PASSAGES FROM Case ^lackje &? So 71 Litmited Private Library .Mc Shelf ..7. jjPASSAGES FROM Modern English Poets. ILLUSTRATED BY THE JUNIOR ETCHING CLUB. FORTY-SEVEN ETCHINGS. LONDON: DAY & SON, LIMITED, LITHOGRAPHERS & PUBLISH ICRS, 6, GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS. ^ y NOT E. In th( frcsctit Scrks of Etchings by the Manbas of the JUNIOR Etchino Ci.UB, the plan adopted in preceding volumes has undergone some modification. Itistead of restricting themselves to the illustration of a single Author, our Etchers have gone further afield, and have sought a wider area for the exercise of their needles; sometimes in the daily scenes of social life in our streets and cottages, and in the varied aspects of rural nature ; but more frequently in salient and characteristic passages from the writings of modem English Poets. A friend,* 'chose travels through the realms cf verse have been tolerably extensive, has been at '^ some pains and pulling down of boohs" {as Byron has it), to associate with the respective subjects, not merely the passages, in extenso, which luive suggested, or might have suggested, each scene or group, but also such poems, with few exceptions from comparatively modern sources, as seemed calculated to illustrate the predofniiuint sentiment of the design ; thus occupying (not unprofitably, it is hoped) pages which would otherwise Itave remained vacant. * The late Alar ic A. Watts. ^^^^ ^ ^M ^Mm^m '^m ^^ Z/6T OF ETCHINGS & ILLUSTRATIVE POEMS. 1. DEAD FALLOW BUCK The Wild Deer. — Professor John Wilson. 2. THE DRUMMER Tlae Dram. — Professor William Sinythe. The Dnun. — John Seott (of Amwell). 3. WAR AND GLORY War and Glory. — Saimiel Taylor Coleridge. The Battle-Field. — Thomas Penrose. 4. THE BROOK The Brook. — Alfred Tennyson. 5. STUDY OF A BUFFALO The South African Desert. — Thomas Prinde. Henry Moore. M. J. Lawless. John Tenniel. F. Powell. Viscount Bury. . Viscount Bury. 6. THE RUINED FOUNTAIN The Ruined Fountain. — Anoiiymons. Inscription for a Fountain. — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. The Fountain. — Samuel A'ogers. 7. THE ANGLER J. Whistler. The Angler's Soliloquy. — fohn Hamilton Reynolds. 8. NORA CREINA Nora Creina. — Thomas Moore. 9. HAGAR AND ISHMAEL Hagar and Ishmael. — Mary Tighe. 10. SUMMER INDOLENCE Indolence. — Anonymous. Love in Idleness. — Laman Blanchard. Summer Idleness. — Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen . Lord G. Fitzgerald. . J. Clark. . J. E. MiLLAis, A.R.A. 11. THE LOVERS The Lovers. — Lord Byron. A Woman's Question. — Adelaide Procter. 12. SISTERS OF MERCY The Sister of Mercy. — Gerald Griffin. The Sister of Charity. — Alaric Watts. ... Lord G. Fitzgerald. ... M. J. Lawless. I :..'> I i.'r /: / t ./ / » t' XD ILLVSTRAriVE VOr.MS. \'y TIIK UAIXnOW I'. roWKi.L. The R.\inl>ow. — Thomas CamphiH. The Kvcning Rainbow. — Robert Soutluy. \.\. TIIK WRIXK J. W. UAKics. The Wreck. — Thomas Ti\{ Stotidart, The Ix-c Shore. — Thomas Hood. 15. .\ FAMILY GROUP J. R. Ci-ayton. .\ Motlicr's Love. — yamcs Mo)it_i;omay. The Infant's Kiss. — Mary Riissdl Mitford. Domestic Love. — Ri~\ Gcori^c Croh', LL.D. 10. Tin: LLM TREK IIknry Moork. The Elm Tree. — Thomas Hood. 17. A STUDY I\ THE EGYPTLVN ANTIQUITY DEPARTMENT OF THE 13RITI.SII MUSEUM II. S. Makk-s. Rustic \Yoncler. — George Crahbe. To an Eg)'ptian Mummy in the British Museum.— /A;;^^^' Smith. iS. STUDY IN THE LIFE SCHOOL OF THE ROYAL ACADE.MY (PORTRAIT OF W. ETTY, R.A.) \V. Gale. Painting. — Thomas Campbell. 19. THE LAST GLEAM OF DAY J. \Y. Oakes. The Last Gleam of Day. — Mrs. John Hunter. Twilight. — yames Montgomery. Twilight. — William Words-worth. f A SPRING MORNING A. J. Lewis. ^^' (.SPRING IN THE MEADONYS A. J. Lewis. A Spring Morning.— /r////rtw Wordsworth. Spring. — William Citllen Bryant. A Spring yioxrim^.— Robert Bloomfield. Signs of Spring. — John Clare. 21. THE MONARCH OF THE FORE.ST J. Sleigh. The Oak. — Samuel Rogers. The Oak of the Voxc-X.— Robert SoiUhey. 22. SCENE OF THE PLAGUE IN LONDON, 1665. C. Kee.ne. The Plague of Ixjndon.— 7^/;« Wilson. Scene of the Plague.- Zr/Z/za Elizabeth Landon. 23. NEARING HOME Walter Severn. Nearing Home. — Thomas Moore. 1 1 ome. — ya nies Montgomery. 24. A JEW PEDLAR (D.YMASCUS) Viscount Bury. The Pedlar. — William Wordsworth. The Hc:l.rfw'<; Appr-n). — Ajioitymoiis. LIST OF ETCHINGS AND ILLUSTRATIVE POEMS. 26. 28. THE GLEN A Glen. — John Wilson. The Glen. — William Lisle Bo'ulcs. The G\qi\.— William Wordsworth. STUDY OF A HEAD Youth and Age. — Hon. St. George Tucker. Old Kz(t. — Charles Caleb Colton. Youth and Age. — JVilliafn Wordrwoiih. MOONLIGHT To the Moon. — IVilliam JVordsn'orih, The Moon.— William Words'iOortk. HEN AND CHICKENS .... Hen and Chickens. — JVilliani Wordsworth. A Comparison. — William Lisle Bo7vles. The Cottage Hen. — James Grahaine. THE MOUNTAIN STREAM The Mountain Stream. — Anonvmous. 30- THE BIVOUAC The Bivouac. - The Bivouac. - -John Rial col in. -Winthrop Mackworth Praed. 32- 34- 35- 36. 37- A YOUNG MONKEY The Village Boy. — Thomas Aird. The Village Boy. — John Clare. The .Shepherd Boy. — John Clare. The .Shepherd Boy. — William Wordsworth. THE SISTERS The Sisters. — Alfred Tennyson. ■^ THE SHOEBLACK [^ A CHRISTMAS INVITATION The Shoeblack. — John Gay. Winter Revels.— Thomas Hood. SEA BEACH— NORFOLK FISHERMAN OxN THE LOOK OUT The Sea Beach. — George Crabbe. The Sea. — Thomas Campbell. The Fisherman. — Bryan Waller Procter. THE LITTLE SHIPWRIGHTS The Little Shipwright. — George Crablte. The Young Boat-Builder. — Anonymous. THE CORNFIELD The Cornfield. — Alary Ilowitf. The Harvest Home. — Thomas Ilaynes Bay ley. ST. VALENTINE'S DAY Valentine's Day. — IVinfhrop Mackworth Prai F. Powell. H. C. Whaite." Hp:nry Moore. Henry Moore. A. J. Lewis. M. J. Lawless. C. ROSSITER. W. Gale. F. S MALLEI eld. F. Smallfield. F. Barwell. M. J. Lawless. A. J. Lewis. C. Ross ITER. ■d. UST OF £7V///XGS ,/.\7' 1 1 r r.\l KATIVE J\)EMS. j>> TUL MAY WKMATII The May Wa-ath. — Fifkux Hcnian.- May Pay. — William Wonlsxoorth, TIIL I'ATII TIIKOI'GII THE FC)Ki:ST The Greenwood. — William Ihnoitt. The Forest. — Richard Moiickton Milna, Nixm. — KtV. C>vn,r C'vly, LL.D. 40. Tilt CllKSlNLT SELLKR Ri>.a>teil Chestnuts. — Mrs. Alaric Watts. I-abour. — Frances Osi^ocd. 41. 4- 43- 44- 45- \V. G.XI.li. A. J. LiiWis. F. S.M.M.Ll'IliLU. F. S.M.VLI.l'lKLr). birriNci ox HORRORS Supping on Horrors. — Anonymous. Fe.ir. — fl'illiatri Collins. THE lUKU TRAP The Bird-catchers. — James Grahaine. THE DOOR OF THE KIOSK Tlie Kiosk. — Richard Monckton Mihws. The Lament of the Moslem. — Anoiiymous. THE VILLAGE GRANDAME J. Clark. Tlie Village Sciioolniislress. — Williavt Shenstoiie. The Grandame. — Charles Lamb. C. RobSlTIiR. Viscount Buky, A RIVER SCENE A River Scene. — Charles Mackay. ...J. Whistler. mm^ THE WILD DEER. MAGNIFICENT Creature ! so stately and bright, In the pride of thy spirit pursuing thy flight ; For what hath the child of the desert to dread, Wafting up his o\vn mountains that far-beaming head ; Or borne like a whirlwind down on the vale % Hail ! king of the wild and the beautiful, hail ! Hail, idol divine ! whom Nature hath borne O'er a hundred hill-tops since the mists of the mom ; Whom the pilgrim, lone wandering on mountain and moor, As the vision glides by him may blameless adore ; For the joy of the happy, the strengtii of the free, Are spread in a garment of glory o'er thee. Up ! up to yon cliff, like a king to his throne, O'er the black silent forest piled lofty and lone ; A throne which the eagle is glad to resign Unto footsteps so fleet and so fearless as thine. There the bright heather springs up in love of thy breast, Lo ! the clouds in the depth of the sky are at rest, And the race of the wild winds is o'er on the hill 1 In the hush of the mountains ye antlers lie still ! Though your branches now toss in the stoma of delight. Like die arms of the pine on yon shelterless height, One moment, thou bright apparition, delay, Then melt o'er the crags like the sun from the day. Aloft on the weather-gleam, scorning the earth, The wild spirit hung in majestical mirth ; In dalUance with danger he bounded in bliss. O'er the fathomless gloom of each moaning abyss ; O'er the grim rocks careering with prosperous motion, Like a ship by herself in full sail o'er the ocean ; Thence proudly he turned ere he sank to the dell, And shook from his forehead a haughty farewell ; While his horns in a crescent of radiance shone. Like a flag burning bright when the vessel is gone. The ship of the desert has passed on the wind, And left the dark ocean of mountains behind ; But my spirit will travel wherever she flee. And behold her in pomp o'er the rim of the sea, I B THE WIJ.D DEER. Her voya{;c pursue till lior anchor bo cast. In some clitT^irdleil haven of l)eauly at last. His voyage is o'er ! as if struck by a spell, He motionless stands in the hush of the dell ; There softly ami slowly sinks down on his breast, In the miilst of his pastime, enamoured of rest. A stream in a clear pool that endeth its race ; A dancing ray chained to one sunshiny i)lace ; A cloud by the winds to calm solitude driven ; A hurricane dead in the silence of heaven. On the brink of the rock, lo I he stancleth al bay, Like a victor that falls al the close of the clay ; While hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurned from his furious feet ; And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As Nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. All mute was the palace of Lochy that day When the king and his nobles, a gallant array, To Gleno or Glen-Etive came forth in their pride, And a hundred fierce stags in their solitude died. Not lonely and single they passed o'er the height, But thousands swept by in their hurricane flight ; " Fall down on your faces ! " the herd is at hand ! And onwards they came like the sea o'er the sand ; Like the snow from the mountain, when loosened by rain, And rolling along with a crash to the j)lain ; Like a thunder-split oak-tree, that falls in one shock, With his hundred wide arms, from the top of the rock ; Like the voice of the sky when the black cloud is near, So sudden, so loud, came the tempest of Deer. Wild mirth of the desert ! fit pastime for kings ! Which still the rude bard in his solitude sings. Oh ! reign of magnificence vanished for ever, Like music dried up in the bed of a river Whose course hath been changed ! yet my soul can survey The clear cloudless morn of that glorious day. Yes, the wide silent forest is loud as of yore, And the ebbed sea of gi-andeur rolls back to the shore ! Profes-sor Wilson. PT, -^'^atij&ari i^^l Lanclon.BxhUslied I.iccemlwr'l'f 1861, by Day & iSon, Zith.to the Qu.i.e.!... THE DRUM. A SOLDIER am I, the world over I range, And would not my lot with a monarch exchange ; How welcome the Soldier wherever he roves, Attended like Venus by Mars and the Loves ! How dull is the ball, and how cheerless the fair, What's a feast or a frolic if we are not there % Kind, hearty, and gallant, and joyous we come, And the world looks alive at the sound of the Drum. The Soldiers are coming ! the villagers cry. All trades are suspended to see us pass by ; Quick flies the glad sound to the maiden up-stairs. In a moment dismissed are her broom and her cares. Outstretched is her neck till the Soldiers she sees. From her cap the red ribbon plays light in the breeze ; But lighter her heart plays as nearer we come. And redder her cheek at the sound of the Drum ! The veteran half-dozing awakes at the news. Hobbles out, and our column with triumph reviews ; Near his knee his young grandson with ecstacy hears Of generals, of colonels, and fierce brigadiers ; Of the marches he took, and the hardships he knew, . Of the battles he fought, and the foemen he slew ; To his heart spirits new in wild revelry come. And make one rally more at the sound of the Drum ! Who loves not a Soldier % the generous, the brave. The heart that can feel, and the arm that can save ; In peace the gay friend, with the manners that charm, In thought ever liberal, in heart ever warm ; In his mind nothing selfish or pitiful known, 'Tis a temple which honour can enter alone ; No titles I boast, yet wherever I come My heart still leaps up at the sound of the Drum. Professor William Smyth. THE P/^UM. I\\.