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diff --git a/old/8poet10h.htm b/old/8poet10h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a40a8d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8poet10h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4364 @@ +<!DOCTYPE HTML PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD HTML 4.01 Transitional//EN"> +<html> +<head> +<title>GRADED POETRY</title> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content= +"text/html; charset=iso-8859-1"> +<style type="text/css"> +<!-- +body {margin:15%; text-align:justify} +img {border: 0;} +blockquote {font-size:14pt} +P {font-size:14pt} +--> +</style> +</head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Graded Poetry: Seventh Year, by Various +Edited by Katherine D. Blake and Georgia Alexander + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Graded Poetry: Seventh Year + +Author: Various + Edited by Katherine D. Blake and Georgia Alexander + +Release Date: December, 2005 [EBook #9542] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 7, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GRADED POETRY: SEVENTH YEAR *** + + + + +Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Amy Overmyer and PG Distributed Proofreaders + + + + + +</pre> + + +<h1>GRADED POETRY</h1> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h2>SEVENTH YEAR</h2> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<p>EDITED BY</p> + +<br> +<p>KATHERINE D. BLAKE</p> + +<br> +<p>PRINCIPAL, GIRLS' DEPARTMENT PUBLIC SCHOOL NO. 6,</p> + +<p>NEW YORK CITY</p> + +<p>AND</p> + +<p>GEORGIA ALEXANDER</p> + +<br> +<p>SUPERVISING PRINCIPAL, INDIANAPOLIS, INDIANA</p> + +<br> +<p>1906</p> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h2>INTRODUCTION</h2> + +<br> +<br> +<br> +Poetry is the chosen language of childhood and youth. The baby +<br> +repeats words again and again for the mere joy of their sound: +<br> +the melody of nursery rhymes gives a delight which is quite <br> +independent of the meaning of the words. Not until youth +approaches <br> +maturity is there an equal pleasure in the rounded periods of +<br> +elegant prose. It is in childhood therefore that the young mind +<br> +should be stored with poems whose rhythm will be a present +delight <br> +and whose beautiful thoughts will not lose their charm in later +<br> +years. <br> +<br> +The selections for the lowest grades are addressed primarily to +<br> +the feeling for verbal beauty, the recognition of which in the +<br> +mind of the child is fundamental to the plan of this work. The +<br> +editors have felt that the inclusion of critical notes in these +<br> +little books intended for elementary school children would be not +<br> +only superfluous, but, in the degree in which critical comment +<br> +drew the child's attention from the text, subversive of the +desired <br> +result. Nor are there any notes on methods. The best way to teach +<br> +children to love a poem is to read it inspiringly to them. <br> +The French say: "The ear is the pathway to the heart." A poem +<br> +should be so read that it will sing itself in the hearts of the +<br> +listening children. <br> +<br> +In the brief biographies appended to the later books the human +<br> +element has been brought out. An effort has been made to call +<br> +attention to the education of the poet and his equipment for his +<br> +life work rather than to the literary qualities of his style. +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<br> +<br> +<p><a href="#first">FIRST HALF YEAR</a></p> + +<br> +<table summary=" " width="90%" border="0" cellspacing="2" cellpadding="2"> +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#goodname">Good Name</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#shake">William Shakespeare</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#lovlab">From +"Love's Labor's Lost"</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#shake">William Shakespeare</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#richii">From +"Richard II," Act II, Sc. I</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#shake">William Shakespeare</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#winttale">Jog +on, Jog on</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#shake">William Shakespeare</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#wolsey">The +Downfall of Wolsey</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#shake">William Shakespeare</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#nobnat">The +Noble Nature</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href="#bjon">Ben +Johnson</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#maymorn">Song +on a May Morning</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#milton">John Milton</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#ogod">O God, +our Help in Ages Past</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#watts">Isaac Watts;</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#gilpin">The +Diverting History of John Gilpin</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#cowper">William Cowper</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#bannoc">Bannockburn</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#burns">Robert Burns</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#highla">My +Heart's in the Highlands</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#burns">Robert Burns</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#reaper">The +Solitary Reaper</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#wordw">William Wordsworth</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#wbson">Sonnet</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#wordw">William Wordsworth</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#soldrest">Soldier, Rest!"</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#scott">Walter Scott</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#lochin">Lochinvar</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#scott">Walter Scott</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#ssban">The +Star-Spangled Banner</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#fskey">Francis Scott Key</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#hohen">Hohenlinden</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#tomcam">Thomas Cambell</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#taraharp">The +Harp that Once through Tara's Halls</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#moore">Thomas Moore</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#childeh">Childe Harold's Farewell to England</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#byron">George Noel Gordon,</a> <a href="#byron">Lord +Byron</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#waterl">The +Night before Waterloo</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#byron">George Noel Gordon,</a> <a href="#byron">Lord +Byron</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#abide">Abide +with Me</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#hflyte">Henry Francis Lyte</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#horat">Horatius at the Bridge</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#maca">Thomas B. Macauley</a>.</i></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<br> + <a href="#second">SECOND HALF YEAR</a> <br> +<table summary=""width="90%" border="0" cellspacing="2" cellpadding="2"> +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#spring">Early +Spring</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#tenny">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><br> +<a href="#galhad">Sir Galahad</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#tenny">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#chglght">The +Charge of the Light Brigade</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#tenny">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#ringout">Ring +out, Wild Bells From "In Memoriam"</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#tenny">Alfred, Lord Tennyson</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#xmashymn">A +Christmas Hymn</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#domett">Alfred Domett</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#hometh">Home +Thoughts from Abroad</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#brown">Robert Browning</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#pheid">Pheidippides</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#brown">Robert Browning</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#clover">A +Song of Clover</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i>Saxe Holm</i>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#songlove">Song of Love</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i>Lewis +Carroll</i>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#scythe">Scythe Song</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i>Andrew +Lang</i>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#whiteb">White +Butterflies</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#swin">Algernon Charles Swinburne</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#vicode">Recessional. A Victorian Ode</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#kipling">Rudyard Kipling</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#waterf">To a +Waterfowl</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#bryant">William Cullen Bryant</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#death">The +Death of the Flowers</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#bryant">William Cullen Bryant</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#thanat">Thanatopsis</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#bryant">William Cullen Bryant</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#woodnt">From +"Woodnotes"</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#emerson">Ralph Waldo Emerson</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#daybrk">Daybreak</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#longfellow">Henry Wadsworth</a> <a href= +"#longfellow">Longfellow</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#agass">The +Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#longfellow">Henry Wadsworth</a> <a href= +"#longfellow">Longfellow</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#nitehy">Hymn +to the Night</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#longfellow">Henry Wadsworth</a> <a href= +"#longfellow">Longfellow</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#long">Longing</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#lowell">James Russell Lowell</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#lyre">The +Finding of the Lyre</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#lowell">James Russell Lowell</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#wait">Waiting</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#burro">John Burroughs</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#colum">Columbus</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#miller">Joaquin Miller</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#evensong">Evening Songs</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#cheney">John Vance Cheney</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#vagsong">A +Vagabond Song</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i>Bliss +Carman</i>.</td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href="#oldglo">Old +Glory</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a>.</i></td> +</tr> + +<tr align="LEFT" valign="TOP"> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><a href= +"#kavan">Kavanagh</a> </td> +<td width="45%" align="LEFT" valign="TOP"><i><a href= +"#longfellow">Henry Wadsworth</a> <a href= +"#longfellow">Longfellow</a>.</i></td> +</tr> +</table> + +<br> + <br> +<a href="#bios">Biographical Sketches of Authors</a> <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="first"></a> <br> +SEVENTH YEAR—FIRST HALF <br> +<br> +<br> +WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE <br> +ENGLAND, 1564-1616 <br> +<a name="Goodname"></a> <br> +Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, <br> +Is the immediate jewel of their souls: <br> +Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; <br> +'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; <br> +But he that filches from me my good name <br> +Robs me of that which not enriches him <br> +And makes me poor indeed. <br> +<br> +—"OTHELLO," Act II, Sc. 3. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="lovlab"></a> <br> +When daisies pied and violets blue, <br> +And lady-smocks all silver-white, <br> +And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue <br> +Do paint the meadows with delight. <br> +<br> +—"LOVE'S LABOR'S LOST," Act V, Sc. 2. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="richii"></a> <br> +This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, <br> +This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, <br> +This other Eden, demi-paradise; <br> +This fortress built by Nature for herself <br> +Against infection and the hand of war; <br> +This happy breed of men, this little world, <br> +This precious stone set in the silver sea, <br> +Which serves it in the office of a wall, <br> +Or as a moat defensive to a house, <br> +Against the envy of less happier lands; <br> +This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. <br> +<br> +—"RICHARD II," Act II, Sc. 1. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="winttale"></a> <br> +Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, <br> +And merrily hent the stile-a: <br> +A merry heart goes all the day, <br> +Your sad tires in a mile-a. <br> +<br> +—From "WINTER'S TALE." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="wolsey"></a> <br> +The Downfall of Wolsey <br> +<br> +Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness! <br> +This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth <br> +The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms <br> +And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; <br> +The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; <br> +And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely <br> +His greatness is a ripening, nips his root, <br> +And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured, <br> +Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, <br> +This many summers in a sea of glory, <br> +But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride <br> +At length broke under me; and now has left me, <br> +Weary and old with service, to the mercy <br> +Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me. <br> +Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye: <br> +I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched <br> +Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors! <br> +There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, <br> +That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, <br> +More pangs and fears than wars or women have: <br> +And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, <br> +Never to hope again. <br> +<br> +—From "HENRY VIII." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +BEN JONSON <br> +ENGLAND, 1574-1637 <br> +<a name="nobnat"></a> <br> +<b>The Noble Nature</b> <br> +<br> +It is not growing like a tree <br> +In bulk doth make man better be; <br> +Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, <br> +To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere; <br> +A lily of a day <br> +Is fairer far in May, <br> +Although it fall and die that night,— <br> +It was the plant and flower of Light. <br> +In small proportions we just beauties see, <br> +And in short measures life may perfect be. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +JOHN MILTON <br> +ENGLAND, 1608-1674 <br> +<a name="maymorn"></a> <br> +<b>Song on a May Morning</b> <br> +<br> +Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger, <br> +Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her <br> +The flowery May, who from her green lap throws <br> +The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. <br> +<br> +Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire <br> +Mirth and youth and warm desire! <br> +Woods and groves are of thy dressing, <br> +Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. <br> +Thus we salute thee with our early song, <br> +And welcome thee, and wish thee long. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +ISAAC WATTS <br> +ENGLAND, 1674-1748 <a name="ogod"></a> <br> +<br> +O God, our help in ages past, <br> +Our hope for years to come, <br> +Our shelter from the stormy blast, <br> +And our eternal home: <br> +<br> +Before the hills in order stood, <br> +Or earth received her frame, <br> +From everlasting Thou art God, <br> +To endless years the same. <br> +<br> +A thousand ages in Thy sight <br> +Are like an evening gone; <br> +Short as the watch that ends the night <br> +Before the rising sun. <br> +<br> +Time, like an ever-rolling stream, <br> +Bears all its sons away; <br> +They fly forgotten, as a dream <br> +Dies at the opening day. <br> +<br> +O God, our help in ages past, <br> +Our hope for years to come, <br> +Be Thou our guard while troubles last, <br> +And our eternal home. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +WILLIAM COWPER <br> +ENGLAND, 1731-1800 <br> +<a name="gilpin"></a> <br> +<b>The Diverting History of John Gilpin</b> <br> +<br> +John Gilpin was a citizen, <br> +Of credit and renown, <br> +A trainband captain eke was he <br> +Of famous London town. <br> +<br> +John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, <br> +'Though wedded we have been <br> +These twice ten tedious years, yet we <br> +No holiday have seen. <br> +<br> +"To-morrow is our wedding day, <br> +And we will then repair <br> +Unto the Bell at Edmonton <br> +All in a chaise and pair. <br> +<br> +"My sister, and my sister's child, <br> +Myself, and children three, <br> +Will fill the chaise; so you must ride <br> +On horseback after we." <br> +<br> +He soon replied, "I do admire <br> +Of womankind but one, <br> +And you are she, my dearest dear, <br> +Therefore it shall be done. <br> +<br> +"I am a linendraper bold, <br> +As all the world doth know, <br> +And my good friend the calender <br> +Will lend his horse to go." <br> +<br> +Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; <br> +And for that wine is dear, <br> +We will be furnished with our own, <br> +Which is both bright and clear." <br> +<br> +John Gilpin kiss'd his loving wife; <br> +O'erjoyed was he to find, <br> +That, though on pleasure she was bent, <br> +She had a frugal mind. <br> +<br> +The morning came, the chaise was brought, <br> +But yet was not allow'd <br> +To drive up to the door, lest all <br> +Should say that she was proud. <br> +<br> +So three doors off the chaise was stay'd, <br> +Where they did all get in; <br> +Six precious souls, and all agog <br> +To dash through thick and thin. <br> +<br> +Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, <br> +Were never folks so glad, <br> +The stones did rattle underneath, <br> +As if Cheapside were mad. <br> +<br> +John Gilpin at his horse's side <br> +Seized fast the flowing mane, <br> +And up he got, in haste to ride, <br> +But soon came down again; <br> +<br> +For saddletree scarce reach'd had he <br> +His journey to begin, <br> +When, turning round his head, he saw <br> +Three customers come in. <br> +<br> +So down he came; for loss of time, <br> +Although it grieved him sore, <br> +Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, <br> +Would trouble him much more. <br> +<br> +'Twas long before the customers <br> +Were suited to their mind, <br> +When Betty screaming came downstairs, <br> +"The wine is left behind!" <br> +<br> +"Good lack!" quoth he—"yet bring it me, <br> +My leathern belt likewise, <br> +In which I bear my trusty sword <br> +When I do exercise." <br> +<br> +Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) <br> +Had two stone bottles found, <br> +To hold the liquor that she loved <br> +And keep it safe and sound. <br> +<br> +Then over all, that he might be <br> +Equipp'd from top to toe, <br> +His long red cloak, well brush'd and neat, <br> +He manfully did throw. <br> +<br> +Now see him mounted once again <br> +Upon his nimble steed, <br> +Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, <br> +With caution and good heed. <br> +<br> +But finding soon a smoother road <br> +Beneath his well-shod feet, <br> +The snorting beast began to trot, <br> +Which gall'd him in his seat. <br> +<br> +"So, fair and softly," John he cried, <br> +But John he cried in vain; <br> +That trot became a gallop soon, <br> +In spite of curb and rein. <br> +<br> +So stooping down, as needs he must <br> +Who cannot sit upright, <br> +He grasp'd the mane with both his hands, <br> +And eke with all his might. <br> +<br> +His horse, who never in that sort <br> +Had handled been before, <br> +What thing upon his back had got <br> +Did wonder more and more. <br> +<br> +Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; <br> +Away went hat and wig; <br> +He little dreamt, when he set out, <br> +Of running such a rig. <br> +<br> +The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, <br> +Like streamer long and gay, <br> +Till, loop and button failing both, <br> +At last it flew away. <br> +<br> +Then might all people well discern <br> +The bottles he had slung; <br> +A bottle swinging at each side, <br> +As hath been said or sung. <br> +<br> +The dogs did bark, the children scream'd, <br> +Up flew the windows all; <br> +And every soul cried out, "Well done!" <br> +As loud as he could bawl. <br> +<br> +Away went Gilpin—who but he? <br> +His fame soon spread around, <br> +"He carries weight! he rides a race! <br> +'Tis for a thousand pound!" <br> +<br> +And still as fast as he drew near, <br> +'Twas wonderful to view, <br> +How in a trice the turnpike men <br> +Their gates wide open threw. <br> +<br> +And now, as he went bowing down <br> +His reeking head full low, <br> +The bottles twain behind his back <br> +Were shatter'd at a blow. <br> +<br> +Down ran the wine into the road, <br> +Most piteous to be seen, <br> +Which made his horse's flanks to smoke <br> +As they had basted been. <br> +<br> +But still he seem'd to carry weight, <br> +With leathern girdle braced; <br> +For all might see the bottle necks <br> +Still dangling at his waist. <br> +<br> +Thus all through merry Islington <br> +These gambols did he play, <br> +Until he came unto the Wash <br> +Of Edmonton so gay; <br> +<br> +And there he threw the wash about <br> +On both sides of the way, <br> +Just like unto a trundling mop, <br> +Or a wild goose at play. <br> +<br> +At Edmonton his loving wife <br> +From the balcony spied <br> +Her tender husband, wondering much <br> +To see how he did ride. <br> +<br> +"Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—here's the house," <br> +They all at once did cry; <br> +"The dinner waits, and we are tired:" <br> +Said Gilpin—"So am I!" <br> +<br> +But yet his horse was not a whit <br> +Inclined to tarry there; <br> +For why?—his owner had a house <br> +Full ten miles off, at Ware. <br> +<br> +So like an arrow swift he flew, <br> +Shot by an archer strong; <br> +So did he fly—which brings me to <br> +The middle of my song. <br> +<br> +Away went Gilpin out of breath, <br> +And sore against his will, <br> +Till at his friend the calender's <br> +His horse at last stood still. <br> +<br> +The calender, amazed to see <br> +His neighbor in such trim, <br> +Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, <br> +And thus accosted him: <br> +<br> +"What news? what news? your tidings tell <br> +Tell me you must and shall— <br> +Say why bareheaded you are come, <br> +Or why you come at all?" <br> +<br> +Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, <br> +And loved a timely joke; <br> +And thus unto the calender <br> +In merry guise he spoke: <br> +<br> +"I came because your horse would come; <br> +And, if I well forbode, <br> +My hat and wig will soon be here, <br> +They are upon the road." <br> +<br> +The calender, right glad to find <br> +His friend in merry pin, <br> +Return'd him not a single word, <br> +But to the house went in; <br> +<br> +Whence straight he came with hat and wig, <br> +A wig that flow'd behind, <br> +A hat not much the worse for wear, <br> +Each comely in its kind. <br> +<br> +He held them up, and in his turn <br> +Thus show'd his ready wit, <br> +"My head is twice as big as yours, <br> +They therefore needs must fit. <br> +<br> +"But let me scrape the dirt away <br> +That hangs upon your face; <br> +And stop and eat, for well you may <br> +Be in a hungry case." <br> +<br> +Said John, "It is my wedding day, <br> +And all the world would stare, <br> +If wife should dine at Edmonton, <br> +And I should dine at Ware." <br> +<br> +So turning to his horse, he said, <br> +"I am in haste to dine; <br> +'Twas for your pleasure you came here, <br> +You shall go back for mine." <br> +<br> +Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast! <br> +For which he paid full dear; <br> +For, while he spake, a braying ass <br> +Did sing most loud and clear; <br> +<br> +Whereat his horse did snort, as he <br> +Had heard a lion roar, <br> +And gallop'd off with all his might, <br> +As he had done before. <br> +<br> +Away went Gilpin, and away <br> +Went Gilpin's hat and wig: <br> +He lost them sooner than at first, <br> +For why?—they were too big. <br> +<br> +Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw <br> +Her husband posting down <br> +Into the country far away, <br> +She pull'd out half a crown; <br> +<br> +And thus unto the youth she said, <br> +That drove them to the Bell, <br> +"This shall be yours, when you bring back <br> +My husband safe and well." <br> +<br> +The youth did ride, and soon did meet <br> +John coming back amain; <br> +Whom in a trice he tried to stop, <br> +By catching at his rein; <br> +<br> +But not performing what he meant, <br> +And gladly would have done, <br> +The frighted steed he frighted more, <br> +And made him faster run. <br> +<br> +Away went Gilpin, and away <br> +Went postboy at his heels, <br> +The postboy's horse right glad to miss <br> +The lumbering of the wheels. <br> +<br> +Six gentlemen upon the road, <br> +Thus seeing Gilpin fly, <br> +With postboy scampering in the rear, <br> +They raised the hue and cry:— <br> +<br> +"Stop thief! stop thief!—a highwayman!" <br> +Not one of them was mute; <br> +And all and each that passed that way <br> +Did join in the pursuit. <br> +<br> +And now the turnpike gates again <br> +Flew open in short space; <br> +The toll-men thinking as before, <br> +That Gilpin rode a race. <br> +<br> +And so he did, and won it too, <br> +For he got first to town; <br> +Nor stopp'd till where he had got up <br> +He did again get down. <br> +<br> +Now let us sing, "Long live the king, <br> +And Gilpin long live he;" <br> +And when he next doth ride abroad, <br> +May I be there to see! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +ROBERT BURNS <br> +SCOTLAND, 1759-1796 <br> +<a name="bannoc"></a> <br> +<b>Bannockburn</b> <br> +<br> +<b>Robert Bruce's Address to his Army</b> <br> +<br> +Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, <br> +Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, <br> +Welcome to your gory bed <br> +Or to victorie! <br> +<br> +Now's the day, and now's the hour; <br> +See the front o' battle lower; <br> +See approach proud Edward's power— <br> +Chains and slaverie! <br> +<br> +Wha will be a traitor knave? <br> +Wha can fill a coward's grave? <br> +Wha sae base as be a slave? <br> +Let him turn and flee! <br> +<br> +Wha for Scotland's king and law <br> +Freedom's sword will strongly draw, <br> +Freeman stand, or freeman fa', <br> +Let him follow me! <br> +<br> +By oppression's woes and pains! <br> +By your sons in servile chains! <br> +We will drain our dearest veins, <br> +But they shall be free! <br> +<br> +Lay the proud usurpers low! <br> +Tyrants fall in every foe! <br> +Liberty's in every blow!— <br> +Let us do or die! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="highla"></a> <br> +<b>My Heart's in the Highlands</b> <br> +<br> +My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; <br> +My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; <br> +Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, <br> +My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. <br> +Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, <br> +The birthplace of valor, the country of worth: <br> +Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, <br> +The hills of the Highlands forever I love. <br> +<br> +Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; <br> +Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; <br> +Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; <br> +Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. <br> +My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, <br> +My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; <br> +Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, <br> +My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +WILLIAM WORDSWORTH <br> +ENGLAND, 1770-1850 <br> +<br> +<a name="reaper"></a> <br> +<b>The Solitary Reaper</b> <br> +<br> +Behold her, single in the field, <br> +Yon solitary Highland lass, <br> +Reaping and singing by herself; <br> +Stop here, or gently pass! <br> +Alone she cuts and binds the grain, <br> +And sings a melancholy strain; <br> +Oh, listen! for the vale profound <br> +Is overflowing with the sound. <br> +<br> +No nightingale did ever chant <br> +So sweetly to reposing bands <br> +Of travelers in some shady haunt <br> +Among Arabian sands: <br> +A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard <br> +In springtime from the cuckoo-bird, <br> +Breaking the silence of the seas <br> +Among the farthest Hebrides. <br> +<br> +Will no one tell me what she sings? <br> +Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow <br> +For old, unhappy, far-off things, <br> +And battles long ago: <br> +Or is it some more humble lay, <br> +Familiar matter of to-day, <br> +Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, <br> +That has been, and may be again? <br> +<br> +Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang <br> +As if her song could have no ending; <br> +I saw her singing at her work, <br> +And o'er the sickle bending. <br> +I listened motionless and still; <br> +And, as I mounted up the hill, <br> +The music in my heart I bore <br> +Long after it was heard no more. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="wbson"></a> <br> +<b>Sonnet<br> + Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802</b> <br> +<br> +Earth has not anything to show more fair: <br> +Dull would he be of soul who could pass by <br> +A sight so touching in its majesty: <br> +This city now doth like a garment wear <br> +The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, <br> +Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie <br> +Open unto the fields and to the sky; <br> +All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. <br> +Never did sun more beautifully steep <br> +In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; <br> +Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! <br> +The river glideth at his own sweet will: <br> +Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; <br> +And all that mighty heart is lying still! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +WALTER SCOTT <br> +SCOTLAND, 1771-1832 <br> +<a name="soldrest"></a> <br> +<b>"Soldier, Rest!"</b> <br> +<br> +Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, <br> +Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; <br> +Dream of battle-fields no more, <br> +Days of danger, nights of waking, <br> +In our isle's enchanted hall, <br> +Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, <br> +Fairy strains of music fall, <br> +Every sense in slumber dewing. <br> +Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, <br> +Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; <br> +Dream of battle-fields no more, <br> +Morn of toil, nor night of waking. <br> +<br> +No rude sound shall reach thine ear, <br> +Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, <br> +Trump nor pibroch summon here, <br> +Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. <br> +Yet the lark's shrill fife may come, <br> +At the daybreak from the fallow, <br> +<br> +And the bittern sound his drum, <br> +Booming from the sedgy shallow. <br> +Ruder sounds shall none be near, <br> +Guards nor warders challenge here; <br> +Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing, <br> +Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. <br> +<br> +Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; <br> +While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, <br> +Dream not with the rising sun, <br> +Bugles here shall sound reveille. <br> +Sleep! the deer is in his den; <br> +Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; <br> +Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen, <br> +How thy gallant steed lay dying. <br> +Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done; <br> +Think not of the rising sun, <br> +For at dawning to assail ye, <br> +Here no bugle sounds reveille. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="lochin"></a> <br> +<b>Lochinvar</b> <br> +<br> +Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west; <br> +Through all the wide border his steed was the best; <br> +And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none; <br> +He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. <br> +So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, <br> +There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. <br> +<br> +He stayed not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, <br> +He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; <br> +But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, <br> +The bride had consented, the gallant came late; <br> +For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, <br> +Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. <br> +<br> +So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, <br> +Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: <br> +Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, <br> +(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) <br> +"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, <br> +Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"— <br> +<br> +"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;— <br> +Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— <br> +And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, <br> +To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. <br> +There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, <br> +That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." <br> +<br> +The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up, <br> +He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. <br> +She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, <br> +With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. <br> +He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— <br> +"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar. <br> +<br> +So stately his form, and so lovely her face, <br> +That never a hall such a galliard did grace; <br> +While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, <br> +And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; <br> +And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far, <br> +To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." <br> +<br> +One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, <br> +When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near: <br> +So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, <br> +So light to the saddle before her he sprung! <br> +"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; <br> +They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. +<br> +<br> +There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; <br> +Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: <br> +There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, <br> +But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. <br> +So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, <br> +Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +FRANCIS SCOTT KEY <br> +AMERICA, 1780-1843 <br> +<a name="ssban"></a> <br> +<b>The Star-Spangled Banner</b>[<a href="#foot1">1</a>] <br> +<br> +O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, <br> +What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming— <br> +Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the +fight <br> +O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming! <br> +And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, <br> +Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. <br> +O! say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave <br> +O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? <br> +<br> +On that shore dimly see through the mists of the deep <br> +Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, <br> +What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, <br> +As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? <br> +Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, <br> +In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; <br> +'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave <br> +O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! <br> +<br> +And where is that band who so vauntingly swore <br> +That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion <br> +A home and a country should leave us no more? <br> +Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. <br> +No refuge could save the hireling and slave <br> +From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave; <br> +And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave <br> +O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. <br> +<br> +O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand <br> +Between their loved homes and war's desolation! <br> +Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land <br> +Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. <br> +Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just, <br> +And this be our motto—"<i>In God is our trust</i>:" <br> +And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave <br> +O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="foot1"></a> <br> +[Footnote:1. The song is taken as it appears in Stedman and +Hutchinson's <br> +<i>Library of American Literature</i>, vol. iv. p. 419. The text, +slightly <br> +different from the common one, corresponds to the facsimile of +<br> +a copy made by Mr. Key in 1840.] <br> +<br> +THOMAS CAMPBELL <br> +SCOTLAND, 1777-1844 <br> + <a name="hohen"></a> <br> +<b>Hohenlinden</b> <br> +<br> +On Linden when the sun was low, <br> +All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, <br> +And dark as winter was the flow <br> +Of Iser, rolling rapidly. <br> +<br> +But Linden saw another sight <br> +When the drum beat, at dead of night, <br> +Commanding fires of death to light <br> +The darkness of her scenery. <br> +<br> +By torch and trumpet fast array'd <br> +Each horseman drew his battle-blade, <br> +And furious every charger neigh'd, <br> +To join the dreadful revelry. <br> +<br> +Then shook the hills with thunder riven, <br> +Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, <br> +And louder than the bolts of heaven <br> +Far flash'd the red artillery. <br> +<br> +But redder yet that light shall glow <br> +On Linden's hills of stained snow, <br> +And darker yet shall be the flow <br> +Of Iser, rolling rapidly. <br> +<br> +'Tis morn, but scarce yon lurid sun <br> +Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, <br> +Where furious Frank and fiery Hun <br> +Shout in their sulphurous canopy. <br> +<br> +The combat deepens. On, ye Brave, <br> +Who rush to glory, or the grave! <br> +Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! <br> +And charge with all thy chivalry! <br> +<br> +Few, few, shall part where many meet! <br> +The snow shall be their winding-sheet, <br> +And every turf beneath their feet <br> +Shall be a soldier's sepulcher. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +THOMAS MOORE <br> +IRELAND, 1779-1852 <br> + <a name="taraharp"></a> <br> +<b>The Harp that once through Tara's Halls</b> <br> +<br> +The Harp that once through Tara's Halls <br> +The soul of music shed, <br> +Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls <br> +As if that soul were fled. <br> +So sleeps the pride of former days, <br> +So glory's thrill is o'er, <br> +And hearts that once beat high for praise, <br> +Now feel that pulse no more. <br> +<br> +No more to chiefs and ladies bright <br> +The harp of Tara swells: <br> +The chord alone that breaks at night, <br> +Its tale of ruin tells. <br> +Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, <br> +The only throb she gives <br> +Is when some heart indignant breaks, <br> +To show that still she lives. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +GEORGE GORDON NOEL, LORD BYRON <br> +ENGLAND, 1788-1824 <br> + <a name="childeh"></a> <br> +<b>Childe Harold's Farewell to England</b> <br> +<br> +Adieu, adieu! my native shore <br> +Fades o'er the waters blue; <br> +The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, <br> +And shrieks the wild sea mew. <br> +Yon sun that sets upon the sea, <br> +We follow in his flight; <br> +Farewell awhile to him and thee, <br> +My native land—Good-night. <br> +<br> +A few short hours and he will rise <br> +To give the morrow birth; <br> +And I shall hail the main and skies, <br> +But not my mother earth. <br> +Deserted is my own good hall, <br> +Its hearth is desolate; <br> +Wild weeds are gathering on the wall; <br> +My dog howls at the gate. <br> +<br> +"Come hither, hither, my little page! <br> +Why dost thou weep and wail? <br> +Or dost thou dread the billows' rage, <br> +Or tremble at the gale? <br> +But dash the tear-drop from thine eye; <br> +Our ship is swift and strong; <br> +Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly <br> +More merrily along." <br> +<br> +"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, <br> +I fear not wave nor wind: <br> +Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I <br> +Am sorrowful in mind; <br> +For I have from my father gone, <br> +A mother whom I love, <br> +And have no friends, save thee alone, <br> +But thee—and One above. <br> +<br> +"My father blessed me fervently, <br> +Yet did not much complain; <br> +But sorely will my mother sigh <br> +Till I come back again."— <br> +"Enough, enough, my little lad! <br> +Such tears become thine eye; <br> +If I thy guileless bosom had, <br> +Mine own would not be dry." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="waterl"></a> <br> +<b>The Night before Waterloo</b> <br> +<br> +There was a sound of revelry by night, <br> +And Belgium's capital had gather'd then <br> +Her beauty and her Chivalry, and bright <br> +The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; <br> +A thousand hearts beat happily; and when <br> +Music arose with its voluptuous swell, <br> +Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again, <br> +And all went merry as a marriage bell; <br> +But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell! <br> +<br> +Did ye not hear it?—No; 'twas but the wind, <br> +Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; <br> +On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; <br> +No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet <br> +To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. <br> +But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, <br> +As if the clouds its echo would repeat; <br> +And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! <br> +Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon's opening roar! <br> +<br> +Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro, <br> +And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress, <br> +And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago <br> +Blush'd at the praise of their own loveliness; <br> +And there were sudden partings, such as press <br> +The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs <br> +Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess <br> +If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, <br> +Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise! <br> +<br> +And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed, <br> +The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, <br> +Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, <br> +And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; <br> +And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; <br> +And near, the beat of the alarming drum <br> +Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; <br> +While throng'd the citizens with terror dumb, <br> +Or whispering with white lips—"The foe! <br> +They come! they come!" <br> +<br> +Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, <br> +Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, <br> +The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, <br> +The morn the marshaling in arms—the day <br> +Battle's magnificently stern array! <br> +The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent <br> +The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, <br> +Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, <br> +Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one red burial blent! <br> +<br> +—From "CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +HENRY FRANCIS LYTE <br> +ENGLAND, 1793-1847 <br> +<a name="abide"></a> <br> +<b>Abide with Me</b> <br> +<br> +Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; <br> +The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide: <br> +When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, <br> +Help of the helpless, O abide with me. <br> +<br> +Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; <br> +Earth's joys grow dim, its glories pass away; <br> +Change and decay in all around I see; <br> +O Thou who changest not, abide with me. <br> +<br> +I need Thy presence every passing hour; <br> +What but Thy grace can foil the tempter's power? <br> +Who, like Thyself, my guide and stay can be? <br> +Through cloud and sunshine, Lord, abide with me. <br> +<br> +I fear no foe, with Thee at hand to bless: <br> +Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. <br> +Where is Death's sting? Where, Grave, thy victory? <br> +I triumph still, if Thou abide with me. <br> +<br> +Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes, <br> +Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies; <br> +Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee; <br> +In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +THOMAS B. MACAULAY <br> +ENGLAND, 1800-1859 <br> +<a name="horat"></a> <br> +<b>Horatius at the Bridge</b> <br> +<br> +The consul's brow was sad, and the consul's speech was low, <br> +And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe. <br> +"Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down; <br> +And if they once may win the bridge, what hope to save the town?" +<br> +Then out spoke brave Horatius, the captain of the gate: <br> +"To every man upon this earth death cometh, soon or late. <br> +Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may; <br> +I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play. <br> +In yon strait path a thousand may well be stopped by three. <br> +<br> +Now who will stand on either hand, and keep the bridge with me?" +<br> +Then out spake Spurius Lartius—a Ramnian proud was he— <br> +"Lo! I will stand at thy right hand, and keep the bridge with +thee." <br> +And out spake strong Herminius—of Titian blood was he— <br> +"I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee." +<br> +"Horatius," quoth the consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be." +<br> +And straight against that great array, forth went the dauntless +three. <br> +Soon all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see <br> +On the earth the bloody corpses, in the path the dauntless three. +<br> +And from the ghastly entrance, where those bold Romans stood, +<br> +The bravest shrank like boys who rouse an old bear in the wood. +<br> +But meanwhile ax and lever have manfully been plied, <br> +And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide. <br> +"Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the fathers all; +<br> +"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! back, ere the ruin fall!" <br> +Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back; <br> +And, as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers +crack; <br> +But when they turned their faces, and on the farther shore <br> +Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once +more. <br> +But, with a crash like thunder, fell every loosened beam, <br> +And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream. +<br> +And a long shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome, <br> +As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam. <br> +<br> +And, like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein, <br> +The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane, <br> +And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free, <br> +And battlement, and plank, and pier whirled headlong to the sea. +<br> +<br> +Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind; <br> +Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind. +<br> +"Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale +face. <br> +"Now yield thee!" cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our +grace!" <br> +<br> +Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see; <br> +Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he; <br> +But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home, <br> +And he spoke to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome: +<br> +"O Tiber! Father Tiber! to whom the Romans pray, <br> +A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!" +<br> +So he spake, and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side, +<br> +And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide. +<br> +<br> +No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank; <br> +But friends and foes, in dumb surprise, stood gazing where he +sank, <br> +And when above the surges they saw his crest appear, <br> +Rome shouted, and e'en Tuscany could scarce forbear to cheer. +<br> +<br> +But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain: +<br> +And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain, <br> +And heavy with his armor, and spent with changing blows: <br> +And oft they thought him sinking—but still again he rose. <br> +<br> +Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case, <br> +Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place: +<br> +But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within, +<br> +And our good Father Tiber bare bravely up his chin. <br> +<br> +"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus; "will not the villain drown? +<br> +But for his stay, ere close of day we should have sacked the +town!" <br> +"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena; "and bring him safe to +shore; <br> +For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before." <br> +<br> +And now he feels the bottom;—now on dry earth he stands; <br> +Now round him throng the fathers to press his gory hands. <br> +And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud, +<br> +He enters through the river gate, borne by the joyous crowd. <br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="second"></a> <br> +<b>SEVENTH YEAR—SECOND HALF</b> <br> +<br> +<br> +ALFRED TENNYSON <br> +ENGLAND, 1809-1892 <br> +<a name="spring"></a> <br> +<b>Early Spring</b> <br> +<br> +Once more the Heavenly Power <br> +Makes all things new, <br> +And domes the red-plow'd hills <br> +With loving blue; <br> +The blackbirds have their wills, <br> +The throstles too. <br> +<br> +Opens a door in Heaven; <br> +From skies of glass <br> +A Jacob's ladder falls <br> +On greening grass, <br> +And o'er the mountain-walls <br> +Young angels pass. <br> +<br> +Before them fleets the shower, <br> +And bursts the buds, <br> +And shine the level lands, <br> +And flash the floods; <br> +The stars are from their hands <br> +Flung thro' the woods. <br> +<br> +The woods with living airs <br> +How softly fann'd, <br> +Light airs from where the deep, <br> +All down the sand, <br> +Is breathing in his sleep, <br> +Heard by the land. <br> +<br> +O follow, leaping blood, <br> +The season's lure! <br> +O heart, look down and up <br> +Serene, secure. <br> +Warm as the crocus cup, <br> +Like snowdrops, pure! <br> +<br> +Past, Future, glimpse and fade <br> +Thro' some slight spell, <br> +A gleam from yonder vale, <br> +Some far blue fell, <br> +And sympathies, how frail, <br> +In sound and smell. <br> +<br> +Till at thy chuckled note, <br> +Thou twinkling bird, <br> +The fairy fancies range, <br> +And, lightly stirr'd, <br> +Ring little bells of change <br> +From word to word. <br> +<br> +For now the Heavenly Power <br> +Makes all things new, <br> +And thaws the cold, and fills <br> +The flower with dew; <br> +The blackbirds have their wills, <br> +The poets too. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="galhad"></a> <br> +<b>Sir Galahad</b> <br> +<br> +My good blade carves the casques of men, <br> +My tough lance thrusteth sure, <br> +My strength is as the strength of ten, <br> +Because my heart is pure. <br> +The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, <br> +The hard brands shiver on the steel, <br> +The splintered spear shafts crack and fly, <br> +The horse and rider reel; <br> +They reel, they roll in clanging lists, <br> +And when the tide of combat stands, <br> +Perfume and flowers fall in showers, <br> +That lightly rain from ladies' hands. <br> +<br> +How sweet are looks that ladies bend <br> +On whom their favors fall! <br> +For them I battle till the end, <br> +To save from shame and thrall; <br> +But all my heart is drawn above, <br> +My knees are bowed in crypt and shrine: <br> +I never felt the kiss of love, <br> +Nor maiden's hand in mine. <br> +More bounteous aspects on me beam, <br> +Me mightier transports move and thrill; <br> +So keep I fair through faith and prayer <br> +A virgin heart in work and will. <br> +<br> +When down the stormy crescent goes, <br> +A light before me swims, <br> +Between dark stems the forest glows, <br> +I hear a noise of hymns: <br> +Then by some secret shrine I ride; <br> +I hear a voice, but none are there; <br> +The stalls are void, the doors are wide, <br> +The tapers burning fair. <br> +Fair gleams the snowy altar cloth, <br> +The silver vessels sparkle clean, <br> +The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, <br> +And solemn chants resound between. <br> +<br> +Sometimes on lonely mountain meres <br> +I find a magic bark; <br> +I leap on board: no helmsman steers: <br> +I float till all is dark. <br> +A gentle sound, an awful light! <br> +Three angels bear the Holy Grail; <br> +With folded feet, in stoles of white, <br> +On sleeping wings they sail. <br> +Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! <br> +My spirit beats her mortal bars, <br> +As down dark tides the glory slides, <br> +And starlike mingles with the stars. <br> +<br> +When on my goodly charger borne <br> +Through dreaming towns I go, <br> +The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, <br> +The streets are dumb with snow. <br> +The tempest crackles on the leads, <br> +And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; <br> +But o'er the dark a glory spreads, <br> +And gilds the driving hail. <br> +I leave the plain, I climb the height; <br> +No branchy thicket shelter yields; <br> +But blessed forms in whistling storms <br> +Fly o'er waste fens and windy fields. <br> +<br> +A maiden knight—to me is given <br> +Such hope, I know not fear; <br> +I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven <br> +That often meet me here. <br> +I muse on joy that will not cease, <br> +Pure spaces clothed in living beams, <br> +Pure lilies of eternal peace, <br> +Whose odors haunt my dreams, <br> +And, stricken by an angel's hand, <br> +This mortal armor that I wear, <br> +This weight and size, this heart and eyes, <br> +Are touched, are turned to finest air. <br> +<br> +The clouds are broken in the sky, <br> +And through the mountain walls <br> +A rolling organ-harmony <br> +Swells up, and shakes and falls. <br> +Then move the trees, the copses nod, <br> +Wings flutter, voices hover clear: <br> +"O just and faithful knight of God! <br> +Ride on! the prize is near." <br> +So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; <br> +By bridge and ford, by park and pale, <br> +All armed I ride, whate'er betide, <br> +Until I find the Holy Grail. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="chglght"></a> <br> +<b>The Charge of the Light Brigade</b> <br> +<br> +Half a league, half a league, <br> +Half a league onward, <br> +All in the valley of death <br> +Rode the six hundred. <br> +<br> +"Forward, the Light Brigade! <br> +Charge for the guns!" he said; <br> +Into the valley of death <br> +Rode the six hundred. <br> +<br> +"Forward, the Light Brigade!" <br> +Was there a man dismayed? <br> +Not though the soldier knew <br> +Some one had blundered; <br> +Theirs not to make reply, <br> +Theirs not to reason why, <br> +Theirs but to do and die: <br> +Into the valley of death <br> +Rode the six hundred. <br> +<br> +Cannon to right of them, <br> +Cannon to left of them, <br> +Cannon in front of them <br> +Volleyed and thundered; <br> +Stormed at with shot and shell, <br> +Boldly they rode and well, <br> +Into the jaws of death, <br> +Into the mouth of hell <br> +Rode the six hundred. <br> +<br> +Flashed all their sabers bare, <br> +Flashed as they turned in air <br> +Sabring the gunners there, <br> +Charging an army, while <br> +All the world wondered. <br> +Plunged in the battery smoke, <br> +Right through the line they broke; <br> +Cossack and Russian <br> +Reeled from the saber-stroke— <br> +Shattered and sundered. <br> +Then they rode back, but not— <br> +Not the six hundred. <br> +<br> +Cannon to right of them, <br> +Cannon to left of them, <br> +Cannon behind them <br> +Volleyed and thundered; <br> +Stormed at with shot and shell, <br> +While horse and hero fell, <br> +They that had fought so well <br> +Came through the jaws of death, <br> +Back from the mouth of hell, <br> +All that was left of them, <br> +Left of six hundred. <br> +<br> +When can their glory fade? <br> +Oh, the wild charge they made! <br> +All the world wondered. <br> +Honor the charge they made, <br> +Honor the Light Brigade, <br> +Noble six hundred! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="ringout"></a> <br> +<b>Ring Out, Wild Bells</b> <br> +<br> +Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, <br> +The flying cloud, the frosty light; <br> +The year is dying in the night: <br> +Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. <br> +<br> +Ring out the old, ring in the new, <br> +Ring, happy bells, across the snow; <br> +The year is going, let him go; <br> +Ring out the false, ring in the true. <br> +<br> +Ring out the grief that saps the mind, <br> +For those that here we see no more; <br> +Ring out the feud of rich and poor, <br> +Ring in redress to all mankind. <br> +<br> +Ring out a slowly dying cause, <br> +And ancient forms of party strife; <br> +Ring in the nobler modes of life, <br> +With sweeter manners, purer laws. <br> +<br> +Ring out the want, the care, the sin, <br> +The faithless coldness of the times; <br> +Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, <br> +But ring the fuller minstrel in. <br> +<br> +Ring out false pride in place and blood, <br> +The civic slander and the spite; <br> +Ring in the love of truth and right, <br> +Ring in the common love of good. <br> +<br> +Ring out old shapes of foul disease; <br> +Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; <br> +Ring out the thousand wars of old, <br> +Ring in the thousand years of peace. <br> +<br> +Ring in the valiant man and free, <br> +The larger heart, the kindlier hand; <br> +Ring out the darkness of the land, <br> +Ring in the Christ that is to be. <br> +<br> +—From "IN MEMORIAM." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +ALFRED DOMETT <br> +ENGLAND, 1811-1887 <br> +<a name="xmashymn"></a> <br> +<b>A CHRISTMAS HYMN</b> <br> +<br> +It was the calm and silent night! <br> +Seven hundred years and fifty-three <br> +Had Rome been growing up to might, <br> +And now was queen of land and sea. <br> +No sound was heard of clashing wars; <br> +Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain: <br> +Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars <br> +Held undisturbed their ancient reign, <br> +In the solemn midnight, <br> +Centuries ago. <br> +<br> +'Twas in the calm and silent night! <br> +The senator of haughty Rome, <br> +Impatient, urged his chariot's flight, <br> +From lordly revel rolling home; <br> +Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell. <br> +His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; <br> +What recked the Roman what befell <br> +A paltry province far away, <br> +In the solemn midnight, <br> +Centuries ago. <br> +<br> +Within that province far away <br> +Went plodding home a weary boor <br> +A streak of light before him lay, <br> +Fallen through a half-shut stable-door <br> +Across his path. He passed—for naught <br> +Told what was going on within; <br> +How keen the stars, his only thought; <br> +The air how calm and cold and thin, <br> +In the solemn midnight, <br> +Centuries ago! <br> +<br> +Oh, strange indifference! low and high <br> +Drowsed over common joys and cares; <br> +The earth was still—but knew not why; <br> +The world was listening, unawares. <br> +How calm a moment may precede <br> +One that shall thrill the world for ever! <br> +To that still moment none would heed, <br> +Man's doom was linked no more to sever— <br> +In the solemn midnight, <br> +Centuries ago! <br> +<br> +It is the calm and solemn night! <br> +A thousand bells ring out, and throw <br> +Their joyous peals abroad, and smite <br> +The darkness—charmed and holy now! <br> +The night that erst no name had worn, <br> +To it a happy name is given; <br> +For in that stable lay, new-born, <br> +The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, <br> +In the solemn midnight, <br> +Centuries ago! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +ROBERT BROWNING <br> +ENGLAND, 1812-1889 <br> +<a name="hometh"></a> <br> +<b>Home-Thoughts from Abroad</b> <br> +<br> +Oh, to be in England <br> +Now that April's there, <br> +And whoever wakes in England <br> +Sees, some morning unaware, <br> +That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf <br> +Round the elm tree bole are in tiny leaf, <br> +While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough <br> +In England—now! <br> +<br> +And after April, when May follows, <br> +And the whitethroat builds and all the swallows! <br> +Hark, where my blossomed pear tree in the hedge <br> +Leans to the field and scatters on the clover <br> +Blossoms and dewdrops, at the bent spray's edge— <br> +That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, <br> +Lest you should think he never could recapture <br> +The first fine careless rapture! <br> +And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, <br> +All will be gay when noontide wakes anew <br> +The buttercups, the little children's dower— <br> +Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="pheid"></a> <br> +<b>Pheidippides</b> <br> +<br> +First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! <br> +Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all! <br> +Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in praise +<br> +—Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and spear! +<br> +Also ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, <br> +Now, henceforth and forever,—O latest to whom I upraise <br> +Hand and heart and voice! For Athens, leave pasture and flock! +<br> +Present to help, potent to save, Pan—patron I call! <br> +<br> +Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! <br> +See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no specter that speaks! +<br> +Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and you, <br> +"Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! <br> +Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command I +obeyed, <br> +Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs through +<br> +Was the space between city and city; two days, two nights did I +burn <br> +<br> +Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. <br> +Into their midst I broke: breath served but for "Persia has come! +<br> +Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; <br> +Razed to the ground is Eretria—but Athens, shall Athens sink, +<br> +Drop into dust and die—the flower of Hellas utterly die, <br> +Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the +stander-by? <br> +Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er <br> +destruction's brink? <br> +How—when? No care for my limbs!—there's lightning in all and +some— <br> +Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth!" +<br> +<br> +O my Athens—Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? <br> +Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, <br> +Malice,—each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate! +<br> +Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I stood +<br> +Quivering,—the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch from +dry wood: <br> +"Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? <br> +Thunder, thou Zeus! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond <br> +Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 'Ye must'!" +<br> +<br> +No bolt launched from Olumpos! Lo, their answer at last! <br> +"Has Persia come,—does Athens ask aid,—may Sparta befriend? +<br> +Nowise precipitate judgment—too weighty the issue at stake! <br> +Count we no time lost time which lags thro' respect to the Gods! +<br> +Ponder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds <br> +In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to take +<br> +Full-circle her state in the sky!' Already she rounds to it fast: +<br> +Athens must wait, patient as we—who judgment suspend." <br> +<br> +Athens,—except for that sparkle,—thy name, I had moldered to +ash! <br> +That sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was I back, +<br> +—Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the +vile! <br> +Yet "O Gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, <br> +Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, <br> +"Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you +erewhile? <br> +Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation! Too rash <br> +Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack! <br> +<br> +"Oak and olive and bay,—I bid you cease to enwreathe <br> +Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, <br> +You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a slave! +<br> +Rather I hail thee, Parnes,—trust to thy wild waste tract! <br> +Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain! What matter if slacked +<br> +My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave <br> +No deity deigns to drape with verdure?—at least I can breathe, +<br> +Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute!" <br> +Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; <br> +Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar <br> +Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. <br> +Right! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure across: +<br> +"Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the fosse? <br> +Athens to aid? Tho' the dive were thro' Erebos, thus I obey— +<br> +Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No bridge +<br> +Better!"—when—ha! what was it I came on, of wonders that are? +<br> +<br> +There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he—majestical Pan! <br> +Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof; +<br> +All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly—the curl +<br> +Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe <br> +As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. <br> +"Halt, Pheidippides!"