like a frost, or like a shower, + Or like the pride of Babel's tower, + Or like the hour that guides the time, + Or like to Beauty in her prime; + Even such is man, whose glory lends + That life a blaze or two, and ends. + The morn 's o'ercast, joy turned to pain, + The frost is thawed, dried up the rain, + The tower falls, the hour is run, + The beauty lost,--man's life is done! + + Like to an arrow from the bow, + Or like swift course of waterflow, + Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb, + Or like the spider's tender web, + Or like a race, or like a goal, + Or like the dealing of a dole; + Even such is man, whose brittle state + Is always subject unto Fate. + The arrow 's shot, the flood soon spent, + The time 's no time, the web soon rent, + The race soon run, the goal soon won, + The dole soon dealt,--man's life is done! + + Like to the lightning from the sky, + Or like a post that quick doth hie, + Or like a quaver in a short song, + Or like a journey three days long, + Or like the snow when summer 's come, + Or like the pear, or like the plum; + Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow, + Lives but this day, and dies to-morrow. + The lightning 's past, the post must go, + The song is short, the journey's so, + The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall, + The snow dissolves,--and so must all! + + _Simon Wastel._ + + * * * * * + + +LIFE. + + Like to the falling of a star, + Or as the flights of eagles are, + Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue, + Or silver drops of morning dew, + Or like a wind that chafes the flood, + Or bubbles which on water stood; + Even such is man, whose borrowed light + Is straight called in, and paid to-night. + The wind blows out, the bubble dies, + The spring entombed in autumn lies, + The dew dries up, the star is shot, + The flight is past,--and man forgot! + + _Henry King._ + + * * * * * + + +A LAMENT. + + O World! O Life! O Time! + On whose last steps I climb, + Trembling at that where I had stood before; + When will return the glory of your prime? + No more,--O nevermore! + + Out of the day and night + A joy has taken flight: + Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar + Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight + No more,--O nevermore! + + _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ + + * * * * * + + +LIFE. + + Life! I know not what thou art, + But know that thou and I must part; + And when, or how, or where we met, + I own to me's a secret yet. + + Life! we've been long together, + Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; + 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, + Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear; + Then steal away, give little warning, + Choose thine own time, + Say not Good Night,--but in some brighter clime + Bid me Good Morning. + + _Anna Lćtitia Barbauld._ + + * * * * * + + +TITHONUS. + + The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, + The vapors weep their burden to the ground, + Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, + And after many a summer dies the swan. + Me only cruel immortality + Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, + Here at the quiet limit of the world, + A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream + The ever-silent spaces of the east, + Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. + + Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man,-- + So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, + Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed + To his great heart none other than a god! + I asked thee, "Give me immortality." + Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, + Like wealthy men who care not how they give. + But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, + And beat me down and marred and wasted me, + And though they could not end me, left me maimed + To dwell in presence of immortal youth, + Immortal age beside immortal youth, + And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love, + Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, + Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, + Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears + To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift: + Why should a man desire in any way + To vary from the kindly race of men, + Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance + Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? + + A soft air fans the cloud apart: there comes + A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. + Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals + From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, + And bosom beating with a heart renewed. + Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, + Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, + Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team + Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, + And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, + And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. + + Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful + In silence, then before thine answer given + Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. + + Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, + And make me tremble lest a saying learnt + In days far-off, on that dark earth, be true? + "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." + + Ay me! ay me! with what another heart + In days far-off, and with what other eyes + I used to watch--if I be he that watched-- + The lucid outline forming round thee; saw + The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; + Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood + Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all + Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, + Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm + With kisses balmier