\'V\\ that drum's discordant sound, Parading round, and round and round ; To thoughtless youth it pleasure yields, And lures from cities and from fields, To sell their liberty for charms Of tawdry lace and glittering arms ; And when ambition's voice commands, To march and fight and fall in foreign lands. I hate that drum's discordant sound. Parading round, and r.ound and round ; To me it speaks of ravaged plains. And burning towns and ruined swains, And mangled limbs and dying groans, And widows' tears and orphans' moans ; And all that misery's hand bestows To fill the catalogue of human woes. John Scott of Amwell. WAR AND GLORY. SECURE from actual warfare, we have loved To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! Alas ! for ages ignorant of all Its ghastlier workings (famine or blue plague, Battle or siege, or flight through wintiy snows), We, this whole people, have been clamorous For war and bloodshed ; animating sports. The which we pa - for as a thing to talk of, Spectators and not combatants. No guess Anticipative of a wrong unfelt. No speculation on contingency, However dim and vague, too vague and dim To yield a justifying cause ; and forth (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) We send our mandates for the certain death Of thousands and ten thousands ! Boys and girls, And women that would groan to see a child Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, The best amusement for our morning meal ! The poor wretch who has learned his only prayers From curses, who knows scarcely words enough To ask a blessing from his heavenly Father, Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute And technical in victories and defeats, And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues, Like mere abstractions, empty sounds, to which We join no feeling and attach no form ! As if the soldier died without a wound ; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang ; as if the wretch AVho fell in battle doing bloody deeds Passed off to Heaven translated and not killed ; As though he had no wife to pine for him. No God to judge him. Therefore evil days Are coming on us ; oh, my countrymen ! And what if all-avenging Providence, Strong and retributive, should make us know The meaning of our words, force us to feel The desolation and the agony Of our fierce doings. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1 THE />. / TTL I:-F//-L P. ^ \\\ ri.V hniycil the battle's roar, Distant ilown the HoIIdw wiiul ; Panting Terror llcil bolbrc. \Voutuls ami death were KU liehiml. The war tk-iul iiirseil the sunken tlay Tliat cheeked his fierce pursuit too soon : Whilst scarcely lighting to the prey. Low hung and loured the Moody moon. The field so late the hero's pride, Was now with various carnage spread ; And floated with a crimson tide, That drenched the dying and the dead. O'er the sad scene of dreariest view. Abandoned all to horrors wild, With frantic step Maria flew, — Maria, Sorrow's early child. For well she thought a friend so dear, In darkest hours might joy impart ; Her warrior faint with toil might cheer, Or soothe her bleeding warrior's smart. Too soon in few but deadly words. Some flying straggler breathed to tell, That in the foremost strife of swords, The young the gallant Edgar fell. She pressed to hear — she caught the tale, At every sound her blood congealed ; With terror bold — with terror pale — She sprang to search the fatal field. Drear anguish urged her then to press, Full many a hand as wild she mourned ; Of comfort glad the drear caress, The damp chill dying hand returned. Her ghastly hope was well-nigh fled, When late pale Edgar's form she found. Half-buried 'neath the hostile dead. And gored with many a grisly wound. She knew — she sank — the night-bird screamed, The moon withdrew her troubled light, And left the fair, though fall'n she seemed, To worse than death and deepest night. Thomas Penrose. PL^ *i' 'c/t.jLU^LL^/teu- jje(^:f/ioii'^- 1\' lijoi- hy i Jn.y Cx. k^o^l. j--iCri.. U) Crtc l^u^ku THE BROOK. No check, no stay, this streamlet fears. How merrily it goes, 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. — Wordsioorth. I COME from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern. And bicker down the valley. By thirty hills I huiTy down, Or slip between the ridges ; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles ; I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret. By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow, weed, and mallow. I chatter chatter as I flow, To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind aljout, and in and out. With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout. And here and there a grayling ; THE HROOK. Ami Ikto and there a foamy Hake Upon nic as I travel, With many a silver water-break Above the goUlen gravel. And draw them all along and tlow To join the brimming river ; For men may ( onie and men may go, But I go on for ever. 1 steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers, I move the sweet forget-me-nots, That grow for hapjiy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance. Among my skimming swallows ; I make the netted sunbeam dance, Against my sandy shallows. I murmur untler moon and stars. In brambly wildernesses, I linger by my shingly bars, I loiter round my cresses. And out again I curve and flow. To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go. But I go on for ever. Alfred Tennyson. THE SOUTH-AFRICAN DESERT. AFAR in the desert 1 love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side, Away, away, from the dwellings of men, By the wild deer's haunt and the buffalo's glen ; By valleys remote, where the oribi* plays. Where the gnoo,+ the gazelle, J and the harte-beest§ graze. And the gemsbock |1 and eland unhunted recline. By the skirts of grey forests o'ergrown with wild vine ; And the elephant browses at peace in his wood, And the river-horse IT gambols unscared in the flood. And the mighty rhinoceros wallows at will In the Vlec** where the wild horse is drinking his fill. Afar in the desert I love to ride, With the silent bush-boy alone by my side. O'er the brown Karoo ft where the bleating cry Of the springbock's fawn :{::{: sounds plaintively; Where the zebra wantonly tosses his mane In the fields seldom cheered by the dew or the rain ; And the stately koodoo §§ exultingly bounds, Undisturbed by the bay of the hunter's hounds ; And the timorous quagga'sl||| wild whistling neigh Is heard by the fountain at fall of day. And the fleet-footed ostrich over the waste Speeds like a horseman who travels in haste ; For she hies away to the home of her rest, Where she and her mate have scooped out their nest ; Far hid from the pitiless plunderer's view. In the pathless depths of the parched Karoo. Afar in the desert I love to ride. With the silent bush-boy alone by my sitle, * Antiloi)e pysrma'a. f Antilopc Gnu. X Antilope buljalis. § Antllopc Caamn. II Antilope Oryx. \ The Hippopotamus. ** A marsh or small lake. tt The Great Karoo is an uninhabitable wilderness, 300 miles long by 80 broad, forming an elevated table-land between the Black Mountains and the Snow Mountains. %% Antilope Pygarga. §§ Antilope strcpsiceros. |||| E<[uus Qi'^gg^- 5 ^ THE SOUTIIAFRIi '. I X DESI-.K T. Aw.iy. away, in the wililcrncss vast, Whore the white man's foot hath never j^assecl, And the tiuivereil Coranna or liechuan Hath rarely crossed with his roving clan ; A region of barrenness howling and drear, Which man hath abandoned from famine ami fear ; Which the snake and the lizard inhabit alone, With the twilight bat from the old hollow stone ; Where grass, nor herb, nor shrub takes root. Save poisonous thorns that jiierce the foot ; And the bitter melon for food and drink Is the pilgrim's fare by the salt lake's brink ; A region of drought where no river glides, Nor rippling brook with osiered sides ; Where reedy pool nor mossy fountain, Nor shady tree, nor cloud-capped mountain, Is found to refresh the aching eye ; But the barren earth and the burning sky, And the blank horizon round and round, Without a living sight or sound, Say to the heart, in its pensive mood, That this is Nature's solitude. Thomas Pringle. PL 5. l.tni.d^ni.I'iJilisJkr'd- jJectmber 2'.' JlOOZ.- T>y Day & £tp7i,Z,fth THE RUINED FOUNTAIN. IN a lonely Arab valley, Grey, with lichens overgrown, Where the blandest breezes dally, Chanting, ever musically. Roundelays with silver tone. Stands a mossy fountain broken, Of the ancient day as token. On its basin-sides are graven Forms of chiefs and maidens light, Whom the never-dying Raven Hath forgotten, nameless even In the Poet's lay of night ; Mystic figures dimly glowing Through the crystal waters flowing. Fountain ! Old and grey and hoary ! Like an aged man you sit In that home of song and story, Where the relics of old glory, Dreaming visions, hallow it ; With your sweetly mournful singing, Back its faded memories bringing. Anonymous. /XSCAVJ'/7(\V J'0/< .1 FOUNTAIN. THIS sw.mioro. oft imisiial willi bees, Siuh tents the Tatriarchs loveil : Oh, long unharnKHl, May all its aged boughs o'er-canoj))' The small round basin which this julling stone Keeps pure from falling leaves ! l.oiig may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, Send up cold waters to the tra\ elkr With soft anil even pulse ! Nor ever cease Von tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, Which at the bottom like a I'airy's i)age, As merry and no taller dances still. Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the T'ouiu. Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade ; Thou may'st toil far, and find no second tree. Drink, Pilgrim, here ; here rest ! and if thy heart Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh, Thy spirit listening to some gentle sound Of passing gale or hum of munnuring bees ! Samuel Taylor Coleridge. THE FOUNTAIN. The water from the rock filled, overflowed it ; Then dashed away playing the prodigal. And soon was lost ; stealing unseen, unheard, Through the long grass, and round the twisted roots Of aged trees, discovering where it ran By fresher verdure. Overcome with heat, I threw me down, admiring as I lay That shady nook, a singing-place for birds ; That grove so intricate, so full of flowers, More than enough to please a maid a-maying. The sun was sinking down, and now approached The hour for stir and village gossip there. The hour Rebecca came, when from the well She drew with such alacrity to serve The stranger and his camels. Soon I heard Footsteps, and, lo ! descending by a path Trodden for ages many, a nymph appeared, — Appeared and vanished, bearing on her head Her earthen pitcher. Samuel Rogers. THE ANGLERS SOLILOQUY. OH ! pleasant are the green banks of the Lea, — And pleasant are its waters, silver sweet ; It thirsteth me, on May-day morns, to be Clad in an angler's simple garments meet, Treading with gentle Izaack's spirit, — there By the pike's hollow lair ; And near the shallows, where the minnow twinkles His little tail, — and wrinkles The restless waters, — and beside the place Where darts the dace ! How clear the sun is shining in the sky ! How innocent the silent meadows lie ! How freshly comes the miller from his mill, And looks about at will ! The water glideth with a sleepy sound. O'er coiling deeplets, and by grassy ground ; And busy fish rise up to watch who be So early at the Lea ! Then leave the surface, amid silvery rings. Like water-sprites on wings. Good Master Walton ! what a heart was thine ! (Simplicity knelt at it, like a shrine !) How well thy fisher-muse could cast the line ! How daintily she threw Her song across the dew, When the soft low came from the distant kine ; And when, in comely inn, on Amwell Hill, A pilgrim from the stream, thou sattest still, — Taking a dream of quiet, at thy fill, Over the soft mist of a silent pipe, — On old man's nothings contemplation-rife. — How wouldst thy heart gladden, when Madge drew nigh, The stainless wench that never knew a sigh ; But knew a song, and sang it at thy call — A grass-green pastoral. THE AXGLERS SOLILOQUY. The coUl 1am misscth thoe — and sccmeth now To How with memory's wrinkles on its brow ; The steep of Tottenham feels thine anii.iuc loss, And sadness gloometh upon Waltham's Cross. The pike rush boldly by ; Thou art not nigh ! Large yellow barbel at the bottom lie, And gaze upon the bait without a sigh, The armed perch starts its red fins — and cares Nought for the minnow, or the brandling snares ; Sport comes not with the day ; Thou art away ! And we, poor things, with landing-nets and line, And rod, and bait, — but prowl, and poke, and pine. How I — ('tis beneath me, and beneath the joys Of a true angler, prone to be envy free.) How I do envy those two tiny boys, Trankt up with hazel-rod and corduroys, Who, stealing all along the grassy ledge, Are simple fishers of the lazy Lea ; I am not fit to seek this quiet sedge, — The natural Walton faileth all in me ! I shy the stranger, and the idler, — I, — I court to see the gazer pass me by ; I shun to bait When passing labourers wait, I long to cross and find some friendly gate, Or hedge. I pause — and fret — and drain my leathern cup, And jjut my tackle up I How is't that all my simple arts and joys Descend upon these boys ? Do make me, Walton, like thee, meek and mild — Pure as a man and happy as a child. John Hamilton Reynolds. \'m^^^^%^.