15*1 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AHD SOHG. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG SELECTIONS FROM THE BEST ENGLISH AND AMERICAN POETS, EDITED BY CHARLES BELFORD. With Forty Full Illustrations by Dalziel, Lumley, Mclntyre, Cutts, and others. CHICAGO: BELFORD, CLARKE & CO, 1882. COPYRIGHTED iSSo. BELFORD, CLARKE & CO. PRINTED AND BOUND BY DONAHUE & HENVEBERRY. Electrotyped By Blonigrcn Bros. & Co. Chicigo. LA BELLE AMERICAINE, THE USEFUL PLOW, MY VALENTINE, THE WISHING-WELL, AN EVENING IN SPRING, COSTUME, CAUGHT, CONSTANCY, THE MOURNER, CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART, RED AND WHITE, SWEET SUMMER TIME, BLIGHTED LOVE, WE PARTED IN SILENCE, AMID THE ROSES, MARY MORISON, MAY, THE SHIPWRECK, AFTER THE SEASON, THE BROOKLET, PLAYING WITH LOVE, THE WELCOME, It NGRAVEU BY PAGE Dalziel 16 Mclntyre 21 Pearson 3 ( Buck man 3; - Mclntyre 3< Dalziel 43 Pearson 5 1 Wilson 55 Dalziel 63 Harral 69 Cutts 77 - Cutts Si Lumley 87 Dalziel 9 1 Cutts 95 Harral 99 Swain 103 Mclntyre 107 Walmsley 112 Swain "5 Dalziel 119 - Cutts 123 2210198 L IS T OF IL I. US TRA TfOXS. ENGRAVED 1JY PAC;I;. ONCE AND FOR AYE Holliclge 12 7 THE IVY MAIDEN, Dalziel 1 3 1 THEY COME, THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS, Cutts '35 "YES." - ... Buck man 1 39 ABSENCE, Pearson '43 SAPPHO AND PHAON, Walmsley 147 FAIRER THAN THEE, Cutts 151 AN AUTUMN IDYL, Mclntyre *55! AT A MODERN SHRINE, Harral ! 59 BY THE LILIES, Lumley 163 A WOMAN'S QUESTION', Wagner 169 FLEURETTE, ... Pearson '75 CHRISTINE, Swaine 179 WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE, Dalziel 187 ABOU BEX ADHEM, ABSENCE, AFTER THE SEASON, AMID THE ROSES, AN AUTUMN IDYL, ANNIE LAURIE, AULD LANG SYNE, AUTUMN, AUTUMN : A DIRGE, AULD ROBIN GRAY, BARBARA FRIETCHIE, BATTLE OF LIMERICK, BELLS, THE BLIGHTED LOVE, BLOSSOMS, BROOKLET, THE CAUGHT, - CANADIAN BOAT SONG, CHILDREN, CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART, CHILD AND T::E WATCHER, CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE, CHRISTINE, COMING THROUGH THE RYE, CONSTANCY, COSTUME, PAGE. Leigh Hunt 141 Frances Anne Kemble 142 Alfred E. T. Watson 110 Compton Reade 93 James Thompson 153 - Anonymous 93 Robert Burns 20 John Keats 41 Percy B. Shelley 41 Lady Barnard 68 J. G. Whittier 35 Wm. Thackeray 129 Edgar Allan Poe 65 Lord Strangford 86 Robert Herrick 18 Sir Robert Grant 114 Shakespeare 50 Thomas Moore 1:57 Walter Savage Landor 19 Guy Roslyn 68 Elizabeth B. Browning 98 Alfred Tennyson 105 Walter Savage Landor 178 Anonymous 31 Anonymous 54 Ben Jon son 42 CONTENTS. PAGE- COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD, - Alfred Tennyson 105 DEVIL'S THOUGHTS, Samuel T. Coleridge 79 DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, William Cowper 58 DOUBTING HEART, - Adelaide Anne Proctor 36 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG, Oliver Goldsmith 31 EVENING STAR, Thomas Campbell 28 EVENING IN SPRING, Lord Byron 38 EVE OF ST. AGNES, .... John Keats 42 EXCELSIOR, - Henry W. Longfellow 54 EXCUSE, ... Matthew Arnold 113 FAIRY SONG, John Keats 31 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY, Thomas Hood 121 FAREWELL TO TOBACCO, Charles Lamb 122 FIDELITY, William Wordsworth 160 FLEURETTE, Caroline E. S. Norton 174 HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA*S HALL, - Thomas Moore 31 HOLLY TREE, Robert Southey 161 HUNTER'S SONG, Barry Cornwall 37 HYMN, Samuel T. Coleridge 85 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER, - Thomas Hood 27 IVRY, Lord Macaulay 75 IVY GREEN, - - Charles Dickens 93 IVY MAIDEN, B. M. Ranking 130 JENNY KISSED ME, Leigh Hunt 113 KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES, William Wordsworth 94 LA BELLE AMERICANE, George D. Prentice 17 LADY AT SEA, Thomas Moore 66 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW ENGLAND, Felicia Hemans 113 LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT, Lady Dufferin 117 LILIES, BY THK Anonymous 161 LOCHINVAR, Sir Walter Scott 101 LOVE, - - Charles Swain 177 LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY, Percy B. Shelley 102 LOCKSLEY HALL, Alfred Tennyson 178 LULLABY, Alfred Ten nv son 19 COiVTENTS. v PAGE. MAY QUEEN, Alfred Tennyson 23 MAUD MUELLER, J. G. Whittier 80 MARY MORISON, Robert Burns 98 MAY, Leigh Hunt 102 MATCH, A Algernon C. Swinburne 153 MEMORY, Walter Savage Landor 190 MINSTREL, THE Goethe 138 MISTLETOE BOUGH, Thomas H. Bay ley 185 MODERN SHRINE, E. J. M. 1.-.7 MOTHER'S HOPE, Laman Blanchard 173 MOTHER'S HEART, Caroline Norton 174 MOTHER'S LAST SONG, Barry Cornwall 58 MOURNER, THE George Crabbe 61 MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL, Wm. Thackeray 133 MY VALENTINE, H. Frith 28 MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLAND, Robert Burns 37 MY LOVE, James Russell Lowell 102 MY HARVEST EVE, Rita 167 ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET, John Keats 19 ^ONCE AND FOR AYE, Anonymous 126 PARTED IN SILENCE, Mrs. Crawford 90 PAINTER'S WALK, THE A. L. B. 162 PHANTOM, THE Bayard Taylor 137 PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN, Robert Browning 71 PLAYING WITH LOVE, Guy Roslyn 118 PROUD MASSIE is IN THE WOOD, Sir Walter Scott 32 RECEIPT FOR SALAD, Sydney Smith 19 RED AND WHITE, B. M. Ranking 76 ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE, Anonymous 146 SAPPHO AND PHAON, - Clement W. Scott 146 SHIPWRECK, William Falconer 106 SONG OF THE BROOK, Alfred Tennyson 18 SONG OF THE SHIRT, Thomas Hood 54 SONG OF THE WINDS, Geo. Darley 192 SONG, Ben Jonson 141 CONTENTS. SONG, SONNETS, SONNETS, SOFTLY Woo AWAY HER BREATH, - SPRING, STEAMBOAT, THE SWEET SUMMER TIME, TAKE, OH! TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY, TAM O'SHANTER, THANATOPSIS, - THE RAVEN, THE ONE GRAY HAIR, THE WISHING WELL, THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS, THOSE EVENING BELLS, 'Tis THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER, To PERILLA, USEFUL PLOW, VILLAGE BLACKSMITH, VIOLETS, VIRTUE, ..... WELCOME, THE .'-..-. *' WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING," WIDOW MACHREE, .... WOMAN'S QUESTION, A WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE, YES, PAGfc. Percy B. Shelley 145 John Milton 20 Shakespeare 171 Barry Cornwall 23 Beaumont and Fletcher 23 Oliver Wendell Holmes 142 William Howitt 80 Shakespeare 20 - Robert Burns 80 William C. Bryant 57 Edgar Allan Poe 190 Walter Savage Landor 189 C. L. Young 32 William Motherwell 134 Thomas Moore 66 Thomas Moore 42 Robert Herrick 189 Anonymous 20 Henry W. Longfellow 142 Robert Herrick 18 George Herbert 145 Thomas Davis 122 A. C. Swinburne 36 Samuel Lover 109 Adelaide A. Proctor 168 Geo. P. Morris 186 Anonvmous 138 LA BELLE AMERICAINE. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. LA BELLE AMERICAINE. 'T is very sweet to sit and gaze, dear girl, On thy fair face, As glowing as a crimson-shaded pearl Or lighted vase. Young beauty brightens, like an Eden- dream, On thy pure cheek, And jov and love from every feature seem To breathe and speak. I love to kneel in worship to the Sprite In thy dark eyes, Dark as the fabled Stygian stream, and bright As Paradise. Not oft the radiance of such eyes is given To light our way; And oh, to me there's not a star in heaven So bright as they. I've known thee but a few brief days, and yet Thou wilt remain An image of undying beauty, set On heart and brain. Each thought, each dream of thee, fair girl, will seem Mid toil and strife, A pure white lily swaying on the stream Of this dark life. The months will pass, the flowers will soon be bright On plain and hill, And the young birds, with voices of delight, The woodlands fill; Oh, in that fairy season thou shall be 'Mid budding bowers My heart's young May-queen, and I'll twine for thee The Heart's wild flowers. GEO. D. PRENTICE. SONG OF THE BROOK. I COME from haunts of coot and hern : I make a sudden sallv And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. 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 forever. i8 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SO.V(,\ 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 tallow, 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 about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel; And draw them all along, and flow , To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots; I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows, I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmer under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To jpin the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. ALFRED TENNYSON. TO VIOLETS. WELCOME, maids of honor, You do bring In the Spring, And wait upon her. She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any. Y' are the Maiden Posies, And so graced, To be placed, 'Fore damask roses. Yet though thus respected, By and by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected. ROBERT HERRICK. TO BLOSSOMS. FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good-night? 'T is pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave; And, after they have shown their pride Like vou awhile, they glide, Into the grave. ROBERT HERRICK. 1L L US TRA TED POE TR T AND SONG. ON THE GRASSHOPPER AND CRICKET. THE poetry of earth is never dead: When all the birds are faint with the hot sun And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run From hedge to hedge among the new" mown mead. That is the grasshopper's he takes the lead In summer luxury, he has never done With his delights ; for, when tired out with fun, He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed. The poetrv of earth is ceasing never. On a lone winter evening, when the frost Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills The Cricket's song in warmth increas- ing ever, And seems, to one in drowsiness half lost, The Grasshopper's among some grassy hills. TOHN KEATS. LULLABY. SWEET and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Win*d of the western sea ! Over the rolling waters go ; Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest; Father will come to thee soon. Rest, rest on mother's breast; Father will come to thee soon. Father will come to his babe in the nest; Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon; Sleep, my little one, sleep, mv pretty one, sleep. ALFRED TENNYSON. CHILDREN. CHILDREN are what the mothers are. No fondest father's fondest care Can fashion so the infant heart As those creative beams that dart, With all their hopes and fears, upon The cradle of a sleeping son. His startled eyes with wonder see A father near him on his knee, Who wishes all the while to trace The mother in his future face; But 't is to her alone uprise His wakening arms; to her those eyes Open with joy and not surprise. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. A RECEIPT FOR SALAD. To make this condiment your poet begs The pounded yellow of two hard-boiled eggs; Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitch- en sieve, Smoothness and softness to the salad give; Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl, And, half suspected, animate the whole; Of mordent mustard add a single spoon, Distrust the condiment that bites too soon; But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault To add a double quantity of salt; Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown, And twice with vinegar, procured from town ; And lastly, o'er the flavored compound toss A magic soupcon of anchovy sauce. Oh, green and glorious ! Oh, herbaceous treat! 'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat; Back to the world he'd turn his fleeting soul, And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl; Serenely full, the epicure would say, " Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day." SYDNEY SMITH. ILLUSTRATED POE'J ID' AX D THE USEFUL PLOW. A COUNTRY life is sweet, In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! In everv field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow ; So that, I say, no courtier m::y Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plow. They rise with the morning lark, And labor till almost dark, Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep, While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with the birds that are singing On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the useful plow! ANONYMOUS. TAKE, OH! TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. TAKE, oh! take those lips away That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn! But my kisses bring again, Seals of love, though sealed in vain. Hide, oh! hide those hills of snow Which thy frozen bosom bears, On whose tops the pinks that grow Are of those that April wears. But first set my poor heart free, Bound in those icy chains by thee. SHAKESPEARE and JOHN FLETCHER. SONNETS ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY-THREE. How soon hath time, the subtle thief of youth, Stolen on his wing my three and twen- tieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career. But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth. Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth, That I to manhood am arrived so near: And inward ripeness doth much Ic--^ appear That some more timely-happy spirits in- du'th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which time leads me, and the will of heaven : All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great task-master's eye. JOHN MILTON. AULD LANG SYNE. SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to inin'? Should auld acquaintance be forgot, And days o' lang sync? For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang svne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne! We twa hae run about the braes, And pu'd the gowan> tine; But we've wandered mony a weary foot Sin auld lang svne. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. We t\va hae paidl't i' the burn Frae mornin' sun till dine; But seas between us braid hae roared Sin auld lang syne. And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine; And we'll take a right guid \\ille-waught For auld lang syne! And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, And surely I'll be mine: And we'll take a cup o' kindness yet For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne! ROBERT BURNS. SPRING. Now the lusty Spring is seen; Golden yellow, gaudy blue, Daintily invite the view. Everywhere, on every green, Roses blushing as they blow, And enticing men to pull ; Lilies whiter than the snow; Woodbines of sweet honey full All love's emblems, and all crv : Ladies, if not plucked, we die! BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. SOFTLY WOO AWAY HER BREATH. SOFTLY woo away her breath, Gentle death ! Let her leave thee with no strife, Tender, mournful, murmering life! She hath seen her happy day She hath had her bud and blossom; Now she pales and shrinks away, Earth, into thy gentle bosom ! She hath done her bidding here, Angels dear! Bear her perfect soul above, Seraph ol the skies sweet love! Good she was, and fair in youth; And her mind was seen to soar, And her heart was wed to truth: Take her, then, for evermore For ever evermore ! BARRY CORNWALL. THE MAY QUEEN. You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear ; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad new-year Of all the glad new-year, mother, the mad- dest, merriest day ; For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say ; So I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake, If you do not call me loud, when the day begins to break; But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay; For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. ILLUSTRATED POET Jit' A. YD SONCi. As I came up the valley, whom think ye should I see, But Robin leaning 013 the bridge beneath the ha/el -tree? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, But I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. He thought I was a ghost, mother, for I was all in white; And I ran by him without speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not what they say, For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. They say he's dying all for love but that can never be ; They say his heart is breaking, mother what is that to me? There's many a bolder lad'll woo me any summer day ; And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow to the green, And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side '11 come from far away ; And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wavy bowers, And by the meadow- trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the wild marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hollows gray ; And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. The night- winds come and go, mother, upon the meadow-grass, And the happy stars above them seem to brighten as they pass; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day ; And I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 11 be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill. And the rivulet in the flowery dale '11 mer- rily glance and play, For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow '11 be the happiest time of all the glad new-year: To-morrow '11 be of all the year the mad- dest, merriest day, For I'm to be queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May. NEW YEAR S EVE. IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear, For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. It is the last new year that I shall ever see Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. And the new year's coming up, mother; but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. in. . Last Mav we made a crown of flowers; we had a merry day Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me queen of May ; And we danced about the May-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There 's not a flower on all the hills the frost is on the pane ; 1 only wish to live till the snowdrops come again. I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook '11 craw from the windy tall elm tree, And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow '11 come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel -casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun 'll shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still. When the flowers come again, mother, be- neath the waning light You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn shade, And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother; I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass. I nave been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You '11 kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild; You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child. If I can, I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting place; Though you '11 not see me mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often with . you when you think I'm far away. Good-night! good-night! when I have said good -night for evermore, And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door, Don't let Erne come to see me till my grave be growing green She '11 be a better child to you than ever I have been. XII. She '11 find my garden tools upon the gran- ary floor. Let her take 'em they are hers ; I shall never garden more. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. But tell her, -when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor window, and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother! Call me be- fore the day is born. All night 1 lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year So, if you're waking, 'call me, call me early, mother dear. CONCLUSION. I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; And in the fields all round I hear the bleating of the lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies; And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise; And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow ; And sweeter far is death than life, to me that longs to go. It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun, And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His will be done! But still I think it can 't be long before I find release; And that good man the clergyman, has told me words of peace. Oh blessings on his kindlv voice, and on his silver hair! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! Oh blessings on Tiis kindly heart and on his silver head! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside mv bed. He showed me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin; Now, though my lamp was lighted late there's One will let me in. Nor would I now be well, mother, again, it that could be; For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat There came a sweeter token when the night and morning .meet; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear; I saw vou sitting in the house, and I no longer here; With all my strength I prayed for both and so 1 felt resigned, And up the valley came a swell of music ' on the wind. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 2 7 f thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed; And then did something speak to me I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them it 's mine ; " And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among; the stars. So now I think my time is near; I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that way my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-dav ; , But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There 's many worthier than I would make him happy yet. If I had lived I cannot tell I might have be^n his wife ; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. Oh look! *he sun begins to rise! the heav- ens ire in a glow; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice that nov,- is speaking may be he- vond the sun For ever and for ever with those just souls and true And what is life, that we should moan? why make we such ado? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home, And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. ALFRED TEXXYSOX. I REMEMBER, 1 REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a dav ; But now, I often wished the night Had borne my breath a way! I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lilv-cups Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, The tree is living yet! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air rmist rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! ILLUSTRATED POETPT AND AYJ.Yr;. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I'm farther oft" from Heaven Than when I was a boy. THOMAS Hoon. TO THE EVENING STAR. STAR that bringest home the bee, And sett'st the weary laborer free ! If any star shed peace, 't is thou, That send'st it from above, Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow Are sweet as hers we love. Come to the luxuriant skies, Whilst the landscape's odors rise, Whilst, far off, lowing herds are heard, And songs when toil is done, From cottages whose smoke unstirred Curls yellow in the sun. Star of love's soft interviews, Parted lovers on thee muse; Their remembrancer in Heaven Of thrilling vows thou ait, Too delicious to be riven, By absence, from the heart. THOMAS CAMPBELL. MY VALENTINE. How, prithee, shall I woo my Love My Valentine? I>\ MISSIVE sweet And scented as the airs that uove Around her bow'r At evening hour, And vie in haste to kis> her feet; Or with FOND HOPES A^ rosv-hued As my Celia's damask cheek When with blushes scarce subdued In maiden pride She turns aside Whene'er my love I would outspeak ! With RICHES Golden as her hair Where envious sunbeams frequent play, Tho' fain, uncertain to rest where 'Midst locks so bright Their borrow'd light Must die, or living pass away ! Or woo her with a CORONET Rare jewels, Bright as her pure eyes, Which peep beneath their lashes wet, In coyest fear Lest love appear To claim their glances for his prize. Or suppliant, her PITY move With tears for my forlorn estate ; Such pity near akin to love. Ah, happy swain, Would she but deign With my un worthiness to mate! No ! None of these will I address To her, my true-lov'd Valentine! But with a longing tenderness I'll seek her bow'r, At twilight hour, And boldly claim to call her mine! There my LOVE alone I '11 plead, While Faith and Truth shall witness beai^ For Honors, Riches, I 've no need, IJv Cupid arm d I'll rise unhaimed From stubborn conflict with despair. And tho' no word to me she sav, I '11 know bv one sv\eet, tender sign That she forever, day by day, Thro' good and ill Will love me still, Mv own true-hearted Valentine! H. FRITI i. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 3* COMING THROUGH THE RYE. Gix a body meet a body Cornin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Atnatig the train there is a swain I dearly lo'c in vscl ' ; But -'.'liaur /its hame, or -vhat his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the town, Gin a body greet a body, Need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. A man g- the train there is a szvatu I dearly lo'e mysel '/ * But -I'hattr his hame, or tv/iat fris name, I dinna care to tell. ANONYMOUS. FAIRY SONG. SUED no tear! oh shed no tear! The flower will bloom another vear. Weep no more! oh weep no more! Young buds sleep in the root's white core, Dry your eyes! oh dry your eyes! For I was taught in Paradise To ease my breast of melodies Shed no tear. Overhead ! look overhead ! 'Mong the blossoms white and red Look up! look up! I flutter now On this fresh pomegranate bough See me! 't is this silvery bill Ever cures the good man's ill. Shed no tear! oh shed no tear! The flower will bloom another year. Adieu, adieu I fly adieu ! I vanish in the heaven's blue Adieu, adieu! JOHN KEATS. THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA'S HALLS. THE harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o '-er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, . Now feel that pulse no more. No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone that breaks at night Its tale of ruin tells. Thus freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks To show that still she lives. THOMAS MOORE. AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wond'rous short It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran When e'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends ; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SOXC,. Around from all the neighboring streets The wandering neighbors ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man. The wound it seemed both sore and sad To every Christian eye : And while thev swore the dog was mad Thev swore the man would die. Cut soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied : The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. PROUD M AISIE IS IN THE WOOD. PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet robin sits on the bush Singing so rarely. "Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?" " When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye." " Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say trulv? " "The gray-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. " The glow-worm o'er grave, and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady ! " SIR WALTER SCOTT. THE WISHING-WELL. WHAT! you are come, despite your boast You are not superstitious? No faith in fairies, nor in ghosts, Nor Wishing- Well? Delicious I know you better, and I hide Within the hollow oak ; To the clear spring your wish confide Nor spring, nor I, will joke. I sc'3 you've culled the small blue flowei I told you of last night; You come, too, at the sunset hour, Determined to be right. You fix your eves upon the ground, Are counting nine times nine; My mysteries your thought-- have hound- Approach, sweet Geraldine. There, now upon the steps you stand. You gaze upon the wave, The flowers poised within your hand. Why, Geraldine, how grave! You lightly laughed at all I said About the mystic spell, And thrice von shook vour pretty head Against the Wishing- Well. Some stronger faith enthrals you now, Your mirth owns some eclipse; A shade of thought is on your brow. No smile upon your lips. Your face reflected thei*e you trace, And, by some fancy's freak, As you gaze down upon your face The waters seem to speak. "Hail! fairest form of womanhood That we have ever pressed On summer eve, amid the wood, Upon our peaceful breast. " For many a maid has lingered here. And all her secrets told, And troubled us with lying tear, While wishing but for gold. "And gallant youths from town and hall Have given us their trusi : But, ah! their love was hollow all, Another name for lust. " We grant no wish that is not pure. No hope for selfish gain; We love no love that can 't endure- No pleasure void of pain. "And now thrice welcome we bid you; We knosv the sacred sign That marks a maiden pure and true, A-s you are Geraldine! THK WISHING WELL. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 35 " So drop the flower from your hand, We hold it fondly given; Pause but one moment on the strand, And breathe vour wish to Heaven." The flower falls! the Well receives Your gift and, also, mine ; No withered buds; no Autumn leaves Bright blossoms, Geraldine. I hold your hand to hold your heart Soon in the marriage spell ; And thus we vow no more to part, Beside the Wishing- Well ! CHARLES LAURENCE YOUNG. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. UP from the meadows rich with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach-tree fruited deep, Fair as a garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde; On that pleasant morn of the early fall When Lee marched over the mountain wall, Over the mountains, winding down, Horse and foot into Frederick town. Forty flags with their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind ; the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; Bravest of all in Frederick town, She took up the flag the men hauled down; In her attic- window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet, Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right 1 le glanced : the old flag met his sight. " Halt! " the dust-brown ranks stood fast; u Fj re f Ol ,t blazed the rifle-blast It shivered the window, pane and sash, It rent the banner with seam and gash. Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. "Shoot, if you must, this old grey head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word : " Who touches a hair of yon grey head Dies like a dog! March on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet- All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; And through the, hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall'sbier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of freedom and union, wave! Peace, and order, and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. ILLUSTRATED POET in' .l.Y/) SO.VC,. A DOUBTING HEART. WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore O doubting heart! Far over purple seas, They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze To bring them to their northern homes once more. Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. O doubting heart! They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again. The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth? O doubting heart! The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon, for spring is nigh, Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night; What sound can break the silence of despair ? O doubting heart! The sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver v oices stir the air. ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. "WHEN THE HOUNDS OF SPRING." WHEN the hounds of spring are on winter's traces, The mother of months in meadow or plain Fills the shadows and windy places With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain; And the brown bright nightingale amorous Is half assauged for Itvlus, For the Thracian ships and the foreign faces ; The tongueless vigil, and all the pain. Come with bows bent and with emptving of quivers, Maiden most perfect, lady of light, With a noise of winds and many rivers, With a clamor of waters, and with might; Bind on thy sandals, O thou most fleet, Over the splendor and speed of thy feet! For the faint east quickens, the wan west shivers, Round the feet of the day and the feet of the night. Where shall we find her, how shall we sing to her, Fold our hands round her knees and cling? Oh that man's heart were as fire and could spring to her, Fire, or the strength of the streams that spring! For the stars and the winds are unto her As raiment, as songs of the harp-player; For the risen stars and the fallen cling to her, And the south-west wind and the west wind sing. For winter's rains and ruins are over, And all the season of snows and sins; The days dividing lover and lover, The light that loses, the night that wins; And time remembered is grief forgotten, And frosts are slain and flowers begotten, And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins. The full streams feed on flower of rushes, Ripe grasses trammel a travelling foot, The faint fresh flame of the young year flushes From leaf to flower and flower to fruit; And fruit and leaf are as gold and fire, And the oaf is heard above the lyre, And the hoofed heel of a satyr crushes The chestnut-husk at the chestnut-root. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 37 And Pan by noon and Bacchus by night, Fleeter of foot than the fleet-foot kid, Follows with dancing and fills with delight The Mzenad and Bassarid ; And soft as lips that laugh and hide, The laughing leaves of the trees divide, And screen from seeing and leave in sight The god pursuing, the maiden hid. The ivy falls with the Bacchanal's hair Over her eyebrows shading her eyes; The wild vine slipping down leaves bare Her bright breast shortening into sighs; The wild vine slips with the weight of its leaves, But the berried ivy catches and cleaves To the limbs that glitter, the feet that scare The wolf that follows, the fawn that flies. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer. Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valor, the country of worth ; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below ; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go- ROBERT BURNS. THE HUNTER'S SONG. RISE! Sleep no more! 'T is a noble morn. The dews hang thick on the fringed thorn. And the frost shrinks back, like a beaten hound, Under the steaming, steaming ground. Behold, where the billowy clouds flow bv, And leave us alone in the clear gray skv ! Our horses are ready and steady. >o, ho! I 'm gone, like a dart from a Tartar's bow. Hark, hark ' Who calleth the maiden Morn From her sleep in the ivoods and the stubble corn ? The horn, the horn ! The merry, szvee/ ring of the hunters horn. Now, through the copse where the fox is found, And over the stream at a mighty bound, And over the high lands and over the low, O'er furrows, o'er meadows, the hunters go! Away ! as a hawk flies full at his prey, So flieth the hunter, away, away ! From the burst at the cover till set of sun, When the red fox dies, and the day is done. Hark, hark ! What sound on the -wind is borne ? ' T is the conquering voice of the hunter's horn : The horn, the horn ! The merry, bold voice of the hunter's horn. Sound ! Sound the horn ! To the hunter good What 's the gully deep or the roaring flood? Right over he bounds, as the wild stag bounds. At the heels of his swift, sure, silent, hounds, Oh, what delight can a mortal lack, When once he is firm on his horse's back, With his stirrups short, and his snaffle strong, And the blast of the horn for his morning song ? Hark, hark! JVotv, home! and dream till morn Of the bold, sweet sound of the hunter's horn ! The horn, the horn ! Oh, the sound of all sounds is the hunter's horn ! BARRY CORNWALL. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. AN EVENING IN SPRING AVE MARIA! o'er the earth and sea, That heavenliest hour of heaven is wor- thiest thee! Ave Maria ! blessed be the hour, The time, the clime, the spot, where I so oft Have felt that moment in its fullest power Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft, While swung the deep bell in the distant tower Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft, And not a breath crept through the rosy air, And yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer. Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of prayer!' Ave Maria! 'tis the hour of love! Ave Maria ! may our spirits dare Look up to thine and thy Son's above! Ave Maria! O that face so fair Those downcast eyes beneath the Al- mighty dove, What fMough 't is but a pictured image strike, That painting is no idol, 't is too like. Sweet hour of twilight! in the solitude Of the pine forest, and the silent shore Which bounds Ravenna's immemorial wood, Rooted where once the Adrian wave flowed o'er. To where the last Ca?sarean fortress stood, Evergreen forest; which Boccaccio's lore And Dryden's lay made haunted ground to me, How have I loved the twilight hour and thee! The shrill cicalas, people of the pine, Making their summer lives one ceaseless song, Were the sole echoes, save my steed's and mine, And vesper-bells that rose the boughs along; The spectre huntsman of Onesti's line, His hell-dogs, and their chase, and the fair throng, Which learned from this example not to fly From a true lover, shadowed my mind's eye. O Hesperus! thoubringestall good things Home to the weary, to the hungrv cheer. To the young bird the parent's brooding wings, The welcome stall to the o'erlaboured steer ; Whate'er of peace about our hearthstone clings, Whate'er our household gods protect of dear, Are gathered round us by thy look of rest : Thou bring'st the child, too, to the mother's breast. Soft hour ! which wakes the wish and melts the heart Of those who sail the seas, on the first day When they from their sweet friends are torn apart; Or fills with love the pilgrim on his wav, (As the far bell of vesper makes him start, Seeming to weep the dying day's decay); Is this a fancy which our reason scorfis? Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns. LORD BYRON. TO AUTUMN. SEASOX of mists and mellow fruitfulness! Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun! Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatcheaves run To bend with apples and mossed cottage trees, ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel to set budding, more And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease. For summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twin- ed flowers; And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook ; Or by a cider-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay ? where are they ? Think not of them thou hast thy music too: While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistle-? from the garden croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. JOHN KEATS. AUTUMN A DIRGE. THE warm sun is failing; the bleak wind is wailing; The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flow- ers are dying; And the Year On the earth, her death-bed, in shroud of leaves dead, Is lying, Come, months, come away, From November to May ; In your saddest array Follow the bier Of the dead, cold Year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepul- chre. The chill rain is falling; the nipt worm is crawling; The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling For the Year; The blithe swallows are flown and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, months, come away ; Put on white, black, and gray ; Let your light sisters play Ye, follow the bier Of the dead, cold Year, And make her grave green with tear on tear. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'Tis the last rose of Summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her ki*idred, No rosebud is nigh, To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem : Since the lovely are sleeping, ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Go sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, And from Love's shining circle The gems drop away! When true hearts lie withered, And fond ones are flown, Oh! who would inhabit This bleak world alone? THOMAS MOORE. COSTUME. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed, Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free, Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not mine heart. BEN JONSON. ii. A SWEET disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction ; An erring lace, which here and there Intrals the crimson stomacher; A cuff neglectful,, and thereby Ribbons to flow confusedly; A winning wave, deserving note, In the tempestuous petticoat; A careless shoestring, in whose tie I see a wild civility, Do more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part. ROBERT HERRICK. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. ST. AGNES' EVE Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the headman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin's lecture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees; The sculptured dead, on each side seem to freeze, Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails; Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passed by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor; But no already had his death-bell rung; The joys of all his life were said and sung; His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve; Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, COSTUME. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. 45 From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests ; The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. v. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new stufted, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away; And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly- care, As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, Young virgins might have visions of de- light, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright; As, supperless to bed they must retire, And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim .vas thoughtful Madeline; The music, yearning like a god in pain, She scarcely heard; her maiden eyes divine, Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train Pass by she heeded not at all ; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back retired ; not cooled by high dis- dain, But she saw not; her heart was otherwhere; She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague, regardless ayes, Anxiou* her lips, her breathing quick and short; The hallowed hour was near at hand; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, Hoodwinked with fairy fancy ; all amort Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire, She lingered still. Meantime across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline; But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all un- seen; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss in sooth such things have been. He ventures in ; let no buzzed whisper tell ; All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage; not one breast affords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. ILLUSTRATED POET R I' AND SONG. XI. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her; but soon she knew his face And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro! hie thee from this place; They are all here to-night, the whole blood- thirsty race! " Get hence ! get hence ! there 's dwarfish Hildebrand; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursed thee and thine, both house and land; Then there 's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs Alas me ! flit! Flit like a ghost away ! " "Ah, gossip dear, We 're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit, And tell me how" "Good saints, not here, not here; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." He followed through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; And as she muttered "Well-a well-a-day !" He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, " Oh, tell me, Angela, by the hoi) 1 loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see, When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "St. Agnes! Ah! it is St. Agnes' Eve Yet men will murder upon holy days; Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays, To venture so. It fills me with amaze To see thee Porphyro! St. Agnes' Eve! God's help! my lady fair the conjurer plays This very night; good angels her deceive! But let me laugh awhile, I 've mickle time to grieve " Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon. While Porphyro upon her face doth look, Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle- book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot; then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start; " A cruel man and impious thou art! Sweet lady, let her pray and sleep and dream "Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." , l I will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! ' Quo'th Porphyro; "Oh may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, If one of her soft ringlets I displace, Or look with ruffian passion in her face; Good Angela, believe me by these tears, ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. 47 Or I will, even in a moment's space, Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears." " Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, church-yard thing, Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, Were never missed." Thus plaining doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied, And win perhaps that night a peerless bride; While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy- eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his demon all the mon- strous debt. " It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; " All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night; by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer The while. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." So saying she hobbled off with_busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear To follow her; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd and chaste; Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid> Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware; With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turned, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove frayed and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died; She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide; No uttered syllable, or woe betide! But to her heart, her heart was voluble, Paining with eloquence her balmy side; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot- grass, And diamonded with pains of quaint device, Innumeiable of stains and splendid dyes, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings; And in the midst, 'mong thousand herald- ries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded 'scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast, As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint; She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives; her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees; Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one; Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees; Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancv, fn " rt Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chill v nest, In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; Blissfully havened both from joy and pain; Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and fiom rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Poiphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness; Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, And breathed himself; then from the closet crept, Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And ovei the hushed carpet, silent, slept, And 'tween the curlains peeped, where, lo! how fast she slept. Then by the bed-side where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: Oh foi some drowsy Morphean amulet! The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, The kettle-drum and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd, And lucent sytups, tinct with cinnamon; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Leban- on. XXXI. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night, Filling the chilly room with perfume light. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 'And now, my love, my seraph fair awake! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains; 'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream: The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies; It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phan- tasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, Tumultuous, and, in chords that tenderest he, He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called "La belle dame sans mercy ;" Close to her ear touching the melody ; Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan ; He ceased she panted quick and sud- denly Her blue eyes aftrayed wide open shone; Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth- sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. There was a painful change, that nigh ex- pelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; At which fair Madeline began to weep, And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep, Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speak, she looked so dreamingly. "Ah, Porphyro! " said she, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tunable with every sweetest vow; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; How changed thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear ! Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose, Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen 'mid the sapphire heaven's deep re- pose; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet, Solution sweet; meantime the frost-wind blows Like love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'T is dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet; " This is no dream, my bride, my Made- line!" 'T is dark ; the iced gusts still rave and beat : " No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, Though thou forsakest a deceived thing; A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unprun- ed wing." ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. "My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim, saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. " Hark! 'tis an elfin storm from fahv land, Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : Arise arise! the morning is at hand; The bloated wassailers will never heed. Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; There are no ears to hear., or eyes to see, Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead. Awake ! arise ! my love, and fearless be, For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears, For there were sleeping dragons all around, At glaring watch, perhaps with ready spears Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. XLI. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall! Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side; The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shoo"k his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns; By one, and one, the bolts, full easy slide; The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; The kev turns, and the door upon it* hinges groans. And they are gone! ay, ages long ago These lovers fled away into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of manv < woe, And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, and large coffin worm, Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face de< form ; The beadsman, after thousand aves told, For aye, unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. JOHN KEATS- CAUGHT. Ox a day, (alack the day !) Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen, 'gan passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow, Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas! my hand hath sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn. Vow, alack, for youth unmeet; Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me, That I am forsworn for thee Thou, for whom even Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiop were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love. SHAKSPEARE~ ILLUSTRATED POET /if AND SONG ,53 THE MOTHER'S LAST SONG. SLEEP! The ghostly winds are blowing! No moon abroad no star is glowing; The river is deep, and the tide is flowing To the land where you and I are going! We are going afar, Bevond moon or star, To the land where the sinless angels are ! I lost my heart to your heartless sire, ('Twas melted away by his looks of fire) Forgot 1113' God, and my father's ire, All for the sake of a man's desire; But now we '11 go Where the waters flow, And make us a bed where none shall know. The world is cruel the world is untrue; Our foes are many, our friends are few; No work, no bread, however we sue! What is there left for me to do, But fly fly From the cruel sky, And hide in the deepest deeps and die! BARRY CORNWALL. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT WITH fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread * Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the " Song of the Shirt! " " Work ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof ! And work work work, Till the stars shine through the roof ! It 's oh ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! " Work work work Till the brain begins to swim' Work work work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream ! " O men, with sisters dear ! O men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you 're wearing out, But human creature's lives! Stitch stitch stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt! " But why do I talk of death That phantom of grisly bone? I hardlv fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep; O God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! " Work work work ! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw A crust of bread and rags, That shattered roof and this naked floor A table a broken chair And a wall so blank my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! " Work work work ! From weary chime to chime! Work work work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band Till the heart is sick and the brain be- numbed, As well as the wearv hand. " Work work work In the dull December light! And work work work, When the weather is warm and bright !- While underneath the eaves ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, A nd twit me with the Spring. " Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal ! " Oh ! but for one short hour A respite however brief ! No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread! " With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch- Would that its tone could reach the rich !- She sang this "Song of the Shirt! " THOMAS HOOD. CONSTANCY. OXE eve of beauty, when the su). Was on the stream of Guadalquiver, To gold converting one by one, The ripples of the mighty river, Beside me on the bank was seated A Seville girl, with auburn hair And eyes that might the world have cheated, A wild bright, wicked, diamond pair! She stooped and wrote upon the sand, Just as the loving sun was going, Witli such a soft, small, shining hand, I could have sworn 't was silver flowing. Her words were three, and not one more, What could Diana's motto be? The siren wrote upon the shore, " Death, not inconstancy." And then her two large languid eyes So turned on mine that, devil take me, I set the air on fire witli sighs, And was the fool she chose to make me! Saint Francis would have been deceived \Vith such an eye and such a hand ; But one week more, and I believed As much the woman as the sand. ANONYMOUS. EXCELSIOR. THE shades of night were falling fast, As through an Alpine village passed A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, A banner with the strange device Excelsior! His brow was sad; his eye beneath Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath; And like a silver clarion rung The accents of that unknown tongue Excelsior! In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright . Above, the spectral glaciers shone, And from "his lips escaped a groan Excelsior! " Try not the pass," the old man said : " Dark lowers the tempest overhead; The roaring torrent is deep and wide!" And loud that clarion voice replied, Excelsior! " Oh stay," the maiden said, " and rest Thy weary head upon this breast! " A tear stood in his bright blue eye. But still he answered, with a sigh, Excelsior! CONST.'-. X VY. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 57 " Beware the pine-tree's withered branch ! Beware the awful avalanche ! " This was the peasant's last good-night: A voice replied, far up the height, Excelsior! At break of day, as heavenward The pious monks of Saint Bernard Uttered the oft-repeated praver, A voice cried, through the startled air, Excelsior! A traveller, by the faithful hound, Half-buried in the snow was found, Still grasping in his hand of ice That banner with the strange device, Excelsior! There in the twilight cold and gray, Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, And from the sky, serene and far, A voice fell, like a falling star Excelsior! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. THANATOPSIS. To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart Go forth, under the open sky, and list To nature's teachings, while from all around Earth and her waters, and the depths of air Comes a still voice : Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix for ever with the elements To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain Turns with his snare, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world with kings, The powerful of the earth the wise, the good Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, the- vales Stretching in pensive quietness between The venerable woods rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven. Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. AH that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom Take the ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Of morning; traverse Barca's desert sands, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep the dead reign there alone. -So shall thou rest; and what if thou with- draw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thv destiny. The gay wiH laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of \ ears matron, and maid. And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man, Shall one by one be gathered to thy side By those, who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. WILLIAM CULLEX BRYANT. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN, SHOWING HOW HE WENT FARTHER THAN HE INTENDED, AND CAME SAFE HOME AGAIN. JOHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown ; A trainband captain eke was he, Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. "To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair. " My sister, and mv sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." He soon replied, " I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, mv dearest dear; Therefore it shall be done. " I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know; And my good friend, the calender, Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And, for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 59 John Gilpin kissed his loving wife; O'erjojed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed Where they did all' get in Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels Were never folks so glad ; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride But soon came down again : For saddletree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came : for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. "T was long before the customers Were suited to their mind; When Bettv, screaming, came down stairs "The wine is left behind!" ' Good lack ! " quoth he " yet bring it me ) Mv leathern belt likewise, In which I bear inv trusty sword When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) Had two stone boltles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To. make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe. His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat. So, " Fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain ; That trot became a gallop son. In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his migh* His horse, \\ .10 never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away Ment Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig ; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay ; Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people. well discern The bottles he had slung A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. 6o ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG, The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, " Well done! " As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin who but he? His fame soon spead around "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'T is for a thousand pound ! " And still as fast as he drew near, ' 'T was wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back, Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton SO gay: And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Ed nonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. "Stop, stop, -John Gilpin! here's the house They all at once did cry ; " The dinner waits, and we are tired : " Said Gilpin " So am J ! " But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there; For why ? his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly which brings me to The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin out of breath, And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood stilh The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: "What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all? " Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timelv joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke: " I came because your horse would come ; And, if I well forbode, Mv hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in ; Whence straight he came with hat and wig. A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit " Mv head is twice as big as yours, Thev therefore needs must fit. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 61 But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face ; And stop and cat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, " It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said " 1 am in haste to dine; 'T was for your pleasure you came here You shall go back for mine." Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, For which he paid full dear! For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear ; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might. As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why ? they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half a crown ; And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, " This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein ; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry : "Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town ; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, long live the king! And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see ! WILLIAM COWPER. THE MOURNER. YES !. there are real mourners, I have seen A fair sad girl, mild, suffering, and serene ; Attention (through the day) her duties claimed, And to be useful as resigned she aimed, Neatly shedrest, nor vainly seemed t' expect Pity for grief or pardon for neglect; But when her wearied parents sunk to sleep, She sought her place to meditate and weep; Then to her mind was all the past displayed, That faithful memory brings to sorrow's aid : For then she thought on one regretted youth, Her tender trust, and his unquestioned truth; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SO.\'(,. In every place she wandered where they 'd been, And sadly-sacred held the parting scene, Where last for sea he took his leave; that place With double interest would she nightly trace ! Happy he sailed, and great the care she took That he should softly sleep and smartly look ; White was his better linen, and his check Was made more trim than any on the deck ; And every comfort men at sea can know Was hers to buy, to make, and to bestow : For he to Greenland sailed, and much she told How he should guard against the climate's cold Yet saw not danger ; dangers he'd withstood Nor could she trace the fever in his blood. His messmates smiled at flushings on his cheek, And he too smiled, but seldom would he speak, For now he found the danger, felt the pain, With grievous symptoms he could not explain. He called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message, "Thomas, I must die; Would I could see my Sally, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing go! if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake; Yes! 1 must die blow on, sweet breeze blow on ! Give me one look before my life be gone! O, give me that, and let me not despair! One last fond look ! and now repeat the prayer." He had his wish, had more: I will not paint The lovers' meeting ; she beheld him faint,- With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes with- drew; He tried to smile, and half succeeding said, "Yes! I must die" and hope forever fled. Still, long she nursed him ; tender thoughts meantime Were interchanged, and hopes and vie\\^ sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread a\\a\ ; With him she prayed, to him his Bible read. Soothed the faint heart and held the aching head ; She came with smiles the hour of pain tc cheer, Apart she sighed; alone, she shed the tear;. Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of their lot.. A sudden brightness in his look appeared. A sudden vigor in his voice was heard; She had been reading in the Book of Praver. And led him forth, and placed him in his chair. Lively he seemed, and spake of all he knew : The friendly many, and the favorite few; . . . . but then his hand was prest, And fondly whispered, "Thou must go to rest.*" " I go," he said; but as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the- sound ; Then gazed affrighted ; but she caught a last A dying look of love, and all was past! She placed a decent stone his grave above. Neatly engraved, an offering of her love: For that she w'rought, for that forsook her bed, Awake alike to duty and the dead ; She would have grieved had friends pre- sumed to spare The least assistance, 'twas her proper care. Here will she come, and on the grave will sit, Folding her arms, in long abstracted fit: But if observer pass, will take her round. And careless seem, for she would not be found ; Then go again, and thus her hours emplo\ . While visions please her, and while woe.- destroy. GEORGE CRABBE. THE MOURNKK. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. THE BELLS. HEAR the sledges with the bells Silver bells What a world of merriment their melody foretells ! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icv air of night! While the stars that oversj>rinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight Keying time, time, time, Jn a sort of Runic r.hyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells. Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon ! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells To the rhyming and the chiming of the belU *4 1 lear the loud alarum bells Brazen bells! W T hat a tale of terror, now,their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In the clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor, Now now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon. Oh, the bells, bells, bells, What a tale their terror tells Of despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and sw Is, By the.sinking or the swelling in the nger of the bells Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan. And the people ah, the people They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who tolling, tolling, tolling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone They are neither man nor woman They are neither brute nor human They are ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, Rolls, A pa?an from the bells! And nis merry bosom swells With the pa-an of the bells! And he dances and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the ptean of the bells Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, I a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells C. f the bells, bells, bells To the tolling of the bells, Ol tie bells, bells, bells, bells Bells, bells, bells To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR ALLAN POE. THOSE EVENING BELLS. THOSE evening bells! those evening bells! How many a tale their music tells, Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime! Those joyous hours are passed awav ; And many a heart that then was gay, f Within the tomb now darkly dwells, And hears no more those evening bells. And so 't will be when I am gone That tuneful peal will still ring on; While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise; sweet evening bells. THOMAS MOOR a THE LADY AT SEA. CABLES entangling her; Ship-spars for mangling her; Ropes sure of strangling her; Blocks over-dangling her; Tiller to batter her; Topmast to shatter her; Tobacco to spatter her ; Boreas blustering; Boatswain quite flustering; Thunder-clouds mustering, To blast her with sulphur If the deep do n't ingulph her; Sometimes fear 's scrutiny Pries out a mutiny, Sniffs conflagration, Or hints at starvation ; All the sea dangers, Buccaneers, rangers, Pirates, and Sallce-men, Algerine galley-men, Tornadoes and typhons, And horrible syphons, And submarine travels Thro' roaring sea-navels; Everything wrong enough Long-boat not long enough ; Vessel not strong enough ; Pitch marring frippery ; The deck very slippery ; And the cabin built sloping; The captain a-toping; And the mate a blasphemer, That names his Redeemer With inward uneasiness; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. The cook known by greasiness The victuals beslubbered; Her bed in a cupboard; Things of strange christening, Snatched in her listening; Blue lights and red lights, And mention of dead lights; And shrouds made a theme of Things horrid to dream of; And buovs in the water; To fear all exhort her. Her friend no Leander Herself no sea gander : And ne'er a cork jacket On board of the packet; The breeze still a-stiffening; The trumpet quite deafening; Thoughts of repentance, And doomsday, and sentence; Every thing sinister Not a church minister; Pilot a blunderer; Coral reefs under her, Ready to sunder her : Trunks tipsy-topsv; The ship in a dropsy ; XVaves oversurging her; Sirens a-dirging her; Sharks all expecting her; Sword-fish dissecting her; Crabs with their hand-vices Punishing land vices; Sea-dogs and unicorns, Things with no puny horns; Mermen carnivorous "Good Lord deliver us! " THOMAS HOOD. AULD ROBIN GRAY. WHEN the sheep are in the fauld, and the kye at hame, And a' the warld to sleep are gane ; The waes o' my heart fa' in showers frae my ee. When my gudeman lies sound by me. Young Jamie loo'd me weel; and socht me for his bride; But, saving a croun, he had naething else beside. To mak that croun a pund, young Jamie gaed to sea; And the croun and the pund were baith for me! He hadna been awa a week but only twa, When my mother she fell sick, and the cow was stown awa; My father brak his arm, and young Jamie at the sea And auld Robin Gray cam' a-courtin' me. My father cou'dna work, and my mother cou'dna spin; I toiled day and nicht, but their bread I cou'dna win ; Auld Rob maintained them baith, and, wi' tears in his ee, Said, "Jenny, for their sakes, oh marry me!" My heart it said nay, for I looked for Jamie back ; But the wind it blew high, and the ship it was a wrack ; The ship it was a wrack ! Why didna Jamie dee? Or, why do I live to say, Wae 's me ! My father argued sair my mother didna speak, But she lookit in my face till my heart was like to break ; Sae they gied him my hand ; though my heart was in the sea ; And auld Robin Gray was gudeman to me. I hadna been a wife, a week but only four, When, sitting sae mournfully at the door, I saw my Jamie's wraith, for I cou'dna think it he, Till he said, "I 'm come back for to marry thee ! " Oh sair, sair did we greet, and muckle did we say ; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SOX(,. We took but ae kiss, and \ve tore ourselves away ; I wish I were dead, but I 'm no like to dee; And why do I live to say, Wae 's me? I gang like a ghaist, and I carena to spin ; I daurna think on Jamie, for that wad be a sin ; But I '11 do my best a gudc wife to be, For auld Robin Gray is kind unto me. LADY ANNE BARNARD. CHASTELARD TO MARY STUART. DEAR heart, I bless you for this parting grace, That is as sunshine on a winter day ; Now that last looks may be upon your face, There nothing is can wound me on my way Filling my prison with a light divine, My queen, you come as does a saintly moon, And I forget the dark clouds while you shine And take no heed of that which will be soon. Was ever fate like mine? so dark and sweet? God's feast before me, and I may not eat. God's feast, for I have won your heart at last, And may not tarry for a lover's kiss; But rich reward for future pain and past Is this one hour this present hour of bliss. What though another night shall find me dead, With no more sense of love and summer morn : I lived to put a crown upon my head That shall be with me in the time unborn ; Nor may I be deceived with dying breath Speech is prophetic on the day of death. Trust me, my perfect love, this midnight walk Is but a fretful prologue to the play Anxietude and doubt and troubled talk, Then writing shows the scene for Heaven Day. How tell you all in such a breathless time? When Death is standing with his door ajar, Counting the minutes in a dreadful rhvme. Till he may take his whetted scythe, and mar The glorious garden where my pleasures grew To music and new hope because of you. It is a fearful fall to truest knights This headlong tumble to a mystic goal, This slipping from God's sky and all its lights, To dirt and darkness in a narrow hole; But unto me an angel came to show That we imagine all the bitter part One crack of thunder and one seething glow Of lightning, and a little timid start, And there an end ; the storm becomes a charm, With promise of new life without alarm. I do remember in Love's land of France, Whither best thoughts do truant-like run back, Our life was zoned with light and fair ro- mance, And dance and glamour followed in the track Nay, these are not poor flow'rs I pluck so late; They have the scent of early love, and "tho' Some poison-buds come too, they are of Fate, And, honey were not sweet if 't were not so; All is for love, and dead! v nightshade grows As much by Heaven's will as does the rose. When that the gentle Hero held the light. Leander, knowing then her truth to him, Sank under sea in his extreme delight, And in Life's river could no longer swim : Now that you hold this loving light to me. Death's river, where the clouds hang in the night, Shall be as glorious as Leander's sea, CHASTEI.ARD TO MARY STUART. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. And the mysterious ferrv shall be bright ; Your tears are bitter-sweet, e'en I could weep For joy of this " Good night, and pleasant sleep." Stay your tears, my sweet, and no more speech Shall come from me of Death; if my heart's kiss Can cure your agony, I do beseecl* Your lips a little, that I may not miss The melody locked up with your dear voice. This pure and precious time can no pain give, But only gentle faith, and I rejoice In knowledge of love strong enough to live: Your hand is heaven, my love ; I feel your ki*s : Your eyes speak peace, and now the rest is GUY ROSL\N. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. HAMELIX Town 's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city ; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But when begins my dittv, Almost five hundred vears ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last tne people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: " 'T is clear," cried they, " our Mayor 's a noddy ; And as for our Corporation shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you 're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we 're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we '11 send you packing! " At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sate in counsel At length the Mayor broke silence : ' For a guilder I 'd my ermine gown sell ; I wish I were a mile hence! It 's easy to bid one rack one's brain I 'm sure my poor head aches again, I 've scratched it so, and all in vain. Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? i ( Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what 's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew muti- nous For a plate of turtle, green and glutinous) " Onlv a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 'Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; And in did come the strangest figure: His queer long coat from heel to head ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin; With sharp blue eyes each like a pin; And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin; No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin But lips where smiles went,out and in There was no guessing his kith and kin! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the trump of doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! " He advanced to the, council table: And, " Please your honors," said he, 1 'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All living creatures beneath the sun, That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed around his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self same check ; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Chain, Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats; And, as for what your brain bewilders If I can rid your town of rats, Will you give me a thousand guilders? " "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclama- tion Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled ; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rum- bling; And out of the houses the rats came tum- bling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers; Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, . And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was: "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flask';. And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 73 All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious, scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, Come, bore me! I found the Weser rolling o'er me." You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; "Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats! " when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, " First, if you please, my thousand guilders ! " A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havock With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock: And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow! " Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 'Our business was done at the river's brink ; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink. And what 's dead can't come to life, I think, So, friend, we 're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke ; But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!" The piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait! beside, I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen. Of a nest of scorpion's no survivor With him I proved no bargain-driver; With you, don't think I '11 bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion." " How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook Being worse-treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst! " Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering; And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running: All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they -were changed into blocks of wood, L^nable to move a step or cry 74 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. To the children merrily skipping by And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the \va v of their sons and daughters ! However, he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. " He never can cross that mighty top! He 's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed; And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way ; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, '" It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can 't forget that I 'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And every thing was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will. To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more! " Alas, alas for Hamelin ! There came into manv a burgner's pate A text which says, that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he 'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 't was a lost endeavor, And piper and dancers were gone for ever^ They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and vear, These words did not as well appear, '' And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six;" And the better in memory to fix The place of the Children's last retreat They called it the Pied Piper's Street Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the Great Church window painted The same, to make the world acquainted. How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterranean prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago, in a mighty band, Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,. But how or why, they do n't understand. So, Willy, let you and me be wipers ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 75 Of score* out with all men especially pipers ; And, whether they pipe us free from rats or irom mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise. ROBERT BRO\VXIN<;. IVRY. Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, O pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud citv of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy ; For cold and stiff and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war! Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, We saw the armv of the league drawn out in long array ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Eg- mont's Flemish spears, There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand; And as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled Hood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living God, who ru'es the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The king is come to marshal us, in all his armor drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear wa- in his eye; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout: God. save our lord the king! " And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may For never I . saw promise yet of such a bloody fray . Press where ye see my white plume shim- amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre." Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin. The fiery duke is pricking fast Across Saint Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne. Now by the lips of those vc love, fair gen- tlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies upon them with the lance! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thou- sand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the hel- met of Navarre. 7 6 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Now, God be praised, the day is ours: Ma- yenne hath turned his rein; D'Aumale hath cried for quarter ; the Flem- ish count is slain ; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van, Remember Saint Bartholomew! was passed from man to man. But out spake gentle Henry "No French- man is my foe; Down, down, with every foreigner, but let your brethren go " Oh ! was there ever such a knight, in friend- ship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre? Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day ; And many a lordlv banner God gave them for a. prey. But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosnv hath ta'en the cornet white Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons of Lucerne Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the league, look that your arms be bright ; Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre ! LORD MACAULAY. RED AND WHITE. UNDER the trees by the darkling stream The red chief lurks at morning; His dusk cheek flushes an angry gleam Is in his wild eye scorning All food or sleep, in a vengeful dream He waits for the scout's shrill warning. The sun rides high, and the forest screen Is pierced, and the sluggish river Lights up and laughs, and the murk v green Grows cool with a golden shiver But the red chief whetteth his knife so keen And loosens the store of his quiver. Down sinks the sun, the evening hvmn Of birds to heaven hath risen ; All in the stillness that chief so grim He springs to his feet to listen, And the red men crouch by the river's brim With hungry eyes that glisten. There's a plashing of oars in the turbid wave, There's a glitter of knives in the brake, With a careless boat-song on to their grave, With the dying sun in their wake, The robbers come, who have roused the brave A sudden revenge to take. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. 79 The men \vho dreamed that the dusky maids Should smile in the huts of the pale (), long shall their daughters through forest glades Gaze out, and their wives shall wail, I'or keen and sure are the red men's blades, And the river tells no tale. B. MOXTGOMERIE RAXK.IXG. THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. FROM his brimstone bed at break of day A walking the devil is gone, To visit his snug little farm, the earth, And see how his stock goes on. n. Over the hill and over the dale, And he went over the plain; And backward and forward he switched his long tail, As a gentleman switches his cane. And how then was the devil drest? Oh! he was in his Sunday's best: His jacket was red and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where the tail came through. He saw a lawyer killing a viper On a dunghill hard by his own stable; And the devil smiled, for it put him in mind Of Cain and his brother Abel. v. He saw an apothecary on a white horse Ride by on his vocations; And the devil thought of his old friend Death, in the Revelations. He saw a cottage with a double coach-house A cottage of gentility, And the devil did grin, for his darling sin Is pride that apes humility. He peeped into a rich bookseller's shop Quoth he, "We are both of one college! For I sate, myself, like a cormorant, once, Hard by the tree of knowledge." Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, A pig with vast celerity ; And the devil looked wise as he saw how, the while, It cut its own. throat. "There!" quoth he with a smile, "Goes England's commercial prosperity." As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw A solitary cell; And the devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint For improving his prisons in hell. He saw a turnkey in a trice Fetter a troublesome blade ; " Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move If a man be but used to his trade." He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man With but little expedition; Which put him in mind of the long debate On the slave-trade abolition. XII. He saw an old acquaintance As he passed by a Methodist meeting; She holds a consecrated key, And the devil nods her a greeting. So ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. She turned up her nose, and said, " Avaunt! my name 's Religion! " And she looked to Mr. , And leered like a love-sick pigeon. He saw a certain minister, A minister to his mind, Go up into a certain house, With a majority behind; The devil quoted Genesis, Like a very learned clerk, How " Noah and his creeping things Went up into the ark." XVI. He took from the poor, And he gave to the rich, And he shook hands with a Scotchman, For he was not afraid of the *.*.*.* General burning face He saw with consternation, And back to hell his way did he take For the devil thought by a slight mistake It was a general conflagration. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. SWEET SUMMER TIME. WHO has not dreamed a world of bliss On a bright sunny noon like this, Couched by his native brook's green maze, With comrade of his boyish days, While all around them seemed to be Ju^t as in joyous infancy; Who has not loved at such an hour, U ^n that heath in birchen bower, Li . il in the poet's dreamy mood, Its \\ild and sunny solitude? While o'er the waste of purple ling You mark a sultry glimmering; Silence herself there seems to sleep, Wrapped in a slumber long and deep. Where slowly stray those lonely sheep Through the tall foxglove's crimson bloom. And gleaming of the scattered broom, Love you not, then, to list and hear The crackling of the gorse-flowers near, Pouring an orange-scented tide Of fragrance o'er the desert wide? To hear the buzzard's whimpering shrill, Hovering above you high and still? The twittering of the bird that dwells Among the heath's delicious bells? While round ^'our bed, o'er fern and blade, Insects in green and gold arrayed, The sun's gay tribes have lightly strayed ; And sweeter sound their humming wings Than the proud minstrel's echoing string WILLIAM HOWITT. TAM O'SHANTER. Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Bnke. Go-win Douglas*. WHEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-davs are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak the gate ; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That He between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm. Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o'Shanter, As he, frae Ayr, ae night did canter, (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses For honest men and bonnie lasses). O Tarn ! hadst thou been but sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder, \vi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; That at the L d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday. She prophesied that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon ; Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Allowav's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet, How monie lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale: Ae market night Tam had got planted unco right, Fast bv an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither They had been fou for weeks thegither, The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter, And ay the ale was growing better; The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happv, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure; The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure ; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ; Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tam maun ride That hour o' night's black arch the keystane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he takes the road in As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed ; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed; That night a child might understand The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg, (A better never lifted leg), Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares ; Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Where in the snaw the chapman smoored; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak 's neck bane: And thro' the whins, and bv the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods: The doubling storm roars through the . woods ; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll ; When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk Alloway seemed in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing, Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can'st make us scorn ! Wi' tippennv we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle. Fair play, he cared na Deils a bodle. But Maggie stood right sair astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight; Warlocks and witches in a dance: S 4 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Nae cotillion brent new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathsprejs, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast A towzie tvke, black, grim, and large To gie them music was his charge; He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof an' rafter a' did dirl. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shawed the dead in their last dresses ; And by some devilish cantrips sleight, Each in its cauld hand held a light By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims ; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns; A thief, new cutted fra a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, \vi' bluid red rusted; Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled ; A knife a father's throat hud mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft The gray hairs yet stack to the heft ; Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, Wi' lies seamed like a beggar's clout; And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk: Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' Which ev'n to name would be unlawfu'. As Tammie glowred, amazed, and curious The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleckit, Till ilka carlin swat, and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark. Now Tarn, O Tarn ! had they been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens: Their sarks, instead of creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen ; Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! But withered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock I wonder did na turn thy stomach. But Tarn kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie, There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core, (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore! For monie a beast to dead she shot, And perished monie a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear), Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vaunty. Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots (twas a' her riches) Wad ever graced a dance o' witches ! But here my Muse her wing maun cower Sic flights are far beyond her power ; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and strang) ; And how Tain stood, like ane bewitched, And thought his very een enriched. Ev'n Satan glowred, and fidged fu' fain, And hotched and blew wi' might and main Till first ae caper, syne anither Tarn tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark! " And in an instant a' was dark ; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied, As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their bykc; As open pussie's mortal foes, When pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When Catch the thief! resounds aloud ; So Maggie runs the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tarn! ah, Tarn! thou'll get thv fair- in'! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy com in' Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss A running stream they dare na cross. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake; For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle: But little wist she Maggie's mettle Ae spring brought aff her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail : The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, \vha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. ROBERT BURNS. HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. HAST thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity ! dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer 1 wosrhipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ectasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale! Oh, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald wake, oh wake, and utter praise ! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. For ever shattered and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable lift, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain 86 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you g'orious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who hade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with liv- ing flowers Of lovliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? God! let the torrents, like a shout of na- tions, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with glad- some voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And the}' too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain- storm ! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky- pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depths of clouds that veil thy breast Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling wjth dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me Rise, oh ever rise! Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. BLIGHTED LOVE. (From the Portuguese of Luis De Camoens, by Lord Strang/ord.) FLOWERS are fresh, and bushes green, Cheerily the linnets sing; Winds are soft, and skies serene; Time, however, soon shall throw Winter's snow O'er the buxom breast of spring! Hope, that buds in lover's heart, Lives not through the scorn of years; Time makes love itself depart; Time and storm congeal the mind,- Looks unkind, Freeze affection's warmest tears. Time shall make the bushes green ; Time dissolve the winter's snow; Winds be soft, and skies serene; Linnets sing their wonted strain: But again Blighted love shall never blow MAUD MULLER. MAUD MULLER, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hav. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. BLIGHTED LOVE. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off" town, White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow, across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up, And filled for him her small tin cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown. "Thanks!" said the judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees; Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown, And her graceful ankles, bare and brown, And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel-eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away. *5 Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah met That I the judge's bride might be! " He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat y My brother should sail a painted boat. " I 'd dress my mother so grand and gay, And the baby should have a new toy each day. " And I 'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still : " A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. " And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. " Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay. " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,. Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love tune: And the young girl mused beside the well,. Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. 0* ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as lie for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go; And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft, when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead, And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover blooms; And the proud man sighed with a secret pain, " A h, that I were free again ! " Free as when I rode that day Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay.' She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain, 'Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot, And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, And, gazing down with a timid grace, She felt his pleased eyes read her face. Sometimes her narrow kitchen wall* Stretched away into stately halls; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again, Saying only, " It might have been." Alas for maiden, alas for judge, For rich repiner and household drudge! God pitv them both ! and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams ot youth recall; For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these: "It might have- been ! " Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes; And, in the hereafter, angels may Roll the stone from his grave away ! JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. WE PARTED IN SILEN'CE. WE parted in silence, we parted by night, On the banks of that lonely river; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite. We met and we parted forever! The night-bird sung and the stars above Told manv a touching story Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. We parted in silence, our cheeks were wet With the tears that were past controlling; We vowed we would never, no, never forget, And those vows at the time were con- soling; But those lip*: that echoed the sounds of mine Are as cold as that lonely river; And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine, Has shrouded its fires forever. WE PARTED IN SILENCE. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 9J And now on the midnight sky I look, And my heart grows full of weeping; Kach star is to me a sealed book, Some tale of that loved one keeping. \\'e parted in silence, we parted in tears On the banks of that lonely river; l>ut the odor and bloom of those bygone years ang o'er its waters forever. MRS. CRAWFORD. ANNIE LAURIE. MAXWELTON braes are bonnie Where early fa's the dew, And it's there that Annie Laurie Gie'd me her promise true; Gie'd me her promise true, Which ne'er forgot will be; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doune and dee. Her brow is like the sna\v drift; Her throat is like the swan; Her face it is the fairest That e'er the sun shone on That e'er the sun shone on And dark blue is her ee; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doune and dee. Like dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o her fairy feet; And like the winds in summer sighim Her voice is low and sweet Her voice is low and sweet And she's a' the world to me; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doune and dee. ANONYMOUS. THE IVY GREEN. OH! a dainty plant is the Ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old ! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works de- cayed, And nations scattered been ; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivv green. CHARLES DICKENS. AMID THE ROSES. I SEEK her midst the roses, and My soul is sore for love. Her image beams serenely grand As Cynthia's form above, Enchas'd in halo. Brave mv hand To grasp thy treasure trove! I seek her midst the roses, for I may no longer wait A suitor reckless at her door, And flinch to learn mv fate. I dare not hope. I dare no more Than humbly supplicate. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. I seek her midst the roses, where Soft pleasures, redolent Of gracious things, enrich the air Impregnate with their scent. She can but choose to hear a prayer With odor thus besprent. I meet her midst the roses. Yes; Hard by the mossv briars. One bud she clasps in close caress, So cold, though near her fires. To live as that, nor more nor less, Would surfeit Jove's desires. I greet her midst the roses, while Fierce burns the breath of May. Whv turns she to avoid my smile? Whv cast her bud awav? Just Phoebus! could a thing of guile Deserve a darker day ? Yet, no! Amid the roses, I Will deem her cruel-kind : When maiden frowns disdainfully 'T were wisdom to be blind. 'Twere weak to count a wilful eye The reflex of her mind. Thus, tremulous midst the roses, lest My love its love should miss, I falter forth a bold request That she will grant me bliss But once to sip her best of best, The nectar of a kiss. She midst her roses stands apart In silvern panoply Of innocence. But Cupid's dart, Though fitted warily, Wings not its flight. Must I depart Shamed of my urgency? Yc roses! " Such request, Sir Knight Fond heart should never rue." I hear a whisper, laughing light, " Though best of best for you, Nor coral lip, nor forehead white, Rather this silken shoe! " An echo from the roses rends My bosom and the skv. Humbly 1 kneel. My right hand bends 1 ler latchet to untie, Whilst she a dainty foot extends In gesture mockingly- Then mid the blossoms ruby red The Boy-God draws his shaft. Home has the love-tipt arrow sped On roseate odors waft. She thrills. Her dainty heart has bled Ere my poor lips have quaffed. In true obeisance hers, not her, The fire-containing ice. No cause to cringe, no fear to err; She changes in a trice From white to rose; confessing, " Sir, You give me Paradise." Ye swains, amid the roses find 'Twere wisdom to be true. Your Chloe's test may seem unkind, And hard your Chloe's shoe; Yet when she proves vour constant mind She '11 e'en consent to you. COMPTON READE. THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES. THAT way look, my infant, lo! What a pretty baby-show ! See the kitten on the wall, Sporting with the leaves that fall Withered leaves, one, t\vo, and three, From the lofty elder tree ! Through the calm and frosty air Of this morning bright and fair, Eddying round and round, they sink Softly, slowly; one might think, From the motions that are made, Every little leaf conveved Sylph or fairy hither tending, To this lower world descending, AMID THE ROSES. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 97 Each invisible and mute In his wavering parachute. But the Kitten, how she starts, Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! First at one, and then its fellow Just as light and just as yellow; There are many now, now one, Now thev stop, and there are none. What intenseness of desire In her upward eye of fire! With a tiger-leap! Half-way Now she meets the coming prey, Lets it go as fast, and then 1 las it in her power again ; Now she works with three or four, Like an Indian conjurer; Quick as he in feats of art, Far bevond in joy of heart. Were her antics played in the eye Of a thousand st,anders-by, Clapping hands with shout and stare, What would little Tabby care For the plaudits of the crowd ? Over happy to be proud, Over wealthy in the treasure Of her own exceeding pleasure! T is a pretty baby treat, Nor, I deem, for me unmeet; Here for neither Babe nor me Other playmate can I see. Of the countless living things That with stir of feet and wings (In the sun or under shade, Upon bough or grassy blade), And with busy revellings, Chirp, and song, and murmurings, Made this orchard's narrow space, And this vale, so blithe a place; Multitudes are swept away, Never more to breathe the day. Some are sleeping; some in bands Travelled into distant lands; Others slunk to moor and wood, Far from human neighborhood ; And, among the kinds that keep With us closer fellowship, With us openlv abide, All have laid their mirth aside. Where is he, that giddy sprite. Blue-cap, with his colors bright, Who was blest as bird could be, Feeding in the apple-tree Made such wanton spoil and rout, Turning blossoms inside out Hung, head pointing towards the ground, Fluttered, perched, into a round Bound himself, and then unbound Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin! Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! Light of heart, and light of limb What is now become of him? Lambs, that through the mountains went Frisking, bleating merriment, When the year was in its prime, They are sobered bv this time. If you look to vale or hill, If you listen, all is still, Save a little neighboring rill That from out the rocky ground Strikes a solitary sound. Vainly glitter hill and plain, And the air is calm in vain ; Vainly Morning spreads the lure Of a sky serene and pure; Creature none can she decov Into open sign of joy. Is it that they have a fear Of the dreary season near? Or that other pleasures be Sweeter even than gayety ? Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell In the impenetrable cell Of the silent heart which Nature Furnishes to every creature Whatsoe'er we feel and know Too sedate for outward show Such a light of gladness breaks, Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, Spreads with such a living grace O'er my little Dora's face Yes, the sight so stirs and charms Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms. That almost I could repine That your transports are not mine. That I do not wholly fare Even as ye do, thoughtless pair! ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. And I will have my careless season Spite of melancholy reason, Will walk through life in such a way That, when time brings on decay, Now and then I may possess 1 lours of perfect gladsomeness. IMeased by any random toy By a kitten's busy joy, Or an infant's laughing eye -Sharing the ecstasy 1 would fare like that or this, Find my wisdom in my bliss, Keep the sprightly soul awake, And have faculties to take, Even from things by sorrow wrought, Matter for a jocund thought Spite of care, and spite of grief, To gambol with Life's falling leaf. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. MARY MORISON. O, MARY, at thy window be, It is the wished, the trysted hour, Those smilesand glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor, How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. Yestreen, when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; Though this was fair, and that was braw, And you the toast of a' the town, I sighed, and said amang them a', "Ye are na Mary Morison!" Oh, Mary! canst thou wreck his peace, Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee? ( )r canst thou break that heart of his, Whose only fault is loving thee? If love for love thou wilt na gie, At least be pity to me shown! A thought ungentle canna be The thought o' Mary Morison. ROBERT BURNS. THE CHILD AND THE WATCHER. SLEEP on, baby on the floor, Tired of all thy plaving Sleep on with smile the sweeter for That you dropped away in ; On your curls' fair roundness stand Golden lights serenely; One cheek, pushed out by the hand, Folds the dimple inly Little head and little foot Heavy laid for pleasure; Underneath the lids half-shut Plants the shining azure; Open-souled in noonday sun, So, you lie and slumber; Nothing evil having done, Nothing can encumber. I, who cannat sleep as well, Shall I sigh to view you? Or sigh further to foretell All that mav undo vou? Nay, keep smiling, little child, Ere the faith appeareth ! I smile, too; for patience mild Pleasure's token weareth. Nay, keep sleeping before loss; I shall sleep, though losing! As by cradle, so bv cross, Sweet is the reposing. And God knows, who sees us twain, Child at childish leisure, I am all as tired of pain As-you are of pleasure. Very soon, too, bv His grace, Gently wrapt around me, I shall show as calm a face, I shall sleep as soundly Differing in this, that you Clasp your playthings sleeping, While my hand must drop the few Given to my keeping Differing in this, that I, Sleeping, must be colder, And in waking presently, Brighter to beholder MARY MORRISON. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Differing in this beside (Sleeper, have you heard me? Do you move, and open wide Your great eyes toward me?) That while I vou draw withal From this slumber solely, Me, from mine, an angel shall, Trumpet-tongued and holy ! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. LOCHINVAR. OH, young Lochinvar is come out of the west ; Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone ; He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Loch- invar. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bridesmen, and kinsmen, and broth- ers, and all ; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) ' Oh come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar? " " I long wooed vour daughter, mv suit vou denied Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine ; There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the voung Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet the knight took it up; He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face. That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing, and chasing, on Canno- bie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war^ Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? SIR WALTER SCOTT. MAY. May, thou month of rosy beauty, Month when pleasure is a duty; Month of maids that milk the kine, Bosom rich, and health divine; Month of bees and month of flowers, Month of blossom-laden bowers; Month of little hands with daisies, Lover's love, and poet's praises ; thou merry month complete, Mav, the very name is sweet! May was MAID in olden times And is still in Scottish rhymes May 's the month that 's laughing now. 1 no sooner write the word, Than it seems as though it heard, And looks up and laughs at me, Like a sweet face, rosily, Flushing from the paper's white; Like a bride that knows her power Startled in a summer bower. If the rains that do us wrong Come to keep the winter long And deny us thy sweet looks, I can love thee, sweet, in books; Love thee in the poet's pages, Where they keep thee green for ages; Love and read thee as a lover Reads his lady's letter over, Breathing blessings on the art Which commingles those that part. There is May in books for ever: May will part from Spencer never ; May 's in Milton, May 's in Prior, May's in Chaucer, Thomson, Dyer; Mav 's in all the Italian books; She has old and modern nooks, Where she sleeps with nvmphs and elvi-- In happy places they call shelves, And will rise and dress your rooms With a drapery thick with blooms. Come, ye rains, then, if ye will, May's at home and with me still; But come rather, thou good weather, And find us in the fields together. LEIGH HINT. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. THE fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean; The winds of heaven mix for ever, With a sweet emotion ; Nothing in the world is single; All things bv a law divine In one another's being mingle Why not I with thine? See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another; No sister flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother; And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea; What are all these kisses worth, If thou kiss not me? PERCY BYSSHE SHELLKY. MY LOVE. NOT as all other women are Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening-star; And yet her heart is ever near. MAY. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind mav choose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair; No simplest duty is forgot; Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone, or despise: For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or peace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes. She hath no scorn of common things; And, though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is ; God made her so ; And deeds of week-dav holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow ; Nor hath she ever chanced to know That aught were easier than to bless. She is most fair, and thereunto Her life doth rightly harmonize ; Feeling or thought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. VIII. She is a woman one in whom The spring-time of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river's peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own will, And yet doth ever flow aright. , And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles my duties lie; It flows around them and between, And makes them fresh and fair and green Sweet homes wherein to live and die. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. COME INTO THE GARDEN, MAUD. COME into the garden, Maud For the black bat, night, has flown! Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone ; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the roses blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves, On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun that she loves' To faint in its light, and to die. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirred To the dancers dancing in tune Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon, I said to the lily, " There is but one With whom she has heart to be gav. When will the dancers leave her alone? She is weary of dance and play." Now half to the setting moon are gone. And half to the rising day ; io6 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Low ' .1 "!>> and and loud on the stone Th? .';!