than half-opening buds + Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed + Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, + Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, + While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. + + Yet hold me not forever in thine East: + How can my nature longer mix with thine? + Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold + Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet + Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam + Floats up from those dim fields about the homes + Of happy men that have the power to die, + And grassy barrows of the happier dead. + Release me, and restore me to the ground: + Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave; + Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn; + I earth in earth forget these empty courts, + And thee returning on thy silver wheels. + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS. + +(From the Irish.) + + O woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let yourtongue thus rattle! + O don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle! + I've seen--and here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-- + A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you. + + Good luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser; + For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser, + And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows; + Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good Woman of Three Cows! + + See where Mononia's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants,-- + 'Tis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants! + If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows, + Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows? + + The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning; + Movrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning. + Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house? + Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows! + + O think of Donnell of the Ships, the chief whom nothing daunted,-- + See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted! + He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse; + Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows? + + O'Ruark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in + story,-- + Think how their high achievements once made Erin's greatest glory! + Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs, + And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows! + + The O'Carrolls also, famed when fame was only for the boldest, + Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erin's best and oldest; + Yet who so great as they of yore, in battle or carouse? + Just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows! + + Your neighbor's poor, and you it seems are big with vain ideas, + Because, forsooth, you've got three cows,--one more, I see, than + she has; + That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows, + But if you're strong be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows! + + Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful + bearing, + And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, + If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, + I'd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows! + + _James Clarence Mangan._ + + * * * * * + + +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._ + + * * * * * + + +ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. + + Thou still unravished bride of quietness! + Thou foster-child of silence and slow time! + Sylvan historian, who canst thus express + A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme! + What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape + Of deities or mortals, or of both, + In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? + What men or gods are these? What maidens loath? + What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? + What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? + + Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard + Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,-- + Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared, + Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone! + Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave + Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; + Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss, + Though winning near the goal; yet do not grieve,-- + She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss; + Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair! + + Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed + Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu: + And happy melodist, unweariéd, + Forever piping songs forever new; + More happy love! more happy, happy love! + Forever warm and still to be enjoyed, + Forever panting, and forever young; + All breathing human passion far above, + That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, + A burning forehead and a parching tongue. + + Who are these coming to the sacrifice? + To what green altar, O mysterious priest, + Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, + And all her silken flanks with garlands dressed? + What little town by river or sea-shore, + Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, + Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? + Ah, little town, thy streets forevermore + Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell + Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. + + O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede + Of marble men and maidens overwrought, + With forest branches and the trodden weed! + Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought, + As doth eternity. Cold pastoral! + When old age shall this generation waste, + Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe + Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st + "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,"--that is all + Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. + + _John Keats._ + + * * * * * + + +LINES ON A SKELETON. + + Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull + Once of ethereal spirit full + This narrow cell was Life's retreat, + This space was Thought's mysterious seat. + What beauteous visions filled this spot, + What dreams of pleasure long forgot, + Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear, + Have left one trace of record here. + + Beneath this mouldering canopy + Once shone the bright and busy eye, + But start not at the dismal void,-- + If social love that eye employed, + If with no lawless fire it gleamed, + But through the dews of kindness beamed, + That eye shall be forever bright + When stars and sun are sunk in night. + + Within this hollow cavern hung + The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue; + If Falsehood's honey it disdained, + And when it could not praise was chained; + If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke, + Yet gentle concord never broke,-- + This silent tongue shall plead for thee + When Time unveils Eternity! + + Say, did these fingers delve the mine? + Or with the envied rubies shine? + To hew the rock or wear a gem + Can little now avail to them. + But if the page of Truth they sought, + Or comfort to the mourner brought, + These hands a richer meed shall claim + Than all that wait on Wealth and Fame. + + Avails it whether bare or shod + These feet the paths of duty trod? + If from the bowers of Ease they fled, + To seek Affliction's humble shed; + If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned, + And home to Virtue's cot returned,-- + These feet with angel wings shall vie, + And tread the palace of the sky! + + _Anonymous._ + + * * * * * + + +VIRTUE. + + Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, + The bridal of the earth and sky, + Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, + For thou must die. + + Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, + Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, + Thy root is ever in its grave, + And thou must die. + + Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, + A box where sweets compacted lie, + My music shows you have your closes, + And all must die. + + Only a sweet and virtuous soul, + Like seasoned timber, never gives; + But when the whole world turns to coal, + Then chiefly lives. + + _George Herbert._ + + * * * * * + + +THE LIE. + + Go, Soul, the body's guest, + Upon a thankless errand; + Fear not to touch the best; + The truth shall be thy warrant: + Go, since I needs must die, + And give them all the lie. + + Go tell the Court it glows + And shines like rotten wood; + Go tell the Church it shows + What's good, but does no good: + If Court and Church reply, + Give Court and Church the lie. + + Tell Potentates they live + Acting, but oh! their actions; + Not loved, unless they give, + Nor strong but by their factions: + If Potentates reply, + Give Potentates the lie. + + Tell men of high condition, + That rule affairs of state, + Their purpose is ambition; + Their practice only hate: + And if they do reply, + Then give them all the lie. + + Tell those that brave it most + They beg for more by spending, + Who in their greatest cost + Seek nothing but commending: + And if they make reply, + Spare not to give the lie. + + Tell Zeal it lacks devotion; + Tell Love it is but lust; + Tell Time it is but motion; + Tell Flesh it is but dust: + And wish them not reply, + For thou must give the lie. + + Tell Age it daily wasteth; + Tell Honor how it alters; + Tell Beauty that it blasteth; + Tell Favor that she falters: + And as they do reply, + Give every one the lie. + + Tell Wit how much it wrangles + In fickle points of niceness; + Tell Wisdom she entangles + Herself in over-wiseness: + And if they do reply, + Then give them both the lie. + + Tell Physic of her boldness; + Tell Skill it is pretension; + Tell Charity of coldness; + Tell Law it is contention: + And if they yield reply, + Then give them all the lie. + + Tell Fortune of her blindness; + Tell Nature of decay; + Tell Friendship of unkindness; + Tell Justice of delay: + And if they do reply, + Then give them still the lie. + + Tell Arts they have no soundness, + But vary by esteeming; + Tell Schools they lack profoundness, + And stand too much on seeming: + If Arts and Schools reply, + Give Arts and Schools the lie. + + Tell Faith it's fled the city; + Tell how the country erreth; + Tell, Manhood shakes off pity; + Tell, Virtue least preferreth: + And if they do reply, + Spare not to give the lie. + + So when thou hast, as I + Commanded thee, done blabbing; + Although to give the lie + Deserves no less than stabbing: + Yet stab at thee who will, + No stab the Soul can kill! + + _Sir Walter Raleigh._ + + * * * * * + + +TWO WOMEN. + + The shadows lay along Broadway, + 'Twas near the twilight-tide, + And slowly there a lady fair + Was walking in her pride. + Alone walked she; but, viewlessly, + Walked spirits at her side. + + Peace charmed the street beneath her feet, + And Honor charmed the air; + And all astir looked kind on her, + And called her good as fair,-- + For all God ever gave to her + She kept with chary care. + + She kept with care her beauties rare + From lovers warm and true, + For her heart was cold to all but gold, + And the rich came not to woo,-- + But honored well are charms to sell, + If priests the selling do. + + Now walking there was one more fair,-- + A slight girl, lily-pale; + And she had unseen company + To make the spirit quail,-- + 'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, + And nothing could avail. + + No mercy now can clear her brow + For this world's peace to pray; + For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, + Her woman's heart gave way!