^. NORA CREINA. LESBIA hath a beaming eye, But no one knows for whom it beameth ; Right and left its arrows fly, But what they aim at no one dreameth ! Sweeter 'tis to gaze upon My Nora's Hd that seldom rises ; Few its looks, but every one Like unexpected light surprises ! Oh ! my Nora Creina, dear ! My gentle, bashful Nora Creina ! Beauty lies In many eyes, But love in yours, my Nora Creina. Lesbia wears a robe of gold. But all so close the nymph hath laced it ; Not a charm of beauty's mould Presumes to stay where nature placed it ! O ! my Nora's gown for me That floats as wild as mountain breezes. Leaving every beauty free To sink or swell as heaven pleases ! Yes, my Nora Creina, dear ! My simple graceful Nora Creina, Nature's dress Is loveliness, The dress you wear, my Nora Creina, Lesbia hath a wit refined, But, when its points are gleaming round us, Who can tell if they're designed To dazzle merely, or to wound us % Pillowed on my Nora's heart In safer slumber love reposes. Bed of peace ! whose roughest part Is but the crumpling of the roses. Oh, my Nora Creina, dear ! My mild, my artless Nora Creina ! Wit, though bright, Hath not the light That warms your eyes, my Nora Creina. Thomas Moore. HA GAR AND ISHMAEL. INJURED, hopeless, faint and weary, Sad, indignant, and forlorn, Through the desert wild and dreary, Hagar leads the child of scorn. Who can speak a mother's anguish, Painted in that tearless eye. Which beholds her darling languish, — Languish unrelieved and die % Lo ! the empty pitcher fails her, Perishing with thirst he lies ; Death with deep despair assails her, Piteously for aid he cries. From the dreadful image flying, Wild she rushes from the sight ; In the agonies of dying Can she see her soul's delight. Now bereft of every hope, Cast upon the burning ground ; Poor abandoned soul, look up, Mercy have thy sorrows found ! Lo ! the angel of the Lord Comes thy great distress to cheer ; Listen to the gracious word, See, divine relief is near ! Care of Heaven, though man forsake thee, Wherefore vainly dost thou mourn % From thy dream of woe awake thee, To thy rescued child return. Lift thine eyes, behold yon fountain, Sparkling 'mid those fruitful trees ; Lo ! beneath yon sheltering mountain Smile for the green bowers of ease. D I/ACAK AXn ISIIMAEI.. In tlu- hour of sore atllittion (uhI liath seen aini pitied thee ; Cheer thee in the sweet conviction, Thou henceforth His care shall be. He no more by iloubts distressed, Mother of a mighty race ! By contempt no more oppressed. Thou hast found a resting-place. Thus from jieace and comfort driven. Thou, poor soul, all desolate, Hopeless lay, till pitying Heaven Found thee in thy abject state. O'er thine empty pitcher mourning 'Mid the desert of the world ; Thus with shame and anguish burning. From thy cherished pleasures hurled. See, thy great Deliverer nigh Calls thee from thy sorrow vain ; Bids thee on His love rely, Bless the salutary pain. From thine eyes the mists dispelling, Lo ! the well of life He shows, In His presence ever dwelling, Bids thee find thy true repose. Future prospects rich in blessing, Open to thy hopes secure ; Sure of endless joys possessing, Of a heavenly kingdom sure. Mary Tighe. INDOLENCE. INDOLENT ! indolent !— Yes, I am indolent : So is the grass growing tenderly, slowly, — So is the violet fragrant and lowly, Drinking in quietness, peace, and content ; — So is the bird on the light branches swinging, Idly his carol of gratitude singing, Only on living and loving intent. Indolent ! indolent ! — Yes, I am indolent : So is the cloud overhanging the mountain. So is the tremulous wave of a fountain, Uttering softly its eloquent psalm ; Nerve and sensation in quiet reposing, Silent as blossoms the night dew is closing. But the full heart beating strongly and calm. Indolent ! indolent ! — Yes, I am indolent, If it be idle to gather my pleasure Out of creation's uncoveted treasure. Midnight and morning, — by forest and sea, — Wild with the tempest's sublime exultation, Lonely in autumn's forlorn lamentation, Hopeful and happy with spring and the bee. Indolent ! indolent ! — -Are ye not indolent, Thralls of the earth and its usages weary,— Toiling like gnomes where the darkness is dreary, Toiling and sinning to heap up your gold ; Stifling the heavenward breath of devotion. Crushing the freshness of every emotion. Hearts like the dead, that are pulseless and cold ? Indolent ! indolent ! — Art thou not indolent, Thou who art living unloving and lonely, Wrapp'd in a pall that will cover thee only, Shrouded in selfishness, piteous ghost % Sad eyes behold thee, and angels are weeping O'er thy forsaken and desolate sleeping, Art thou not indolent % — Art thou not lost % Anonymous. LOl'K IX JPLliXJiSS. SOcVril 'twere a pleasant life to lead, With nothing in the world to do, But just to blow a shepherd's reed The silent seasons through ; And just to drive a flock to feed, — Sheep, tjuiet, fontl, and few. Pleasant to lie beside a brook And count the bubl)les (love worlds) there ; To muse upon some minstrel's book, Or watch the haunted air ; — To slumber in some leafy nook, Or — idle anpvhere. And then, a draught of nature's wine, A meal of summer's daintiest fruit ; To take the air with forms divine- Clouds silvery, cool, and mute ; Descending, if the night be fine. In a star-parachute. Give me to muse an idle hour, And let the world go dine and dress ; P'or love can in the low-liest flower Find something meant to bless. If Life 's a flower, I choose my own, — 'Tis " Love in Idleness." Laman Blanchard. SUMMER IDLENESS, Ox my hot brow diffuse, delicious breeze. The coolness of thy breath, whilst here I lie In the fresh shadow of the flickering trees. Gloom on the grass, but glory in the sky ; And mix with idlesse a calm dignity Which finds a moral in the slightest thing — The whisper of a leaf, a lulling fly ; All changes which the cuckoo seasons bring. Is to draw bliss from toil, sounds from a tuneless spring. Jeremiah Holmes Wiffen. THE LOVERS. MARION ! why that pensive brow % What disgust to Ufe hast thou % Change that discontented air, Frowns become not one so fair ; 'Tis not love disturbs thy rest — Love 's a stranger to thy breast. He in dimphng smiles appears, Or mourns in sweetly timid tears. Or bends the languid eyelid down, But shuns the cold forbidding frown. Then resume thy former fire. Some will love, and all admire ; While that icy aspect chills us. Nought but cool indifference thrills us. Wouldst thou wandering hearts beguile, Smile at least, or seem to smile. Eyes like thine were never meant To hide their orbs in dark restraint ; Spite of all thou fain wouldst say, Still in truant beams they play. Marion, adieu ! oh, prythee slight not This Avarning, though it may delight not ; And, lest my precepts be displeasing To those who think remonstrance teasing. At once I'll tell thee our opinion Concerning woman's soft dominion ; Howe'er we gaze with admiration On eyes of blue or lips' carnation ; Howe'er the flowing locks attract us, Howe'er those beauties may distract us ; Still fickle, we are prone to rove. These cannot fix our souls to love : It is not too severe a stricture To say they form a pretty picture ; But wouldst thou see the secret chain Which binds us in your humble train, To hail you queen of all creation. Know, in a word, — 'tis Animation ! Lord Bvron. / JIV.U.IX'S QUESTION. B KFORK 1 trust my f;ite to thee. Or phice my hand in thine ; iJciorel let thy future give Colour and form to mine ; Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul this ni-iu lor mo. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret ; Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet ; Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee ? Does there within thy dimmest dreams A possible future shine, \\'herein thy life could henceforth breathe, Untouched, unshared by mine ? If so, at any pain or cost, oh, tell me before all is lost ! Look deeper still. If thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul. That thou hast kept a portion back, ^^'hile I have staked the whole : Let no false pity spare the blow, but, in true mercy, tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil ? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still ? Speak now — lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay. Lives there within thy nature hid The demon spirit Change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange ? It may not be thy fault alone, — but shield my heart against thy own. Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day, And answer to my claim, That fate, and that to-day's mistake. Not thou, — had been to blame ; Some soothe their conscience thus ; but thou, oh, surely thou, wilt warn me now. Nay, answer not — I dare not hear, The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So, comfort thee, my fate : — ^^^latever on my heart may fall, — remember, I would risk it all. Adelaide Procter. THE SISTER OF MERCY. SHE once was- a lady of honour and wealdi, Bright glowed on her features the roses of health ; Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold, And her motion shook perfume from every fold : Joy revelled around her, love shone at her side. And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride ; And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall. When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul. She felt in her spirit the summons of grace, That called her to live for a suffering race ; And heedless of pleasure, of comfort, of home, Kose quickly, like Mary, and answered, " I come ! " She put from her person the trappings of pride, And passed from her home with the joy of a bride ; Torgot are the claims of her riches and birth, For she barters for Heaven the glory of Earth ! Her down-bed a pallet, her trinkets a bead ; Her lustre a taper that serves her to read ; Her sculpture the crucifix nailed by her bed ; Her paintings one print of the thorn-circled head ; Her cushion the pavement that wearies her knees ; Her music the psalm or the sigh of disease ; The delicate lady lives mortified there. And the feast is forsaken for fasting and prayer. Unshrinking where Pestilence scatters his breath, Like an angel she glides 'mid the vapour of death ; Where rings the loud musket, and flashes the sword, Unfearing she walks, for she follows the Lord ! Ye prying philosophers, self-seeking men, Ye fireside philanthropists, great at the pen. How stands in the balance your eloquence weighed With the " faith " and " good works " of that heaven- minded maid ! Gerald Griffin. THE SISTER OF CHARITY. NEVER did Beauty in its loftiest pride, A splendour boast that may compare with thine ; Thus bending low yon sufferer's bed beside. Thy graces mortal, but thy cares divine. Leaving, perhaps, some gay and happy home, Music's rich tones, the rose's odorous breath ; Throughout the crowded Lazar-house to roam,. And pierce the haunts of pestilence and death. For ever gliding with a noiseless tread, As loth to break the pain-worn slumberer's rest \ To smooth the pillow, raise the drooping head. And pour thy balsam on the bleeding breast. No matter who, so he thy service need, No matter what the suppliant's claim may be ; Thou dost not ask his country or his creed, — To know he suffers is enough for thee. By many a faint and feeble murmur led, A willing slave where'er the wretched call ; I see thee softly flit from bed to bed, Each wish forestalling, bearing balm to all. Performing humblest offices of love For them who know no human love beside ; Still on thy healing way in mercy move, — Daughter of Pity, thus for ever glide. Long mayst thou live the cherished badge, \\'hose snow-white folds might dignify a Queen ; To fainting souls your cup of life to bear, And be the angels ye have ever been. Alaric a. Watts. ^jrr?vwffj . '•^'i^^iK'*<\1 '^■'ri'A^fi' • '/M^.^"^ THE RAINBOW. TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art : Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven. Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamed of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow % When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws. What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws ! And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky. When o'er the green undeluged earth, Heaven's covenant, thou didst shine, How came the world's grey fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign. And when its yellow lustre smiled O'er mountains yet untrod. Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God. Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang. 13 K riiE KM X now. Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam ; Theme of jirimeval prophecy, l?e still tlie poet's theme ! The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs. How glorious is thy girdle cast O'er mountain, tower, and town ; Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down ! As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem. As when the eagle from the Ark First sported in thy beam ; For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span ; Nor lets the type grow pale with age That first spoke peace to Man. Thomas Campbell. THE EVENING RAINBOW. MILD arch of promise, on the evening sky Thou shinest fair with many a lovely ray, Each in the other melting. Much mine eye Delights to linger on thee, for the sky. Changeful and many weathered, seemed to smile, Flashing brief splendour through the clouds awhile, Which deepened dark anon and fell in rain ; But pleasant is it now to pause and view Thy varied tints of frail and watery hue. And think the storm shall not return again. Such is the smile that Piety bestows On the good man's pale cheek when he in peace, Departing gently from a world of woes. Anticipates the world where sorrows cease. Robert Southev. THE WRECK. THE storm is loosed and tracks her way, that lone and laden ship, Like a wroth and meagre bandog from his iron leash let slip ; The steersman at the stubborn helm exerts his utmost might, But the snow-fleece slanteth to his brow, and dims his eager sight. She driveth on as an eagle would when the lightnings follow him. And plungeth down till her decks are charged up to the very brim ; And her ports drink in the foaming brine, a dark and maddening stream. With a gurgling sound and the moan of one who dreams a fearful dream ! Midnight is at her revel wild, that veiled mysterious one ; She hath gathered the stars into her lap, and lendeth unto none The wonted light that lately grew upon her silver hair. When the moon drew from her orient shell the life that lingered there ! There are lantern lights astern within that lonely ship I wist. And they flicker through the spray afar like faint-fires in a mist ; And on the rent and flapping sails a fitful glare they throw. That mocks the dance of a demon throng on the wild waves below. She hurries on with the maddened march of some disastered king, The ermine of whose regal robes abroad the breezes fling. When the tread of traitors foUoweth him with wild avenging wrath, And with lifted brands and muttered oaths they dog his desperate path. Hark to the crushing of her masts, — the spar, and helm, and sail, Are borne away in the wrathful swirl of that relentless gale ; And from her broad and battered side each struggling plank is reft, Till there is not a shred of her bravery on that dark wild ocean left ! Thomas Tod Stoddart. U THE LEE SHORE. SI.EET, and hail, and thunder ! And ye winds that rave Till the sands thereunder Tinge the sullen wave ; — Winds that like a Demon Howl with horrid note Round the toiling seaman In his tossing boat ; — From his humble dwelling On the shingly shore, ^^^lere the billows swelling Keep such hollow roar ; — From that weeping woman. Seeking wth her cries Succour superhuman From the frowning skies ; From the urchin pining For his father's knee ; From the lattice shining, Drove him out to sea ! Let broad leagues dissever Him from yonder foam ; O God, to think man ever Should come too near his home ! Thomas Hood. A MOTHERS LOVE. A MOTHER'S Love, how sweet the name ! What is a mother's love % — A noble, pure, and tender flame, Enkindled from above ; To bless a heart of earthly mould. The warmest love that can grow cold : This is a Mother's Love ! To bring a helpless babe to light. Then, while it lies forlorn. To gaze upon that dearest sight, And feel herself new-born \ In its existence lose her own. And live and breathe in it alone : This is a Mother's Love ! To mark its growth from day to day. Its opening channs admire. Catch from its eye the earliest ray Of intellectual fire \ To smile and listen Avhile it talks. To lend a finger when it walks : This is a Mother's Love ! Blest infant ! whom his mother taught Early to seek the Lord, And poured upon his dawning thought The Day-spring of the Word ; This was the lesson to her Son, — Time is eternity begun : Behold that Mother's Love !* James Montgomery. * 2 Tim. i. 5, and iii. 14, 15. 15 rilE INFANT'S KISS. IV in this world of breathing harm, There lurk one universal charm, One power which, to no clime confined, Sways either sex and every mind ; Which cheers the monarch on his throne, The slave beneath the torrid zone, The soldier rough, the lettered sage, And careless youth and helpless age. And all that live and breathe and move, — 'Tis the pure kiss of infant love. Mary Russell Mitford. DOMESTIC LOVE. DOMESTIC Love ! not in proud palace halls Is often seen thy beauty to abide \ Thy dwelling is in lowly cottage walls. That in the thickets of the woodbine hide ; With hum of bees around, and from the side Of w^oody hills some little bubbling spring. Shining along through banks with harebells dyed ; And many a bird to warble on the wing. When mom her saffron robe on heaven and earth doth fling. O love of loves ! to thy white hand is given Of earthly happiness the golden key ; Thine are the joyous hours of winter's even. When the babes cling around their lather's knee \ — And thine the voice that on the midnight sea Melts the rude mariner with thoughts of home. Peopling the gloom with all he longs to see. Spirit, I've built a shrine ; and thou hast come, And on its altar closed, for ever closed, thy plume. George Croly. r^' 9 il' Ph THE ELM TREE. THE Woodman's heart is in his work, His axe is sharp and good ; With sturdy arm and steady aim He smites the gaping wood ; From distant rocks his kisty knocks Re-echo many a rood. His axe is keen, his arm is strong, The muscles serve him well ; His years have reached an extra span, — ■ Their number none can tell ; But still his life-long task has been The timber-tree to fell. And yonder blasted Elm, that stands So like a man of sin. Who frantic flings his arms abroad To feel the worm within ; For all that gesture so intense, It makes no sort of din. An universal silence reigns In rugged bark or peel, Except that very trunk which rings Beneath the biting steel : Meanwhile the woodman plies his axe With unrelenting zeal. Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint. He spreads the fatal gash, Till, oh ! the remnant fibres rend With harsh and sudden crash ; And on the dull resounding turf The jarring branches lash. A goodly Elm of noble girth. That thrice the human span — Whilst on their variegated course The constant seasons ran — Through gale and hail and fiery bolt. Had stood erect as man. 16 Till': ELM TREK. But row, like mortal Man hinisc'f, Struck down by the hand of God, Or heathen idol tumbled prone, Beneath the Eternal's nod, In all its giant bulk ami length Jt lies along the sod ! And now the forest trees may grieve, And make a common moan, Around that i)atriarchal trunk So newly overthrown ; And, with a murmur, recognise A doom to be their own. The echo sleeps ; the idle axe, A disregarded tool, Lies crushing with its passive weight The toad's reputed stool ; The woodman wipes his dewy brow Within the shadow's cool. The deed is done ; the tree is low That stood so long and firm ; The woodman and his axe are gone, His toil has found its term ; And where he wrought, the speckled thrush Securely hunts the worm ! Thomas Hood. Tjoruion,, Puiluhed D'^cemher 2^.^1361, by Day S1.1S0TI, £ith to the Queerv. RUSTIC WONDER. HIS wonder still was mixed with equal awe, There was a magic in the things he saw ; Oft standing still, with open mouth and eyes Turned here and there alarmed, as one who tries To escape from something strange that would before him rise. The wall would part, and beings without name Would come — for such to his adventures came ; Hence undefined and solemn terror pressed Upon his mind, and all his powers possessed. All he had heard of magic, every charm. Were he alone, might come and do him harm. Much had he seen, and everything he saw Excited pleasure not unmixed with awe ; Leaving each room, he turned as if once more To enjoy the pleasure that he felt before. Come, let us forward, and he walked in haste To a large room, itself a work of taste ; But chiefly valued for the things that drew The eyes of Peter — this indeed was new ; Was most imposing \ Books of every kind Were there disposed, the food for every mind. Perplexed, he cast around his wondering eyes, Still in his joy, and dumb in his surprise. But wonder ceases on continued view. And the Boy keen for close inspection grew ; Prints on the table he at first surveyed. Then to the Books his full attention paid. Fixing on one with prints of every race, Of beast and bird most rare in every place ; Serpents, the giants of their tribe, whose prey Are giants too — a wild ox once a day ; Here the fierce tiger, and the desert's kings. And all that move on feet, or fins, or wings. George CRAHBr.. 17 TO AX FAlYPTIAN MUMMY I\ THT BRITISH Ml'SEUM. \ \1^ thou hast \ Jr\. In Thebes" s \1^ thou hast walked about — how strange a stoiy I- streets three tliousand years ago I When the Memnonium was in all its glory. And Time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous ! Speak, for thou long enough hast acted Dummy ! Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune ! Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above-ground, Mummy ! Revisiting the glimpses of the Moon ; Not like thin ghosts, or disembodied creatures. But with thy bones, and flesh, and limbs, and features. Tell us, — for doubtless thou canst recollect, — To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? AVas Cheops, or Cephrends, architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name % Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer 1 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer \ Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat. Hath hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat, Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great Temple's dedication. Statue of flesh 1 — Immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence I Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence ; Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning. When the great Trump shall thrill thee with its warning ! AMiy should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost for ever % Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that when both must sever. Although corruption must our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. HoR.'^CE Smith. PL Lv PAINTING. OTHOU by whose expressive art Her perfect image Nature sees, In union with the Graces start, And sweeter by reflection please ! In whose creative hand the hues Fresh from yon orient rainbow shine ; I bless the Promethean muse ! And hail thee brightest of the Nine ! Possessing more than vocal power. Persuasive more than poet's tongue ; Whose lineage in a raptured hour, From Love, the Sire of Nature, sprung ; Does Hope her high possession meet,-- Is Joy triumphant, Sorrow flown % Sweet is the trance, the tremour sweet. When all we love is all our own. But oh ! thou pulse of pleasure dear. Slow throbbing, cold, I feel thee part ; Lone absence plants a pang severe, Or death inflicts a keener dart. Then for a beam of joy to light In Memory's sad and wakeful eye ! O banish from the noon of night Her dreams of deeper agony. Shall Song its witching cadence roll % Yea, e'en the tenderest air repeat, That breathed when soul was knit to soul. And heart to heart responsive beat \ What visions rise, to charm, to melt ! The lost, the loved, the dead are near ! Oh, hush that strain too deeply felt ! And cease that solace too severe ! i8 PAINTING. Hut thou scrcnely-silont art ! By Heaven and Love botli taught to lend A milder solace to the heart. The sacred image of a friend. All is not lost ! if yet possessed, To me that sweet memorial shine ; If close and closer to my breast I hold the image all divine ; Or, gazing through luxurious tears, Melt o'er the loved departed form, Till death's cold bosom half appears With life and speech and spirit warm. She looks, she lives ! this tranced liour, Her bright eye seems a purer gem Than sparkles on the throne of power, Or glory's starry diadem. Yes, Genius, yes ! thy mimic aid A treasure to my soul has given, Where beauty's canonized shade Smiles in the sainted hues of heaven. No spectre forms of pleasure fled Thy softening, sweetening tints restore, For thou canst give us back the dead Even in the loveliest garb she wore. Then blest be Nature's guardian Muse, Whose hand her perished grace redeems. Whose tablet of a thousand hues, The mirror of creation seems. From Love began thy high descent, And lovers charmed by gifts of thine Shall bless thee mutely eloquent. And hail thee brightest of the Nine. Thomas Campbell. H IS' THE LAST GLEAM OF DAY. THE sun has sunk, his joyous course is o'er, And Night creeps on the' unwiUing world once more Beneath the wave dechned, but not to rest, For distant nations greet their welcome guest ; There morning glows, whilst here it is not night, And round the wide world spreads the realm of light ; O'er all the sky his blushing beams are thrown. The ocean smiles in glory not its own, Heaven weeps in dews o'er all the joys he shed, And light still lingers though the Sun be fled. So Hope, when banished from her favourite home, The youthful heart, is forced for peace to roam, Deals not a sudden death-blow to the breast. But spreads her wing, and leaves to Time the rest ; Still shines the soil where late her foot hath trod. And airs of heaven perfume her late abode. The hues she lent still linger o'er the scene. Like beauty on the lips where death hath been ; But soon we mourn the kindly beam that shone. Night comes apace, her deity is gone ; Thick, chilling mists freeze up the shivering soul, And clouds on clouds their darker influence roll, — Unlike the Sun, Hope lights no brightening star To cheer our night when she is wandering far ; Creation smiles while yet endures her reign, — That o'er, she sets, and rises not again ! Mrs. John Huntkr. 