I ; . m H . n^ J OLD SCRAP-BOOK. WITH ADDITIONS. PRINTED, BUT NOT PUBLISHED, FOR DISTRIBUTION, AS A PASSING TOKEN TO PERSONAL FRIENDS. . . . "that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle, mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime." HALLECK. FEBRUARY 8, 1884. Copyright, 1884, BY J. M. FORBES. A LEAF DROPPED OUT FROM A BUSY LIFE. The leaf floats by upon the stream, Unheeded in its silent path : The vision of a shadowy dream A similar remembrance hath. WILLIS. JEntbnrsttg lircss: JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE. CORRECTIONS. p. 38. STROKE A NETTLE. For Anonymous read Aaron Hill. p. 44. ON A STONE THROWN, &c. For Anonymous read Peter Pindar. p. 57. HOPE. For Anonymous read Campbell, Pleasures of Hope. p. 63. GONDOLA. For Anonymous read Mrs. C. B. Wilson, p. 82. SOUND THE CLARION. For Anonymous read Walter Scott, p. 238. ANNIE LAURIE. For Anonymous read Douglas of Fingland. p. 245. THE BLUE JUNIATA. For Anonymous read Mrs. M. D. Sullivan. p. 259. LOVE'S RITOKNELLA. For Anonymous read J. R. Planche. Fifth line from bottom, for the captive he rt>7 Between the dark and the daylight 475 Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear 254 k Bird of the wilderness 263 Bird of untiring wing 217 Blest of the highest gods are they whp die ... 646 Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen . 1 . . 4^5 Boot, saddle to horse and away ! 589 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred 426 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 575 Breathe, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest wailing 271 " Bring forth the horse ! " the horse was brought 468 Bring the bowl which you boast 5/4 Bring the good old bugle, boys, we '11 have another song 314 Burly, dozing humble-bee ! 324 But fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! . . . 602 By the hope within us springing 162 By the rude bridge that arched the flood 594 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxi PAGE Calm on the listening ear of night 635 Can any mixture of earth's mould 63 Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind 57 Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! 108 Child of earth with the golden hair 256 Clang, clang, the massive anvils ring 87 Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er 233 Come, brave with me the sea, love 239 Come live with me and be my love 262 Come not, when I am dead 457 Come take the harp, my gentle one 650 Come, thou Almighty King 121 Come to the sports of our wave-circled isle 208 Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish 636 Crabbed age and youth cannot live together 269 Dark are thy woods, and severe 456 Day breaks on the mountain 49 Dear Governor, if my skill might brave 648 Deep in the wave is a coral grove 471 Derriere chez vous il y a Fun vert bocage 105 Distracted with care . . . ' 613 Does woman always love where she is loved ? 149 Drink to her who long 140 Drink to me only with thine eyes 544 Drink ye to her that each loves best 465 " Dry-lighted soul," the ray that shines in thee 323 E'en such is time, which takes on trust 186 England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops far away .... 343 Faintly as tolls the evening chime 537 Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 7S False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan . 605 Fare thee well ! and if forever 403 Fare thee well ! the ship is ready 29 Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear 50 Farewell, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! 535 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 455 Far, far beyond the blazing wanderer's quest 364 xxn INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Far in the bosom of the deep 477 Father of all ! in every age 462 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 551 Fierce the sea is, and fickle if fair 638 Fill, fill the sparkling brimmer ! . . . 042 Fill the bumper fair ! 138 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 52 Fly to the desert, fly with me 163 For he that thinks to slay the soul, or he that thinks the soul .... 366 For thee, Love, for thee, Love 9 Four hundred thousand men 310 Four straight brick walls, severely plain 631 From all that dwell below the skies 634 From distant isles a chieftain came 440 From Greenland's icy mountains 19 From his brimstone bed at break of day 430 From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary 133 Full fathom five thy father lies 538 Gay, guiltless pair . . 201 Gayly the Troubadour touched his guitar 251 Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile 69 Gentle Zitella, whither away ? 259 Give all to love 628 Good frend for Jesus' sake forbeare 247 Good people all, of every sort 565 Green be the turf above thee 129 " Hafed, my own beloved lord " 189 Hail, charming power of self-opinion ! 38 Hail, Columbia ! happy land ? 283 Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! 