—halt I did, my brain of a whirl: <br> +"Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began: <br> +"How is it,—Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? <br> +<br> +"Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast! <br> +Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful of old? +<br> +Aye, and still, and forever her friend! Test Pan, trust me! <br> +Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith <br> +In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God saith: +<br> +When Persia—so much as strews not the soil—is cast in the sea, +<br> +Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and least, +<br> +Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free and the +bold!' <br> +<br> +"Say Pan saith: 'Let this, foreshowing the place, be the +pledge!'" <br> +(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear <br> +—Fennel,—I grasped it a-tremble with Dew—whatever it bode), +<br> +"While, as for thee ..." But enough! He was gone. If I ran +hitherto— <br> +Be sure that the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. +<br> +Parnes to Athens—earth no more, the air was my road; <br> +Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's edge! +<br> +Pan for Athens, Pan for me! I too have a guerdon rare! <br> +<br> +Then spoke Miltiades. "And then, best runner of Greece, <br> +Whose limbs did duty indeed,—what gift is promised thyself? <br> +Tell it us straightway,—Athens the mother demands of her son!" +<br> +Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length <br> +His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of +his strength <br> +Into the utterance—"Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast done +<br> +Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed thee release <br> +From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' +<br> +<br> +"I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! <br> +Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may +grow,— <br> +Pound—Pan helping us—Persia to dust, and, under the deep, <br> +Whelm her away forever; and then,—no Athens to save,— <br> +Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave,— <br> +Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall creep <br> +Close to my knees,—recount how the God was awful yet kind, <br> +Promised their sire reward to the full—rewarding him—so!" <br> +<br> +Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: <br> +So, when Persia was dust, all cried "To Akropolis! <br> +Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! <br> +'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his +shield, <br> +Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field +<br> +And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through, +<br> +Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine thro' clay, +<br> +Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died—the bliss! <br> +<br> +So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute +<br> +Is still "Rejoice!"—his word which brought rejoicing indeed. +<br> +So is Pheidippides happy forever,—then noble strong man <br> +Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god +loved so well, <br> +He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered to +tell <br> +Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, +<br> +So to end gloriously—once to shout, thereafter be mute: <br> +"Athens is saved!"—Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. +<br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +HELEN HUNT JACKSON <br> +AMERICA, 1831-1885 <br> +<a name="clover"></a> <br> +<b>A Song of Clover</b> <br> +<br> +I wonder what the Clover thinks, <br> +Intimate friend of Bob-o'-links, <br> +Lover of Daisies slim and white, <br> +Waltzer with Buttercups at night; <br> +Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, <br> +Serving to them wine-dregs and lees, <br> +Left by the Royal Humming Birds, <br> +Who sip and pay with fine-spun words; <br> +Fellow with all the lowliest, <br> +Peer of the gayest and the best; <br> +Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, <br> +Kissed by the Dew-drops, one by one; <br> +Prophet of Good-Luck mystery <br> +By sign of four which few may see; <br> +Symbol of Nature's magic zone, <br> +One out of three, and three in one; <br> +Emblem of comfort in the speech <br> +Which poor men's babies early reach; <br> +Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, <br> +Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, <br> +Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,— <br> +Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;— <br> +Sweet in its every living breath, <br> +Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death! <br> +Oh! who knows what the Clover thinks? <br> +No one! unless the Bob-o'-links! <br> +<br> +—"SAXE HOLM." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +LEWIS CARROLL <br> +ENGLAND, 1832-1898 <br> +<a name="songlove"></a> <br> +<b>A Song of Love</b> <br> +<br> +Say, what is the spell, when her fledglings are cheeping, <br> +That lures the bird home to her nest? <br> +Or wakes the tired mother, whose infant is weeping, <br> +To cuddle and croon it to rest? <br> +What the magic that charms the glad babe in her arms, <br> +Till it cooes with the voice of the dove? <br> +'Tis a secret, and so let us whisper it low— <br> +And the name of the secret is Love! <br> +For I think it is Love, <br> +For I feel it is Love, <br> +For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! <br> +<br> +Say, whence is the voice that when anger is burning, <br> +Bids the whirl of the tempest to cease? <br> +That stirs the vexed soul with an aching—a yearning <br> +For the brotherly hand-grip of peace? <br> +Whence the music that fills all our being—that thrills <br> +Around us, beneath, and above? <br> +'Tis a secret: none knows how it comes, or it goes— <br> +But the name of the secret is Love! <br> +For I think it is Love, <br> +For I feel it is Love, <br> +For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! <br> +<br> +Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill, <br> +Like a picture so fair to the sight? <br> +That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow, <br> +Till the little lambs leap with delight? <br> +'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold, <br> +Though 'tis sung, by the angels above, <br> +In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear— <br> +And the name of the secret is Love! <br> +For I think it is Love, <br> +For I feel it is Love, <br> +For I'm sure it is nothing but Love! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +ANDREW LANG <br> +ENGLAND, 1844- <br> +<a name="scythe"></a> <br> +<b>Scythe Song</b> <br> +<br> +Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe, <br> +What is the word methinks you know, <br> +Endless over-word that the Scythe <br> +Sings to the blades of the grass below? <br> +Scythes that swing in the glass and clover, <br> +Something, still, they say as they pass; <br> +What is the word that, over and over, <br> +Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass? <br> +<br> +<i>Hush, ah hush</i>, the Scythes are saying, <br> +<i>Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;<br> + Hush</i>, they say to the grasses swaying; <br> +<i>Hush</i>, they sing to the clover deep! <br> +<i>Hush</i>—'tis the lullaby Time is singing— <br> +<i>Hush, and heed not, for all things pass</i>; <br> +<i>Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging</i> <br> +Over the clover, over the grass! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE <br> +ENGLAND, 1837- <br> +<a name="whiteb"></a> <br> +<b>White Butterflies</b> <br> +<br> +Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, <br> +Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, <br> +Small white wings that we scarce can see, <br> +Fly! <br> +<br> +Some fly light as a laugh of glee, <br> +Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; <br> +All to the haven where each would be, <br> +Fly! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +RUDYARD KIPLING <br> +ENGLAND, 1865- <br> +<a name="vicode"></a> <br> +<b>Recessional</b> <br> +<br> +<b>A Victorian Ode</b> <br> +<br> +God of our fathers, known of old— <br> +Lord of our far-flung battle line— <br> +Beneath whose awful hand we hold <br> +Dominion over palm and pine— <br> +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, <br> +Lest we forget—lest we forget! <br> +<br> +The tumult and the shouting dies— <br> +The captains and the kings depart— <br> +Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, <br> +An humble and a contrite heart. <br> +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, <br> +Lest we forget—lest we forget! <br> +<br> +Far-called our navies melt away— <br> +On dune and headland sinks the fire— <br> +Lo, all our pomp of yesterday <br> +Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! <br> +Judge of the nations, spare us yet, <br> +Lest we forget—lest we forget! <br> +<br> +If, drunk with sight of power, we loose <br> +Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— <br> +Such boasting as the Gentiles use, <br> +Or lesser breeds without the Law— <br> +Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, <br> +Lest we forget—lest we forget! <br> +<br> +For heathen heart that puts her trust <br> +In reeking tube and iron shard— <br> +All valiant dust that builds on dust, <br> +And guarding calls not Thee to guard. <br> +For frantic boast and foolish word, <br> +Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord! <br> +<br> +Amen. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT <br> +AMERICA, 1794-1878 <br> +<a name="waterf"></a> <br> +<b>To a Waterfowl</b> <br> +<br> +Whither, midst falling dew, <br> +While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, <br> +Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue <br> +Thy solitary way? <br> +<br> +Vainly the fowler's eye <br> +Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, <br> +As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, <br> +Thy figure floats along. <br> +<br> +Seek'st thou the plashy brink <br> +Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, <br> +Or where the rocking billows rise and sink <br> +On the chafed ocean side? <br> +<br> +There is a Power whose care <br> +Teaches thy way along that pathless coast— <br> +The desert and illimitable air— <br> +Lone wandering, but not lost. <br> +<br> +All day thy wings have fanned, <br> +At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, <br> +Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, <br> +Though the dark night is near. <br> +<br> +And soon that toil shall end; <br> +Soon shalt thou find a summer home and rest, <br> +And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, <br> +Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. <br> +<br> +Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven <br> +Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart <br> +Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, <br> +And shall not soon depart. <br> +<br> +He who, from zone to zone, <br> +Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, <br> +In the long way that I must tread alone, <br> +Will lead my steps aright. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="death"></a> <br> +<b>The Death of the Flowers</b> <br> +<br> +The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, <br> +Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. +<br> +Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; +<br> +They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread; <br> +The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, +<br> +And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. +<br> +<br> +Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang +and stood <br> +In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? <br> +Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers +<br> +Are lying in their lowly beds with the fair and good of ours. +<br> +The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain +<br> +Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. <br> +The windflower and the violet, they perished long ago, <br> +And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; <br> +But on the hills the goldenrod, and the aster in the wood, <br> +And the yellow sunflower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood, +<br> +Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the +plague on men, <br> +And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, +and glen. <br> +<br> +And now when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will +come, <br> +To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; <br> +When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees +are still, <br> +And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, <br> +The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he +bore, <br> +And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. +<br> +<br> +And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, <br> +The fair, meek blossom that grew up, and perished by my side. +<br> +In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the +leaf, <br> +And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: <br> +Yet not unmeet was it that one like that young friend of ours, +<br> +So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="thanat"></a> <br> +<b>Thanatopsis</b> <br> +<br> +To him who in the love of Nature holds <br> +Communion with her visible forms, she speaks <br> +A various language; for his gayer hours <br> +She has a voice of gladness, and a smile <br> +And eloquence of beauty, and she glides <br> +Into his darker musings, with a mild <br> +And healing sympathy, that steals away <br> +Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts <br> +Of the last bitter hour come like a blight <br> +Over thy spirit, and sad images <br> +Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, <br> +And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, <br> +Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart;— <br> +Go forth, under the open sky, and list <br> +To Nature's teachings, while from all around— <br> +Earth and her waters, and the depths of air— <br> +Comes a still voice—Yet a few days, and thee <br> +The all-beholding sun shall see no more <br> +In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, <br> +Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, <br> +Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist <br> +Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim <br> +Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, <br> +And, lost each human trace, surrendering up <br> +Thine individual being, shalt thou go <br> +To mix for ever with the elements, <br> +To be a brother to the insensible rock <br> +And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain <br> +Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak <br> +Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. <br> +<br> +Yet not to thine eternal resting-place <br> +Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish <br> +Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down <br> +With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, <br> +The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good, <br> +Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, <br> +All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills <br> +Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales <br> +Stretching in pensive quietness between; <br> +The venerable woods—rivers that move <br> +In majesty, and the complaining brooks <br> +That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, <br> +Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— <br> +Are but the solemn decorations all <br> +Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, <br> +The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, <br> +Are shining on the sad abodes of death, <br> +Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread <br> +The globe are but a handful to the tribes <br> +That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings <br> +Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, <br> +Or lose thyself in the continuous woods <br> +Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, <br> +Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there: <br> +And millions in those solitudes, since first <br> +The flight of years began, have laid them down <br> +In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone. <br> +So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw <br> +In silence from the living, and no friend <br> +Take note of thy departure? All that breathe <br> +Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh <br> +When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care <br> +Plod on, and each one as before will chase <br> +His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave <br> +Their mirth and their employments, and shall come <br> +And make their bed with thee. As the long train <br> +Of ages glides away, the sons of men, <br> +The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes <br> +In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, <br> +The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man,— <br> +Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, <br> +By those, who in their turn shall follow them. <br> +<br> +So live, that when thy summons comes to join <br> +The innumerable caravan, which moves <br> +To that mysterious realm, where each shall take <br> +His chamber in the silent halls of death, <br> +Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, <br> +Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed <br> +By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, <br> +Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch <br> +About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +RALPH WALDO EMERSON <br> +AMERICA, 1803-1882 <a name="woodnt"></a> <br> +<br> +'Twas one of the charméd days <br> +When the genius of God doth flow, <br> +The wind may alter twenty ways, <br> +A tempest cannot blow; <br> +It may blow north, it still is warm; <br> +Or south, it still is clear; <br> +Or east, it smells like a clover-farm; <br> +Or west, no thunder fear. <br> +The musing peasant lowly great <br> +Beside the forest water sate; <br> +The rope-like pine roots crosswise grown <br> +Compose the network of his throne; <br> +The wide lake, edged with sand and grass, <br> +Was burnished to a floor of glass, <br> +Painted with green and proud <br> +Of the tree and of the cloud. <br> +He was the heart of all the scene; <br> +On him the sun looked more serene; <br> +To hill and cloud his face was known,— <br> +It seemed the likeness of their own; <br> +They knew by secret sympathy <br> +The public child of earth and sky. <br> +"You ask," he said, "what guide <br> +Me through trackless thickets led, <br> +Through thick-stemmed woodlands rough and wide. <br> +I found the water's bed. <br> +The watercourses were my guide; <br> +I traveled grateful by their side, <br> +Or through their channel dry; <br> +They led me through the thicket damp, <br> +Through brake and fern, the beaver's camp, <br> +Through beds of granite cut my road, <br> +And their resistless friendship showed: <br> +The falling waters led me, <br> +The foodful waters fed me, <br> +And brought me to the lowest land, <br> +Unerring to the ocean sand. <br> +The moss upon the forest bark <br> +Was pole-star when the night was dark; <br> +The purple berries in the wood <br> +Supplied me necessary food; <br> +For Nature ever faithful is <br> +To such as trust her faithfulness. <br> +When the forest shall mislead me, <br> +When the night and morning lie, <br> +When sea and land refuse to feed me, <br> +'Twill be time enough to die; <br> +Then will yet my mother yield <br> +A pillow in her greenest field, <br> +Nor the June flowers scorn to cover <br> +The clay of their departed lover." <br> +<br> +—From "WOODNOTES." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW <br> +AMERICA, 1807-1882 <br> +<a name="daybrk"></a> <br> +<b>Daybreak</b> <br> +<br> +A wind came up out of the sea, <br> +And said, "O mists, make room for me." <br> +<br> +It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, <br> +Ye mariners, the night is gone." <br> +<br> +And hurried landward far away, <br> +Crying, "Awake! it is the day." <br> +<br> +It said unto the forest, "Shout! <br> +Hang all your leafy banners out!" <br> +<br> +It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, <br> +And said, "O bird, awake and sing." <br> +<br> +And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, <br> +Your clarion blow; the day is near." <br> +<br> +It whispered to the fields of corn, <br> +"Bow down, and hail the coming morn." <br> +<br> +It shouted through the belfry-tower, <br> +"Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour." <br> +<br> +It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, <br> +And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie." <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="agass"></a> <br> +<b>The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz</b> <br> +<br> +May 28, 1857 <br> +<br> +It was fifty years ago <br> +In the pleasant month of May, <br> +In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, <br> +A child in its cradle lay. <br> +<br> +And Nature, the old nurse, took <br> +The child upon her knee, <br> +Saying: "Here is a story-book <br> +Thy Father has written for thee. <br> +<br> +"Come, wander with me," she said, <br> +"Into regions yet untrod; <br> +And read what is still unread <br> +In the manuscripts of God." <br> +<br> +And he wandered away and away <br> +With Nature, the dear old nurse, <br> +Who sang to him night and day <br> +The rhymes of the universe. <br> +<br> +And whenever the way seemed long, <br> +Or his heart began to fail, <br> +She would sing a more wonderful song, <br> +Or tell a more marvelous tale. <br> +<br> +So she keeps him still a child, <br> +And will not let him go, <br> +Though at times his heart beats wild <br> +For the beautiful Pays de Vaud; <br> +<br> +Though at times he hears in his dreams <br> +The Ranz des Vaches of old, <br> +And the rush of mountain streams <br> +From the glaciers clear and cold; <br> +<br> +And the mother at home says, "Hark! <br> +For his voice I listen and yearn; <br> +It is growing late and dark, <br> +And my boy does not return!" <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="nitehy"></a> <br> +<b>Hymn to the Night</b> <br> +<br> +I heard the trailing garments of the Night <br> +Sweep through her marble halls! <br> +I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light <br> +From the celestial walls! <br> +<br> +I felt her presence, by its spell of might, <br> +Stoop o'er me from above; <br> +The calm, majestic presence of the Night, <br> +As of the one I love. <br> +<br> +I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, <br> +The manifold, soft chimes, <br> +That fill the haunted chambers of the Night, <br> +Like some old poet's rhymes. <br> +<br> +From the cool cisterns of the midnight air <br> +My spirit drank repose; <br> +The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,— <br> +From those deep cisterns flows. <br> +<br> +O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear <br> +What man has borne before! <br> +Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, <br> +And they complain no more. <br> +<br> +Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer! <br> +Descend with broad-winged flight, <br> +The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, <br> +The best-beloved Night! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL <br> +AMERICA, 1819-1891 <br> +<a name="long"></a> <br> +<b>Longing</b> <br> +<br> +Of all the myriad moods of mind <br> +That through the soul come thronging, <br> +Which one was e'er so dear, so kind, <br> +So beautiful as Longing? <br> +The thing we long for, that we are <br> +For one transcendent moment <br> +Before the Present poor and bare <br> +Can make its sneering comment. <br> +<br> +Still, through our paltry stir and strife, <br> +Glows down the wished Ideal, <br> +And Longing molds in clay what Life <br> +Carves in the marble Real; <br> +To let the new life in, we know, <br> +Desire must ope the portal; <br> +Perhaps the longing to be so <br> +Helps make the soul immortal. <br> +<br> +Longing is God's fresh heavenward will <br> +With our poor earthward striving; <br> +We quench it that we may be still <br> +Content with merely living: <br> +But, would we learn that heart's full scope <br> +Which we are hourly wronging, <br> +Our lives must climb from hope to hope <br> +And realize our longing. <br> +<br> +Ah! let us hope that to our praise <br> +Good God not only reckons <br> +The moments when we tread His ways, <br> +But when the spirit beckons,— <br> +That some slight good is also wrought <br> +Beyond self-satisfaction, <br> +When we are simply good in thought, <br> +Howe'er we fail in action. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<a name="lyre"></a> <br> +<b>The Finding of the Lyre</b> <br> +<br> +There lay upon the ocean's shore <br> +What once a tortoise served to cover. <br> +A year and more, with rush and roar, <br> +The surf had rolled it over, <br> +Had played with it, and flung it by, <br> +As wind and weather might decide it, <br> +Then tossed it high where sand-drifts dry <br> +Cheap burial might provide it. <br> +<br> +It rested there to bleach or tan, <br> +The rains had soaked, the suns had burned it; <br> +With many a ban the fisherman <br> +Had stumbled o'er and spurned it; <br> +And there the fisher-girl would stay, <br> +Conjecturing with her brother <br> +How in their play the poor estray <br> +Might serve some use or other. <br> +<br> +So there it lay, through wet and dry, <br> +As empty as the last new sonnet, <br> +Till by and by came Mercury, <br> +And, having mused upon it, <br> +"Why, here," cried he, "the thing of things <br> +In shape, material, and dimensions! <br> +Give it but strings, and lo, it sings, <br> +A wonderful invention!" <br> +<br> +So said, so done; the chords he strained, <br> +And, as his fingers o'er them hovered, <br> +The shell disdained, a soul had gained, <br> +The lyre had been discovered. <br> +O empty world that round us lies, <br> +Dead shell, of soul and thought forsaken, <br> +Brought we but eyes like Mercury's, <br> +In thee what songs should waken! <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +JOHN BURROUGHS <br> +AMERICA, 1837- <br> +<a name="wait"></a> <br> +<b>Waiting</b>[<a href="#foot2">1</a>] <br> +<br> +Serene, I fold my hands and wait, <br> +Nor care for wind, or tide, or sea; <br> +I rave no more 'gainst time or fate, <br> +For lo! my own shall come to me. <br> +<br> +I stay my haste, I make delays, <br> +For what avails this eager pace? <br> +I stand amid the eternal ways, <br> +And what is mine shall know my face. <br> +<br> +Asleep, awake, by night or day, <br> +The friends I seek are seeking me; <br> +No wind can drive my bark astray, <br> +Or change the tide of destiny. <br> +<br> +What matter if I stand alone? <br> +I wait with joy the coming years; <br> +My heart shall reap where it has sown, <br> +And garner up its fruit of tears. <br> +<br> +The waters know their own, and draw <br> +The brook that springs in yonder height; <br> +So flows the good with equal law <br> +Unto the soul of pure delight. <br> +<br> +The stars come nightly to the sky; <br> +The tidal wave unto the sea; <br> +Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high, <br> +Can keep my own away from me. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <a name="foot2"></a> <br> +[Footnote 1: Used by courteous permission of the publishers, <br> +Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co., Boston.] <br> +<br> +JOAQUIN MILLER <br> +AMERICA, 1841- <br> +<a name="colum"></a> <br> +<b>Columbus</b> <br> +<br> +Behind him lay the gray Azores, <br> +Behind him the gates of Hercules; <br> +Before him not the ghost of shores, <br> +Before him only shoreless seas. <br> +The good mate said: "Now must we pray, <br> +For lo! the very stars are gone. <br> +Brave Admiral, speak; what shall I say?" <br> +"Why, say: 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'" <br> +<br> +"My men grow mutinous day by day; <br> +My men grow ghastly wan and weak," <br> +The stout mate thought of home; a spray <br> +Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. <br> +"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, <br> +If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" <br> +"Why, you shall say, at break of day, <br> +'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'" <br> +<br> +They sailed and sailed as winds might blow, <br> +Until at last the blanched mate said: <br> +"Why, now not even God would know <br> +Should I and all my men fall dead. <br> +These very winds forget their way, <br> +For God from these dread seas is gone. <br> +Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—" <br> +He said: "Sail on! sail on! and on!" <br> +<br> +They sailed. They sailed. Then spake the mate: <br> +"This mad sea shows his teeth to-night. <br> +He curls his lip, he lies in wait, <br> +With lifted teeth, as if to bite! <br> +Brave Admiral, say but one good word: <br> +What shall we do when hope is gone?" <br> +The words leapt as a leaping sword: <br> +"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!" <br> +<br> +Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, <br> +And peered through darkness. Ah, that night <br> +Of all dark nights! And then a speck— <br> +A light! a light! a light! a light! <br> +It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! <br> +It grew to be Time's burst of dawn. <br> +He gained a world; he gave that world <br> +Its greatest lesson: "On! sail on!" <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +JOHN VANCE CHENEY <br> +AMERICA, 1848- <br> +<a name="evensong"></a> <br> +<b>Evening Songs</b>[<a href="#foot3">1</a>] <br> +<br> +I <br> +<br> +The birds have hid, the winds are low, <br> +The brake is awake, the grass aglow: <br> +The bat is the rover, <br> +No bee on the clover, <br> +The day is over, <br> +And evening come. <br> +<br> +The heavy beetle spreads her wings, <br> +The toad has the road, the cricket sings: <br> +The bat is the rover, <br> +No bee on the clover, <br> +The day is over, <br> +And evening come. <br> +<br> +II <br> +<br> +It is that pale, delaying hour <br> +When nature closes like a flower, <br> +And on the spirit lies, <br> +The silence of the earth and skies. <br> +The world has thoughts she will not own <br> +When shade and dream with night have flown; <br> +Bright overhead, a star <br> +Makes golden guesses what they are. <br> +<br> +<br> +III <br> +<br> +Now is Light, sweet mother, down the west, <br> +With little Song against her breast; <br> +She took him up, all tired with play, <br> +And fondly bore him far away. <br> +<br> +While he sleeps, one wanders in his stead, <br> +A fainter glory round her head; <br> +She follows happy waters after, <br> +Leaving behind low, rippling laughter. <br> +<br> +IV <br> +<br> +Behind the hilltop drops the sun, <br> +The curled heat falters on the sand, <br> +While evening's ushers, one by one, <br> +Lead in the guests of Twilight Land. <br> +<br> +The bird is silent overhead, <br> +Below the beast has laid him down; <br> +Afar, the marbles watch the dead, <br> +The lonely steeple guards the town. <br> +<br> +The south wind feels its amorous course <br> +To cloistered sweet in thickets found; <br> +The leaves obey its tender force, <br> +And stir 'twixt silence and a sound. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <a name="foot3"></a> <br> +[Footnote 1: From "Poems," published by Messrs. Houghton, +Mifflin, <br> +& Co., Boston.] <br> +<br> +BLISS CARMAN <br> +CANADA, 1861- <br> +<a name="vagsong"></a> <br> +<b>A Vagabond Song</b>[<a href="#foot4">1</a>] <br> +<br> +There is something in the Autumn that is native to my blood— +<br> +Touch of manner, hint of mood; <br> +And my heart is like a rhyme, <br> +With the yellow and the purple and the crimson keeping time. <br> +<br> +The scarlet of the maples can shake me like a cry <br> +Of bugles going by. <br> +And my lonely spirit thrills <br> +To see the frosty asters like smoke upon the hills. <br> +<br> +There is something in October sets the gypsy blood astir; <br> +We must rise and follow her, <br> +When from every hill of fame <br> +She calls and calls each vagabond by name. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <a name="foot4"></a> <br> +[Footnote 1: From "Songs from Vagabondia," by Bliss Carman. Used +<br> +by the courteous permission of the author and the publishers, +<br> +Messrs. Small, Maynard, & Co.] <br> +<br> +JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY <br> +AMERICA, 1852- <br> +<a name="oldglo"></a> <br> +<b>Old Glory</b>[<a href="#foot5">1</a>] <br> +<br> +Old Glory! say, who, <br> +By the ships and the crew, <br> +And the long, blended ranks of the gray and the blue— <br> +Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear <br> +With such pride everywhere, <br> +As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air <br> +And leap out full length, as we're wanting you to?— <br> +Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, <br> +And the honor and fame so becoming to you? <br> +Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, <br> +With your stars at their glittering best overhead— <br> +By day or by night <br> +Their delightfullest light <br> +Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! <br> +Who gave you the name of Old Glory—say, who— <br> +Who gave you the name of Old Glory? <br> +<br> +The old banner lifted and faltering then <br> +In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again. <br> +Old Glory: the story we're wanting to hear <br> +Is what the plain facts of your christening were,— <br> +For your name—just to hear it, <br> +Repeat it, and cheer it, 's a tang to the spirit <br> +As salt as a tear;— <br> +And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, <br> +There's a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye, <br> +And an aching to live for you always—or die, <br> +If, dying, we still keep you waving on high <br> +And so, by our love <br> +For you, floating above, <br> +And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, <br> +Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why <br> +Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory? <br> +<br> +Then the old banner leaped like a sail in the blast, <br> +And fluttered an audible answer at last <br> +And it spake with a shake of the voice, and it said: <br> +By the driven snow-white and the living blood-red <br> +Of my bars and their heaven of stars overhead— <br> +By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, <br> +As I float from the steeple or flap at the mast, <br> +Or droop o'er the sod where the long grasses nod,— <br> +My name is as old as the glory of God <br> +So I came by the name of Old Glory. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <a name="foot5"></a> <br> +[Footnote 1: This and the following poems are used by the +courteous <br> +permission of the publishers, Messrs. Bobbs, Merrill, & Co., +<br> +Indianapolis.] <br> +<br> +HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW <br> +AMERICA, 1807-1882 <br> +<a name="kavan"></a> <br> +<b>Kavanagh</b> <br> +<br> +Ah, how wonderful is the advent of the spring!