19 TWiLmirr. I LOVE thee, Twilight ! for thy gleams impart Their clear, their dying influence to my heart ; When o'er the harp of Thought thy passing wind Awakens all the music of the mind. And Joy and Sorrow, as the spirit burns, And Hope and Memory sweep the chords by turns ; While Contemplation, on seraphic wings. Mounts with the flame of sacrifice, and sings. Twilight, I love thee ; let thy glooms increase Till every feeling, every pulse is peace ; Slow from the sky the light of day declines, Clearer within the dawn of glory shines, ReveaHng, in the hour of nature's rest, A world of wonders in the poet's breast ; Deeper, O Twilight ! then thy shadows roll, An awful vision opens on my soul. James Montgomery. TWILIGHT. HAIL, Twilight ! sovereign of one peaceful hour ! Not dull art thou as undiscerning Night ; But studious only to remove from sight Day's mutable distinctions. Ancient Power ! Thus did the waters gleam, the mountains lower To the rude Briton, when in wolfskin vest, Here roving wild, he laid him dow-n to rest On the bare rock, or through a leafy bower Looked ere his eyes were closed. By him was seen The self-same vision w^hich we now behold. At thy meek bidding, shadowy Power, brought forth ; These mighty barriers and the gulf between ; The floods, the stars ; — a spectacle as old As the beginning of the heavens and earth. William Wordsworth. ScfnJan.^uo ishe rce ^ oe / '/^ft>2 6y Oay (Scxih^Z t^ io t^, (^ rr PL. 20; '^ynn'...,^^'-::l^,^Afr//jies safely with the leveret in the corn. John Clare. 1-1 if THE OAK. ROUND thee, alas, no shadows move ! From thee no sacred murmurs breathe ! Yet within thee, thyself a grove. Once did the eagle scream above, And the wolf howl beneath. There once the steel-clad knight reclined, His sable plumage tempest-tossed ; And as the death-bell smote the wind From towers long fled by human kind. His brow the hero crossed. Then culture came, and days serene. And village sports and garlands gay, Full many a pathway crossed the green, And maids and shepherd youths were seen To celebrate the May. Father of many a forest deep, Whence many a navy, thunder-fraught, Erst in thine acorncells asleep. Soon destined o'er the world to sweep, Opening new spheres of thought. Wont in the night of woods to dwell. The holy Druid saw thee rise ; And planting there the guardian spell Sang forth the dreadful pomp to swell Of human sacrifice. Thy singbd top and branches bare. Now straggle in the evening sky ; And the wan moon wheels round to glare On the lone corse that shivers there, Of him who came to die. Samuel Rogers. THE OAK OF THE FOREST. A LAS for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood, ±\. In its beauty the glory and pride of the wood ! It grew and it flourished for many an age, And many a tempest wreaked on it its rage ; But when its strong branches were bent by the blast. It struck its roots deeper and flourished more fast ; Its head towered on high, and its branches spread round, For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was sound ; The bees o'er its honey-dewed foliage played. And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear, Its leaves formed her crown, and its wood was her spear ; Alas ! for the Oak of our Fathers that stood In its beauty the glory and pride of the wood ; Then crept uj) an ivy and clung round the trunk. It struck in its mouths and the juices it drunk ; The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food, And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood. The Foresters mourned as they gathered around, — The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound They lopped off the boughs that so verdantly spread. But the ivy they spared, on its vitals that fed ; No longer the bees o'er its honey-dews played. Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade ; Lopped and mangled the tree in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been. Robert Southev. LfmUon.. ■■: Uf;'r.y'ie(£ jMxrnher-I''^:/ijj^^0ih J^cnJon,, PuMCsked JJcce'nif r: THE PEDLAR. A VAGRANT merchant bent beneath his load ! Yet do such travellers find their own delight ; And their hard service, deemed debasing now, Gained merited respect in simpler times ; When Squire and Priest, and they who round them dwelt In rustic sequestration, — all dependent Upon the Pedlar's toil, supplied their wants, Or pleased their fancies with the wares he brought. He wandered far ; much did he see of men. Their manners, their enjoyments and pursuits. Their passions and their feelings : chiefly those Essential and eternal in the heart. That mid the simpler forms of rural life Exist more simple in their elements. And speak a plainer language. In the woods A lone enthusiast, and among the fields Itinerant in this labour, he had passed The better portion of his time ; and there Spontaneously had his affections thriven Amid the beauties of the year, the peace And liberty of Nature ; there he kept. In solitude and solitary thought, His mind in a just equipoise of love. Serene it was, unclouded by the cares Of ordinary life \ unvexed, unwarped By partial bondage. In his steady course No piteous revolutions had he felt. No wild varieties of joy and grief He had no painful pressure from without That made him turn aside from wretchedness With coward fears. He could afford to suffer With those whom he saw suffer. Hence it came That in our best experience he was rich. And in the wisdom of our daily life ; For hence, minutely in his various rounds He had observed the progress and decay Of many minds, of minds and bodies too ; The history of many families. How they had prospered, how they were o'erthrow n By passion or mischance, or such misrule Among the unthinking masters of the earth As makes the nations groan. William Wordsworth. 24 THE IIRnRIU]'\S APPEAL. CEASE, Christian, cease the words of scorn On Israel's name, on Judah's race ; Though lowly, humbled, and forlorn. They have no home, no resting-place ; Deem not the Hebrew's soul so dead, So abject that he cannot know. Musing o'er Salem's glory fled, The tear of shame, the pang of woe. Oh ! think upon the severed wave. Obedient to the Prophet's word, On that dread law Jehovah gave. When Sinai trembled with the Lord. Forget them not, our favoured sires, Led through the desert, bondage free ; By noontide cloud, and midnight fires, Their Guardian-guide, the Deity. Boast ye of Britain rich and great. Her beauties do ye fondly tell % Such once was Zion's palmy state, So fair thy tents, O Israel ! Her merchants were the chiefs of earth, Her vessels thronged the eastern sea ; And Salem gloried in the worth Of Ophir, Indus, Araby. Virgin of Israel ! yet once more. Encircled by the choral throng, Yet shalt thou lead the dance, and pour To tabret notes a joyful song. Once more, once more, exultingly. From holy Ephraim's mountain ward Shall Jacob hear the watchman's cry, " Arise ! and let us seek the Lord !" Anonvmous. PL. 25. F.PowM. ZoTuiyruILilished D,;cerTJ,eT-l'.''2861,ly Day & Sarz.Zith.to ifif Queei.. A GLEN. TO whom belongs this valley fair, That sleeps beneath the filmy air, Even like a living thing ! Calm, as the infant at the breast. Save a still sound that speaks of rest, — That streamlet's murmuring ! The heavens appear to love this vale ; There clouds with scarce-seen motion sail, Or 'mid the silence lie ! By that blue arch this beauteous earth, 'Mid evening's hour of dewy mirth, Seems bound unto the sky. Oh ! that this lovely vale were mine ! Then, from glad youth to calm decline. My years would gently glide ; Hope would rejoice in endless dreams. And memory's oft-returning gleamg By peace be sanctified. There would unto my soul be given. From presence of that gracious heaven, A piety subhme ; And thoughts would come of mystic mood. To make in this deep solitude Eternity of time ! And did I ask to whom belonged This vale % I feel that I have wronged Nature's most gracious soul ! She spreads her glories o'er the earth. And all her children from their birth Are joint-heirs of the whole. Yea ! long as Nature's humblest child Hath kept her temple undefiled By sinful sacrifice, Earth's fairest scenes are all his own, He is a monarch, and his throne Is built amid the skies ! John \V^ilson. 25 rilF. CLHN. Now wind we up the glen. :inil hear below The dushini; toirenl in deep woods concealed, And now again white-flashing on the view O'er the huge craggy fragments. Ancient stream, That murmurcst through the mountain solitudes, The time has been when no eye marked thy course Save His who made the world. Fancy might dream She saw thee thus bound on from age to age, Unseen of man, Avhile awful Nature sat On the rent rocks and said : "These haunts be mine." Now taste has marked thy features ; here and there Touching with tender hand, but injuring not Thy beauties : whilst along thy woody verge Ascends the winding pathway, and the eye Catches at intervals thy varied falls. William Lisle Bowles. Not a breath of air Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen ; From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees Are steadfast as the rocks ; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar. Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm ' Where all things else are still and motionless ; And yet, even now, a little breeze perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, Has entered, by the sturdy oak unfelt ; But to its gentle touch how sensitive Is the light ash, that pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow waving boughs, Powerful almost as vocal harmony To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts. William Wordsworth. P1.26. Jjcr.don, FuMishei Secmber- l''l861,- hy Say & Son.liih. to thm Quxen. YOUTH AND AGE. " Till youth's delirious dream is o'er, Sanguine with hope we look before The future good to find ; In age, when error charms no more, For bliss we look behind. " — Jatiies Montgomoy. DAYS of my youth, ye have ghded away ; Hairs of my youth, ye are frosted and grey ; Eyes of my youth, your keen sight is no more ; Cheeks of my youth, ye are furrowed all o'er ; Strength of my youth, all your vigour is gone ; Thoughts of my youth, your gay visions are flown. Days of my youth, I wish not your recall ; Hours of my youth, I'm content ye should fall ; Eyes of my youth, you much evil have seen ; Cheeks of my youth, bathed in tears have you been ; Thoughts of my youth, ye have led me astray ; Strength of my youth, why lament your decay 1 Days of my age, ye will shortly be past ; Pains of my age, but awhile ye can last ; Joys of my age, in true wisdom delight ; Eyes of my age, be religion your light ; Thoughts of my age, dread ye not the cold sod ; Hopes of my age, be ye fixed on your God. The Hon. St. George Tucker. OLD AGE. THOU anti-climax in life's wrinkled page, Worse end of bad beginning, helpless Age ! That sow'st the thorn, though long the flower hath fled ; Alive to torment, but to transport dead ; Imposing still through Time's still roughening road, With strength diminished, an augmented load. Slow herald of the tomb ! sent but to make Man curse that giftless gift thou wilt not take : When hope and patience both give up the strife. Death is thy cure — for thy disease is life ! Charles Caleb Colton. 26 YOUTH AXn AGE. WK talked with open lioart ami tongue AlVcctionatc and true, A pair of friends, though I was young, Antl Matthew seventy- two. We lay beneath a spreading oak, Beside a mossy seat ; And from the turf a fountain broke And gurgled at our feet. " Now, Matthew," said I, " let us match This water's pleasant tune With some old border song or catch That suits a summer's noon. " Or of the church-clock and the chimes Sing here beneath the shade That half-mad thing of witty rhymes Which you last April made." In silence Matthew lay and eyed The spring beneath the tree, And thus the dear old man replied, The grey-haired man of glee :— " No check, no stay, this streamlet fears — How merrily it goes ! 