**. "'heel echoes away. I ' Vid to t*e rose, " The brief night goes In bahb'e and revel and wine. C voung 'ord-lover, what sighs are those, For on" that will never be thine! But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose, . " For ever and ever, mine ! " And the oul of the rose went into my blood, As tb^ music clashed in the hall ; And I'.^g by the garden lake 1 stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood Oi-r wood, that is dearer than all From the meadow your walks have left so sweet That whenever a March-wind sighs, He sets the jewel print of your feet In violets blue as your eyes To the woody hollows in which we meet, And the valleys of Paradise. The slender accacia would not shake One long milk-bloom on the tree; The white lake-blossom fell into the lake, As the pimpernel dozed on the lea; But the rose was awake all night for your sake, Knowing your promise to me; The lilies and roses were all awake They sighed for the dawn and thee. Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls, Come hither! the dances are done; In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls, Queen lily and rose in one; Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls, To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear, She is coming, mv life, my fate! The red rose cries, " She is near, she is near;" And the white rose weeps, " She is late ; The larkspur listens, " I hear, I hear," And the lily whispers, " I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet! Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed; Mv dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red. ALFRED TEXNYSON. THE SHIPWRECK. Ix vain the cords and axes were prepared. For now the audacious seas insult the vard ; High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade, And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, Her shattered top half buried in the skies. Then headlong plunging, thunders on the ground; Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound ! Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels, And quivering with the wound in torment reels. So reels, convulsed with agonizing throe*. The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows. Again she plunges! hark! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the mar hit- rock: Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries, The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes In wild despair: while vet another stroke. With deep convulsions, rends the solid oak ; Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell, At length asunder torn her frame divides, And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art To wake to sympathy the feeling heart; ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dres> In all the pomp of exquisite distress, Then too severely taught by cruel fate, To share in all the perils I relate, Then might I, with unrivalled strains de- plore The impervious horrors of a leeward shore ! As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung, Still on the rigging thirty seamen clung; Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, And there by oozy tangles grappled fast, Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming bil- lows' rage, Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego Their slippery hold, and sink to shades below, Some, from the main yard-arm impetuous thrown On marble ridges, die without a groan. Three with Palemon on their skill depend. And from the wreck on oars and rafts de- scend. Now on the mountain wave on high they ride, Then downward plunge beneath the in- volving tide, Till one, who seems in agony to strive, The whirling breakers heave on shore alive; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew ! WILLIAM FALCONER. WIDOW MACHREE. WIDOW machree,it's no wonder you frown Och hone! widow machree Faith, it ruins vour looks, that same dirtv black gown Och hone! widow machree. How altered your air, With that close cap you wear 'T is destroying your hair, Which should be flowing free : Be no longer a churl Of its black silken curl Och hone ! widow machree ! Widow machree, now the summer is come Och hone! widow machree When every thing smiles, should a beaut v look glum? Och hone! widow machree! See the birds go in pairs, And the rabbits and hares Why, even the bears Now in couples agree ; And the mute little fish, Though they can 't spake, thev wish Och hone! widow machree. Widow machree, and when winter comes in Och hone! widow machree To be poking the fire all alone is a sin, Och hone ! widow machree. Sure the shovel and tongs To each other belongs, And the kettle sings songs Full of family glee; While alone with your cup, Like a hermit you sup, Och hone ! widow machree. And how do you know, with the comforts I 've towld Och hone! widow machree But you Ve keeping some poor fellow out in the cowld, Och hone! widow machree! With such sins on vour head, Sure vour peace would be fled; Could you sleep in your bed ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Without thinking to see Some ghost or some sprite, That would wake you each night, Crying, " Och hone ! widow ma- chree!" Then take my advice, darling widow ma- chree Och hone ! widow machree And with mv advice, faith, I wish vou 'd take me, Och hone! widow machree! You 'd have me to desire Then to stir up the fire ; And sure hope is no liar In whispering to me, That the ghosts would depart When you 'd me near your heart Och hone ! widow machree ! SAMUEL LOVER. AFTER THE SEASON. AT last 't is over, doggie dear, The folks are fled, and town 's deserted : The Park is desolate and drear, Where once we walked and some girls flirted. Here, on the white cliff's grass-grown brink, 'Neath which the blue sea frets and tosses, We'll rest ourselves awhile, and think About the season's gains and losses. Ah me! It seems but yesterday The boughs with blossoms rich were laden ; It was the merry month of May, And I, a merry-hearted maiden. Now, like a wild bird safely caged, A captor my lost heart is caging; What wonder I should be engaged To Guy, whose ways are so engaging? Aunt Mary says that love 's a myth, And other heresies advances; She vows she has no patience with A girl who throws away her chances. My cousin hopes that " Eva knows What's best, but must take leave to doubt it." And shakes her head which onlv shows How little she can know about it! It may not be in others' eyes A wealthy match ; but I Ve a notion A wealth we never should despise Is that of firm and deep devotion. And, as I say, when cousin Nell Laments that we can't keep a carriage, Sometimes when young girls " marrv well,' 1 It doesn't prove a well-made marriage. The Earl who filled my school-day dream When I was small and rather silly, Might have supplied a splendid team To dash me down through Piccadilly. But of this truth right sure am I : No mode of travel known at present Compares to rambling on with Guv Thro' fields of fancy, fresh and pleasant ! The Earl would have grand castles, plac'd In several counties, I conjecture; Arranged with most luxurious taste, Of most imposing architecture. But where is one so rich and rare (Though practical old folks may quiz it) As that grand castle in the air Which Guy and I so often visit? Which are most precious, pure and bright, (I know how / should make selection !) .The gems that gleam with radiant light, Or eyes that beam with fond affection ? And Guv's so good, and true, and bold, With such a splendid air about him ; He should have been a knight of old Onlv I could n't live without him! I'm sure 't is wise to marry Guy, For true love is a peerless blessing; The way some parents let men buy Their daughters, is, I think, distressing. I place that foremost 'mid the lot Of things that should at once be seen to; I 'm sure it 's wise and if it 's not, It doesn't matter, for I mean to! ALFRED E. T. WATSON. AFTER THE SEASON. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. JENNY KISSED ME! JENNY kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in, Time, you thief ! who love to get Sweets into jour list, put that in. Say I 'm weary, say I 'm sad ; Say. that health and wealth have missed me; Say I 'm growing old, but add Jenny kissed me! LEIGH HUNT. EXCUSE. I TOO have suffered. Yet I know She is not cold, though she seems so; She is not cold, she is not light ; But our ignoble souls lack might. She smiles and smiles, and will not sigh, While we for hopeless passion die ; Yet she could love, those eyes declare, Were but men nobler than they are. Eagerly once her gracious ken Was turned upon the sons of men ; But light the serious visage grew She looked, and smiled, and saw them through. Our petty souls, our strutting wits, Our labored puny passion-fits Ah, may she scorn them still, till we Scorn them as bitterly as she ! Yet oh, that fate would let her see One of some worthier race than we One for whose sake she once might prove How deeply she who scorns can love. His eyes be like the starry lights His voice like sounds of summer nights In all his lovely mien let pierce The magic of the universe! And she to him will reach her hand, And gazing in his eyes will stand, And know her friend, and weep for glee, And cry Long, long I Ve looked for thee! Then will she weep with smiles, till then Coldly she mocks the sons of men. Till then her lovely eyes maintain Their gay, unwavering, deep disdain. MATTHEW ARNOLD. THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS IN NEW-ENGLAND. " Look now abroad another race has filled Those populous borders wide the wood recedes, And towns shoot up, and fertile realms are tilled ; The land is full of harvests and green meads." BRYANT. THE breaking waves dashed high, On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed; And the heavy night hung dark, The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New-England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame ; Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. ILLUSTRATED POET/f)' AND SONG. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the \\hite wave's foam ; And the rocking pines of the forest roared This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band: Why had they come to wither there, Away from their childhood's land? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow serenely high And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ; They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God. FELICIA HEMANS. THE BROOKLET. SWEET brooklet, ever gliding, Now high the mountains riding. The lone vale now dividing, Whither away? With pilgrim course I flow, Or in summer's scorching glow, Or o'er moonless wastes of snow, Nor stoop, nor stay For O, by high behest, To a bright abode of rest In my parent Ocean's breast, I hasten away!" Many a dark morass, Many a craggy mass, Thy feeble force must pass ; Yet, yet delay ! Though the marsh be dire and deep, Though the crag be stern and steep, On, on mv course must sweep; I may not stav : For O, be it east or west, To a home of glorious rest In a bright sea's boundless breast, I hasten away ! " The warbling bowers beside thee The laughing flowers that hide thee With soft accord they chide thee, Sweet brooklet, stay ! I taste of the fragrant flowers, I respond to the warbling bowers, And sweetly they charm the hours Of my winding wav ; But ceaseless still in quest Of that everlasting rest In my parent's boundless breast, I hasten away ! " Knowest thou that dread abyss? Is it a scene of bliss? O, rather cling to this, Sweet brooklet, stay ! ; O, who shall fitly tell What wonders there may dwell? That world of mvstery well May strike dismay : But I know 'tis my parent's breast; There held I must needs be blest, And with joy to that promised rest I hasten awav ! " SIR ROBERT GRANT THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE AT BALAKLAVA. HALF a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of death, Rode the six hundred. Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred, ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SOXG. 7/7 For up came an order which Some one had blundered. " Forward, the light brigade! Take the guns!" Nolan said: Into the vallev of death, Rode the six hundred. "Forward the light brigade!" No man was there dismayed Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die Into the vallev of death, Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly thev rode and well ; Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell, Rode the six hundred. Firvsr.eo all their sabres bare, Flasbed all at once in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery smoke, With many a desp'rate stroke The Russian line they broke; Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered. Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, Those that had fought so w r ell Came from the jaws of death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the light brigade, Noble. six hundred! ALFRED TENNYSON. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMI GRANT. I 'm sittin' on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May mornin' long ago, When first you were my bride; The corn was springin' fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary ; The day is bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath, warm on my cheek; And I still keep list'nin' for the words You never more will speak. 'T is but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near The church where we were wed, Mary; I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest For I 've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I 'm very lonely now, Mary For the poor make no new friends; But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary My blessin' and my pride : There 's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. itS ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone : There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break When the hunger pain was gnawin' there, And you hid it for my sake; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore Oh! I 'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can 't reach you more ! I 'm biddin' you a long farewell, My Mary kind and true! But I 'I' not forget you, darling, In the land I 'in goin' to; They say there 's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there But I '11 not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair ! And often in those grand old woods I '11 sit, and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies; And I '11 think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride. LADY DUFFERIN. PLAYING WITH LOVE. AGAIN the trees stand bare upon the moor, And bend their withered heads before the wind ; Again the snow is heaped up at the door, And frost is making many a fairy blind. The spring sank into the summer-time, and June Fell into autumn and her fruitful store; December comes again to the old tune, And we are lovers still and nothing more. Now, wny should we delay our own delight, Defer the hope, and wait for evil days To cover love's young blossom with a blight, And sow the seeds of sorrow on our ways? If we indeed have love enough to live, Why should we make a fear that is not now? Or why should Fortune any blessing give, While we care not to woo her with a vo\v ? There is a time when life is life indeed, When love is love and all about it bright; It is betrothal when great joy has need Of sleep to cool the hot heart of delight: Because of you this sweetness came to me, And with a chain of flowers my life was led, But after all what may the meaning be? Why, a betrothal if we may not wed. Look at this picture, love; do you not see The sun flush on the summer's youngest bloom ? Here are three sisters ; one of them will be A wife, and two will make their own dark doom : See how they play with Love; but he will bring A bitter day when they shall both atone. And find too late the knowledge and its sting, That maids who play with Love may play alone. Why will you give me but a little love, And spread it over many droning days? Why for a little fault will you reprove, And spoil the harmony of pleasant wavs? If you will serve me so, then let the evi> Of my own fault accuse me while I live; But I may learn it was not all a prize To win a woman who could not forgive. PLAYIXG WITH LOVL. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. It may be that you will not speak again, But I have felt that I must come to say That you have filled my weary weeks with pain, And I have had no peace for many a day : Though you still hold the power that would bless My years, and with full joy my life endow, Yet your unkindness brings me to confess, I never loved you less than I love now. Now in my heart of hearts I do rejoice, And still I do repent for my hard speech, Which turns upon me now that your dear voice lias placed the golden fruit within my reach : Let us be married in the early spring, When blossoms bring new honey for the bees, And when new daisies come and new birds sing, And new green leaves come out upon old trees. GUY ROSLYN. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. A PATJIKT1C HALLAD. BEN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms. Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, " Let others shoot : For here I leave mv second leg, And the Forty-second foot." The army-surgeons made him limbs: Said he, " The 're onlv pegs; But there 's as wooden members quite, As represent my legs." *6 Now Ben he loved a pretty maid Her name was Nelly G*ay; So he went to pay her his devours, When he devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs. Began to take them off. "O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray! Is this your love so warm? The love that loves a scarlet coat Should be more uniform." Said she, " I loved a soldier once, For lie was blithe and brave; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave. " Before you had those timber toes -Your love I did allow; But then, you know, you stand upon Another footing now." " O, Nelly Gray! O, Nelly Gray; For all your jeering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches." "Why then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms." " O, false and fickle Nelly Gray! I know why you refuse: Though I 've no feet, some other man Is standing in my shoes. " I wish I ne'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! For vou will be my death; alas! You will not be my Nell! " Now when he went from Nelly Gray His heart so heavy got, And life was such a burden grown, It made him take a knot. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life, Enlisted in the line. One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs; And, as his legs were off, of course He soon was oft" his legs. And there he hung, till he was dead As any nail in town ; For, though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down. A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside. THOMAS HOOD. THE WELCOME. COME in the evening, or come in the morn- ing; Come when you Ye looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you'll find here before you, And the oftener you come here the more I'll adore you! Light is my heart since the day we were plighted ; Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, " True lovers don 't sever ! " I '11 pull you sweet flowers to wear if you choose them, Or, after you Ve kissed them, they Ml lie on my bosom; I'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you; I'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you. Oh! your step's like the rain to the sum- mer-vexed farmer, Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor; I'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise- above me, Then, wandering, I '11 wish you in silence to love me. We'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie; We'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairv; We'll look on the stars and we '11 list to the river, Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her. Oh! she'll whisper you, "Love as un- changeably beaming, And trust, when in secret most tunefully streaming Till the starlignt of heaven above us shall quiver, As our souls flow in one down eternity's river." So come in the evening, or come in the morning; Come when you're looked for, or come without warning; Kisses and welcome you Ml find here before you, And the oftener you come the more I'll adore you ! Light is my heart since the day we were - plighted; Red is my cheek that they told me wa blighted ; The green of the trees looks far greener than ever, And the linnets are singing, "True lover- don't sever!" THOMAS DAVIS. A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO. May the Babylonish curse Strait confound my stammering verse, If I can a passage see In this word-perplexity, Or a fit expression find, Or a language to mv mind THE WELCOME. ILLUSTRATED POET HI' AXD SONG. (Still the phrase is wide or scant), To take leave of thee, great plant! Or in any terms relate Half my love, or half my hate; For I hate, yet love, thee so, That, whichever thing I shew, The plain truth will seem to be A constrained hyperbole, And the passion to proceed More for a mistress than a weed. Sooty retainer to the vine! Bacchus's black servant, negro fine! Sorcerer ! that mak'st us dote upon Thv begrimed complexion, And, for thy pernicious sake, More and greater oaths to break Than reclaimed lovers take 'Gainst women ! Thou thy siege dost lav Much, too, in the female wav, While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath Faster than kisses, or than death. Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us; While each man, through thy height'ning steam, Does like a smoking Etna seem ; And all about us does express (Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness. Thou through such a mist dost show us That our best friends do not know us, And for those allowed features Due to reasonable creatures, Liken'st us to fell chimeras, Monsters that who see us, fear us; Worse than Cerberus or Geryon, Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion. Bacchus we know, and we allow His tipsy rites. But what art thou, That but by reflex can'st shew What his deity can do As the false Egyptian spell Aped the true Hebrew miracle? Some few vapors thou may'st raise, The weak brain may serve to amaze ; But to the reins and noble heart Can'st nor life nor heat impart. Brother of Bacchus, later born ! The old world was sure forlorn, Wanting thee, tnat aidest more The god's victories than, before, All his panthers, and the brawls Of his piping Bacchanals. These, as stale, we disallow, Or judge of thee meant: only thou His true Indian conquest art; And, for ivy round his dart, The reformed god now weaves A finer thyrsus of thy leaves. Scent to match thy rich perfume Chemic art did ne'er presume Through her quaint alembic strain, None so sovereign to the brain. Nature, that did in thee excel, Framed again no second smell. Roses, violets, but toys For the smaller sort of boys, Or for greener damsels meant; Thou art the only manlv scent. Stinkingest of the stinking kind! Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind ! Africa, that brags her foyson, Breeds no such prodigious poison? Henbane, nightshade, both together, Hemlock, aconite Nay, rather, Plant divine, of rarest virtue! Blisters on the tongue would hurt you! 'T was but in a sort I blamed thee; None e'er prospered who defamed thee; Irony all, and feigned abuse, Such as perplext lovers use At a need, when, in despair To paint forth their fairest fair, Or in part but to express That exceeding comeliness Which their fancies doth so strike, They borrow language of dislike; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. And, instead of dearest Miss, Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss, And those forms of old admiring, Call her cockatrice and siren, Basilisk, and all that 's evil, Witch, hyena, mermaid, devil, Eth-iop, wench, and blackamoor, Monkey, ape, and twenty more Friendly trait'ress, loving foe Not that she is truly so, But no other way they know, A contentment to express Borders so upon excess That they do not rightly wot Whether it be from pain or not. Or, as men, constrained to part With what's "nearest to their heart, While their sorrow 's at the height Lose discrimination quite, And their hasty wrath let fall, To appease their frantic gall, On the darling thing, whatever, Whence they feel it death to sever, Though it be, as they, perforce, Cuiltless of the sad divorce. For I must (nor let it grieve thee, Friendliest of plants, that I must) leave thee. For thy sake, tobacco, I Would do anything but die, And but seek to extend my days Long enough to sing thy praise. But, as she, who once hath been A king's consort, is a queen Ever after, nor will hate Any tittle of her state Though a widow, or divorced, So I, from thy converse forced, The old name and style retain, A right Catherine of Spain; And a seat, too, 'mongst the joys Of the blest tobacco boys ; Where though I, by sour physician, Am debarred the full fruition Of thy favors, I may catch Some collateral sweets, and snatch Sidelong odors, that give life Like glances from a neighbor's wife; And still live in the by-places And the suburbs of thy graces; And in thy borders take delight, An unconquered Canaanite. CHARLES LAMB. ONCE AND FOR AYE. HE sang as he lay on a Highland mountain, That English knight who had never known love, " What song so sweet as the chiming fountain ? What blue so blue as the heaven above? " Fond heart ! for nearer and nearer drew A sweeter voice and an eye more blue. "O what can blush by the purple heather? What gold with the gorse-flower dare compare? " He turned, fond heart, and found them to- gether On her glowing cheek and her glittering hair. Now what for the knight are the hill flowers' dyes, The fountain's voice and the sapphire skies? She had lost her path, that Lowland lady, Whose heart had never a lord confessed; O bright she blushed, and gentle prayed he Would guide her over the mountain crest. And little loth was the gallant knight To squire the steps of that lady bright. So he took her hand, and they passed to. gether, The knight and the lady unlearned of love, Through the golden gorse and the purple heather O laughingly beamed the blue above. And the fountain sang as their feet went by, The Sibyl fountain " For ayefor aye." THE AUTHOR OF " SONGS OF KILLARXEY." OXCE AND FOIl AYE. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 129 THE BATTLE OF LIMERICK. YE genii of the nation, Who look with veneration, And Ireland's desolation onsaysingly de- plore, Ye sons of Gineral Jackson, Who thrample on the Saxon, Attend to the thransaction upon Shannon shore. When William, Duke of Schumbug, A tyrant and a humbug, With cannon and with thunder on our city bore, Our fortitude and valliance Insthructed his battalions, To rispict the galliant Irish upon Shannon shore. Since that capitulation, No city in the nation So grand a reputation could boast before, As Limerick prodigious, That stands with quays and bridges, And ships up to the windies of the Shannon shore. A chief of ancient line, 'Tis William Smith O'Brine, Riprisints this darling Limerick this ten years or more; Oh the Saxons can 't endure To see him on the flure, And thrimble at the Cicero from Shannon shore ! This valiant son of Mars Had been to visit Par's, That land of revolution, that grows the tri- color ; And to welcome his return From pilgrimages furren, We invited him to tay on the Shannon shore. Then we summoned to our board Young Meagher of the sword; 'T is he will sheathe that battle-axe in Saxon gore; And Mitchil of Belfast We bade to our repast, To dthrink a dish of coffee on the Shannon shore. Convaniently to hould These patriots so bould, We took the opportunity of Tim Doolan's store ; And with ornamints and banners (As becomes gintale good manners) We made the loveliest tay-room upon Shan- non shore. 'T would binifit your sowls To see the butthered rowls, The sugar-tongs and sangwidges and craim gavlore, And the muffins and the crumpets, And the band of harps and thrumpets, To celebrate the sworry upon Shannon shore. Sure the imperor of Bohay Would be proud to dthrink the tay That Misthress Biddy Rooney for O'Brine did pour; And, since the davs of Strongbow, There never was such Congo Mitchil dthrank six quarts of it by Shan- non shore. But Clarndon and Corry Connellan beheld this sworry With rage and imulation in their black heart's core; And they hired a gang of ruffins To interrupt the muffins, And the fragrance of the Congo on the Shannon shore. When full of tay and cake, O'Brine began to spake, But juice a one could hear him, for a sud- den roar Of a ragamuffin rout Began to yell and shout, And frighten the propriety of Shannon shore. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. As Smith O'Brien harangued, They-batthered and they banged; Tim Doolan's doors and windies down they tore; They smashed the lovely windies (Hung with muslin from the Indies), Purshuing of their shindies upon Shannon shore. With throwing of brickbats, Drowned puppies and dead rats, These ruffin democrats themselves did lower ; Tin kettles, rotten eggs, Cabbage-stalks, and wooden legs, They flung among the patriots of Shannon shore. Oh, the girls began to scrame, And upset the milk and crame; And the honorable jintlemin they cursed and swore: And Mitchil of Belfast, 'T was he that looked aghast, When they roasted him in effigy by Shan- non shore. Oh, the lovely tay was spilt On that day of Ireland's guilt; isays Jack Mitchil, "I am kilt! Boys, where's the back door? 