-- + But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven + By man is cursed alway! + + _Nathaniel Parker Willis._ + + * * * * * + + +THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. + + Tread softly,--bow the head,-- + In reverent silence bow,-- + No passing-bell doth toll, + Yet an immortal soul + Is passing now. + + Stranger, however great, + With lowly reverence bow; + There's one in that poor shed-- + One by that paltry bed-- + Greater than thou. + + Beneath that beggar's roof, + Lo! Death doth keep his state. + Enter, no crowds attend; + Enter, no guards defend + _This_ palace gate. + + That pavement, damp and cold, + No smiling courtiers tread; + One silent woman stands, + Lifting with meagre hands + A dying head. + + No mingling voices sound,-- + An infant wail alone; + A sob suppressed,--again + That short deep gasp, and then-- + The parting groan. + + O change! O wondrous change! + Burst are the prison bars,-- + This moment _there_ so low, + So agonized, and now + Beyond the stars. + + O change! stupendous change! + There lies the soulless clod; + The sun eternal breaks, + The new immortal wakes,-- + Wakes with his God. + + _Caroline Bowles Southey._ + + * * * * * + + +ON A PICTURE OF PEEL CASTLE IN A STORM. + + I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile! + Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: + I saw thee every day; and all the while + Thy form was sleeping on a glassy sea. + + So pure the sky, so quiet was the air, + So like, so very like was day to day, + Whene'er I looked, thy image still was there; + It trembled, but it never passed away. + + How perfect was the calm! It seemed no sleep, + No mood which season takes away or brings: + I could have fancied that the mighty deep + Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. + + Ah! then if mine had been the painter's hand + To express what then I saw, and add the gleam, + The light that never was on sea or land, + The consecration and the poet's dream,-- + + I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, + Amid a world how different from this! + Beside a sea that could not cease to smile, + On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. + + A picture had it been of lasting ease, + Elysian quiet without toil or strife; + No motion but the moving tide, a breeze, + Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. + + Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, + Such picture would I at that time have made, + And seen the soul of truth in every part, + A steadfast peace that might not be betrayed. + + So once it would have been,--'tis so no more. + I have submitted to a new control; + A power has gone which nothing can restore, + A deep distress hath humanized my soul. + + Not for a moment could I now behold + A smiling sea, and be what I have been; + The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; + This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. + + Then, Beaumont, friend, who would have been the friend, + If he had lived, of him whom I deplore, + This work of thine I blame not, but commend, + This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. + + O, 'tis a passionate work! yet wise and well, + Well chosen is the spirit that is here; + That hulk which labors in the deadly swell, + This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear. + + And this huge castle, standing here sublime, + I love to see the look with which it braves, + Cased in the unfeeling armor of old time, + The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. + + Farewell, farewell, the heart that lives alone, + Housed in a dream at distance from the kind! + Such happiness, wherever it be known, + Is to be pitied, for 'tis surely blind. + + But welcome, fortitude and patient cheer, + And frequent sights of what is to be borne, + Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: + Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. + + _William Wordsworth._ + + * * * * * + + +THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. + + What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? + Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main!-- + Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-colored shells, + Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain!-- + Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea! + We ask not such from thee. + + Yet more, the depths have more!--what wealth untold, + Far down and shining through their stillness lies! + Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, + Won from ten thousand royal argosies!-- + Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main! + Earth claims not these again. + + Yet more, the depths have more!--thy waves have rolled + Above the cities of a world gone by! + Sand hath filled up the palaces of old, + Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry.-- + Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play! + Man yields them to decay. + + Yet more, the billows and the depths have more! + High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast! + They hear not now the booming waters roar, + The battle-thunders will not break their rest.-- + Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave! + Give back the true and brave! + + Give back the lost and lovely!--those for whom + The place was kept at board and hearth so long, + The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, + And the vain yearning woke midst festal song! + Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown,-- + But all is not thine own. + + To thee the love of woman hath gone down, + Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, + O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown; + Yet must thou hear a voice,--Restore the dead! + Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee!-- + Restore the dead, thou sea! + + _Felicia Hemans._ + + * * * * * + + +THE CLOUD. + + A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, + A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow; + Long had I watched the glory moving on, + O'er the still radiance of the lake below: + Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, + E'en in its very motion there was rest, + While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, + Wafted the traveller to the beauteous west. + Emblem, methought, of the departed soul, + To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, + And by the breath of mercy made to roll + Right onward to the golden gates of heaven, + While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, + And tells to man his glorious destinies. + + _John Wilson._ + + * * * * * + + +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 purple 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 wreathéd 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._ + + * * * * * + + +ST. AGNES. + + Deep on the convent-roof the snows + Are sparkling to the moon: + My breath to heaven like vapor goes: + May my soul follow soon! + The shadows of the convent-towers + Slant down the snowy sward, + Still creeping with the creeping hours + That lead me to my Lord: + Make Thou my spirit pure and clear + As are the frosty skies, + Or this first snowdrop of the year + That in my bosom lies. + + As these white robes are soiled and dark, + To yonder shining ground; + As this pale taper's earthly spark, + To yonder argent round; + So shows my soul before the Lamb, + My spirit before Thee; + So in mine earthly house I am, + To that I hope to be. + Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, + Through all yon starlight keen, + Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, + In raiment white and clean. + + He lifts me to the golden doors; + The flashes come and go; + All heaven bursts her starry floors, + And strews her lights below, + And deepens on and up! the gates + Roll back, and far within + For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, + To make me pure of sin. + The sabbaths of Eternity, + One sabbath deep and wide,-- + A light upon the shining sea,-- + The Bridegroom with his bride! + + _Alfred Tennyson._ + + * * * * * + + +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, + Fallen 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! + + O, 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 forever! + 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 Domett._ + + * * * * * + + +MY SLAIN. + + This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee, + This amber-haired, four-summered little maid, + With her unconscious beauty troubleth me, + With her low prattle maketh me afraid. + Ah, darling! when you cling and nestle so + You hurt me, though you do not see me cry, + Nor hear the weariness with which I sigh, + For the dear babe I killed so long ago. + I tremble at the touch of your caress; + I am not worthy of your innocent faith; + I who with whetted knives of worldliness + Did put my own child-heartedness to death, + Beside whose grave I pace forevermore, + Like desolation on a shipwrecked shore. + + There is no little child within me now, + To sing back to the thrushes, to leap up + When June winds kiss me, when an apple bough + Laughs into blossoms, or a buttercup + Plays with the sunshine, or a violet + Dances in the glad dew. Alas! alas! + The meaning of the daisies in the grass + I have forgotten; and if my cheeks are wet + It is not with the blitheness of the child, + But with the bitter sorrow of sad years. + O moaning life, with life irreconciled; + O backward-looking thought, O pain, O tears, + For us there is not any silver sound + Of rhythmic wonders springing from the ground. + + Woe worth the knowledge and the bookish lore + Which makes men mummies, weighs out every grain + Of that which was miraculous before, + And sneers the heart down with the scoffing brain. + Woe worth the peering, analytic days + That dry the tender juices in the breast, + And put the thunders of the Lord to test, + So that no marvel must be, and no praise, + Nor any God except Necessity. + What can ye give my poor, starved life in lieu + Of this dead cherub which I slew for ye? + Take back your doubtful wisdom, and renew + My early foolish freshness of the dunce, + Whose simple instincts guessed the heavens at once. + + _Richard Realf._ + + * * * * * + + +THE UNDISCOVERED COUNTRY. + + Could we but know + The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel, + Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,-- + Ah, if beyond the spirit's inmost cavil + Aught of that country could we surely know, + Who would not go? + + Might we but hear + The hovering angels' high imagined chorus, + Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear, + One radiant vista of the realm before us,-- + With one rapt moment given to see and hear, + Ah, who would fear? + + Were we quite sure + To find the peerless friend who left us lonely, + Or there, by some celestial stream as pure, + To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,-- + This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure, + Who would endure? + + _Edmund Clarence Stedman._ + + * * * * * + + +MY PSALM. + + I mourn no more my vanished years; + Beneath a tender rain, + An April rain of smiles and tears, + My heart is young again. + + The west-winds blow, and, singing low, + I hear the glad streams run: + The windows of my soul I throw + Wide open to the sun. + + No longer forward nor behind + I look in hope and fear; + But grateful take the good I find, + The best of now and here. + + I plough no more a desert land, + To harvest weed and tare; + The manna dropping from God's hand + Rebukes my painful care. + + I break my pilgrim-staff, I lay + Aside the toiling oar; + The angel sought so far away + I welcome at my door. + + The airs of spring may never play + Among the ripening corn, + Nor freshness of the flowers of May + Blow