578 Hail to the land whereon we tread 115 Half a league, half a league 280 Hark ! the little drummer beats to bed 183 " Harper ! methinks thy magic lays " . ^ 445 Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 378 Hearken in your ear 612 Hear what Highland Nora said 427 He asked me had I yet forgot 157 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxiii PAGE He hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave 351 He is gone on the mountain 550 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling 267 Here awa', there awa', wandering Willie 404 Here lies Boney, stout of heart and limb 86 Here lies the body of John Jack ..." -. . . . 99 Here 's a health to them that 's awa' 230 Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee 545 Hers are not Tempo's nor Arcadia's spring 363 Her side is in the water 391 He that hath sailed upon the dark blue sea 77 He that loves a rosy cheek 625 He wandered through the briery woods . 240 High walls and huge the body may confine 246 His own merits perceiving, sure S through the land 53 How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood 362 How gayly rows the gondolier 61 How happy is he born and taught 483 How loud amid these silent aisles 73 How sleep the brave who sink to rest 551 How stands the glass around? / 71 How the mountains talked together 335 Humid seal of soft affections 393 I am a friar of orders gray 524 I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars 425 I am dying, Egypt, dying 284 I do not count the hours I spend 640 If I had a beau 266 I fill this cup to one made up 167 If I speak to thee in friendship's name 624 If the pilgrim did not falter 646 If the red slayer think he slays - 366 If thou dost find ....'.... 271 I had a message to send her 105 I heard the trailing garments of the Night 365 I knew, by the smoke that so gracefully curled 195 I '11 tell thee why this weary world meseemeth 90 I mourn no more my vanished years 371 I 'm wearin' awa', Jean 620 xxiv INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE In Eastern lands they talk in flowers 641 In form and feature, face and limb 268 In Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land 359 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes 3 85 Insatiate archer! could not one suffice ? 657 In slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay 16 In the deepest death of midnight, while the sad and solemn swell . . . 103 In the prison cell I sit, thinking, mother dear, of you 318 In this beloved marble view 28 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few 26 In vain the common' theme my tongue would shun 517 I remember, I remember, how my childhood fleeted by 257 I remember, I remember, the house where I was born 584 I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James .... 390 Iron was his chest 33 I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining 176 I saw in the naked forest 589 I saw her last night at a party 009 I see them on their winding way 20 I shot an arrow into the air 379 I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty 385 I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he 603 Is the hope bright ? it should be so 656 Is there a heart that never loved 257 Is there, for honest poverty 484 It don't seem hardly right, John . 595 It fell about the Martinmas time 614 It is a beautiful belief 219 It is time to be old 380 It may not be our lot to wield 383 It was not that her radiant eyes 658 It will not speak ; then I will follow it 454 I 've been roaming where the meadow dew is sweet 252 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west 46 I wandered by the brookside 417 I would I had a charmed boat 30 I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 326 Jenny kissed me when we met John Anderson my jo, John 539 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxv PAGE John Brown hi Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer 288 John Brown's body lies a-moulderiiig in the grave 299 John puffs himself; forbear to chide 58 Just for a handful of silver he left us 515 Know'st thou the land where hangs the citron-flower 164 Know then 't was 1 231 Know ye the land where the bamboo and queue are 25 Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle 414 Lady, although we have not met 388 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 529 Launch thy bark, mariner ! 464 Leaves have their time to fall 67 Let others laud the storm -defy ing oak 38 Let us gae, lassie, gae 51 Lie on, and my revenge shall be 41 Life ! I know not what thou art 575 Life is before ye, and while now ye stand 135 Like as the damask rose you see 164 Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 368 Look not thou on beauty's charming 627 Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare 532 Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 58 Love thou ! for though the thing thou lov'st must die ....... 