'Tis a national disgrace; Let me go and veil me face ! " And he boulted with quick pace from the , Shannon shore. " Cut down the bloddy horde ! " Says Meagher of the sword, " This conduct would disgrace any blacka- moor ; " But millions were arrayed, So he shaythed his battle-blade, Rethrayting undismayed from the Shannon shore. Immortal Smith O'Brine Was raging like a line; 'T would have done your sowl good to have Jieard him roar; In his glory he arose, And he rushed upon his foes, But they hit him on the nose by the Shan- non shore. Then the futt and the dthragoons In squadthrons and platoons, With their music playing chunes, down upon us bore ; And they bate the rattatoo, And the Peelers came in view, And ended the shaloo on the Shannon shore. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. THE IVY-MAIDEN. YOUR face, sweet Constance, and sui roundings The ivy-wreath that rings you round Give full excuse for wild heart-bounding* And voice more tremulous in sound. But Ivy's maidens " weep and ring," And you love best to laugh and tease; Methinks some meaning marks the thing- Ay, ivy means " intent to please." But, dearest, at this fatal juncture, I own, as empty is my purse As bladder suffering from a puncture; So, as for better or for worse I can take no one or, believe me, I 'd risk my chance of winning you Say, child, will you as friend receive me, Your garland speaks of friendship true! What! tears in those blue eyes indignant, And quivering in those laughing lips? Was then my proffer so malignant! Ah, well, the blind boy often trips! Suppose this New Year saw a twining Of bridal wreaths for you and me, I think 'twould know of no repining: Green ivy means " Fidelity." THE IVV MAIDEX. N ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. '33 O sweet New Year! O sweet beginning Of strange new life to either soul ! O sudden start, triumphant winning, The start of life, and yet its goal ! Sweet Constance, with thine ivy-wreathing, Be to thine own surroundings true; Nay, blush not at this whisper'd breathing That ivy tells of marriage too! B. MONTGOMERIE RANKING. MR. MOLONY'S ACCOUNT OF THE BALL GIVEN TO THE NEPAULESE AMBASSADOR BY T^IE PENINSULAR AND ORIENTAL COMPANY. OH will ye choose to hear the news? Bedad, I cannot pass it o'er: I '11 tell you all about the ball To the Naypaulase ambassador. Begor! this fete all balls does bate At which I worn a pump, and I Must here relate the splendthor great Of th' Oriental company. These men of sinse dispoised expinse, To fete these black Acljilleses. " We '11 show the blacks," says they, " Al- mack's, And take the rooms at Willis's." With flags and shawls, for these Nepauls, They hung the rooms of Willis up, And decked the walls, and stairs, and halls, With roses and with lilies up. And Jullien's band it tuck its stand, So sweetly in the middle there, And soft bassoons played heavenly chunes, . And violins did fiddle there. And when the coort was tired of spoort, I 'd lave you, boys, to think there was A nate buffet before them set, Where lashins of good dhrink there was! At ten, before the ball-room door His moighty excellency was; He smoiled and bowed to all the crowd So gorgeous and immense he was. His dusky shuit, sublime and mute, Into the dooway followed him; And oh the noise of the blackguard boys, As they hurrood and hollowed him! The noble chair stud at the stair, And bade the dthrums to thump; and he Did thus evince to that black prince The welcome of his company. Oh fair the girls, and rich the curls, And bright the oys you saw there was;, And fixed each oye, ye there could spoi, On Gineral Jung Bahawther was! This gineral great then tuck his sate, With all the other ginerals, (Bedad, his troat, his belt, his coat, All bleezed with precious minerals;) And as he there, with princely air, Recloinin on his cushion was, All round about his royal chair The squeezin and the pushin was. O Pat, such girls, such jukes and earls, Such fashion and nobilitee! Just think of Tim, and fancy him Amidst the hoigh gentility! There was Lord De L'Huys, and the Porty- geese Ministher and his lady there; And I reckonized, with much surprise, Our messmate, Bob O'Grady there. There was Baroness Brunow, that looked like Juno, And Baroness Rehausen there, And Countess Roullier, that looked pecu- liar Well in her robes of gauze, in there. There was Lord Crowhurst (I knew him first When only Mr. Pips he was), And Mick O'Toole, the great big fool, That after supper tipsy was. There was Lord Fingall and his ladies all, And Lords Killeen and Dufterin, And Paddy Fife, with his fat wife I wondther how he could stuff" her in, '34 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. There was Lord Belfast, that by me past, And seemed to ask how should /go there ; And the widow Macrae, and Lord A. Hay, And the marchioness of Sligo there. Yes, jukes and earls, and diamonds and pearls, And pretty girls, was spoorting there And some beside (the rogues!) I spied Behind the windies, coorting there. Oh, there 's one I know, bedad would show As beautiful as any there; And I 'd like to hear the pipers blow, And shake a fut with Fanny there! WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. THEY COME! THE MERRY SUM- MER MONTHS. THEY come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers; They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peace- ful waters glide; Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriar- \ chal tree, Scan through its leaves the cloudless skv i in rapt tranquillity. The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand ; And, like the kiss of maiden love, the bree/e is sweet and bland ; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously ; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee ; And mark how with thine own thin locks they now are silvery gray That blissful breeze is wantoning, and > whispering, " Be gay ! " There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky But hath its own winged mariners to gi\ <. it melody; Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold; And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, those little ones, who> far above this earth, Can make a scoff" of its mean joys, and vent a noble mirth. But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it came ! The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name; Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind. Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind; Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again, his notes are void of art ; But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart. Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, To smell again those summer flowers beneath this summer tree! To suck once more in everv breath their little souls away, And feed my fancy with fond dreams <>t youth's bright summer dav, When, rushing forth, like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy Wandered through green woods all dav long, a mighty heart of joy ! I 'm sadder now, I have had cause; but O, I 'm proud to think That each pure joy-fount, loved of \ on- I vet delight to drink ; Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, unclouded skv. Still mingle music with mv dreams, as in the days gone by When summer's loveliness and light t'alJ round me dark and cold, I '11 bear indeed life's heaviest curse a heart that hath waxed old! Wl I.I.I AM MoTIIERWELL. M. ftl/fr /r THEY COME, THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. '37 THE PHANTOM. AGAIN I sit within the mansion, In the old, familiar seat; And shade and sunshine chase each other O'er the carpet at my feet. But the sweet-brier's arms have wrestled upwards In the summers that are past, And the willow trails its branches tower Than when I saw them last. They strive to shut the sunshine wholly From out the haunted room To fill the house, that once was joyful, With silence and with gloom And manv kind, remembered faces Within the doorway come Voices, that wake the sweeter music Of one that now is dumb. They sing, in tones as glad as ever, The songs she loved to hear; They braid the rose in summer garlands, Whose flowers to her were dear. And still, her footsteps in the passage, Her blushes at the door. Her timid words of maiden welcome, Come back to me once more. And all forgetful of my sorrow, Unmindful of my pain, I think she has but newlv left me, And soon will come again. She stays without, perchance, a moment, To dress her dark-brown hair; I hear the rustle of her garments 1 ler light step on the stair ! O fluttering heart! control thy tumult, Lest eyes profane should see My cheeks betray the rush of rapture Her coming brings to me! She tarries long: but lo! a whisper Beyond the open door And, gliding through the quiet sunshine, A shadow on the floor ! Ah! 't is the whispering pine that calls me, The vine whose shadow stravs; And my patient heart must still await her, Nor chide her long delays. But my heaft grows sick with weary wait- ing. As many a time before : Her foot is ever at the threshold, Yet never passes o'er. BAYARD TAYLOR. A CANADIAN BOAT SONG. Et remigem cantus ftortalur. QyiNTILIAN. FAINTLY as tolls the evening chime, Our voices keep tune, and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We '11 sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row ! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past! Why should we yet our sail unfurl: There is not a breath the blue wave to curl. But when the wind blows off the shore Oh! sweetly we '11 rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight's past! Utawa's tide! this trembling moon Shall see us afloat over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle, hear our prayers Oh ! grant us cool heavens and favoring airs ! Blow, breezes, blow! the stream runs fast, The rapids are near, and the daylight 's past! THOMAS MOORE. '38 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. THE MINSTREL. " WHAT voice, what harp, are those we hear Beyond the gate in chorus? Go, page! the lay delights our ear; We'll have it sung before us!" So speaks the king: the stripling flies lie soon returns; his master cries " Bring in the hoary minstrel!" " Hail, princes mine! Hail, noble knights! All hail, enchanting dames! What starry heaven ! What blinding lights ! Whose tongue may tell their names? In this bright hall, amid this blaze, Close, close, mine eyes! Ye may not gaze On such stupendous glories! " The minnesinger closed his eyes; He struck his mighty lyre : Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs, And warriors felt on fire ; The king, enraptured by the strain, Commanded that a golden chain Be given the bard in guerdon. " Not so! Reserve thy chain, thy gold, For those brave knights whose glances, Fierce flashing through the battle bold, Might shiver sharpest lances! Bestow it on thy treasurer there The golden burden let him bear With other glittering burdens. " I sing as in the greenwood bush The cageless wild-bird carols The tones that from the full heart gush Themselves are gold and laurels! Yet might I ask, then thus I ask Let one bright cup of wine, in flask Of glowing gold, be brought me! " They set it down ; he quaffs it all "Oh! draught of richest flavor! Oh! thrice divinely happy hall Where that is scarce a favor! If heaven shall bless ye, think on me; And thank vour God as I thank ve For this delicious wine-cup!" JOIIANN WOLFGANG vox GOETHE. Translation of JAM KS CNAKENCE MAXGA.V. " YES!" DEAR hiding-place, I pray you keep This secret in your breast; O, fold it sure and fold it fast, And let it safely rest! And let it rest and let it lie Till paling sky shall show Through pearly pallor softly grav The flush of morning's glow. For then while dawn is still a dream, And all is hush'd and still Some one will cross the dewy fields That spread below the hill; Will swiftly pass through flowering aisles, And crush the petals sweet Dear hiding-place, I pray you lav My secret at his feet ! Ah, cold and lifeless seems the word My trembling hand has traced; He will not guess the thousand hopes Th.it with that word are placed ! O, will he guess or will he know? Dear blossoms at mv feet, Look up and whisper faint and low : I long his eyes to meet. Ah, happy letter, you will feel His touch so light and true! Ah, happv hand that draws you forth, I would that I were you!. I would and would not love and fear Make up so large a Mini Within my foolish heart to day, The heart that he lias won. O, have I lived or have I loved In any years before? For now I cannot dream of jov. Save with him evermore. I waste the. davs, the nights, the hours, In thoughts that come and go; And vet in all their circling flight. One name alone thev know. O, lavish lights and floating shades, I would vou were no more; Flv down and haunt the midnight glades, And tell me dav is o'er! ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Dear ivy, keep my secret safe; Like him vou cannot guess That life and love are centered here Where I have written "Yes!" SONG. STILL to be neat, still to be drest, As \ou were going to a feast; Still to be powdered, still perfumed Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found ; All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace ; Robes loosely flowing, hair as free Such sweet neglect more taketh me Than all the adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not mv heart- BEN JONSON. ABOU BEN ADHEM. ABOU BEX ADHE.M (may his tribe increase !) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace. And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, .An angel writing in a book of gold : Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold And to the presence in the room he said, <' What writest them?" The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord Answered "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou; "Nay, not so," Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low > But cheerly still ; and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his fellow-men." The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again, with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest! LEIGH HUNT. THE STEAMBOAT. SEE how yon flaming herald treads The ridged and rolling waves, As, crashing o'er their crested heads, She bows her surlv slaves! With foam before and fire behind, She rends the clinging sea, That flies before the roaring wind, Beneath her hissing lee. The morning spray, like sea-born flowers- With heaped and glistening bells, Falls round her fast in ringing showers, With every wave that swells; And, flaming o'er the midnight deep, In lurid fringes thrown, The living gems of ocean sweep Along her flashing zone. With clashing wheel, and lifting keel, And smoking torch on high, When winds are loud, and billows reel, She thunders, foaming, by ! When seas are silent and serene With even beam she glides, The sunshine glimmering through the green That skirts her gleaming sides. Now, like a wild nymph, far apart She views her shadowy form, The beating of her restless heart Still sounding through the storm; Now answers, like a courtly dame, The reddening surges o'er, With flying scarf of spangled flame, The pharos of the shore. J 4 2 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. To-night yon pilot shall not sleep, Who trims his narrowed sail; To-night von frigate scarce shall keep Her broaci breast to the gale ; And many a foresail, scooped and strained* Shall break from yard and stay, Before this smoky wreath hath stained The rising mist of day. Hark ! hark ! I hear yon whistling shroud, I see yon quivering mast The black throat of the hunted cloud Is panting forth the blast! An hour, and, w-hirled like winnowing chaff The giant surge shall fling His tresses o'er yon pennon-staff, White as the sea-bird's wing! Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep ! Nor wind nor wave shall tire Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap With floods of living fire; Sleep on and when the morning light Streams o'er the shining bay, Oh, think of those for whom the night Shall never wake in day ! OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ABSENCE. WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thv face? How shall I charm the interval that lowers Between this time and that sweet time of grace? Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, Weary with longing? shall I flee away Into past days, and with some fond pretence Cheat myself to forget the present day? Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin Of casting from me God's great gift of time? Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, Leave and forget life's purposes sublime? O, how or by what means may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near? I low may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thpu art here? 1 '11 tell thee; for thy sake I will lay hold Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, In worthy deeds each moment that is told While thou, beloved one ! art far from me. For thee I will arouse mv thoughts to try All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains; For thy dear sake, I will walk patiently Through these long hours, nor call their minutes pains. I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time, and will therein strive To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet I live. So may this doomed time build up 'in me A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine: So may my love and longing hallowed be, And thy dear thought an influence di- vine. FRANCES ANNE KEMBLE. THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands: The smith a mighty man is he, With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his rrawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long; His face is like the tan, 1 1 is brow is wet with honest sweat He earns whate'er he can ; And looks the whole world in the face, For he owes not any man. ABSENCE. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Week in, week out, from morn till night, You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow- Like a sexton ringing the village bell, When the evening sun is low. And children, coming home from school, Look in at the open door; They love to see the naming forge, And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks, that fly Like chaff from a threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir, And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close Something attempted, something done, Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, For the lesson thou has taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought! HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ! Thy root is ever in its grave And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie! Thy music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives; But, thougn the whole world turn to coal Then chiefly lives. GEORGE HERBERT. VIRTUE. SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky ! The dew shall weep thy fall to-night; For thou must die. SONG. RARELY, rarely comest thou, Spirit of delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away. How shall ever one like me Win thee back again ? With the joyous and the free Thou wilt scoff at pain. Spirit false ! thou hast forgot All but those who heed thee not. As a lizard with the shade Of a trembling leaf, Thou with sorrow art dismayed ; Even the signs of grief Reproach thee, that thou art near, And reproach thou wilt not hear. Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure : Thou wilt never come for pity Thou wilt come for pleasure. Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay. I love all that thou lovest, Spirit of delight! The fresh earth in new leaves drest, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. And the starry night; Autumn evening, and the morn When the golden mists are born. I love snow, and all the forms Of the radiant frost; 1 love waves and winds and streams, Everything almost Which is nature's, and may be Untainted by man's misery. I love tranquil solitude, And such society As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less. I love love, though he has wings, And like light can flee, But, above all other things, Spirit, I love thee : Thou art love and life! oh, come, Make once more my heart thy home! PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. SAPPHO AND PHAON. A LOVE-DUET. Phaott dugs at Sunset. MY lady, here 1 '11 linger, Conceal'd by clouds of night, Until the morning's finger Shall touch the day with light. When darkness round us closes, And silence strays with me, The dew from garden roses Shall weep sad tears for thee. The weary hours I '11 number When thou art lost to sight; Cut song shall soothe thy slumber: My lady-love, good night! Pliaoti sings at Dawn. The lily-bells awaken, The rose no longer weeps, The nests are all forsaken ; But still my lady sleeps. Glad daytime gives its blessing, And blossoms intertwine, Thy window-ledge caressing With arms of eglantine. But still the hours I number; I sorrow for thy sake : Awaken from thy slumber, My lady-love, awake! Phaon sings at Sunrise. But hark! a footfall on the grass; It is her voice that greets the day. Wake, blossoms, let your mistress pass; My lady comes make way, make way ! Sappho sings at Sundown. Farewell, glad sun, my heart is cold; Silence, ye birds, my love is dumb; Sleep, flow'rets, whilst my arms enfold His shadow for he will not come? Farewell, farewell ! see, I must die With fainting for the loss of thee. Lost love ! restore me with a sigh, And let thy kisses rain on me! My Phaon, 'tis our last farewell! Come back to me; I faint with pain! When we are parted none will tell Thy heart to win me back again. Farewell! and when the ocean wide Hath parted us, as it must part, One sigh will draw me to thy side, One kiss will heal my broken heart. CLEMENT W. SCOTT. ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE. COME listen to me, you gallants so free, All you that love mirth for to hear, And I will tell you of a bold outlaw, That lived in Nottinghamshire. I SAPPHO AND PHAON. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. '49 As Robin Hood in the-forest stood, All under the greenwood tree, There he was aware of a brave young man, As fine as fine might be. The youngster was clad in scarlet red, In scarlet fine and gay ; And he did frisk it over the plain, And chaunted a roundelay. As^ Robin Hood next morning stood Amongst the leaves so gay, There did he espy the same young man Come drooping along the way. The scarlet he wore the day before It was clean cast away ; And at every step he fetched a sigh, " Alas! and a well-a-day ! " Then stepped forth brave Little John, And Midge, the miller's son; Which made the young man bend his bow, When as he see them come. "Stand off! stand off!" the young man said, " What is your will with me? " "You must come before our master straight Under yon greenwood tree." And when he came bold Robin before, Robin asked him courteously, *' O, hast thou any money to spare, For my merrv men and me? " " I have no money," the voung man said, "But five shillings and a ring; And that I have kept this seven long years, To have at my wedding. " Yesterday I should have married a maid, But she was from me ta'en, And chosen to be an old knight's delight, Whereby my poor heart is slain." "What is thv name?" then said Robin Hood, " Come tell me, without any fail." " By the faith of my body," then said the young man, " My name it is Allen-a-Dale." "What wilt thou give me," said Robin Hood, "In ready gold or fee, To help thee to thy true love again, And deliver her unto thee? " " I have no money," then quoth the young man, " No ready gold nor fee, But I will swear upon a book . Thy true servant for to be." " How many miles is it to thy true love? Come tell me without guile." " By the faith of my body," then said the young man, " It is but five little mile." Then Robin he hasted over the plain ; He did neither stint nor lin, Until he came unto the church Where Allen should keep his weddin'. " What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, " I prithee nosv tell unto me," ' I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, " And the best in the north country." ' Oh welcome, oh welcome," the bishop he said ; " That music best pleaseth me." " You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, "Till the bride and the bridegroom I see." With that came in a wealthy knight, Which was both grave and old; And after him a finikin lass, Did shine like the glistering gold. " This is not a fit match," quoth Robin Hood, " That you do seem to make here; For since we are come into the church, The bride shall choose her own dear." ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth, And blew blasts two or three; When four-and-twenty yeomen bold, Came leaping over the lea. And when they came into the church-yard, Marching all in a row, The first man was Allen-a-Dale, 1 To give bold Robin his bow. " This is thy true love," Robin he said, " Young Allen,- as I hear say; And you shall be married this same time, Before we depart away." " That shall not be," the bishop he cried, " For thy word shall not stand; They shall be three times asked into the church, As the law is of our land." Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat, And put it upon Little John; " By the faith of my body," the Robin said, " This cloth doth make thee a man." When Little John went into the quire, The people began to laugh; He asked them seven times into church, Lest three times should not be enough, "Who gives me this maid?" said Little John, Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I; And he that takes her from Allen-a-Dale, Full dearly he shall her buy." And then having ended this merry wedding, The bride looked like a queen ; And so they returned to the merry green- wood, Amongst the leaves so green. ANONYMOUS. FAIRER THAN THEE. FAIRER than thee, beloved, Fairer than thee ; There is one thing, beloved, Fairer than thee. Not the glad sun, beloved, Bright though it beams; Not the green earth, beloved, Silver with streams ; Not the gay birds, beloved, Happy and free ; Yet there's one thing, beloved, Fairer than thee. Not the clear day, beloved, Glowing with light; Not (fairer still beloved) Star crowned night. Truth, in her might, beloved, Grand in her sway; Truth with her eyes, beloved, Clearer than day; Holy and pure, beloved, Spotless and free, Is the one thing, beloved, Fairer than thee. Guard well thy soul, beloved, Truth dwelling there, Shall shadow forth, beloved, Her image rare. Then shall I deem, beloved, That thou art she ; And there '11 be naught, beloved, Fairer than thee. ANONYMOUS. A MATCH. IF love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf, Our lives would grow together In sad or singing weather, Blown fields and flowerful closes, Green pleasure or grey grief; If love were what the rose is, And I were like the leaf. FAIRER THAN THEE, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. *53 If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune, With double sound and single Delight our lips would mingle, With kisses glad as birds are That get sweet rain at noon ; If I were what the words are, And love were like the tune. If you were life, my darling, And I, your love ; were death, We 'd shine and snow together Ere March made sweet the weather With daffodil and starling And hours of fruitful breath; If you were life, my darling, And I, your love, were death. If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy, We 'd play for lives and seasons, With loving looks and treasons, And tears of night and morrow, And laughs of maid and boy ; If you were thrall to sorrow, And I were page to joy. If you were April's lady, And I were lord in May, We'd throw with leaves for hours, And draw for days with flowers, Till day like night were shady, And night were bright like day: If you were April's lady, And I were lord in Mav. If you were queen of pleasure, And I were king of pain, We'd hunt down love together Pluck out his flying-feather, And teach his feet a measure. And find his mouth a rein; If you were queen of pleasure. And I were king of pain. ALGERNON CHAKI.KS SWINIH KNK AN AUTUMN IDYL. On, knew he but his happiness, of men The happiest he! who far from public rage. Deep in the vale, with a choice few retired, Drinks the pure pleasures of the rural life. What though the dome be wanting, whose proud gate, Each morning, vomits out the sneaking crowd, Of flatterers fals.e, and in their turn abused? Vile intercourse! What though the glit- tering robe Of every hue reflected light can give, Or floating loose, or stiff with mazy gold, The pride and gaze of fools! oppress him not? What though, from utmost land and sea purvey'd, From him each rarer tributary life Bleeds not, and his insatiate table heaps With luxury, and death? What though his bowl Flames not with costly juice; nor sunk in beds, Oft of gay care, he tosses out the night, Or melts the thoughtless hours in idle state? What though he knows not those fantastic joys That still amuse the wanton, still deceive: A face of pleasure, but a heart of pain ; Their hollow moments undelighted all? Sure peace is his; a solid life, estranged To disappointment, and fallacious hope; Rich in content, in Nature's bounty rich, In herbs and fruits. Whatever greens the Spring, When heaven descends in showers; or bends the bough When Summer reddens, and when Autumn beams ; Or in the Wintry glebe whatever lies Conceal'd, and fattens with the richest sap: These are not wanting ; nor the milky drove, Luxuriant, spread o'er all the lowing vale; Nor bleating mountains; nor the chide of streams, And hum of bees, inviting sleep sincere Into the guiltless breast, beneath the shade. '54 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND Or thrown at large amid the fragrant hay. Nor aught besides of prospect, grove or song, Dim grottoes, gleaming lakes and fountains clear. Here too dwells simple Truth; plain Inno- cence; Unsullied Beauty ; sound unbroken Youth, Patient of labor, with a little pleased; Health ever blooming; unambitious Toil, Calm Contemplation, and poetic Ease. Let others brave the flood in quest of gain, And beat, for joyless months, the gloomy wave : Let such as deem it glorv to destrov, Rush into blood, the sack of cities seek, Unpierced, exulting in the widow's wail, The virgin's shriek, and infant's trembling cry: Let some, far distant from their native soil, Urged on by want or harden'd avarice, Find other lands beneath another sun : Let this through cities work his eager way> By legal outrage and established guile, The social-sense extinct; and that ferment Mad into tumult the seditious herd, Or melt them down to slavery : let these Insnare the wretched in the toils of law, Fomenting discord, and perplexing right, An iron race! and those of fairer front, But equal inhumanity, in courts, Delusive pomp, and dark cabals, delight; Wreathe the deep bow, diffuse the lying smile, And tread the weary labyrinth of state : While he, from all the stormy passions free That restless men involve, hears, and but hears, At distance safe, the human tempest roar, Wrapp'd close in conscious peace. The fall of kings. The rage of nations, and the crush of states, Move not the man who, from the world escaped, In still retreats, and flowery solitudes, To Nature's voice attends, from month to month And day to dav, through the revolving year : Admiring, -ees her in every shape; Feels all her sweet emotions at his heart. Takes what she liberal gives, nor thinks of more. He, when young Spring protrudes the bursting gems, Marks the first bud, and sucks the health- ful gale Into his freshen'd soul. Her genial hours He full enjoys; and not a beauty blows, And not an opening blossom breathes in vain. In summer, he beneath the living shade. Such as o'er frigid Tempe wont to wave, Or Hemus cool, reads what the Muse, of these, Perhaps, has in immortal numbers sung; Or what she dictates writes : and, oft an eye Shot round, rejoices in the vigorous vear. When Autumn's yellow lustre gilds the world, And tempts the sickled swain into the field, Seized by the general joy, his heart distends With gentle throes; and, through the tepid gleams Deep musing, then he best exerts his song. E'en Winter wild, to him is full of bliss. The mighty tempest, and the hoary waste Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth, Awake to solemn thought. At night the skies Disclosed, and kindled by refining frost, Pour every lustre on th' exalted eve. A friend, a book, the stealing hours secure, And mark them down for wisdom. With swift wing, O'er land and sea imagination roams; Or truth, divinely breaking on his mind. Elates his being, and unfolds his powers; Or in his breast heroic virtue burns. The touch of kindred too and love he feeN: The modest eye, whose beams on his alone Ecstatic shine; the little strong embrace Of prattling children, twined around his neck, And emulous to please him, calling forth The fond parental soul. Nor purpose gay % Amusement, dance, or song, he sternly -corns; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND '57 For happiness and true philosophy Are of the social, still, and smiling kind. This is the life which those who fret in guilt, And guiltv cities, never knew; the life, Led by primeval ages, uncorrupt, When Angels dwelt, and GOD himself with man! JAMES THOMPSON. AT A MODERN SHRINE. WITH a spray of shower-wet lilac in your hand, There you stand ; And an April sun is g-linting on your hair. Are you not incarnate Spring? Can I limn you? 'Twere a thing That might drive a defter artist to despair. May not fancy hear Arcadian *heep-bells tinkle, As you sprinkle Diamond droplets from that fragrant purple spire ? Is the hyacinth's own hue Of a sweeter, suaver blue Than your eyes of soft and silken-shaded fire? Yet no unsubstantial allegoric thing, Like the Spring Of the poets and the painters, love, are you Not a sylph, but sweetly human, And a very, very woman, Though you look as though compact of sun and dew. And you will not, like a vision, melt in air, If I dare To engirdle you with merely mortal arm : Proudly blest to so environ Such a super-dainty siren, Unafraid of ghostly flight, or evil charm. You 're a merry mortal maiden, and no myth, Like Lilith, Or the briny beauties shunned by sage Ul vsses; Your drift of sunny hair Is no silky-subtle snare, And your lips were never shaped for rrucl kisses. Yet you catch and keep my heart, and show no mercy, Little Circe, And in sooth I'm quite resigned to such ;i capture. Who 'd resist or turn a railer At so generous a gaoler? Lo! I yield to love's restraint with readv rapture. Ay, your voice is very sweet and most seductive, Yet productive Of no peril, and no sudden pang, and sharp. Near vour swift and sweeping finder. 'Tis as safe as sweet to linger. For you play on the piano not the harp ! So! you shake a saucy head, and MVCUI 1 flatter! Well, what matter? I prefer you much to all the classic ladio. Be they goddesses or graces, And whatever be their places, From the heaven kist Olympus down to Hades! "There is nothing very classical about you ? " Well, I doubt you, You 've a soft Ionic air, a grace that 's Attic; Yet I own you're not antique, And for English over Greek, I avow that I 've a preference emphatic. There is many a little trifler with the Muses, Who abuses Everything that is post-Phidian and pretty ; ILLUSTRATED POETRT AXD SOX(,. But all loveliness is no man's And the Grecians, and the Romans, Did not turn out a Turner or an Ettv. I think that theirs was not the only Charis, And that Paris Might distribute a whole orchard, love, to-day, And vet appear invidious; Praxiteles and Phidias Shake hands with Leech and Leighton and Millais. I am sure your hair has hyacinthine grace, And your face Is as sweet and pure as any marble Clyte; And, although you 're scarce at home In the clouds or on the foam, You 're a perfect terra fir ma Aphrodite. Did not Gibson perpetrate a tinted "Venus? (Which, between us, Was a saucer-eyed and saftVon-hued delu- sion) But I swear, mv darling, that you Are like poor Pygmalion's statue, When just flushing with life's roseate suf- fusion. J f you 're scarcely statuesque, vou 're sweet and simple, And that dimple That is lurking underneath your lower lip, Is a charm the marble misses; OhJ a fig for Parian kisses While from such a rosy chalice I may sip. Let Anacreon, let Horace and Tibullus, Or Catullus, Sing of Lalage and Pyrrha and the rest of them, I '11 back my British beauty, From her chignon to her shoe-tie, To compete in grace and sweetness with the best of them. Oh! you sav my pretty talk is most mis- leading Special pleading! Now, that really is exceedingly ungracious. I protest that my defence Of the present's no pretence, And my praise of your sweet self is most veracious. I 've a very great respect for Attic art, For my part, Yet I think, in spite of ultra-classic sages, That the grand Hellenic story Don 't exhaust creation's glory, And that Nature's is a book of many pages. I believe that, could I see a Grecian goddess In a bodice Poppy-hued, and skirts the color of the wheat; With a spray of lilac blossom In her chastely-covered bosom, I should find my British darling just as sweet. Love and loveliness can never be antique, And the Greek No monopoly of either I '11 allow; And I really do not care For the whole of Lempriere. While to such a modern goddess I may bow. E. J. M. FIDELITY. A BARKING sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox ; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks : And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern ; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green. The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry; Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; AT A MODERN" SHRINE. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 161 Nor shout nor whistle strikes his ear. What is the creature doing here? It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below ! Far in the bosom of Helvellvn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land, From trace of human foot or hand. There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak In symphony austere ; Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud, And mists that spread the flying shroud; And sunbeams ; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast. Not free from boding thoughts, awhile, The shepherd stood ; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the dog As quickly as he may ; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground. The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history. From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear. He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the traveller passed this way. But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been through three months space A dweller in that savage place. Yes, proof was plain that, since that day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watched about the spot, Or by his master's side. How nourished here through such lon< time He knows who gave that love sublime, And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate! WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. THE HOLLY-TREE. READER ! hast thou ever stood to see The holly-tree! The eye that contemplates it well, perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the atheist's sophistries Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, Can reach to wound ; But as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 1 love to view these things with curious eye And moralize; And in this wisdom of the holly-tree Can emblems see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the after-time. Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appeai- Harsh and austere To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude; Gentle at home amid my friends I 'd be, Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. 162 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I, day by day, Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The holly-leaves their fadeless hues display Less bright than they ; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the holly-tree? So, serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they ; That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the holly-tree. ROBERT SOUTHEY. BY THE LILIES. WHITE swans beside the lilies, the lilies golden-eyed, The lilies white and foam tipp'd, in snowy dress of bride; Their broad green leaflets floating upon the silver stream, And, ah ! the fairest lily drifting in a dream ; With paddles deftly balanced by her small fingers white, Her light canoe slow moving, mid the rushes out of sight; Her golden hair low floating adown the vest of blue, Her sweet eyes on the river fill'd with ten- der dew. If there -Mas a time when elfies, when brownies, and when fays Stole the heart from loving manhood, sure have come again those davs: One may dream it, one must feel it, when in balmy summer air, One's heart away is stolen by sweet win- some girlhood fair. ANONYMOUS. THE PAINTER'S WALK. IN THE WOOD. (The Husband speaks.) BETWEEN gray trunks the curving path- way rxns, Now in, now out; gray trunks of ancient trees Barred with soft shadow-bands, where falls the sun's Ray slantwise through the wood, and on the breeze Rising and flutt'ring, rustling light, The dry brown leaves make answer, as the sight Of so much life renewed spoke hopefully A green youth yet for them which should not die ! Here is a space cleared by the woodman's arm. We two will rest awhile, and lying low Under this beech tree, nigh a budding palm Thick set with silver bloom, note idly how Each tree is redd'ning to the Spring, Who soon a tender cloud of green will fling Over these twigs, athwart this tracery Of slender boughs seen black against the sky. 9 No noises from the town can vex us here, But softened by long distance comes the shrill Sound of sharp plows ; and, far away, the clear Soft whistle of a woodman ; further still Falls from an upland farm the bleat Of new-born lambs; and mournful now, but sweet, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. A ring-dove in a twisted thorn hard by Tempers earth's joy with her sad monodv. Though gray the thorn is still, that soon will be White with soft bloom ; though mute the nightingale; Though not a primrose or anemone Has ventured to put forth a blossom pale; Yet does this sight of white clouds fleet Across the sky, and all those sounds that greet Our eager souls thirsting for summer's tune, Thrill us with promise of the coming June. Now sing with your low fluted voice, while I Lie with closed eyes, and fancy all around Are summer's dreamy songs, and greenery On these poor leafless trees, and all the ground Purple with scented orchis flowers, And the world young again, and all time ours To do great works in I, wise, great of fame, And you ah ! you alone I 'd keep the same. (The Wife sings.) The day breaks and the throstle sings, The joyful lark has spread his wings ; The whole green world thrills to his tune, And wakes to greet this day of June! Wake, love! rejoice! Drops hang on everv hedgerow leaf, They shine like tears of happy grief. The daisy cups are fringed with dew As your eyes when I say " Adieu ! " Oh! sing, sweet voice! A new bud on your Provence rose, Since last night's ling'ring through the close, Hangs down a loosened woodbine trail And for your window makes a veil! Dear eyes, shine through ! There sing upon the hawthorn bush The bold blackbird and sweeter thrush. The rolling clouds leave heaven blue, The eager sun but waits for you! Waits, love, for you! (The Husband speaks.) Dear voice, cease not; even the round-eyed dove Is silent, listening to your sweeter note. And I could listen ever, knowing love Is only grown, since first those words I wrote. Grown, but not changed, unless it be To take a nobler form ; for now I see How year by year my love has rooted been In deeper ground than youth and beauties seen! IN THE MEADOW. Here is an idle rhyme to make you smile, Or sigh, perhaps, if truth it seem to fold. Sit here and read it, but believe the while, I love so well, to me you'll ne'er be old. A painter to his wife one day : This sunset hour brings back to me, I know not why, the radiant day, When first my love you vowed to be. Go, then ; put on that very gown, And hold these cowslips in your hand-, And let your hair flow rippling down, That once more I may see you stand. A shy surprise in your blue eyes, And on your lips a dawning smile, The smile at my wild words. Surprise That I could doubt vour love a while. i66 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Ah! so; just so! and yet alas! Though sweeter since is grown your face, Though dearer every day we pass, I miss a bloom, a vanished grace. Yes, vain it is in summer's prime To seek the buds of April's day. For time is passing ! Ah ! not Time ! 'T is we, my love, who pass! away ! Sad words, but true! So says your face grown grave, As slow your eyes have travelled o'er the page. Sad thoughts! which seem to mock this sunshine brave. Such April morns, what's Time to us, or Age? Are we not happy, rich in hope and love, Having our youth together, and one heart, One mind and will between us, God above: His sunshine round about us; and fair Art. To serve with reverent hands? Look up again, And chase the gravity from eyelids wet; Let us be gay as yestermorn for vain And idle is such fanciful regret! BY THE RIVER. (The Wife speaks.) Oh ! to be idle one long day ! When spring is almost over; And these great giants gaunt and gray Are green ; when roundhead clover And purple thyme-tufts fill the air, And fields are gay with daisies ; When, blushing, dies the hawthorn fair Just as your Poet praises. ' When overhead the lark's far song, And thrushes in the hedgerows, And hidden linnets piping long Where rank the river sedge grows. Oh ! to be idle one spring day, To muse in wood or meadow; Glide down this river 'twixt the play Of sun and trembling shadow! I 'd see all wonders 'neath the stream, The pebbles and vext grasses; I 'd lean across the boat and dream As each scene slowly passes. The tide should ripple welcomes low And dance the kingcups bravely And flags in purple stately bow And nod the tall reeds gravely. I 'd rest an hour the willows by And say a prayer in pity, For all who stifle, groan and die, This day in crowded city. IV. SUNSET. (The Wife speaks.) Sitting once in the twilight I watched the fire-flare Red glowing, and suddenly bright'ning Upon your face and hair. It gave strange light and shadow, An unfamiliar look ; I had to learn you over again Bending over your book. But when you broke the silence, And read those burning words Great poets have spent themselves to write, My heart leapt up towards And to your voice made answer, Which, like a wail of pain, ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 767 Or autumn winds in swaying trees Did rise and fall again, And rise; inspired by passion By passion, hope, or dread You seemed a poet then, and I Forgot you only read. Then, turning o'er the pages, You read a song I knew ; 'Twas then the present vanished; There was nor I, nor you, But a little child in a garden, Reading with puzzled air An old hand-written volume, Finding those verses there. For years 'tween tarnished covers That passion-song nad lain: The hand that wrote it slept beneath Two purple lilac's rain. And as you read, I loitered Under the shade of trees, And smelt the fragrant lavender Swayed by the humming bees. Child-like, again I wondered What meant such sad, sore grief, And why the dead hand wrote that song, Marking against the leaf A cross, and a date forgotten, In pale and faded ink, I could almost feel the summer wind Fresh from the river brink ! You paused . . "Well, there 's the song, love ! You like it? " Ah! then fled My dreams. I answered : ".Forgive me, I Heard not a word you read ! " But that this bright eve's glory May live again some day, Read me aloud some stirring story Or poet's sad, sweet lay. (The Husband speaks.) There in that leaf we shut it, An embalmed happiness! Now homewards, wife. Has there been melody ! To-day? True eyes, confess. A. L. B. MY HARVEST "EVE." FOR the glory of harvest time ! 1 sing it in song and sing it in rhyme. With blush of the beauteous summer's prime On its dewy dawns, And its hazy morns, And gathered grainage of golden corns. for the glory of harvest time! 1 weave it in song and sing it in rhyme, While happy hours their passage chime; And every breath So softly saith " There 's life new born with the summer's death." O for the glory of golden noon, And purpled heather, and ripened bloom, And full-orbed splendor of harvest moon The dangerous moon, That fades s soon From starry splendor to starless gloom ! Oh for the peerless face that shines Out from the lattice beyond the limes! Harvest queen of my harvest time, How shall I praise her in song or rhyme, With her tangled tresses And eyes divine? I '11 set her amidst the ripened sheaves, Or golden glory of burnished leaves : Flowers and fruits in the autumn eves, Fairest "Eve" of them all is she My harvest queen From o'er the lea! i68 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. O for the lady of brow serene! How shall I praise her, the manor queen, With the ebon gloss on her ringlets sheen? Never a tangled tress is seen, Nor saucy eyes to dance and gleam. Like eyes that dazzle my rhymes, I ween. O for a heart to shrine them both ! Either to lose or leave I 'm loth, For love has grown with the harvest growth. O gathered grain, Know you this pain? Can severed ties be blent again ? The grain is gathered, shadows fall O'er land and lea like sombre pall; My heart and I are still in thrall; Your eyes will shine Starlike to mine, My Eve, for every harvest time? RITA. A WOMAN'S QUESTION. BEFORE I trust my fate to thee, Or place my hand in thine, Before I let thy future give Color and form to mine, Before I peril all for thee, Question thy soul to-night for me. I break all slighter bonds, nor feel A shadow of regret : Is there one link within the past That holds thy spirit yet? Or is thy faith as clear and free As that which I can pledge to thee? Does there within thy dimmest dream > A possible future shine, Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe. I'ntouched, unshared by mine? It -o. at anv pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost! Look deeper still : if thou canst feel, Within thy inmost soul, That thou hast kepf a portion back, While I have staked the whole, Let no false pity spare the blow, But in true mercy tell me so. Is there within thy heart a need That mine cannot fulfil? One chord that any other hand Could better wake or still? Speak now, lest at some future day My whole life wither and decay. . Lives there within thy nature hid The demon-spirit change, Shedding a passing glory still On all things new and strange? It may not be thy fault alone, But shield my heart against 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 Wilt surely warm and save me now. Nay, answer not, I dare not hear, The words would come too late ; Yet I would spare thee all remorse, So comfort thee my fate : Whatever on my heart may tall Remember, I ivonld risk it all ! ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. SONNETS. WHEN I do count the clock that tells the time. And see the brave day sunk in hideous night; When I behold the violets past prime, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white; When lofty trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd, And Summer's green all girded up in sheaves, A WOMAN S QUESTION. ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. 171 Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard ; Then, of thy beauty do I question make, That thou among the wastes of time must g. Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And die as fast as they see others grow; And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence, Save breed, to brave him, when he takes thee hence. SHALL I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate ; Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May. And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou growest. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse; Who heaven itself for ornament doth use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse ; Making a compliment of proud compare, With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems. Oh let me, true in love, but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air: Let them say no more that like of hear- say well ; I will not praise, that purpose not to sell. LET those who are in favor with their stars, Of public honor and proud titles boast; Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumphs bars; Unlooked-for joy in that I honor most. Great princes favorites their fair leaves spread, But as the marigold, at the sun's eye; And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honor rased quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toiled. Then happy I, that love and am beloved, Where I may not remove nor be removed. WHEN in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, And look upon myself,- and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least; Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and then my state (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. WHEN to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste. Then, can I drown an eye, unused to flow, For precious friends hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve of grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay, as if not paid before : But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored, and sorrow ends. THY bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead; And there reigns love, and all love's loving parts, And all those friends which I thought buried. How manv a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear Hut things removed, that hidden in thee lie ! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to thee 'did give; That due of many now is thine alone: Their images I loved I view in thee, And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. FULL many a glorious morning have I seen Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye, Kiting with golden face the meadows green, Gilding pale streams with heavenly al- chemy ; Anon permit the basest clouds to ride With ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide, Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace. Even so my sun one earlv morn did shine, With all triumphant splendor on my brow; But out, alack! he was but one hour mine, The region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this my love no whit dis- daineth; Suns of the world mav stain, when heav- en's sun staineth. WHY didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? 'T is not enough that through the cloud thou break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace ; Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss: Th 1 offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong offence's cross. Ah, but those tears are pearl, which thv love sheds, And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. WHAT is your substance, whereof .are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend ? Since everv one hath, every one, one shade, And you, but one, can every shadow lend. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 173 Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit Is poorly imitated after you; On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak of the spring, and foison of the year The one doth shadow of your beauty show The other as your bounty doth appear; And you in every blessed shape we know. In all external grace you have some part; But you like none, none you, for constant heart. OH, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that sweet ornament which truth doth give ! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odor which doth in it live. The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye As the perfumed tincture of the roses Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly When summer's breath their masked buds discloses; But, for their virtue only is their show; They live unwooed, and unrespected fade, Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odors made: And so of you beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall fade, my verse distils your truth. NOT marble, nor the gilded monuments Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in these contents . Than unswept stone, besmeared with slut- tish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the works of masonry, Nor Mars his sword, nor war'sr quick fire shall burn The living record of your memory. 'Gainst-death and all oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth: your praise shall still find room Even in the eyes of all posterity, That wear this world out to the ending doom. So, till the judgment that yourself arise, You live in this, and dwell in lover's, eyes. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE MOTHER'S HOPE. Is there, when the winds are singing In4he happy summer time When the raptured air is ringing With earth's music heavenward springing, Forest chirp, and village chime Is there, of the sounds that float Unsighingly, a single note Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, As the laughter of a child? Listen ! and be now delighted : Mo^n hath touched her golden strings ; Earth and Sky their vows have plighted ; Life and Light are reunited, Amid countless carollings; Yet, delicious as they are. There 's a sound that 's sweeter far One that makes the heart rejoice More than all, the human voice! Organ finer, deeper, clearer, Though it be a stranger's tone Than' the winds or waters dearer. More enchanting to the hearer, For it answereth to his own But, of all its witching words, Those are sweetest, bubbling wild Through the laughter of a child. Harmonies from time-touched towers, Haunted strains from rivulets, Hum of bees among the flowers, Rustling leaves, and silver showers, These, ere long, the ear forgets ; '74 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. But in mine there is a sound Ringing on the whole year round Heart-deep laughter that I heard Ere my child could speak a word. Ah ! 't was heard by ear far purer, Fondlier formed to catch the strain Ear of one whose love is surer Hers, the mother, the endurer Of the deepest share of pain; Hers the deepest bliss to treasure Memories of that cry of pleasure; Hers to hoard, a life-time after, Echoes of that infant laughter. 