'Twill murmur on a thousand years, And flow as now it flows. " And here on this delightful day I cannot choose but think. How oft a vigorous man I lay Beside this fountain's brink. " My eyes are dim with childish tears, My heart is idly stirred. For the same sound is in my ears Which in those days I heard. " Thus fares it still in our decay, And yet the wiser mind Mourns less for what age takes away Than what it leaves behind." William Wordsworth. I}cindon,,PuUished Z>eceml>erI'.^d6Z,iyZ>o.y ie.tS'cn.JJitA.-totfi* (Juetm.. TO THE MOON. QUEEN of the Stars ! so gentle, so benign, That ancient Fable did to thee assign. When darkness, creeping o'er thy silver brow, Warned thee these upper regions to forego, Alternate empire in the shades below — A Bard who lately near the wide-spread sea. Traversed by gleaming ships, looked up to thee With grateful thoughts, doth now thy rising hail From the close confines of a shadowy vale. Glory of night conspicuous, yet serene. Nor less attractive when by glimpses seen Through cloudy umbrage, well might that fair face, And all those attributes of modern grace. In days when Fancy wrought unchecked by fear, Down to the green earth fetch thee from thy sphere, To sit in leafy woods by fountains clear ! O still beloved (for thine, meek Power, are charms That fascinate the very babe in arms. While he, uplifted towards thee, laughs outright. Spreading his little palms in his glad mother's sight), O still beloved, once worshipped, Time that frowns In his destructive flight on earthly crowns, Spares thy mild splendour ; still those far-shot beams Tremble on dancing wave and rippling streams With stainless touch, as chaste as when thy praise Was sung by virgin choirs in festal lays : And through dark trials still dost thou explore Thy way for increase punctual as of yore. When teeming matrons— yielding to rude faith In mysteries of birth, and life, and death, And painful struggle and deliverance — prayed Of thee to visit them with lenient aid. What though the rights be swept away, the fanes Extinct that echoed to the votive strains ; Yet thy mild aspect does not, cannot cease Love to promote, and purity and peace ; And Fancy unrebuked e'en yet may trace Faint types of suffering in thy beamless face. Then, silent Monitress ! let us not be blind To worlds unthought of till the searching mind Of Science laid them open to mankind ! 27- TO TJIE MOON. Told also, how the voiceless heavens declare Ciod's glory ; and acknowledging tliy share In that blest charge ; let us, without olTence To aught of highest, holiest influence, Receive whatever good 'twas given thee to dispense. May sage and simple, catching with one eye The moral intimations of the sky. Learn from thy course, where'er their own be taken, " To look on tempests and be never shaken : " To keep with fiiithful step the appointed way, Eclipsing or eclipsed, by night or day. And from example of thy monthly range, Gently to brook decline and fatal change. Meek, patient, steadfast, and Avith loftier scope, Than thy revival yields for gladsome hope ! William Wordsworth. THE MOON. THE' aspiring mountains and the winding streams, Empress of Night, are gladdened by thy beams ; A look of thine the wilderness pervades And penetrates the forest's inmost shades ; Thou chequering peacefully the minster's gloom, Guid'st the pale Mourner to the lost one's tomb \ Canst reach the Prisoner — to his grated cell Welcome, though silent and intangible ! And lives there one, of all that come and go. On the great waters toiling to and fro, — One who has watched thee at some quiet hour Enthroned aloft in undisputed power, Or crossed by vapoury streaks and clouds that move, Catching the lustre they in part reprove, — Nor sometimes felt a fitness in thy sway To call up thoughts that shun the glare of day, And make the serious happier than the gay % William Wordsworth. HEN AND CHICKENS. BEHOLD the parent hen amid her brood, Though fledged and feathered, and well pleased to part And straggle from her presence, still a brood, And she herself from the maternal bond Still undischarged ; yet doth she little more Than move with them in tenderness and love, A centre to the circle which they make ; And now and then, alike from need of theirs. And call of her own natural appetites, She scratches, ransacks up the earth for food. Which they partake at pleasure. William Wordsworth. SEE, Sister, how the chickens trip. All busy in the morn ; Look, how their heads they dip and dip. To peck the scattered corn. Dear Sister, shall we shut our eyes. And to the sight be blind ; Nor think of Him who food supplies To us and all mankind. Whether our wants be many or few. Or fine or coarse our fare, To Heaven's protecting love is due The voice of praise and prayer. William Lisle Bowles. 28 THE COTTAGE-HEN. OFTEN in March the cottage-hen comes forth, Attended by her brood, but poorly fenced Against the eastern blast, that frequent brings A shower of biting hail, which as it falls. The inexperienced younglings eager chase, And peck the pattering drops : forbid not, then, Tlie clamorous flock in quest of crumbs to haunt The fireside nook. How pleasant 'tis to hear The summoning call whene'er the prize is found ! Or see the eager mother gather in Her tiny josding brood beneath the chair On which the thrifty housewife sits and spins ; Or if to approach this citadel yon cur Presume, then see her issue forth with plumes All ruffled, and attack the foe, and drive Him, howling, out of doors, drooping his tail, And shaking, as he runs, his well-pecked ears. James Grahame. THE MOUNTAIN STREAM. THE mountain breeze profusely flings A balmy welcome from its wings, Rich in a pure, celestial wealth, The elastic happiness of health ! The rivulet, chafed, or gvishing clear, Salutes me with a friendly cheer ; Inviting, as to Fancy seems, A verse to consecrate its streams. For God hath to the Muses given A gift no other powers attain, To stamp the eternity of Heaven On earthly things that grace their strain. Even I, the least of all their train. In happy mood, and happier hour, May, with a fire ne'er lit in vain, Convey the bright, immortal dower : Fulfilling all this lovely Spring's desire Whose music hath awoke my slumbering lyre. Scamander's princely waters still Descend in song from Ida's hill. Clearing the heroic plain, — although His urn was shattered long ago. The array divine of warrior kings Drink still from Simois' sacred springs. Gleams still Eurotas' gelid tide, Emblem of Spartan trick and pride ; Still ancient Tiber bursts along. In yellow whirlpools to the sea, — God of a people fierce and strong, And free, — in right of Virtue free ! Is there a lip that touches thee — Dear flood ! and owns a tyrant's sway % A living fire that draught should be. To melt his craven heart away ! Streams where a poet sings, or patriot bleeds, Instinct with sjiirit flow, and generous deeds. Sweet, nameless Spring ! heroic themes Suit ill thy modest, shrinking streams. 29 I THE MO UNTA IX S TREAM. Thy waves a quiet cave have won. This tall rock guards thee from the sun. Thou seest the steer or steed alone, Refresh them from thy cup of stone. Hear'st shepherd's reed, or lover's plaint (Vexing thy shrubs with carvings (iualnt), Nor other sights or sounds prevail, For thou, shy fountain, hast retired, Far up this rough untrodden vale, As half ashamed to be admired ; And I, an idler undesired, Seem to disturb thy quiet cell, With songs by other times inspired. And murmurs of the classic shell. Bear me, meek Fount ! a lone forgotten thing, Beneath these rocks like thee to muse and sing. Knowledge divine ! thy cheering ray. Descending to the simple mind, Purges all doubt and grief away. Nor leaves one angry wish behind. All creatures, then, of every kind, Partake our sympathy and love, Seem guided to the goal assigned By Him, dread power ! — all powers above ! Spirits of hills and streams !^my teachers be, If this high wisdom be foredoomed to me ! AnONYjMOUS. THE BIVOUAC. THE sun has sunk beneath the sea, His smile is fled from tower and tree, And fast descends o'er hill and dale, The cold night's dun and sombre veil ; Above more deeply glows the sky — A silver spangled canopy ; Below, o'er devious ridges, shine Far wandering fires in many a line ; And on the gloom around them throw A wild and melancholy glow. Through which you may dimly see the tents Pitched by hostile armaments, And the forms of men in the dusky gleam, Like the wandering phantom shapes that seem To ghde o'er the scene of a troubled dream ; You may hear the note of the bugle there As it sails away through the silent air ! And the hollow roll of the distant drum, And of their hosts the dying hum. You may hear the song of a foreign land Arise on the breath of the night from their band. Severed but by some small dell Paces the hostile sentinel. So near that his shade, when the sun was low. Would have reached across to the place of his foe. John Malcolm. 30 THE BIVOUAC. THE night comes on, and o'er the field The moon shines bright on hehn and shield ; But there are many on that plain That shall not see her light again : She looks serene on countless bands Of mailed breasts and steel-bound hands, And shows a thousand faces there Of courage high and dark despair. All mingled as the legions lie, Wrapped in their dreams of victory. Survey the crowds who there await In various mood the shock of fate \ Who burn to meet, or strive to shun. The dangers of to-morrow's sun. Look on the husband's anxious tears, The hero's hopes, the coward's fears ; The vices that e'en here abound, The follies that are hovering round ; And learn that (treat it as you will) Our life must be a mockery still. Alas ! the same caprices reign In courtly hall or tented plain, And the same follies are revealed In ball-room or in battle-field. WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PraED. PL. 31. 0^c£f^ ''.Jwssiter Z/mdon.Ai&s7u!dDecem2)er.7^JS6l hy Day &. Son. lith.to the C>ueeri,. THE VILLAGE BOY. TO be a Boy once more, o . Curly-headed, sitting, singing 'Mid a thousand flowerets springing. In the sunny days of yore. In the sunny world remote, With feelings opening in their dew, And fairy wonders ever new. O, to be a boy, yet be From all my early follies free ; But were I skilled in prudent lore. The boy were then a boy no more ! Thomas Aird. FREE from the cottage-corner, see how wild The village boy along the pasture hies, With every smell and sound and sight beguiled, That round the prospect meets his wondering eyes ; Now stooping eager for the cowslip-pips, As though he'd cull them all ; now tired of these. Across the flaggy brook he eager leaps For some new flower his happy rapture sees ; Now tearing 'mid the bushes on his knees, On woodland banks for bluebell-flowers he creeps ; And now, while looking up among the trees. He spies a nest, and down he throws his flowers ; And up he climbs with new-fed ecstasies — The happiest object in the summer hours. John Ci.are. 31 TIJF. SHEPHERD BOY. PLEASED in his loneliness, he often lies Telling glad stories to his dog, or e'en His ver}' shadow, that the loss supplies Of other company. Full oft he'll lean By pebbled brooks, and dream with happy eyes Upon the fairy pictures sjDread below, Thinking the shadowed prospect real skies, The blessed heaVens to which his kindred go. Oft we may track the haunts where he has been To spend the leisure which his toils bestow, By nine-pegged morris nicked upon the green, Or beds with flowers never meant to grow, Or figures cut on trees, his skill to show. Where he a prisoner from a shower has been. John Clare. THE Shepherd-lad, that in the sunshine carves On the green turf a dial — to divide The silent hours ; and who to that report Can portion out his pleasures, and adapt, Throughout a long and lonely summer's day, His round of pastoral duties, is not left With less intelligence for moral things Of gravest import. Early he perceives Within himself a measure and a rule, Which to the sun of truth he can apply, That shines on him and shines on all mankind ; Experience daily fixing his regards On nature's wants, he knows how few they are. And where they lie, how answered and appeased. William Wordsworth. THE SISTERS. WE were two daughters of one race ; She was the fairest in the face ; The wind is blowing in turret and tree. They were together, and she fell ; Therefore revenge became me well : Oh, the Earl was fair to see ! She died : she went to burning flame ; She mixed her ancient blood with shame : The wind was howling in turret and tree. Whole weeks and months, and early and late, To win his love I lay in wait : Oh, the Earl was fair to see ! I made a feast, I bade him come ; I won his