379 Love wakes and weeps 409 Low and mournful be the strain 346 MacGaradh! MacGaradh ! red race of the Tay 228 Maid of Athens, ere we part 410 Man's is a weary pilgrimage 22 March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! 580 Maxweltou braes are bonuie 238 Meet me by moonlight alone ... 252 Men of England ! who inherit 416 Men of the North, who remember 321 Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 432 " Merry England ! " what a picture do these simple words recall ... 84 Merry it is in the good greenwood 488 'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam 234 xxvi INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PACE Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord 298 Move my armchair, faithful Pompey 292 Mr. Strahau, You are a member of Parliament . - 249 My boat is on the shore 27 My dear and only love, I pray I7S My first, beloved of many an ancient dame 225 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here 566 My iniude to me a kingdom is 491 My son, these maxims make a rule , . . . . 428 My thoughts are bound within a cell of care 367 Nearer, my God, to thee 124 No! is my answer from this cold, bleak ridge 518 No, it is not a poet's dream 248 No martial project to surprise 616 No more the summer floweret charms 215 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea 576 Not a buck was shot, nor a doe, nor a fawn 212 Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note 554 Not by thy bed of tedious, lingering pain 386 Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw 226 Now, dear old friend of many years 658 Now, glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are .... 155 Now, baud your tongue, baith wife and carle 568 Now launch the boat upon the wave 118 Now, on their couch of rest 168 O child of paradise 387 O Columbia, the gem of the ocean . 312 O'er the far blue mountain, o'er the white sea-foam 25 O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea .... 472 O fair-haired Northern hero 293 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw ' . . . . 541 " Off," said the stranger, " off, off, and away ! " 62 Of Nelson and the North 505 Oft in the stilly night 536 O gentle Sleep, who oft hast cradled me 370 Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green 636 Oh, bid your faithful Ariel fly 255 Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair 243 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxvii PAGE Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour 187 Oh, give me a home by the sea 241 Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own 141 Oh, haste and leave this sacred isle 148 Oh, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale 528 Oh, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight 254 Oh, leave this barren spot to me 418 Oh, let no change in after years 209 Oh, my luve 's like a red, red rose 542 Oh, saw ye bonnie Lesley 401 Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light 287 Oh, swiftly glides the bonny boat 131 Oh, the days are gone when beauty bright 546 Oh, the French are on the say 149 Oh, who does not love the bugle-horn ? 207 Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West 526 O large of heart, and grand, and calm 309 One by one the sands are flowing 92 One morn a Peri at the gate 181 One night came on a hurricane . . . 35 One still lingered, pale and last 56 On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray 421 On knottiest points with ease debate 55 On Linden, when the sun was low 509 On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 165 O pescator dell' onde Fidelin 240 O sunny Love! " 189 Our bugles sang truce; for the night-cloud had lowered 272 Our revels now are ended. These our actors 560 O wedding-guest, this soul hath been .453 O woman ! in our hours of ease 396 Par la voix du canon d'alarme 276 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 21 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire 120 Push off the boat 448 Rich and rare were the gerns she wore 182 Rise ! for the day is passing 91 Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down 548 River, river, little river 96 xxviii INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Rocked in the cradle of the deep 1 lloll not a drum, sound not a clarion note 306 Row gently here 132 Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 561 Sacred to the memory of Timothy John 188 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 501 Seasons have passed away 221 Send danger from the east unto the west 503 Servant of God, well done ! 122 Shades of evening, close not o'er us 61 Shall I tell you whom I love ? 621 Shall I, wasting in despair 544 Shall we ever meet again 107 She bends above me like a night 147 She flung her white arms around him : " Thou art all 66 She has gone down, they shout it from afar 308 She is a winsome wee thing 75 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 407 She walks in beauty like the night 477 She was a phantom of delight 185 She was not as pretty as women I know 397 Should he upbraid, I '11 own that he prevail 253 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ! 