— <br> +the great annual miracle of the blossoming of Aaron's <br> +rod, repeated on myriads and myriads of branches! <br> +—the gentle progression and growth of herbs, <br> +flowers, trees,—gentle, and yet irrepressible,— <br> +which no force can stay, no violence restrain, like <br> +love, that wins its way and cannot be withstood by <br> +any human power, because itself is divine power. If <br> +spring came but once a century, instead of once a <br> +year, or burst forth with a sound of an earthquake <br> +and not in silence, what wonder and expectation <br> +would there be in all hearts to behold the miraculous <br> +change! <br> +<br> +But now the silent succession suggests nothing <br> +but necessity. To most men, only the cessation of <br> +the miracle would be miraculous, and the perpetual <br> +exercise of God's power seems less wonderful than <br> +its withdrawal would be. We are like children who <br> +are astonished and delighted only by the second-hand <br> +of the clock, not by the hour-hand. <br> +<br> +In the fields and woods, meanwhile, there were <br> +other signs and signals of the summer. The darkening <br> +foliage; the embrowning grain; the golden dragonfly <br> +haunting the blackberry bushes; the cawing <br> +crows, that looked down from the mountain on the <br> +cornfield, and waited day after day for the scarecrow <br> +to finish his work and depart; and the smoke of far-off <br> +burning woods, that pervaded the air and hung <br> +in purple haze about the summits of the mountains, <br> +—these were the vaunt-couriers and attendants of <br> +the hot August. <br> +<br> +The brown autumn came. Out of doors, it brought <br> +to the fields the prodigality of the golden harvest,— <br> +to the forest, revelations of light,—and to the sky, <br> +the sharp air, the morning mist, the red clouds at <br> +evening. Within doors, the sense of seclusion, the <br> +stillness of closed and curtained windows, musings by <br> +the fireside, books, friends, conversation, and the long, <br> +meditative evenings. To the farmer, it brought surcease <br> +of toil,—to the scholar, that sweet delirium of <br> +the brain which changes toil to pleasure. It brought <br> +the wild duck back to the reedy marshes of the south; <br> +it brought the wild song back to the fervid brain of the <br> +poet. Without, the village street was paved with gold; <br> +the river ran red with the reflection of the leaves. <br> +Within, the faces of friends brightened the gloomy <br> +walls; the returning footsteps of the long-absent <br> +gladdened the threshold; and all the sweet amenities <br> +of social life again resumed their interrupted reign. <br> +<br> +The first snow came. How beautiful it was, falling <br> +so silently, all day long, all night long, on the <br> +mountains, on the meadows, on the roofs of the <br> +living, on the graves of the dead! All white save <br> +the river, that marked its course by a winding black <br> +line across the landscape; and the leafless trees, that <br> +against the leaden sky now revealed more fully the <br> +wonderful beauty and intricacy of their branches! <br> +<br> +What silence, too, came with the snow, and what <br> +seclusion! Every sound was muffled, every noise <br> +changed to something soft and musical. No more <br> +trampling hoofs,—no more rattling wheels! Only <br> +the chiming sleigh bells, beating as swift and merrily <br> +as the hearts of children. <br> +<br> + * * * * * <br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<a name="bios"></a> <br> +APPENDIX: BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES <br> +<br> +<br> +ENGLISH AUTHORS <br> +<br> +<b>Geoffrey Chaucer</b>, the father of English poetry, was born +in <br> +London in 1340. The colleges of Oxford and Cambridge both claim +him <br> +as a student. He enjoyed the favor of King Edward the Third, and +<br> +passed much of his time at court. In 1386 he was made a knight, +and <br> +during the latter part of his life he received an annual pension. +<br> +He died in 1400. His writings are in a language so different from +<br> +modern English that many persons cannot enjoy their beauties. His +<br> +principal poems are "Canterbury Tales," "The Legend of Good +Women," <br> +"The Court of Love," and "Troilus and Cressida." <br> +<br> +<b>Edmund Spenser</b> was born in London about 1553. He was <br> +graduated at Cambridge in 1576, and soon after wrote "The +Shepherd's <br> +Calendar." Sir Philip Sidney and Sir Walter Raleigh were his +friends <br> +and patrons. In 1598 Spenser was appointed a sheriff in Ireland, +and <br> +not long afterward in a rebellion his property was destroyed and +his <br> +child killed. He did not long survive this calamity. His +best-known <br> +poem is "The Faery Queen." <br> +<br> +<b>The reign of Queen Elizabeth</b> is often called the Golden +Age of <br> +English literature. Not only did Spenser and Shakespeare live +then, <br> +but a large number of minor poets also rendered the period <br> +illustrious. Among the dramatic poets Christopher Marlowe, +Beaumont <br> +and Fletcher, who wrote together, and Ben Jonson hold an +honorable <br> +position. The most noted lyric poets of the day were George +Herbert, <a name="shake"></a> <br> +Sir Walter Raleigh, and Sir Philip Sidney. <b>William +Shakespeare</b>, <br> +the greatest of English poets, was born at Stratford-on-Avon in +<br> +April, 1564. He is supposed to have been educated at the free +school <br> +of Stratford. When he was about twenty-two, he went to London, +and <br> +after a hard struggle with poverty, he became first an actor, +then a <br> +successful playwright and theater manager. Having gained not only +<br> +fame but a modest fortune, he retired in 1611 to live at ease in +<br> +Stratford until his death in 1616. Besides the two long poems, +<br> +"Venus and Adonis" and "Lucrece," which first won popularity for +<br> +him, he has written thirty-seven plays, ranging from the lightest +<br> +comedy, through romance and historical narrative, to the darkest +<br> +tragedy. Whatever form his verse takes,—sonnet, song, or +dramatic <br> +poetry,—it shows the touch of the master hand, the inspiration +of <br> +the master mind. Of his plays those which are still most +frequently <br> +acted are the tragedies "Hamlet," "Macbeth," "King Lear," and +<br> +"Othello," the comedies "Midsummer-night's Dream," "The Merchant +of <br> +Venice," "As You Like It," and "The Comedy of Errors," and the +<br> +historical plays "Julius Caesar," "King Henry IV," "King Henry +V," <br> +and "Richard III." <br> +<a name="bjon"></a> <br> +<b>Ben Jonson</b> was born at Westminster, England, about 1573. +He <br> +was the friend of Shakespeare and a famous dramatist in his day, +but <br> +his plays no longer hold the stage. His best play is "Every Man +in <br> +his Humour." His songs and short poems are beautiful. He died in +<br> +1637. His tomb in Westminster Abbey is inscribed "O Rare Ben +Jonson!" <br> +<br> +<b>George Herbert</b> was born in Montgomery Castle, Wales, April +3, <br> +1593. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. Later he +<br> +studied for the ministry and was appointed vicar of Bremerton. +His <br> +"Sacred Poems" are noted for their purity and beauty of +sentiment. <br> +He died in 1633. <br> +<a name="milton"></a> <br> +<b>John Milton</b> was born in London, December 9, 1608. He was +<br> +educated at Christ's College, Cambridge. Later he spent a year in +<br> +travel, meeting the great Galileo while in Italy. He was an +ardent <br> +advocate of freedom, and under the Protectorate he was the +secretary <br> +of the Protector, Oliver Cromwell. When only forty-six, he became +<br> +totally blind, yet his greatest work was done after this +misfortune <br> +overtook him. As a poet he stands second only to Shakespeare. His +<br> +early poems, "Comus," "L'Allegro," "Il Penseroso," and "Lycidas," +<br> +are very beautiful, and his "Paradise Lost" is the finest epic +poem <br> +in the English language. He died in 1674. <br> +<br> +<b>The minor poets</b> of the age of Milton were Edmund Waller, +<br> +Robert Herrick, George Wither, Sir John Suckling, and Sir Richard +<br> +Lovelace. <br> +<br> +<b>John Dryden</b> was born August 9, 1631. He was educated at +<br> +Trinity College, Cambridge. His poem in honor of the restoration +<br> +of Charles II won him the position of Poet Laureate. His +best-known <br> +works are the poetic "Translation of Virgil's Aeneid," +"Alexander's <br> +Feast," "The Hind and the Panther," and the drama "The Indian +<br> +Emperor." He died in 1700. <br> +<br> +<b>The reign of Queen Anne</b> was rendered brilliant by the +writings <br> +of Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison, Edward Young, James Thompson, +<br> +William Collins, Sir Richard Steele, Jonathan Swift, and Daniel +<br> +Defoe. Not only were the poems of this period beautiful, but +prose <br> +also reached a high development. <br> +<br> +<b>Joseph Addison</b> was born at Milston, England, May 1, 1672. +He <br> +completed his education at Queen's and Magdalen colleges, Oxford. +He <br> +entered the diplomatic service and rose steadily, becoming one of +the <br> +two principal secretaries of state two years before his death. He +<br> +attained a higher political position than any other writer has +ever <br> +achieved through his literary ability. With Steele he published +<br> +<i>The Tatler</i>, and later <i>The Spectator</i>, at first a +daily <br> +paper and afterward a tri-weekly one. He was a master of English +<br> +prose, and his poems are elevated and serious in style. He died +in <br> +1719. <br> +<a name="watts"></a> <br> +<b>Isaac Watts</b> was born at Southampton, July 17, 1674. He +studied <br> +for the ministry. He wrote nearly five hundred hymns besides his +<br> +"Divine and Moral Songs for Children." Many of his hymns are +still <br> +favorites. He died in 1748. <br> +<br> +<b>Alexander Pope</b> was born in London, May 21, 1688. Sickly +and <br> +deformed, he was unable to attend school, but he was nevertheless +<br> +a great student. His writings are witty and satirical. His +best-known <br> +poems are "Essay on Man," "Translation of the Iliad," "Essay on +<br> +Criticism," and "The Rape of the Lock." He died in 1744. <br> +<br> +<b>Thomas Gray</b> was born in London in 1716. He was educated at +<br> +Eton, and Peter-House College, Cambridge. He lived all his life +at <br> +Cambridge, ultimately being appointed professor of Modern +History. <br> +His most famous poem is the "Elegy Written in a Country +Churchyard." <br> +He died in 1771. <br> +<a name="cowper"></a> <br> +<b>William Cowper</b> was born at Great Berkhamstead, England, +<br> +November 26, 1731. He was educated at Westminster School, and +studied <br> +law at the Middle Temple, being called to the bar in 1754. He was +<br> +very delicate and afflicted with nervousness that amounted to +<br> +insanity at times. Not until 1780 did he seriously begin his +literary <br> +career. Then for a period of a little more than ten years he +worked <br> +with success and was happy. His most famous poems are "John +Gilpin," <br> +"The Task," "Hope," and "Lines on my Mother's Portrait." In the +<br> +latter part of his life his nervous melancholy again affected +him. <br> +He died in 1800. <br> +<a name="burns"></a> <br> +<b>Robert Burns</b> was born at Ayr in Scotland, January 25, +1759. <br> +He was the son of a poor farmer, and he himself followed the plow +<br> +in his earlier days. He was about to seek his fortune in America +<br> +when his first volume of poems was published and won him fame at +<br> +once. His style is simple and sincere, with a fire of intensity. +<br> +His best poems are "Tam o'Shanter" and "The Cottar's Saturday +Night." <br> +He died July 21, 1796. <br> +<a name="wordw"></a> <br> +<b>William Wordsworth</b> was born at Cockermouth, in Cumberland, +<br> +England, on April 7, 1770. He completed his education at St +John's <br> +College, Cambridge, taking his degree of B A in 1791. He was <br> +appointed Poet Laureate in 1843, succeeding Robert Southey. He is +<br> +the poet of nature and of simple life. Among his best known poems +<br> +are "The Ode to Immortality," "The Excursion," and "Yarrow <br> +Revisited." He died April 23, 1850. <br> +<a name="scott"></a> <br> +<b>Sir Walter Scott</b> was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771. +He <br> +was educated at Edinburgh University and afterward studied law in +<br> +his father's office. His energy and tireless work were marvelous. +<br> +He followed the practice of his profession until he was appointed +<br> +Clerk of Session. His official duties were scrupulously +performed, <br> +yet his literary work surpasses in volume and ability that of any +of <br> +his contemporaries. Novelist, historian, poet, he excelled in +whatever <br> +style of literature he attempted. His best-known poems are "The +Lady <br> +of the Lake," "Marmion," and "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." He +died <br> +in 1832. <br> +<br> +<b>Robert Southey</b> was born at Bristol, August 12, 1774. He +was <br> +expelled from Westminster School for writing an article against +<br> +school flogging. Later he studied at Balliol College, Oxford. He +was <br> +an incessant worker, laboring at all branches of literature, from +<br> +his famous nursery story, "The Three Bears," to "The Life of +Nelson." <br> +He was appointed Laureate in 1813. His most successful long poems +are <br> +"Thalaba," and "The Curse of Kehama." He died in 1843. <br> +<a name="tomcam"></a> <br> +<b>Thomas Campbell</b> was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1777. He +was <br> +educated at the university of his native town, and he was +regarded as <br> +its most brilliant scholar, in his later life he was elected Lord +<br> +Rector of the university. His best known poems are "The Pleasures +of <br> +Hope," "Gertrude of Wyoming," and "Ye Mariners of England." He +died <br> +in 1844. <br> +<a name="moore"></a> <br> +<b>Thomas Moore</b> was born in Dublin, Ireland, in 1779. He was +<br> +educated at Trinity College, and afterward studied law at the +Middle <br> +Temple, London. "Lalla Rookh," and his "Irish Melodies" have won +for <br> +him a lasting fame as a poet. He died February 26, 1852. <br> +<br> +<b>James Henry Leigh Hunt</b> was born near London in 1784. He +left <br> +school when only fifteen to become a clerk in the War Office, +where <br> +he remained until 1808, when he and his brother published +<i>The<br> + Examiner</i>. From that time he was occupied as an editor and +writer, <br> +being connected with different periodicals. He was the intimate +<br> +friend of Byron, Moore, Shelley, and Keats. One of his best +poems, <br> +"Rimini," was written in prison, where he was condemned to remain +for <br> +two years because he had published a satirical article about the +<br> +prince regent. In his later years a pension of two hundred pounds +<br> +was granted him. He died August 28, 1859. <br> +<a name="byron"></a> <br> +<b>George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron</b>, was born in London, +January <br> +22, 1788. He studied at Trinity College, Cambridge, but did not +<br> +remain to take his degree. While at the university he published a +<br> +volume of poems, "Hours of Idleness," which he followed shortly +by <br> +the satirical poem "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," which +won <br> +him immediate recognition. He wrote many dramatic poems, but his +most <br> +beautiful work is "Childe Harold." He was the friend of Shelley +and <br> +Leigh Hunt, and together they published <i>The Liberal</i>. In +1823 <br> +he joined the Greeks in their struggle for freedom, and the +exposure <br> +and exertion that he suffered in this war brought on the fever of +<br> +which he died in April, 1824. <br> +<br> +<b>Percy Bysshe Shelley</b> was born at Field Place, England, +August <br> +4, 1792. He was entered at University College, Oxford, but was +<br> +shortly expelled as an atheist. His life was a sad one, his first +<br> +marriage was unhappy, and he was drowned when only thirty years +old, <br> +in July, 1822. His longest and best works are "The Cenci," <br> +"Prometheus Unbound," "The Revolt of Islam," and "Adonais," an +elegy <br> +on the death of his friend, the poet Keats, near whom he was +buried. <br> +<br> +<b>John Keats</b> was born in London, England, in 1795 or 1796. +His <br> +poem "Endymion" was criticised severely in the <i>Quarterly<br> + Review</i>. Keats was so sensitive that this criticism is +supposed to <br> +have aggravated his malady, and thus to be responsible for his +early <br> +death. Among his other poems may be noted "Hyperion," "Lamia," +and <br> +"The Eve of St Agnes." He died at Rome in 1821. <br> +<br> +<b>Thomas Hood</b> was born in London, England, May 23, 1799. His +<br> +humorous verses first attracted attention, but his serious poems +have <br> +given him a lasting place in literature. Among these are "The +Song of <br> +the Shirt," "The Bridge of Sighs," "Eugene Aram," and "Ode to +<br> +Melancholy." He died in 1845. <br> +<a name="maca"></a> <br> +<b>Thomas Babington, Lord Macaulay</b>, was born in +Leicestershire, <br> +October 25, 1800. He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge, +and <br> +studied law. He disliked his profession, greatly preferring <br> +literature. In 1830 he entered Parliament and was made Secretary +of <br> +War in 1839. He was elected Lord Rector of Glasgow University and +<br> +was raised to the peerage in 1857. He died in 1859. His +best-known <br> +poems are "Ivry" and "The Lays of Ancient Rome." <br> +<br> +<b>The reign of Queen Victoria</b> from a literary standpoint is +<br> +second only to that of Elizabeth in brilliancy. The Victorian Age +is <br> +usually applied to the whole century, during the better part of +which <br> +Victoria reigned. The literature of this age is rich with the +writings <br> +of Robert Browning, Alfred Tennyson, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, +<br> +Algernon Charles Swinburne, Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his sister +<br> +Christina, William Morris, Matthew Arnold, Edwin Arnold, Jean +<br> +Ingelow, Owen Meredith, Arthur