love, I brought him home : The wind is roaring in turret and tree. And after supper, on a bed, Upon my lap he laid his head : Oh, the Earl was fair to see ! I kissed his eyelids into rest \ His ruddy cheek upon my breast : The wind is raging in turret and tree. I hated him with the hate of hell, But I loved his beauty passing well : Oh, the Earl was fair to see ! I rose up in the silent night, I made my dagger sharp and bright : The wind is raving in turret and tree. As half asleep his breath he drew. Three times I stabbed him through and through : Oh, tlie Earl was fair to see ! I curled and combed his comely head, He looked so grand when he was dead : The wind is blowing in turret and tree. I wrapped his body in the sheet. And laid him at his mother's feet : Oh, the Earl was fair to see ! Alfred Tennyson, 32 L'i, 33 a ^i/ndon. Publii '■ THE SHOE-BLACK. WHAT though the gathering mire thy feet besmear. The voice of industry is ahvays near ! Hark ! the boy calls thee to his destined stand, And the shoe shines beneath his oily hand. ■X- -x- -::• * * * The Goddess long had marked the child's distress, And long had sought his sufferings to redress; She prays the gods to take the foundling's part, And teach his hands some beneficial art Practised in streets : the gods her suit allowed, And made him useful to the walking crowd. To cleanse the miry feet, and o'er the shoe With nimble skill the glossy black renew. Each power contributes to relieve the poor : With the strong bristles of the mighty boar Diana forms his brush ; the God of Day A tripod gives, amidst the crowded way To raise the dirty foot, and ease his toil ; Kind Neptune fills his vase with fetid oil Prest from the enormous whale ; the God of Fire, From whose dominions smoky clouds aspire. Among these general presents joins his part. And aids with soot the new japanning art. Now beckoning to the boy, she thus begun : — " Thy prayers are granted ; weep no more, my son : Go thrive. At some frequented corner stand ; This brush I give thee, grasp it in thy hand ; Temper the soot within this vase of oil, And let the little tripod aid thy toil : On this, methinks, I see the walking crew, At thy request, supi:)ort the miry shoe ; The foot grows black that was with dirt imbrowned. And in thy pocket jingling halfpence sound." The youth straight chose his post ; the labour plied. Where branching streets from Charing Cross divide ; His treble voice resounds along the Mews, And Whitehall echoes "Clean your Honour's shoes !" John Gay. 33 J VI NT/: /k A'/:r/{/.X OH say, hath ^Vintcr then no cliarms ? Is there no joy, no gladness warms His aged heart ; no happy wiles To cheat the lioary one to smiles * Onward he comes — the cruel North Pours his furious whirlwind forth Before him — and we breathe the breath Of famished bears that howl to death. Onward he comes from rocks that blancli O'er solid streams that never flow, His tears all ice, his locks all snow. Just crept from some huge avalanche, A thing half breathing and half warm, As if one spark began to glow Within some statue's marble form, Or pilgrim stiftened in the storm. Oh ! will not mirth's light arrows fail To pierce that frozen coat of mail 1 Oh ! will not joy but strive in vain To light up those glazed eyes again ? No ! take him in and blaze the oak. And pour the wine and warm the ale ; His sides shall shake to many a joke, His tongue shall thaw in many a tale. His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay, And even his palsy cheered away. But hark ! those shouts ! that sudden din Of little hearts that laugh within. Oh ! take him where the youngsters play. And he will grow as young as they ! They come ! they come ! each blue-eyed sport, The Iwelfth-night King and all his court — 'Tis mirth fresh crowned with mistletoe ! Music with her merry fiddler, Joy " on light fantastic toe," Wit with all his jests and riddles, Singing and dancing as they go ; And Love, young Love, among the rest, A welcome — nor unbidden guest. Thomas Hood. 34. '.ciori.,.'-U 'illslu-n. JjT.eTnA,-r2\Uti'i. THE SEA BEACH. TURN to the watery world ! but who to thee, A wonder yet unviewed, shall paint the sea % Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms ; Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun Shades after shades upon the surface run ; Embrowned and horrid now, and now serene, In limpid blue and evanescent green ; And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie Like the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye. Be it the summer noon : a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; Then just the hot and stony beach above. Light twinkling streams in bright confusion move (For heated thus the warmer air ascends. And with the cooler in its fall contends) ; — Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion, swelling as it sleeps ; Then slowly sinking, curling to the strand. Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand. Or strike the tarry boat with gentle blow. And back return in silence, smooth and slow. Ships in the calm seem anchored, for they glide On the still sea urged solely by the tide ; Art thou not present, this calm scene before. Where all beside is pebbly length of shore, And far as eye can reach it can discern no more George Ckabbe. THE SEA. H OW vividly this moment brightens forth Between grey parallel and leaden breadths, A belt of hues that stripes thee many a league, Flushed like the rainbow, or the ringdove's neck ; And giving to the glancing sea-bird's wing The semblance of a meteor. Mighty Sea ! Chameleon-like thou changest, but there's love 34 TIfE SKA. In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder sky — thy mistress ; from her brow Thou tak'st thy moods and wcar'sl her colours on Thy fiiithful bosom ; morning's milky white, Noon's sapphire, or the saftron glow of eve ; And all thy balmy hours, fair element, Have such divine comjilexion — crisjjed smiles, Luxuriant heavings, and sweet whis^jcrings, 'J'hat little is the wonder Love's own queen, From thee of old was fabled to have sprung. Creation's common ! which no liuman power Can parcel or inclose ; the lordliest floods And cataracts that the tiny hands of man Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew To thee that couldst subdue the earth itself. And brook'st commandment from the heavens alone For marshaling thy waves. Yet, potent Sea ! How placidly thy moist Hps speak ev'n now Along yon sparkling shingles. Who can be So fanciless as to feel no gratitude That power and grandeur can be so serene, Soothing the home-bound navy's peaceful way. And rocking ev'n the fisher's little bark As gently as a mother rocks her child % Thomas Campbell. THE FISHERMAN. A PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be, Hath the lone fisher on the lonely sea. O'er the wild waters labouring, far from home, For some bleak pittance still condemned to roam \ Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life, And none to aid him in the stormy strife : Companion of the sea and silent air, The lonely fisher thus must ever fare : Without the comfort hope, with scarce a friend, He looks through life and only sees its end ! Bryan Waller Procter. PI M THE LITTLE SHIPWRIGHT. Build me straight, O worthy master, Staunch and strong, a goodly vessel, That shall laugh at all disaster, And with wave and whirlwind wrestle. — Longfellow. LO ! yonder shed ; observe its garden ground, With the low paUng, formed of wreck, around. There dwells a fisher ; if you view his boat With bed and barrel, 'tis his home afloat ; Look at his house, where ropes, nets, blocks abound, Tar, pitch, and oakum — -'tis his boat aground ; That space enclosed but little he regards. Spread o'er with relics of masts, sails, and yards ; Fish by the wall on spit of alder rest, Of all his food the cheapest and the best. By his own labour caught, for his own hunger dressed. Here our reformers come not ; none object To paths polluted, or upbraid neglect ; None care that ashy heaps at doors are cast. That coal-dust flies along the blinding blast ; None heed the stagnant pools on either side, Where new-launched ships of infant sailors ride ; Rodneys in rags here British valour boast. And lisping Nelsons fright the Gallic coast ; They fix the rudder, set the swelling sail. They point the bowsprit, and they blow the gale ; True to her port the frigate scuds away. And o'er that frowning ocean finds her bay ; Her owner rigged her, and he knows her worth, And sees her, fearless, gunwale-deep, go forth \ Dreadless he views his sea, by breezes curled. When inch-high billows vex the watery world. Okorge Cradbe. 35 THE YOUNG BOAT-BUILDER. OUR last boat is launched, and our fleet's on the sea, May good fortune attend it wherever it be \ Its helmsman is steady, its seamen are strong, And the fresh breeze of heaven bears it gaily along : Its captains are wise as Columbus of yore. And our ships, though they ne'er walked the waters before. Are destined to make for their builders a name : If we cannot win profit, at least we'll win fame ! As onward they speed o'er their perilous way, Leaving far, far behind them the sheltering bay ; Though strange, it is true, they have left on the shore No heart that is grieving ; who e'er saw before A vessel bound outward, that left not behind The sigh and the shout mingled both on the wind \ But here we're as happy as happy can be, So hurrah ! for the fleet that is now on the sea ! Anonymous. THE CORN-FIELD. WHEN on the breath of tlie autumn breeze From pastures dry and brown, Goes floating, Ijke an idle thought, The fair, white thistledown ; Oh, then what joy to walk at will Upon the golden harvest hill ! What joy in dreamy ease to be Amid a field new shorn, And see all round on sun-lit slopes The piled-up shocks of corn ; And send the fancy wandering o'er All pleasant harvest-fields of yore. I feel the day ; I see the field, The quivering of the leaves, And good old Jacob and his house Binding the yellow sheaves ; And at this very hour I seem To be with Joseph in his dream. I see the fields of Bethlehem, And reapers many a one, Bending unto their sickles' stroke, And Boaz looking on ; And Ruth, the Moabitess fair, Among the gleaners stooping there. Again I .see a little child. His mother's sole delight, God's living gift of love unto The kind good Shunamite ; To mortal pangs I see him yield. And the lad bear him from the field. The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, The fields of Galilee, That eighteen hundred years agone Were full of corn, I see; And the dear Saviour take his way 'Mid ripe years on the Sabbath day. 3(^ THF. CORN-FIEI. P. O golden fields of bending corn, How beautiful they seem ! The reaper-folk, the piled-up sheaves, To me are like a dream ; The sunshine and the very air Seem of old time, and take me there. Mary Howitt. THE HARVEST-HOME. THE last golden sheaf is borne off from the meadow. The reaper is gone, for his labour is done ; The harvest that grew where no cloud threw its shadow. Was gathered to-day in the smiles of the sun. See ! see ! the tankards foam ; Hark ! hark ! 'tis Harvest-home. Youth trips to the sound of the pipe and the tabor, \Miile innocent childhood looks on with his laugh, And happy old age tells some listening neighbour Of festivals past, as he leans on his staff See ! see ! the tankards foam ; Hark ! hark ! 