269 Silent friends, fare ye well ! 142 Since our country, our God, O my sire ! . . . 500 Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt ~ . 223 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares 457 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves 523 Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping 286 Slowly with measured tread 79 So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn ,. . 513 Soft and softlier hold me, friends ! 643 Soft gleams the October sun 217 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er 260 Solemnly he paced the schooner's quarter-deck 13 So let them ease their hearts with prate 77 Some love to roam o'er the dark sea-foam . . . . ' 178 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 82 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea 202 INDEX OF FIRST LIXES. xxix PAGE Sparkling and bright in liquid light 237 Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away . . . . 352 Speak! speak! thou fearful guest ! 5 So Spirits which hover round me, ye whose wings 250 Star of the brave, whose beam hath shed 415 Star of the twilight gray 231 Stars, radiant stars 94 Steer hither, steer your winged pines 628 Still to be neat, still to be drest 482 Stranger, thou readest carelessly 386 Summer eve is gone and past 263 Sunday in Old England 4 630 Take, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear . . . .- 632 Take, oh, take those lips away , . . . 543 Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head 44 Tell her I '11 love her while the clouds drop rain 247 Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee 408 Tell me not, in mournful numbers 373 Tell me not of joys above 183 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 47S Tell me, where is fancy bred 541 Tender-handed stroke a nettle 38 That which her slender waist confined 482 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 522 The boy stood on the burning deck 134 The breaking waves dashed high 3 The bridegroom may forget the bride 455 The Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! 270 The castled crag of Drachenfels . o99 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 496 The Deil cam fiddling through the town 429 The Dervish whined to Said 339 The dews of summer night did fall 42 The first was a vision with flaxen hair 36 The gipsies cam to our Laird's yett . . 142 The glories of our birth and state 497 The grave is but a calmer bed 56 The groves were God's first temples 637 The hand of religion is potent to save 146 xxx INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE The harp that once through Tara's halls 539 Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine 54 The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! 582 The king was on his throne 601 The leaf floats by upon the stream 64 The little gate was reached at last 593 The Lord descended from above 501 The melancholy -days are come, the saddest of the year 469 The Merchant Prince of England 101 The Minstrel boy to Jhe war is gone 156 The moon is up, the evening star 14 The moon shines bright in such a night as this 413 The moon 's on the lake, and the mist 's on the brae 436 The mountain and the squirrel 377 The music clamors shrill and loud 218 The night is come, but not too soon 372 The outmost crowd have heard a sound 449 The Pilgrim Fathers, where are they r 1 128 The pines were dark on Ramoth hill 479 The prophet Balaam was in wonder lost 48 The quality of mercy is not strained 617 There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin 2 There is a land of pure delight 461 There is a light cloud by the moon 521 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 420 There is a tear for all that die 458 There is not in the wide world a valley so sWeet 153 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood . 86 There 's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told . 163 There 's a bower of roses by Beudemeer's stream . 173 There 's a fierce gray bird, with a bending beak 113 There 's a flag hangs over my threshold, whose folds 296 There sat one day in quiet , 597 There 's nought but care on ev'ry lian' 23 There stands, in the garden of old St. Mark 210 There was a deep ravine that lay 611 There was a listening fear in her regard 104 There was a sound of revelry by night 510 The rocky nook with hill-tops three 319, The scene was more beautiful far to my eye 184 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxi PAGE The soldier tired of war's alarms 270 The song bird has flown from our sea-girded isle 227 The spacious firmament on high 499 The stars their early vigils keep 330 The sun had set 651 The tent -lights glimmer on the laud 304 The time I 've lost in wooing 177 The track of the road followed the course of the brook 81 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine 203 The waters are flashing 405 The weather-leech of the topsail shivers . . 