through the autumn morn; + + Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look + Through fringéd lids to heaven; + And the pale aster in the brook + Shall see its image given; + + The woods shall wear their robes of praise, + The south-wind softly sigh, + And sweet calm days in golden haze + Melt down the amber sky. + + Not less shall manly deed and word + Rebuke an age of wrong: + The graven flowers that wreathe the sword + Make not the blade less strong. + + But smiting hands shall learn to heal, + To build as to destroy; + Nor less my heart for others feel, + That I the more enjoy. + + All as God wills, who wisely heeds + To give or to withhold, + And knoweth more of all my needs + Than all my prayers have told! + + Enough that blessings undeserved + Have marked my erring track; + That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved + His chastening turned me back; + + That more and more a Providence + Of love is understood, + Making the springs of time and sense, + Sweet with eternal good; + + That death seems but a covered way + Which opens into light, + Wherein no blinded child can stray + Beyond the Father's sight; + + That care and trial seem at last, + Through Memory's sunset air, + Like mountain ranges overpast, + In purple distance fair; + + That all the jarring notes of life + Seem blending in a psalm, + And all the angles of its strife + Slow rounding into calm. + + And so the shadows fell apart, + And so the west-winds play; + And all the windows of my heart + I open to the day. + + _John Greenleaf Whittier._ + + * * * * * + + +ENTICED. + + I. + + With what clear guile of gracious love enticed, + I follow forward, as from room to room, + Through doors that open into light from gloom, + To find, and lose, and find again the Christ! + + He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door; + Without he stands, and asks to enter in: + Why should he seek a shelter sad with sin? + Will he but knock and ask, and nothing more? + + He knows what ways I take to shut my heart, + And if he will he can himself undo + My foolish fastenings, or by force break through, + Nor wait till I fulfil my needless part. + + But nay, he will not choose to enter so,-- + He will not be my guest without consent, + Nor, though I say "Come in," is he content; + I must arise and ope, or he will go. + + He shall not go; I do arise and ope,-- + "Come in, dear Lord, come in and sup with me, + O blesséd guest, and let me sup with thee,"-- + Where is the door? for in this dark I grope, + + And cannot find it soon enough; my hand, + Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need, + And trembles, shaken with its eager heed; + No other key will answer my demand. + + The door between is some command undone; + Obedience is the key that slides the bar, + And lets him in, who stands so near, so far; + The doors are many, but the key is one. + + Which door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know; + Hark, heart, he answers with his hand and voice,-- + O, still small sign, I tremble and rejoice, + Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go. + + Full lief and soon this door would open too, + If once my key might find the narrow slit + Which, being so narrow, is so hard to hit,-- + But lo! one little ray that glimmers through, + + Not spreading light, but lighting to the light,-- + Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow, + One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure, so,-- + How small, how great, the change from dark to bright! + + II. + + Now he is here, I seem no longer here! + This place of light is not my chamber dim, + It is not he with me, but I with him, + And host, not guest, he breaks the bread of cheer. + + I was borne onward at his greeting,--he + Earthward had come, but heavenward I had gone; + Drawing him hither, I was thither drawn, + Scarce welcoming him to hear him welcome me! + + I lie upon the bosom of my Lord, + And feel his heart, and time my heart thereby; + The tune so sweet, I have no need to try, + But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord. + + A little while I lie upon his heart, + Feasting on love, and loving there to feast, + And then, once more, the shadows are increased + Around me, and I feel my Lord depart. + + Again alone, but in a farther place + I sit with darkness, waiting for a sign; + Again I hear the same sweet plea divine, + And suit, outside, of hospitable grace. + + This is his guile,--he makes me act the host + To shelter him, and lo! he shelters me; + Asking for alms, he summons me to be + A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost. + + So, on and on, through many an opening door + That gladly opens to the key I bring, + From brightening court to court of Christ, my King, + Hope-led, love-fed, I journey evermore. + + At last I trust these changing scenes will cease; + There is a court, I hear, where he abides; + No door beyond, that further glory hides.-- + My host at home, all change is changed to peace. + + _William C. Wilkinson._ + + * * * * * + + +WEARINESS. + + O little feet! that such long years + Must wander on through hopes and fears, + Must ache and bleed beneath your load; + I, nearer to the wayside Inn, + Where toil shall cease and rest begin, + Am weary, thinking of your road! + + O little hands! that weak or strong + Have still to serve or rule so long, + Have still so long to give or ask; + I, who so much with book and pen + Have toiled among my fellow-men, + Am weary, thinking of your task. + + O little hearts! that throb and beat + With such impatient feverish heat, + Such limitless and strong desires; + Mine that so long has glowed and burned, + With passions into ashes turned, + Now covers and conceals its fires. + + O little souls! as pure and white + And crystalline as rays of light + Direct from heaven, their source divine; + Refracted through the mist of years, + How red my setting sun appears, + How lurid