'tis Harvest-home ! Thomas Havnes Bayly. ■>,cio'i..J'u 6lzs7Led Decernier I'/J8e2, hy Day VALENTINE'S DAY. APOLLO has peeped through the shiutter, And wakened the witty and fair, The boarding-school belle 's in a flutter, The two-penny post in despair ; The breath of the morning is flinging A magic on blossom and spray ; And Cockneys and sparrows are singing, In chorus, on Valentine's day. Away with ye, dreams of disaster ; Away with ye, visions of law ; Of cases I never can master. Of pleadings I never shall draw : Away with ye, parchments and papers ; Red tapes, unread volumes, away ; It gives a fond lover the vapours To see you on Valentine's day ! Shall I kneel to a Sylvia or Celia, Whom no one e'er saw or may see, A fancy-drawn Laura Amelia, An ad libit. Anna Marie % Shall I court an initial with stars to it, Go mad for a G. or a J., Get Bishop to set a few bars to it, And print it on Valentine's day % Alas ! ere I'm properly frantic With some such pure figment as this, Some visions not quite so romantic Start up to demolish the bliss ; Some Will-o'-the-Wisp in a bonnet, Still leads my lost senses astray, Till up to my ears in a sonnet I sink upon Valentine's day. The Dian I half bought a ring for. On seeing her thrown in the ring ; The Naiad I took such a sjjring for From Waterloo Bridge in the sjjring; — The trembler I saved from a robber, on My walk to the Champs P^Iysees ! The warbler that fainted at Oberon, Three montlis before Valentine's day ; L VALENTINE'S HAY. The gipsv I once \\\<\ a spill with ; Bad luck, to the Paddington team ! The countess I chanced to be ill with, From Do\er to Calais, by steam ; — The lass that makes tea for Sir Stephen, The lassie that brings in the tray ; It's odd, but the betting is even Between them on Valentine's day. The white hands I helped in their nutting ; The fair neck I cloaked in the rain ; The bright eyes that thanked me for cutting My friend in Emanuel lane ; The Blue that admires Sir John Barrow ; The Saint that adores Lewis Way ; The Nameless that dated from Harrow Three couplets last Valentine's day. I think not of Laura the witty, For, oh ! she is married at York ! I sigh not for Rose of the city. For, ah I she is buried at Cork ! Adele has a braver and better, To say what I never could say : Louise cannot construe a letter Of Enghsh, on Valentine's day. So perish the leaves in the arbour. The tree is all bare in the blast ! Like a wTeck that is drifting to harbour, I come to the lady at last : Where art thou, so lovely and lonely, Though idle the lute and the lay, The lute and the lay are thine only, My fairest on Valentine's day. For thee I have opened my Blackston. For thee I have shut up myself; Exchanged my long curls for a Caxton. And laid my short whist on the shelf; For thee I have sold my old Sherry, For thee I have burned my new play, And I grow philosophical — very I Except upon Valentine's day. WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PraED. rmAeri / fi^ fj Jjay &. Aon Jjit'i to '■If i^huri n THE MA Y- WREA TH. HAST thou been in the woods with the honey bee, Hast thou been with the lamb in the pastures free ; With the hare through the copses and dingles wild, With the butterfly over the heath, fair child 1 Yes ; the light fall of thy bounding feet Hath not startled the wTen from her mossy seat ; Yet hast thou ranged the green forest dells. And brought back a treasure of buds and bells. Oh ! happy child, in thy fawn-like glee, What is remembrance or thought to thee \ "^ill thy bright locks with those gifts of Spring, O'er thy green pathway thy colours fling ; Bind them in chaplet and wild festoon, Vhat if to droop and to perish soon ; Nature hath mines of such wealth, and thou lever wilt prize its delights as now. Felicia Hemans. MAY DAY. WHILE from the purpling east departs The star that led the dawn, Blithe Flora from her couch upstarts, For May is on the lawn. A quickening hope, a freshening glee. Foreran the expected power. Whose first-drawn breath, from bush and tree, Shakes off that pearly shower. All Nature welcomes Her whose sway Tempers the year's extremes ; Who scattereth lustres o'er noon-day, Like morning's dewy gleams ; While mellow warble, sprightly trill, The tremulous heart excite ; And hums the balmy air to still The balance of dcHght. 38 'I'liuo was, blest rower ! when youlhs and maids At peep of dawn woukl rise, And wander forth, in forest glades Thy birth to solemnize ! Though mute the song — to grace the rite Untouched the hawthorn bough, Thy Spirit triumphs o'er the slight ; Man changes, but not thou ! Thy feathered lieges bill antl wings In love's disport employ ; Warmed by thy influence, creeping things Awake to silent joy : Queen art thou still for each gay plant AVhere the slim wild deer roves ; And served in depths where fishes haunt. Their own mysterious groves. And if, on this thy natal morn, The pole, from which thy name Hath not departed, stands forlorn Of song, and dance, and game ; Still from the village green a vow Aspires to thee addrest. Wherever peace is on the brow, Or love within the breast. Yes ! where Love nestles thou canst teach The soul to love the more ; Hearts also shall thy lessons reach. That never loved before. Stript is the haughty one of pride. The bashful freed from fear ; While rising like the ocean-tide, In flows the joyous year. Hush, feeble lyre ! weak words refuse The service to prolong ! To yon exulting thrush the Muse Entrusts the imperfect song ; His voice shall chant, in accents clear, Throughout the live long day, Till the first silver star appear, The sovereignty of May. William Wordsworth. PL. 3a itn.iotfie C^iieen. THE GREENWOOD. THE greenwood, the greenwood, what bosom but allows The gladness of the charm that dwells in thy pleasant whispering boughs, How often in this weary world I pine and long to flee, And lay me down as I was wont under the greenwood tree ! The greenwood, the greenwood, to the bold and happy boy, Thy realm of shade is a fairy land of wonder and of joy ; Oh, for that freshness of the heart, that pure and vivid thrill, As he listens to the woodland cries, and wonders at his will ! The greenwood, the greenwood, oh, be it mine to lie In the depth of thy mossy solitude when summer fills the sky, With pleasant sound and scents around, a tome of ancient lore, And a pleasant friend with me to bend, and turn its pages o'er.* William Howitt. TEIE FOREST. I LOVE the Forest ; — I could dwell among That silent people, till my thoughts grew up In nobly ordered form, as to my view Rose the succession of that lofty throng : — The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves Formed by the slow decay of numerous years, — The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears Beneath the fir's inhospitable eaves, — The chirp and flutter of some single bird, — The rustle in the brake, — what precious store Of joys have these on Poets' hearts conferred ! And then at times to send one's own voice out In the full frolic of ojie startling shout. Only to feel the after stillness more. Richard Monckton Milni^s. * From " The Book of the Seasons." 39 N O O N. COME, ye brown Oaks, and stoop your heavy boughs Making sweet eve around my sultry brows ! Wave your white beauty, lilies ; hyacinths, sigh And woodbine, from your blossomed canopy, Stirring the smoothness of the quiet stream. Shed on my eyes some deep Elysian dream. And come, thou young and silken-pinioned Wind, That the pale virgin May sends forth to find Her flow^ers in Winter's frozen bosom sleeping ; Wing round this leafy bed, in whispers creeping Like softest music on my slumbering ear ; Until the murmur of the grasshopper, And the fresh odours of the roses' breath. Tell me that day is faint and nigh to death ; And the small stars are waking one by one, And to fair Thetis' couch the weary sun is gone \ George Croly. PL 40, Zcndon,ru2i2is7iedDcctmierJfIG6/,6y Dccy &Son.Zi^i.iotAe Qui-^ri,. ROASTED CHESTNUTS. " Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live." — Shakespeare. SEE the young Merchant toiUng through the street, Stamping the snow to warm his frozen feet, Take up his curbstone station for the day, Though stern pohce may warn him hence away. A ragged troop upon his footsteps wait, To snatch a warm before his charcoal grate, To look and long, poor Arabs of the street, Whose eyes devour the food they may not eat ; Content to echo second-hand his cry : " Chestnuts all hot ! all hot I who'll buy, who'll buy % Outside no blemish, inside lined with silk ; Large as horse-chestnuts, but as mild as milk. They come a long way off, they say from Spain ; Buy them, and try them, and you'll come again. They're hot and heartsome, good and sound, and sweet ! Like toast and butter ; nay, like bread and meat ! Try but a handful, like a king you'll dine ! Folk where they come from call them bread and wine. I give no credit, or the nuts would go — You all know that — as fast as melting snow." His audience look convinced ; they look and sigh ; They have no money, so they cannot buy. The jovial laugh forbids the least distrust ; 'Tis hard to starve, but still to starve they must ! " But while I chaff with you my chestnuts burn. And I so famed for roasting to a turn. Be off, you rogues, and come another day. You always keep the gentlefolk away. It's bitter cold, and not far off a storm, You want a ' something ' now ' to keep you warm.' Be off, I say, and let your clamour cease: " His heart relents — he gives them two apiece ! Courage, brave heart, nor be of want afraid, They cannot pay thee, but thou wilt be paid. I turn away half joyful and half sad. To think how little makes the wretched glad ! Thus young and old, and rich and poor, must meet. To learn life's lessons from the stony street. Anonymous. 40 LABOUR. PAUSE not to dream of the future before us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us ; Hark ! how creation's wild musical chorus Unintermitting goes up into Heaven : Never the ocean wave falters in flowing ; Never the little seed stops in the growing ; More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. " Labour is worship ! "—the robin is singing ; " Labour is worship ! " — the wild bee is ringing ; Listen, that eloquent whisper upspringing, Echoes the lesson that teaches the heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; From the rough sod comes the soft breathing flower ; From the small insect the rich coral bower : Only man in the plan ever shrinks from his part. Labour is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us ; Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow ; Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow ; Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow ; Work uith a stout heart and resolute will ! Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish, are round thee ; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; Look on the pure heaven smiling beyond thee ; Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower — be it ever so lowly ; Labour ! ah, labour is noble and holy : Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God ! Frances Osgood. i SUPPING ON HORRORS. SWEET is the tale, however strange its air, That bids the pubhc eye astonished stare ! Sweet is the tale, howe'er uncouth its shape, That makes the world's wide mouth with wonder gape ! In early years tales yield the most delight. That lift, like hedgehogs' spines, the hair upright. Dread monsters issuing from the flame or flood, Charm, though with horror clothed, and chill the blood ! What makes a tale so heavy, languid, dull % — Things as they happened — not of marvel full. What gives a zest, and keeps alive attention ] A tale that boasts the charm of rich invention ; A tale of shipwrecks, spectres, war, or thunder ; A wonder, or first cousin to a wonder ! M.^'sX^xiow^ pmchant ! Yet, 'tis Nature's plan, To sow with wonder's seeds the soul of Man ! Youth gains his chamber, not to seek his bed, The precious volume must again be read ; The world shut out, he fears no harsh control, His body's hunger measures that of soul ; Its rage appeased, he heaves a sigh of rest, And hastes to feed the body's mystic guest ! " The Orphan Heir ! " What baseness for a mai\ To cheat a child — as only uncles can ! A guardian vile, although so nigh akin ; . Uncle henceforth the synonyme of sin ! Shame on the hardened heart that dares deride " The Phantom Lover " and " The Victim Bride ; " " The Robber Chief," that owns a Baron's reign — The cowl, the cord, the dungeon, and the cliain ! The " Brothers " twin, that meet in mortal strife To cut and thrust, and share a "Spectre Wife ! " " The Banished Earl," whose feats of high renown Are all achieved with sable visor down ; Treads once again his own ancestral hall, Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall ! The " Poisoned Chalice !"— by a Witch distilled Has turned to nectar, by a Fairy filled ; The " Hidden Clue," so often snapped in twain, Again unites, and all is fair again ! 41 M srrrixG on horrors. Tlie watrli has coascd to tick ! The waning light Leaps up, ilares round, sinks clown, and all is night ! A breath ! a crash ! Oh ! for the coming day ! He feels no fear ! He simply " faints away." Would you. too. " Sup on Horrors ? " Make a trial Of stout, pork-pasties, and " The Blood Red Vial." Anonymous. FEAR. THOU to whom the world unknown With all its shadowy shapes is shown ; Who seest appalled the unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil between : Ah, Fear ! Ah, frantic Fear ! I see, I see thee near. I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye ! Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly, For lo, what monsters in thy train appear ! — Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixed behold 1 Who stalks his round a hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm ; Or throws him on the ridgy steep Of some loose hanging rock to sleep ; And with him thousand phantoms joined, Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind : And those the fiends, who, near allied, O'er Nature's wounds and A\Tecks preside ; While Vengeance in the lurid air Lifts her red arm exposed and bare : On whom the ravening brood of Fate, ^\'ho lap the blood of sorrow, wait : Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild, like thee 1 William Collins. -i ■iM^. .Za7u£on,A.'62is7iedZ)ecemierJ':16'0J,6y^