473 The \vild gazelle on Judah's hills 419 The winds of March are humming 10 The wisest man could ask no more of fa'te 382 The world is bright before thee 387 They fought like brave men, long and well 355 They gave the fatal order, Charge ! 278 They made her a grave, too cold and damp ; ... 525 The young May moon is beaming, love 198 Thine eyes still shone for me, though far 627 Think me not unkind and rude 626 This bright wood-fire 199 This is the state of life, a passing shadow 3 This world is all a fleeting show 204 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 18 Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 258 Thou who within thyself dost not behold 195 Thus said the Rover 487 'T is done but yesterday a king 39 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, when hope has built a bower .... 54 'T is not the gray hawk's flight ; -. . 169 To-day I '11 haste to quaff my wine 104 Toll for the brave 552 Too long, too long a masquer, Arthur comes 607 To sigh, yet feel no pain 194 To the dim and gloomy shore 72 To the Lords of Convention 't was Claverhouse who spoke 547 'T was morn, but not the ray which falls the summer boughs among . . 220 'T was the hour when rites unholy 411 'T was whispered in heaven, and 't was muttered in hell 395 xxxii INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set 175 Twist ye, twine ye ! even so 459 Two hundred years, two hundred years . 5 Underneath this stone doth lye . 426 Under the greenwood tree 540 Untouched by love, the maiden's breast 41 Up from the meadows rich with corn 315 Up, spaniel, the hunter is winding his horn 97 Vital spark of heavenly flame 125 Waken, lords and ladies gay 567 War ! war ! no peace ! peace is to me a war 466 Way down upon de Swaunee Bibber 235 We are butiwo, the others sleep 172 We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more . . . 302 We believe that fate is less capricious than is imagined 78 We '11 shed no tear, we '11 breathe no sigh 521 We sit here in the Promised Land 323 What ails thee, Dei-vise ? eat, dost thou suppose 450 What a pang of sweet emotion 396 What are you doing now 28 What fairy-like music 63 What shall I do with all the days and hours 205 What 's hallowed ground ? Has earth a clod 459 What strange, deep secret dost thou hold, O death 96 Wha will ride wi' gallant Murray ? 232 When all was hushed at eventide 437 When breezes are soft and skies are fair 361 When Britain first, at Heaven's command 277 When coldness wraps this suffering clay 498 When Freedom from her mountain height 300 When freshly blows the northern gale :. ... 198 When I am dead, no pageant train 110 When in death I shall calm reeline 154 When Israel, of the Lord beloved 581 When love with unconfined wings 619 When melancholy, born of sin 647 When o'er the silent seas alone . . ........ 130 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxiii PAUE When princely Hamilton's abode 190 When shall we all meet again ? 617 When shall we three meet again ? 466 When the British warrior queen > . 502 When the dying flame of day 592 When the glow-worm gilds the elfin flower 255 When the hours of Day are numbered 376 When the oldest cask is opened 179 When the tide's billowy swell 59 When Time, Avho steals our years away 24 When twilight dews are falling soft 193 When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes 186 Where, oh, where are the visions of morning 375 Where olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew 357 Where the bee sucks, there suck I . 538 Which I wish to remark .557 While the dawu on the mountain was misty and gray 573 While thee I seek, protecting Power ! 2io Who counts himself as nobly born 559 Whoe'er he be 622 Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere 160 Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear ? 196 Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 338 Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall 452 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 327 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 394 Wild rose of Alloway ! my thanks 331 Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata 245 Will ye gang to the Hielan's, Leezie Lindsay ? 261 Wilt thou not waken, Bride of May 65 Wilt thou tempt the waves with me 650 Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers 456 With feelings strange and undefined I gaze upon thy face 15 W T ithin this awful volume lies 634 Within 'twas brilliant all and light 412 Woo her when with rosy blush 60 Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng 45 Ye are gone, ye are gone, friends of my youth 12 Ye banks and braes o' bounie Doon 242 Ye gentlemen of England 264 c xxxiv INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGE Ye hunters of Kew Eiiglaud 206 Ye mariuers of Eiiglaud ! 507 Ye mariners of Spain .... 