looks this soul of mine! + + _Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._ + + * * * * * + + +TOUJOURS AMOUR. + + Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin, + At what age does love begin? + Your blue eyes have scarcely seen + Summers three, my fairy queen, + But a miracle of sweets, + Soft approaches, sly retreats, + Show the little archer there, + Hidden in your pretty hair; + When didst learn a heart to win? + Prithee tell me, Dimple Chin! + "Oh!" the rosy lips reply, + "I can't tell you if I try. + 'Tis so long I can't remember: + Ask some younger lass than I." + + Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face, + Do your heart and head keep pace? + When does hoary Love expire, + When do frosts put out the fire? + Can its embers burn below + All that chill December snow? + Care you still soft hands to press, + Bonny heads to smooth and bless? + When does Love give up the chase? + Tell, O tell me, Grizzled-Face! + "Ah!" the wise old lips reply, + "Youth may pass and strength may die; + But of Love I can't foretoken: + Ask some older sage than I!" + + _Edmund Clarence Stedman._ + + * * * * * + + +THE VOICELESS. + + We count the broken lyres that rest + Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, + But o'er their silent sister's breast + The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? + A few can touch the magic string, + And noisy Fame is proud to win them; + Alas for those who never sing, + But die with all their music in them! + + Nay, grieve not for the dead alone + Whose song has told their hearts' sad story; + Weep for the voiceless, who have known + The cross without the crown of glory! + Not where Leucadian breezes sweep + O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, + But where the glistening night-dews weep + O'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. + + O hearts that break and give no sign + Save whitening lip and fading tresses, + Till Death pours out his cordial wine, + Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- + If singing breath or echoing chord + To every hidden pang were given, + What endless melodies were poured, + As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! + + _Oliver Wendell Holmes._ + + * * * * * + + +EPILOGUE. + + + 'Tis pleasant business making books, + When other people furnish brains; + Like finding them in running brooks,-- + The pleasure, minus all the pains! + They tell us Wordsworth once declared + That he could, if he had the mind, + Write plays like those of Avon's bard; + Whereat the stammering Lamb rejoined, + "S-s-s-s-s-so you see, + That all he wanted was the mind!" + O gentle Wordsworth, to deride + Thy simple speech I'm not inclined; + For these good friends, and thou beside, + Have freely lent me of their mind. + I've Shakespeare's point, and Burns's fire, + And Bulwer's own gentility, + And Elia's meekness, yet aspire + To Pope's infallibility. + I've made myself at home with Holmes; + I'm in two Taylors' garments dressed; + Campbell has told his rhymes for me, + And Shelley shelled out like the rest, + And Hood put on his thinking-cap, + And Goldsmith beaten out his best. + I've pilfered Alfred's laureate strains, + And boldly counted Henry's chickens, + And drained Harte's blood from his best veins, + And stol'n from Dickens like the dickens; + Of Hogg I have not gone the whole, + But of three Proctors tithes demanded, + And from a Miller taken toll, + And plucked a Reade, to do as Pan did. + I've beaten Beattie like a tree + That sheds its fruit for every knocker, + Nor let Sir Walter go Scott free, + And filched a shot from Frederick's Locker. + The ladies, too--God bless them all!-- + What pieces of their minds I've taken! + It would Achilles' self appall, + If hiding here to save his bacon. + By Hawthorne's genius hedged about, + And deep in Browning's brownest study, + This is the sure retreat, no doubt, + From critics' favors, fair or muddy. + Ah, How it Reads, How well it looks!-- + What one May call a death to pains!-- + This pleasant way of making books, + With clever folks to furnish brains! + + NEW YORK, July, 1875. + + * * * * * + + + + +INDEX OF FIRST LINES. + + + A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun 213 + Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! 52 + Ah! Jeane, my maid, I stood to you 20 + Ah! my heart is weary waiting 91 + All houses wherein men have lived and died 73 + As an unperfect actor on the stage 50 + As ships becalmed at eve, that lay 69 + A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed 132 + As upland fields were sunburnt brown 43 + At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still 175 + Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead 161 + Before I trust my fate to thee 46 + Behold this ruin! 'Twas a skull 201 + Between the dark and the daylight 152 + Bird of the wilderness 104 + Break, break, break 53 + By the waters of Life we sat together 84 + Close his eyes; his work is done! 134 + Come, all ye jolly shepherds 30 + Come in the evening, or come in the morning 35 + Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer 46 + Could we but know 220 + Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas 167 + Deep on the convent-roof the snows 215 + Drawn by horses with decorous feet 185 + Eyes which can but ill define 88 + Farewell! since nevermore for thee 173 + Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea 112 + From Stirling castle we had seen 93 + "Give us a song!" the soldiers cried 130 + God makes sech nights, all white an' still 26 + Go, Soul, the body's guest 204 + Green be the turf above thee 169 + Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 106 + He clasps the crag with hookéd hands 105 + He is gone on the mountain 133 + Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 168 + He wiled me through the furzy croft 59 + Ho! pretty page with the dimpled chin 115 + Ho, sailor of the sea! 150 + How sleep the