Hugh Clough, Adelaide Procter, and +a <br> +host of minor poets. <br> +<a name="tenny"></a> <br> +<b>Alfred, Lord Tennyson</b>, was born at Somersby, August 6, +1809. <br> +He was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. His first book of +<br> +poems, written with his brother Charles, was published two years +<br> +before he entered college; from that time until his death his +literary <br> +work was continuous. In 1850 he succeeded Wordsworth as Poet +Laureate, <br> +and thirty-four years later was raised to the peerage. His poems +<br> +cover a wide range—lyrics, ballads, idyls, and dramas. His most +<br> +important works are "The Princess," "In Memoriam," "Maud," and +"The <br> +Idylls of the King." He died in 1892. <br> +<br> +<b>Elizabeth Barrett Browning</b> was born at Durham, England, +March <br> +6, 1809. She was highly educated and was proficient in both Greek +and <br> +Latin. She wrote her first verses at the age of ten, and her +first <br> +volume of poems was published when she was but seventeen years +old. <br> +In 1846 she was married to the poet Robert Browning. Her first +known <br> +works are "Aurora Leigh," a novel in verse, "The Portuguese +Sonnets," <br> +"Casa Guidi Windows," and "The Cry of the Children," a poem +written <br> +to show the wretchedness of the little children employed in the +mines <br> +and factories of England. She died at Florence, Italy, in June, +1861. <br> +<a name="brown"></a> <br> +<b>Robert Browning</b> was born in Camberwell, England, in 1812. +He <br> +was educated at the University of London. He married Elizabeth +<br> +Barrett, the poet, and together they lived much of their time in +<br> +Italy. They were deeply interested in the struggle of Italy for +<br> +freedom, and both wrote on this subject. In his long life +Browning <br> +wrote many volumes of poems, and it is difficult to choose among +<br> +them. "The Pied Piper of Hamelin" is always a favorite with the +young <br> +people, as are "How they brought the Good News from Ghent to +Aix," <br> +"Herve Riel," and "Ratisbon." His most popular poems are "Pippa +<br> +Passes," "The Ring and the Book," "A Blot on the 'Scutcheon," and +<br> +"Saul." He died in 1889. <br> +<br> +<b>Marian Evans</b>, who wrote under the name of George Eliot, +was <br> +born at Aubury Farm, near Nuneaton, England, November 22, 1819. +She <br> +was carefully educated and was a most earnest student. While her +<br> +poems are beautiful, her best work is in prose, and she ranks as +one <br> +of England's greatest novelists. Her most famous novels are "Adam +<br> +Bede," "The Mill on the Floss," "Silas Marner," and +"Middlemarch." <br> +She married Mr John Cross, in May, 1880, and died December 22 of +the <br> +same year. <br> +<br> +<b>Jean Ingelow</b> was born at Boston, England, in 1820. She is +<br> +known both as a poet and novelist. Her best-known poems are +"Songs <br> +of Seven" and "The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire." She +died <br> +in 1897. <br> +<br> +<b>Matthew Arnold</b>, son of Thomas Arnold of Rugby, was born at +<br> +Laleham, England, December 24, 1822. He was educated at Rugby and +<br> +Oxford. In 1857 he was elected professor of Poetry at Oxford. He +is <br> +chiefly noted for his essays, though his poems are lofty in +sentiment <br> +and polished in diction. "Sohrab and Rustum" is his most +important <br> +poem. He died in 1888. <br> +<br> +<b>Dinah Maria Mulock Craik</b> was born in Staffordshire, +England, <br> +in 1826. She won her fame as a writer of novels, of which the +best <br> +is "John Halifax, Gentleman." She died in 1887. <br> +<br> +<b>William Morris</b> was born in Walthamstow, March 24, 1834. He +<br> +was educated at Exeter College, Oxford. Before he was thirty +years <br> +old he founded an establishment for the manufacture of artistic +<br> +materials for household decoration. His work in this direction +has <br> +improved the beauty of all household fabrics, and has affected +the <br> +taste in household art in both England and America. Nevertheless +<br> +he is best known as a poet. His finest poems are "The Earthly +<br> +Paradise," a series of Norse legends, "Three Northern Stones," +<br> +translated from Icelandic poems, and his translations of "The +<br> +Odyssey." He died in 1896. <br> +<a name="swin"></a> <br> +<b>Algernon Charles Swinburne</b> was born in London, April 5, +1837. <br> +He was educated partly in France, at Eton, and at Balliol +College, <br> +Oxford. He left the University without a degree to spend several +<br> +years in travel. He is a master of English, using a wider +vocabulary <br> +than any of his contemporaries, and the musical effects of his +many <br> +varied meters have won for him a unique position in poetry. He +has <br> +been called "the greatest metrical inventor in English +literature." <br> +His works in French and Latin show him to be a poet in three <br> +languages. His best-known works are "Poems and Ballads," "Songs +<br> +before Sunrise," and "Mary Stuart." He is the greatest living +<br> +English poet. <br> +<br> +<b>Dante Gabriel Rossetti</b> was born in London, May 12, 1828. +He <br> +studied art in the antique school of the Royal Academy, and +became <br> +known as an artist before he won fame as a poet. His most widely +<br> +known poem is "The Blessed Damozel." He died in 1882. <br> +<br> +<b>Christina Georgina Rossetti</b>, the sister of D.G. Rossetti, +was <br> +born in London, December 5, 1830. She ranks as one of the +greatest <br> +and most spiritual of English poetesses. <br> +<br> +<b>Sir Edwin Arnold</b> was born in Sussex, June 10, 1832. He was +<br> +educated at King's College, London, and at University College, +<br> +Oxford. He was appointed principal of the Government Sanscrit +<br> +College at Poonah, India, and Fellow of the University of Bombay, +and <br> +held these posts through the Sepoy Rebellion. Returning to London +in <br> +1861, he was one of the editors of the <i>Daily Telegraph</i>, +and <br> +through his influence Henry M. Stanley undertook his first +expedition <br> +into Africa to find Livingstone. Nearly all of his poetry deals +with <br> +Oriental legends, and much of his time was spent in India and +Japan. <br> +His principal works are "The Light of Asia," "Pearls of the +Faith," <br> +"Indian Song of Songs," "Japonica," and "The Light of the World." +<br> +<a name="kipling"></a> <br> +<b>Rudyard Kipling</b> was born in Bombay, India, December 30, +1865. <br> +He was educated partly in England, but returned to India when he +was <br> +only fifteen, and there began his literary work and first won +fame. <br> +His writings are mainly in prose, and he is at his best when +writing <br> +of India. His poems are all short, and "The Recessional" and "The +<br> +Dove of Dacca" are especially fine. In prose the "Jungle Books," +<br> +"The Naulakha," and "Kim" are the most popular. <br> +<br> +<b>Among the minor poets</b> of the Victorian Age may be +mentioned <br> +the following:— <br> +<br> +John Henry, Cardinal Newman, 1801-1890. Author of many volumes of +<br> +sermons and the hymn "Lead Kindly Light." <br> +<a name="hflyte"></a> <br> +Henry Francis Lyte, 1763-1847. Author of many hymns, the most +<br> +popular of which is "Abide with Me." <br> +<a name="domett"></a> <br> +Alfred Domett, 1811-1887. Author of "Christmas Hymn." <br> +<br> +Arthur Hugh Clough, 1810-1861. Author of "Bothie of +Tober-na-vuolich." <br> +<br> +Charles Mackay, 1814-1889. Author of many songs, among them +"There is <br> +a Good Time Coming" and "Cheer, Boys, Cheer!" <br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +<br> +AMERICAN AUTHORS <br> +<br> +<br> +In the early days of this country the time and thought of the +<br> +settlers were taken up in struggling with the difficulties of +their <br> +surroundings, so that there was little opportunity for the <br> +establishment of an American literature. For art, poetry, and the +<br> +beautiful in life, the colonists naturally turned to the mother +<br> +country—to the home which they had so lately left. During the +period <br> +before the French and Indian War the subject of religion and nice +<br> +points of doctrine filled the minds of the Americans, hence we +find <br> +that the first American writer who attained to a European +reputation <br> +was the Rev. Jonathan Edwards, a distinguished divine and +president <br> +of Princeton College. His books on "The Religious Affections" and +<br> +"The Freedom of the Will" are still studied. <br> +<br> +After the French and Indian War, politics became the absorbing +topic <br> +of the day, and Benjamin Franklin was the first to achieve fame +in <br> +this field of letters. His writings in "Poor Richard's Almanac," +<br> +honest and wholesome in tone, exercised a marked influence upon +the <br> +literature of his time. Among the orators who won distinction in +the <br> +discussion of civil liberty are James Otis, John and Samuel +Adams, <br> +and Patrick Henry. The writings of John Jay, Alexander Hamilton, +and <br> +James Madison in <i>The Federalist</i> secured the adoption of +the <br> +Constitution and survive to this day as brilliant examples of +<br> +political essays, while the state papers of George Washington and +<br> +Thomas Jefferson are models of clearness and elegance of style. +<br> +<br> +With the peace and prosperity that followed the establishment of +our <br> +republic came the opportunity to cultivate the broader fields of +<br> +literature. Relieved of the strain of the struggle for civil and +<br> +religious liberty, the people could satisfy their inclinations +toward <br> +the beautiful in art and life, and from that time until the +present <br> +day the writers of America have held their own in the front ranks +<br> +of the authors of the English-speaking peoples. <br> +<br> +<b>Joseph Rodman Drake</b>, the first American poet to win <br> +distinction, was born in New York City in 1795. He was educated +in <br> +Columbia College. He died prematurely when only twenty-five years +old. <br> +His best-known poems are "The Culprit Fay" and "The American +Flag." <br> +He was the intimate friend of Fitz-Greene Halleck, the +Connecticut <br> +poet, author of "Marco Bozzaris." The last four lines of Drake's +<br> +"American Flag" were written by Fitz-Greene Halleck. <br> +<a name="bryant"></a> <br> +<b>William Cullen Bryant</b> was born in Cummington, +Massachusetts, <br> +November 3, 1794. He was educated at Williams College. He studied +<br> +law and was admitted to the bar. His first poem was published +when <br> +he was thirteen. His best-known poem, "Thanatopsis," was written +<br> +when he was only nineteen and delivered at his college +commencement. <br> +After practicing law for a short time, he became editor of +<i>The<br> + Evening Post</i> and continued this work until his death. When +he was <br> +seventy-two, he began his translation of Homer, which occupied +him <br> +for six years. He died in 1878. <br> +<a name="emerson"></a> <br> +<b>Ralph Waldo Emerson</b> was born in Boston, May 20, 1803. He +<br> +studied at Harvard College, and after a period of teaching, +became <br> +pastor of a Unitarian church in Boston for a short time. Later he +<br> +settled in Concord, spending his time in writing and lecturing in +<br> +this country and England. He was the founder of what has been +called <br> +"The Concord School of Philosophy." His best-known poems are "The +<br> +Concord Hymn," "Rhodora," "The Snow Storm," "Each and All," "The +<br> +Days," and "The Humble Bee." He died in 1882. <br> +<a name="longfellow"></a> <br> +<b>Henry Wadsworth Longfellow</b> was born in Portland, Maine, +<br> +February 27, 1807. He was educated at Bowdoin College and, after +a <br> +period of study abroad, was appointed professor of Foreign +Languages <br> +there. This position he gave up to become professor of Modern +<br> +Languages and Literature at Harvard College. At Cambridge he was +a <br> +friend of Hawthorne, Holmes, Emerson, Lowell, and Alcott. His +<br> +best-known long poems are "Evangeline," "Hiawatha," "The Building +<br> +of the Ship," and "The Courtship of Miles Standish." He made a +fine <br> +translation of Dante's "Divine Comedy." Among his many short +poems, <br> +"Excelsior," "The Psalm of Life," "The Wreck of the Hesperus," +"The <br> +Village Blacksmith," and "Paul Revere's Ride" are continuously +<br> +popular. He died in 1882. He was the first American writer who +was <br> +honored by a memorial in Westminster Abbey. <br> +<br> +<b>John Greenleaf Whittier</b> was born near Haverhill, +Massachusetts, <br> +December 17, 1807. He was educated in the public school, working +at <br> +the same time on his father's farm or at making shoes. Having +left <br> +the academy, he devoted himself to literature. He was an ardent +<br> +abolitionist, and many of his poems are written to aid the cause +of <br> +freedom in which he was so deeply interested. His best-known +poems <br> +are "Snow-Bound," "Barbara Frietchie," "Maude Muller," and +"Voices of <br> +Freedom." He died in 1892. <br> +<br> +<b>Edgar Allan Poe</b> was born in Boston, Massachusetts, January +19, <br> +1809. The story of his life is as melancholy as was his genius. +<br> +Wild, dissipated, reckless, he was dismissed from West Point. He +<br> +alienated his best friends and lived the greatest part of his +life in <br> +the deepest poverty, dying in 1849 from the effects of +dissipation <br> +and exposure. His best poems are "The Raven," "The Bells," and +<br> +"Annabel Lee." <br> +<br> +<b>Oliver Wendell Holmes</b> was born in Cambridge, +Massachusetts, <br> +August 29, 1809. He was educated at Harvard College and studied +<br> +medicine, spending two years in the hospitals of Europe. He was +<br> +successively professor of Anatomy and Physiology at Dartmouth +<br> +College, a physician in regular practice in Boston, and professor +of <br> +anatomy at Harvard College—this position he held from 1847 to +1882. <br> +He was nearly fifty before he became widely known as a writer, +when <br> +"The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table" was published. He was +successful <br> +as essayist, novelist, poet, a kindly wit playing through much of +his <br> +work. His best-known poems are "Old Ironsides," "The Chambered +<br> +Nautilus," "The One-hoss Shay," "The Last Leaf," and "The Boys." +He <br> +died in 1894. <br> +<a name="lowell"></a> <br> +<b>James Russell Lowell</b> was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, +<br> +February 22, 1819. He was educated at Harvard College. He +succeeded <br> +Longfellow as professor of Modern Languages and Literature at +<br> +Harvard. He was also editor of the <i>Atlantic Monthly</i> and of +<br> +the <i>North American Review</i>. He was appointed minister to +Spain <br> +and later to England, where he was our ambassador for five years. +His <br> +best-known poems are "The Vision of Sir Launfal," "Commemoration +Ode," <br> +"The Biglow Papers," "The Present Crisis," and "The First +Snowfall." <br> +He died in 1891. <br> +<br> +<b>Walt Whitman</b> was born in West Hills, Long Island, May 31, +1819. <br> +He was unable to go to college. He served in various occupations, +<br> +teacher, printer, writer, until in the great Civil War he +volunteered <br> +as a war nurse. His exertions and exposure in this work destroyed +his <br> +health, so that most of his remaining years he was dependent upon +his <br> +friends. His most beautiful poem is "O Captain, My Captain," +written <br> +after the assassination of Lincoln. He died in 1892. <br> +<a name="miller"></a> <br> +<b>Cincinnatus Heine Miller</b>, who wrote under the name of +Joaquin <br> +Miller, was born in Indiana in 1841. While yet a boy he went to +Oregon <br> +and later to California, where he led a wild life among the +miners, <br> +fighting the Indians, practicing law, and becoming a county +judge. <br> +After several years in Europe and New York, he settled down as a +<br> +fruit grower in California. He wrote "Songs of the Sierras," +"Songs <br> +of the Sun-Lands," and "The Ship in the Desert." <br> +<br> +<b>Among the minor American poets</b> the following are worthy of +<br> +note:— <br> +<a name="fskey"></a> <br> +Francis Scott Key, 1779-1843. "The Star-Spangled Banner." <br> +<br> +Emma Hart Willard, 1787-1870. "Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep." +<br> +<br> +John Howard Payne, 1792-1852. "Home Sweet Home." <br> +<br> +Josiah Gilbert Holland, 1819-1881. "Bittersweet." <br> +<br> +Julia Ward Howe, 1819-. "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." <br> +<br> +Alice Cary, 1820-1871. Phoebe Cary, 1824-1871. Joint authors of +<br> +several volumes of poems. "Order for a Picture," A.C. "Nearer +Home," P.C. <br> +<br> +Thomas Buchanan Read, 1822-1872. "Drifting," "Sheridan's Ride." +<br> +<a name="burro"></a> <br> +John Burroughs, naturalist, 1837-. "Waiting." <br> +<br> +Edward Rowland Sill, 1841-1887. "The Fool's Prayer," +"Opportunity." <br> +<br> +Sidney Lanier, 1842-1881. "The Song of the Chattahoochee," "The +<br> +Marshes of Glynn," "A Song of the Future." <br> +<a name="cheney"></a> <br> +John Vance Cheney, 1848-. "Thistle Drift," "Wood Blooms," +"Evening <br> +Songs." <br> +<a name="riley"></a> <br> +James Whitcomb Riley, 1853-. "Rhymes of Childhood." <br> +<br> +Eugene Field, 1850-1895. "With Trumpet and Drum," and "Love Songs +of <br> +Childhood." + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Graded Poetry: Seventh Year, by Various +Edited by Katherine D. 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