152 Yes, we '11 rally round the flag, boys, rally once again 313 Yet a few days, and thee 494 Ye 've gathered to your place of prayer . 126 You know we French stormed llatisbou . -27't You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride 197 You say that my love is plain 383 You tell me you 're promised a lover 7 You wonder whv 1 still would seek .... . .... 100 AN OLD SCRAP-BOOK, WITH ADDITIONS. AN OLD SCRAP-BOOK, WITH ADDITIONS. EOCKED IN THE CEADLE OF THE DEEP. EOCKED in the cradle of the deep, I lay me down in peace to sleep ; Secure I rest upon the wave, For thou, O Lord, hast power to save. I know thou wilt not slight my call, For thou dost note the sparrow's fall ; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Eocked in the cradle of the deep. And such the trust that still were mine, Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine, Or though the tempest's fiery breath Eoused me from sleep to wreck and death ! In ocean cave still safe with Thee, The germ of immortality ; And calm and peaceful is my sleep, Eocked in the cradle of the deep. MRS. WILLARD. A nursery song ; the earliest thing I remember, probably 1816. 1 EXILE OF ERIN. EXILE OF EEIN. THERE came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger : The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! Land of my fathers ! Erin go bragh ! LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 3 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud, with devotion, Erin inavourmn Erin go bragh ! CAMPBELL. First copied by me about 1821 ; a schoolboy taste. LIFE. THIS is the state of life, a passing shadow will throw down the baseless fabric of man's hopes. And when the tablets of this fleeting state are charactered with all felicity, comes Death with a sponge moistened in gall, and wipes the beauteous lineaments away. OlD GREE , AuTHOE Read by Mr. XAZUO, Elocution master, at ROUND HILL, 1827. THE LANDING OF THE PILGEIM FATHERS IX NEW ENGLAND. 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 ; LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 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. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam ; And the rocking pines of the forest roared, This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Amidst the 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. MRS. HEMAXS. Copied : CANTON, Dec. 23, 1830. ANNIVERSARY HYMN. FOR THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF THE SETTLEMENT OE CHARLESTOWN. Two hundred years, two hundred years, How much of human power and pride, What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! The red man, at his horrid rite, Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, His bark canoe, its track of light Left on the wave beneath the moon, His dance, his yell, his council fire, The altar where his victim lay, His death song, and his funeral pyre, That still, strong tide hath borne away. And that pale pilgrim band is gone, That on this shore with trembling trod, Ready to faint, yet bearing on The ark of freedom and of God. And war, that, since, o'er ocean came, And thundered loud from yonder hill, And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame, To blast that ark, its storm is still. Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, That live in story and in song, Time, for the last two hundred years, Has raised, and shown, and swept along. ABOUT THAT BROW. 'T is like a dream when one awakes, This vision of the scenes of old ; 'T is like the moon when morning breaks ; 'T is like a tale round watch-fires told. Then what are we, then what are we ? Yes, when two hundred years have rolled O'er our green graves, our names shall be A morning dream, a tele that 's told. God of our fathers, in whose sight The thousand years, that sweep away Man, and the traces of his might, Are but the break and close of day, Grant us that love of truth sublime, That love of goodness and of thee, That makes thy children, in all time, To share thine own eternity. PIERPONT. Copied : CANTON, Dec. 23, 1830. ABOUT THAT BEOW. ABOUT that brow Ne'er did a smile in dimples shine That I Ve forgotten now : No, I remember all Thy winning power, And oft will memory recall The rapture of that hour When broke upon my longing sight A LETTER OF ADVICE. Thy form, as welcome then As the first beam of morning light To lone, benighted men. Away ! my bark upon the wave Is riding now ; The ebbing tide's last ripples lave Her curling prow. Upon her deck my foot must tread, Unfurled her sail ; On the blue wave my path be sped, Before the swelling gale. But ere I go I ask of thee, Maiden, a boon : Bestow but one brief thought on me When I am gone. ANONYMOUS. Copied : CANTON, Dec. 23, 1830. A LETTER OF ADVICE FROM MISS M. T. TO ARAMINTA. You tell me you 're promised a lover, My own Araminta, next week ; Why cannot my fancy discover The hue of his coat and his cheek ? Alas, if he look like another, A vicar, a banker, a beau, Be deaf to your father and mother, My own