brave who sink to rest 139 + I arise from dreams of thee 42 + I cannot make him dead! 154 + I fill this cup to one made up 21 + I have had playmates, I have had companions 66 + I heard the trailing garments of the night 103 + I mourn no more my vanished years 221 + I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary 158 + I'm wearin' awa', John 156 + In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 16 + I remember, I remember 72 + I saw her once,--so freshly fair 67 + I saw him once before 117 + It was the calm and silent night 217 + I wandered by the brookside 36 + I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged pile! 209 + Just for a handful of silver he left us 119 + Life! I know not what thou art 193 + Like as the damask rose you see 189 + Like to the falling of a star 192 + Look at me with thy large brown eyes 149 + Love not, love not! ye hapless sons of clay! 51 + Maid of Athens, ere we part 45 + Mellow the moonlight to shine is beginning 32 + My boat is on the shore 110 + My fairest child, I have no song to give you 199 + My glass shall not persuade me I am old 49 + My heid is like to rend, Willie 56 + My life is like the summer rose 113 + My mother bore me in the southern wild 181 + Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew 104 + No bird-song floated down the hill 82 + O, a dainty plant is the ivy green 90 + Oft in the stilly night 64 + O little feet! that such long years 227 + O Mary, go and call the cattle home 102 + O, sing unto my roundelay! 171 + Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered 127 + Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass 140 + Over the river they beckon to me 78 + O, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? 177 + O Woman of Three Cows, agragh! don't let your tongue thus rattle! 196 + O World! O Life! O Time! 192 + Prithee tell me, Dimple-Chin 228 + September strews the woodland o'er 63 + Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? 50 + She died in beauty,--like a rose 164 + She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 170 + She walks in beauty like the night 84 + She was a phantom of delight 18 + She was not fair, nor full of grace 165 + Slave of the dark and dirty mine 183 + Sleep sweetly in your humble graves 136 + So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn 123 + Stars of the summer night! 41 + Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 203 + Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean 65 + Tell me not, sweet, I am unkinde 125 + That which her slender waist confined 23 + The glories of our birth and state 182 + The glow and the glory are plighted 24 + The heath this night must be my bed 124 + The maid who binds her warrior's sash 142 + The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 100 + There sat an old man on a rock 120 + These years! these years! these naughty years! 114 + The shadows lay along Broadway 207 + The splendor falls on castle walls 40 + The sunlight fills the trembling air 86 + The winds that once the Argo bore 144 + The woods decay, the woods decay and fall 193 + They are all gone into the world of light 80 + They grew in beauty, side by side 174 + They sleep so calm and stately 137 + This is the arsenal. From floor to ceiling 146 + This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign 214 + This sweet child which hath climbed upon my knee 219 + Thou lingering star, with lessening ray 61 + Thou still unravished bride of quietness! 199 + Three fishers went sailing out into the west 143 + Tiger! Tiger! burning bright 96 + 'Tis a fearful night in the winter time 97 + 'Tis pleasant business making books 231 + 'Tis the last rose of summer 111 + To him who in the love of nature holds 75 + Touch us gently, Time! 122 + Tread softly,--bow the head 208 + Weave no more the marriage-chain! 163 + We count the broken lyres that rest 229 + We left behind the painted buoy 13 + We watched her breathing through the night 160 + We were not many,--we who stood 128 + What constitutes a state? 148 + What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells? 212 + What was he doing, the great god Pan? 11 + When forty winters shall besiege thy brow 48 + When I consider how my light is spent 143 + When I do count the clock that tells the time 49 + When Liberty lives loud on every lip 179 + When the latest strife is lost, and all is done with 54 + Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? 133 + Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed 71 + With blackest moss the flower-pots 37 + With what clear guile of gracious love enticed 224 + Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 166 + You ask me, why, though ill at ease 126 + + + + + The Riverside Press + _Electrotyped and printed by H. O. Houghton & Co._ + _Cambridge, Mass, U.S.A._ + + + + +Little Classics + + + Edited by ROSSITER JOHNSON. Each in one volume, 18mo, $1.00. + The set, in box, $18.00. + + 1. EXILE. + 2. INTELLECT. + 3. TRAGEDY. + 4. LIFE. + 5. LAUGHTER. + 6. LOVE. + 7. ROMANCE. + 8. MYSTERY. + 9. COMEDY. + 10. CHILDHOOD. + 11. HEROISM. + 12. FORTUNE. + 13. NARRATIVE POEMS. + 14 LYRICAL POEMS. + 15. MINOR POEMS. + 16. NATURE. + 17. HUMANITY. + 18. AUTHORS. + + _Sixteenmo Edition._ 18 vols., 16mo, gilt top, $18.00. + (Sold only in sets.) + + A list of the entire contents of the volumes of this + Series will be sent free on application. + + HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. + Boston and New York. + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Minor Poems, by Rossiter Johnson + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MINOR POEMS *** + +***** This file should be named 34331-8.txt or 34331-8.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/3/4/3/3/34331/ + +Produced by Meredith Bach, Delphine Lettau and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +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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