'T is a mother's large affection Hears with a mysterious sense Breathings that evade detection, Whisper faint, and fine inflexion, Thrill in her with power intense. Childhood's honeyed words untaught Hiveth she in loving thought Tones that never thence depart; For she listens with her heart. LAMAN BLANCHARD. FLEURETTE. WE have been friends together, In sunshine and in shade, Since first beneath the chestnut-tree In infancy we played; But coldness dwells within thy heart, A cloud is on thy brow; We have been friends together, Shall a light word part us now? We have been gay together ; We have laughed at little jests; For the fount of hope was gushing, Warm and joyous, in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip, And sullen glooms thy brow We have been gay together, Shall a light word part us now? We have been sad together, We have wept, with bitter tears, O'er the grass-grown graves, where slum- bered The hopes of early years. The voices which are silent there Would bid thee clear thy brow; We have been sad together, O, what shall part us now? CAROLINE ELIZABETH SARAH NORTON. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou earnest, gentle, shy, and fond, My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure, My heart received thee with a joy beyond All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure; Nor thought that any love again might be So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And natural pietv that leaned to heaven ; Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, Yet patient to rebuke when justly given Obedient easy to be reconciled And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my child"! Not willing to be left still by my side, Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide Through the dark room where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered cheek. O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols, like a tender flower, No strength in all thy freshneo, prone to fade, FLEURKTTE. ILLUSTRATED POETRJ AND SONG. And bending weakly to the thunder- shower; Still, round the loved, thj heart found force to bind, And clung, like woodbine shaken in the v/ind ! Then THOU, my merry love bold in thy glee, Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing, With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth ! Thine was the shout, the song, the burst of jy, Which sweet from childhood's rosy lips resoundeth; Thine was the eager spirit naught could cloy, And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; And many a mirthful jest and mock reply Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye. And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile the frequent soft caress The earnest tearful prayer all wrath dis- arming! Again my heart a new aftection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. At length THOU earnest thou, the last and least, Nick-named "the Emperor" by thy laughing brothers Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile. And oh! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful schem- ing! Fair shoulders curling lips and daunt- less brow Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming; And proud the lifting of thy stately head, And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread. Different from both ! yet each succeeding claim I, that all other love had been forswear- ing, Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; Nor injured either by this love's compar- ing, Nor stole a fraction for the newer call But in the mother's heart found room for all! CAROLINE NORTON. LOVE. LOVE? I will tell you what it is to love? It is to build with human thoughts a shrine. Where Hope sits brooding like a beauteous dove, Where Time seems young, and Life a thing divine. All tastes, all pleasures, all desires combine To consecrate this sanctuary of bliss. Above, the stars in cloudless beauty shine ; Around, the streams their flowery margins kiss; And if there 's heaven on earth, that heaven is surely this. Yes, this is Love, the steadfast and the true, The immortal glory which hath never set; The best, the brightest boon the heart e'er knew: Of all life's sweets the very sweetest yet! O! who but-can recall the eve they met To breathe, in some green walk, their first young vow? ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. While summer flowers with moonlight dews were wet, And winds sighed soft around the moun- tain's brow, And all was rapture then which is but memory now ! CHARLES SWAIX. CHRISTINE. I LOVED him not ; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I checked him while he spoke: yet could he speak, Alas ! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied a'l mv thought To vex myself and him : I now would give My love could he but live Who lately lived for me, and when he found 'T was vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death! I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lone bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to \\eep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears ! ^Merciful God ! " such was his latest praver, "These may she never share!" Quieter in his breath, his breath more cold Than daisies in the mold, Where children spell athwart the church- yard gate His name and life's brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe'er ve be, And O, pray, too, for me ! WALTER SAVACJI: LAXDOR. LOCKSLEY HALL. COMRADES, leave me here a little, while as yet 'tis early morn Leave me here, and when vou war.t me, sound upon the bugle horn. 'Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call. Dreary gleams about the moorland, flying over Locksley Hall; Locksley Hall, that in the distance over- looks the sandy tracts, And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts. Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion sloping slowly to the west. Many a night I saw the Pleiads, rising through the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies tangled in a silver braid. Here about the beach I wandered, nourish- ing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of time; When the centuries behind me like a fruit- ful land reposed; When I clung to all the present for the promise that it closed ; When I dipt into the future far as human eye could see Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be. In the spring a fuller crimson comes upon the robin's breast; In the spring the wanton lapwing gets him- self another crest; In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnished dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love. Then her cheek was pale and thinner than should be for one so young, And her eyes on all my motions with a mute observance hung. CHUISTINE. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. 181 And I said, " My cousin Amy, speak, and speak the truth to me; Trust me, cousin, all the current of my being sets to thee." On her pallid cheek and forehead came a color and a light, As I have seen the rosy red flushing in the northern night. And she turned her bosom shaken with a sudden storm of sighs ' All the spirit deeply dawning in the dark of hazel eyes Saying, " I have hid my feelings, fearing they should do me wrong;" Saying, "Dost thou love me, cousin?" weeping, " I have loved thee long." Love took up the glass of time, and turned it in his glowing hands; Every moment, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden sands. Love took up the harp of life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight. Many a morning on the moorland did we hear the copses ring, And her whisper thronged my pulses with the fulness of the spring. Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships, And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips. O my cousin, shallow-hearted! Oh my Amy, mine no more! Oh the dreary, dreary moorland ! Oh the barren, barren shore ! Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue! Is it well to wish thee happy? having known me; to decline On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine ! Yet it shall be : thou shall lower to his level day by day, What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay. As the husband is, the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, And the grossness of his nature will have weignt to drag thee down. He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. What is this? his eyes are heavy think not they are glazed with wine. Go to him ; it is thy duty kiss him ; take his hand in thine. It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought. He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand Better thou wert dead before me, though I slew thee with my hands. Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace, Rolled in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace. Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth ! Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth ! Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest nature's rule! Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of the fool ! 182 ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG. Well 'tis well that I should bluster! Hadst thou less unworthy proved, Would to God for I had loved thee more than ever wife was loved. Am I mad, that I should cherish that which bears but oitter fruit? I will pluck it from my bosom, though my heart be at the root. Never! though my mortal summers to such length of years should come As the many-wintered crow that leads the clanging rookery home* Where is comfort? in division of the records of the mind? Can I part her from herself, and love her, as I knew her, kind? I remember one that perished ; sweetly did she speak and move; Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was to love. Can I think of her as dead, and love her for the love she bore? No she never loved me truly ; love is love for evermore. Comfort? comfort scorned of devils! thic is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remem- bering happier things. Drug thy memories, lest thou learn it, lest thy heart be put to proof, In the dead, unhappy night, and when the rain is on the roof. Like a dog, he hunts in dreams; and thou art staring at the wall, Where the dying night-lamp flickers, and the shadows rise and fall. Then a hand shall pass before thee, point- ing to his drunken sleep, To thy widowed marriage-pillows, to the tears that thou wilt weep. Thou shalt hear the " Never, never," whis- pered by the phantom years, And a song from out the distance in the ringing of thine ears; And an eye shall vex thee, looking ancient kindness on thy pain. Turn thee, turn thee on thy pillow; get thee to thy rest again. Nay, but nature brings thee solace; for a tender voice wiD cry ; 'T is a purer life than tnine; a lip to drain thy trouble dry. Baby lips will laugh me down ; my latent rival brings thee rest Baby fingers, waxen touches, press me from the mother's breast. Oh, the child, too, clothes the father with a dearness not his due; Half is thine, and half is his it will be worthy of the two. Oh, I see thee, old and formal, fitted to thy petty part, With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart: "They were dangerous guides, the feel- ings she herself was not exempt Truly, she herself had suffered." Perish in thy self-contempt! Overlive it lower yet be happy! where- fore should I care? I myself must mix with action, lest I wither by despair. What is that which I should turn to, light- ing upon days like these? Every door is barred with gold, and opens but to golden keys. Every gate is thronged with suitors; all the markets overflow. I have but an angry fancy: what is that which I should do? ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. '83 I had been content to perish, falling on the fbeman's ground, When the ranks are rolled in vapor, and the winds are laid with sound. But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that honor feels, And the nations do but murmur, snarling at each other's heels. Can I but relive in sadness? I will turn that earlier page. Hide me from my deep emotion, O thou wondrous mother-age! Make me feel the wild pulsation that I felt before the strife, When I heard my days before me, and the tumult of my life; Yearning for the large excitement that the coming years would yield Eager-hearted as a boy when first he leaves his father's field, And at night along the dusky highway near and nearer drawn, Sees in heaven the light of London flaring like a dreary dawn ; And his spirit leaps within him to be gone before him then, Underneath the light he looks at, in among the throngs of men Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new: That which they have done but earnest of the things that they shall do; For I dipt into the future, as far as human eye could see Saw the vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be Saw the heavens fill with commerce, argo- sies of magic sails, Pilots of the purple twilight, dropping down with costlv bales Heard the heavens fill with shouting, and there rained a ghastly dew From the nation's airy navies grappling in the central blue; Far along the world-wide whisper of the south-wind rushing warm, With the standards of the peoples plunging through the thunder storm ; Till the war-drum throbbed no longer, and the battle-flags were furled In the parliament of man, the federation of the world. There the common sense of most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapt in universal law. So I triumphed, ere my passion sweeping through me, left me dry, Left me with a palsied heart, and left me with the jaundiced eye Eye, to which all order festers, all things here are out of joint. Silence moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point; Slowly comes a hungry people, as a lion, creeping nigher, Glares at one that nods and winks behind a slowly-dying fire. Yet I doubt not through the ages one in- creasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. What is that to him that reaps not harvest of his youthful joys, Though the deep heart of existence boat for ever like a boy's? Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers; and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Knowledge blinds, but wisdom lingers, and he bears a laden breast, Full of sad experience moving toward the stillness of his rest. Hark ! my merry comrades call me, sound- ing on the bugle horn They to whom my foolish passion were a target for their scorn ; Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a mouldered string? I am ashamed through all my nature to have loved so slight a thing. Weakness to be wroth with weakness! woman's pleasure, woman's pain Nature made them blinder motions bound- ed in a shallower brain ; Woman is the lesser man, and all thy pas- sions, matched with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine Here at least, where nature sickens, noth- ing. Ah, for some retreat Deep in yonder shining orient, where my life began to beat Where in wi!d Mahratta-battle fell my father, evil-starred ; I was left a trampled orphan, and a selfish uncle's ward. Or to burst all links of habit there to wander far away, On from island unto island at the gate- ways of the day Larger constellations burning, mellow moons and happy skies, Breadths of tropic shade and palms in clus- ter, knots of Paradise Never comes the trader, never floats an European flag Slides the bird o'er lustrous woodland, droops the trailer from the crag Droops the heavy-blossomed bower, hangs the heavy-fruited tree Summer isles of Eden lying in dark-purple spheres of sea. There, methinks, would be enjoyment more than in this march of mind In the steamship, in the railway, in the thoughts that shake mankind. There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have scope and breathing-space ; I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race. Iron-jointed, supple-sinewed, they shall dive, and they shall run, Catch the wild goat by the hair, and hurl their lances in the sun. Whistle back the parrot's call, and leap the rainbows of the brooks, Not with blinded eyesight poring over mis- erable books Fool, again the dream, the fancy! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child. I, to herd with narrow foreheads, vacant of our glorious gains, Like a beast with lower pleasures, like a beast with lower pains! Mated with a squalid savage what to me were sun or clime? I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time I, that rather held it better men should perish one by one, Than that earth should stand at gaze like Joshua's moon in Ajalon! Not in vain the distance beacons. For- ward let us range ; Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. '85 Through the shadow of the globe we sweep into the younger day : Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay. Mother-age, (for mine I knew not,) help me as when life begun Rift the hills, and roll the waters, flash the lightnings, weigh the sun Oh, I see the crescent promise of my spirit hath not set ; Ancient founts of inspiration well through all my fancy yet. Howsoever these things be, a long farewell to Locksley Hall ! Now for me the woods may wither, now for me the roof-tree fall. Comes a vapor from the margin, blacken- ing over heath and holt, Cramming all the blast before it, in its breast a thunderbolt. Let it fall on Locksley Hall, with rain or hail, or fire or snow; For the mighty wind arises, roaring sea- ward, and I go. ALFRED TENNYSON. THE END OF THE PLAY. THE play is done the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell; A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task ; And, when he 's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that 's any thing but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends Let 's close it with a parting rhyme; And pledge a hand to all young friend>. As fits the merrv Christmas time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That fate ere long shall bid you play; Good-night! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway! Good-night! I 'd say the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page, The triumphs and defeats of boys, Are but repeated in our age; I 'd say your woes were not less keen, Your hopes more vain, than those of men Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen At forty-five played o'er again. I 'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than boys With grizzled beards at forty-five, As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth, We learned at home to love and pray, Pray heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I 'd say how fate may change and shift- The prize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift; The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown. The knave be lifted over all, The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave ! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave? We bow to heaven that willed it so, . That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow, That 's free to give or to recall. This crowns his feast with wine and wit Who brought him to that mirth and state? His betters, see, below him sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? ILLUSTRATED POETRY AND SONG, Come, brother, in that dust we'll kneel, Confessing heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen! whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let old and young accept their part, And bow before the awful will, And bear it with an honest heart. Who misses, or who wins the prize Go, lose or conquer as you can; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays;) The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christinas days; The shepherds heard it overhead The joyful angels raised it then : Glory to heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men ! My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still Be peace on earth, be peace on earth, To men of gentle will. WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN*, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered rne, And I '11 protect it now. 'T was my forfather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild bird sine, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the stoim still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I Ye a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not. GEORGE P. MORRIS. THE MISTLETOE BOUGH. The mistletoe hung in the castle hall, The holly branch shone on the old oak wall ; And the Baron's retainers were blithe and g a y, And keeping their Christmas holiday. The Baron beheld with a father's pride His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride: While she with her bright eyes seemed to be The star of the goodly company. THK MISTLETOE BOUGH. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. "I'm weary of dancing now," she cried; 1 Here tarry a moment, I Ml hide, I Ml hide ! And, Lovell, be sure, thou'rt first to trace The clew to my secret lurking-place " Away she ran and her friends began Each tower to search, and each nook to scan; And young Lovell cried, " O, where dost thou hide? I 'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride." They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, And they sought her in vain when a week passed away, In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot, Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not, And years flew by, and their grief at last Was told as a sorrowful tale long past, And when Lovell appeared, the children cried, " See ! the old man weeps for his fairy bride." At length an oak chest that had long laid hid, Was found in the castle, they raised the lid, And a skeleton form lay mouldering there In the bridal wreath of that lady fair! O, sad was her fate! in sportive jest She hid frorn her lord in the old oak chest. It closed with a spring! and dreadful doom, The bride lay clasped in her living tomb! THOMAS HAYXES BAYLY. TO PERILLA. AH, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see Me, day by day, to steal away from thee? Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come. And haste away to mine eternal home; 'T will not not be long, Perilla, after this That I must give thee the supremest kiss. Dead when 1 am, first cast in salt, and bring Part of the cream from that religious spring, With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet; That done, then wind me in that very sheet Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when thou didst implore The gods' protection, but the night before; Follow me weeping to my turf, and there Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear. Then lastly, iet some weekly strewings be Devoted to the memory of me; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep. ROBERT HERRICK. THE ONE GRAY HAIR. THE wisest of the wise Listen to pretty lies, And love to hear them told ; Doubt not that Solomon Listened to many a one Some in his youth, and more when he grew old. I never sat among The choir of wisdom's song, But pretty lies loved I As much as any king When youth was on the wing, And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by. Alas! and I have not The pleasant hour forgot, When one pert lady said "O, Landor! I am quite Bewildered with affright; I see (sit quiet now!) a white hair on your head ! " igo ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. Another, more benign, Drew out that hair of mine, And in her own dark hair Pretended she had found That one, and twirled it round. Fair as she was, she never was so fair. WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. MEMORY. The mother of the muses, we are taught, Is memory, she has left me; they remain, And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing About the summer days, my loves of old. * Alas! alas! " is all I can reply. Memory has left with me that name alone, Harmonious name, which other bards may sing, But her bright image in my darkest hour Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled. Forgotten are the names of visitors Ready to press my hand but yesterday ; Forgotten are the names of earlier friends Whose genial converse and glad counte- nance Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye; To these, when I have written, and besought Remembrance of me, the word "Dear" alone Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain. A blessing wert thou, O oblivion, If thy stream carried only weeds away, But vernal and autumnal flowers alike It hurries down to wither on the strand, WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. THE RAVEN. ON'CE, upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door : "'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door Only this, and nothing more." Ah! distinctly I remember! it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow ; vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow sor- row for the lost Lenore For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me filled me with fantastic ter- rors never felt before: So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door ; This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitat- ing then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your for- giveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gentlv you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you," here I opened wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more ! Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before ; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, " Lenore! " This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word " Lenore! " Merelv this, and nothing more. ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. '9' Then into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping, somewhat louder than before : " Surely," said I, " surely that is something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore : Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore ; 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!" Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an in- stant stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door Perched upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore; " Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, " art sure no craven Ghastly, grim and ancient raven, wander- ing from the nightly shore Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly Though its answer little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door 7 Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as " Nevermore." But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered not a feather then he fluttered Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have flown before On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, " Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, " what it utters is its only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore Till the dirges of his hope the melancholy burden bore Of ' Never Nevermore.' " But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this om- inous bird of yore What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermo-e." This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syl- lable expressing To the fowl, w hose fiery eyes now burned into my b6som's core ; This, and more, I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining, On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er; But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamplight gloating o'er, She shall press ah, never more! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by angels, whose faint foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. I 9 2 ILLUSTRATED POETRT AND SONG. "Wretch!" I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, by these angels he hath sent thee, Respite respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore ! Quaft", oh quafl'this kind nepenthe, and for- get this lost Lenore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, On this home by horror haunted tell me truly, I implore Is there is there balm in Gilead? tell me tell me, I implore!" Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." " Prophet ! " said T, " thing of evil ! prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us by that God we both adore Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." " Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting " Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a de- mon's that is dreaming, And the lamplight, o'er him streaming thiows his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted nevermore! EDGAR ALLAN POE. SONG OF THE WINDS. UP the Gale and down the bourne, O'er the meadow swift we flv; Now we sing, and now we mourn, Now we whistle, now we sigh. By the grassy-fringed river, Through the murmuring reeds we sweep; Mid the lily-leaves we quiver, To their very hearts we creep. Now the maiden rose is blushing At the frolic things we say, While aside her cheek we 're rushing; Like some truant bees at play. Through the blooming groves we rustle, Kissing every bud we pass, As we did it in the bustle, Scarcely knowing how it was. Down the glen, across the mountain, O'er the yellow heath we roam, Whirling round about the fountain, Till its little breakers foam. Bending down and weeping willows, While our vesper hymn we sigh; Then unto our rosy pillows On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming, Scarce from waking we refrain, Moments long as ages deeming Till we 're at our play again. GEORGE DARLEV.