Araminta, say No ! A LETTER OF ADVICE. \ If he wear a top-boot in his wooing, If he come to you riding a cob, If he talk of his baking or brewing, If he puts up his feet on the hob, If he ever drinks port after dinner, If his brow or his breeding is low, If he calls himself " Thompson " or " Skinuer, : My own Araminta, say No ! If he studies the news in the papers While you are preparing the tea, If he talks of the damps and the vapors While moonlight lies soft on the sea, If he 's sleepy while you are capricious, If he has not a musical " Oh," If he does not call Werther delicious, My own Araminta, say No ! If he ever sets foot in the city Among the stock-brokers and Jews, ' If he has not a heart full of pity, If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses, If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses, My own Araminta, say No ! If he speak of a tax or a duty, If he does not look grand on his knees, If he 's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, If he dotes not on desolate towers, If he likes not to hear the blast blow, If he knows not the language of flowsrs, My own Araminta, say No ! FOR THEE, LOVE, FOR THEE, LOVE. He must walk like a god of old story Come down from the home of his rest ; He must smile like the sun in his glory On the buds he loves ever the best ; , And oh, from his ivory portal, Like music the soft speech must flow : If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say No ! Don't listen to tales of his bounty, Don't hear what they tell of his birth, Don't look at his seat in the county, Don't calculate what he is worth, But give him a theme to write verse on, And see if he turn out his toe ; If he 's only an excellent person, My own Araminta, say No ! ANONYMOUS. Copied : CANTON, Dec. 25, 1830. FOE THEE, LOVE, FOR THEE, LOVE. FOE thee, Love, for thee, Love, I '11 brave Fate's sternest storm ; She cannot daunt or chill the heart That love keeps bold and warm. And when her clouds are blackest, nought But thy sweet self I '11 see, Nor hear amidst the tempest aught But thee, Love, only thee ! For thee, Love, for thee, Love, My fond heart would resign 10 SONG. The brightest cup that Pleasure fills, And Fortune's wealthiest mine ; For Pleasure's smiles are vanity, And fortunes fade or flee : There 's purity and constancy In thee, Love, only thee. For thee, Love, for thee, Love, Life 's lonely vale 1 11 tread, And aid thy steps the journey through, Nor quit thee till I 'm dead. And even then round her I love My shade shall hovering be, And warble notes from heaven above, To thee, Love, only thee. ANONYMOUS. Copied in CHINA. SONG. AIR : " To ladies' eyes a round, boy." MOORE.' THE winds of March are humming Their parting song, their parting song, And summer skies are coming, And days grow long, and days grow long. I watch, but not in gladness, Our garden tree, our garden tree ; It buds, in sober sadness, Too soon for me, too soon for me. My second winter 's over, Alas ! and I, alas ! and I Have no accepted lover : Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. SONG. 11 'T is not asleep or idle That love has been, that love has been ; For many a happy bridal The year has seen, the year has seen ; I Ve done a bridesmaid's duty At three or four, at three or four ; My best bouquet had beauty, Its donor more, its donor more. My second winter 's over, Alas ! and I, alas ! and I Have no accepted lover : Don't ask me why; don't ask me why. His flowers my bosom shaded, One sunny day, one sunny day ; The next they fled and faded, Beau and bouquet, beau and bouquet. In vain, at balls and parties, I Ve thrown my net, I Ve thrown my net ; This waltzing, watching heart is Unchosen yet, unchosen yet. My second winter 's over, Alas ! and I, alas ! and I Have no accepted lover : Don't ask me why, don't ask me why. They tell me there r s no hurry For Hymen's ring, for Hymen's ring ; And I 'm too young to marry : 'T is no such thing, 't is no such thing. The next spring tides will dash on My eighteenth year, my eighteenth year ; It puts me in a passion, Oh dear, oh dear ! oh dear, oh dear ! 3 TIME. i i My second winter's over, . Alas ! and I, alas ! and I Have no accepted lover : Don't ask ine why, don't ask me why. HALLECK. Copied in CHINA from a newspaper : since found to be HALLECK'S. TIME. YE are gone, ye are gone, friends of my youth, In the spring-time of hope and love ; Ye are gone in the bloom of unfading truth To the stainless worlds above. I '11 not weep for you, friends of my youth, Nor sigh o'er your ruined prime ; Death, the proud archer, hath more of truth Than the stately graybeard, Time. He comes but the fleeting hues to steal, Of the cheek's carnation dye, Or the print of his iron hand to seal On the eyes' dark brilliancy. Death can but sever the mortal link That bindeth the kindred clay, Whilst bright through the archway's ruined chink Faith's golden sunbeams stray. But Time, the rude spoiler, comes, alas ! With a heavier, deeper woe ; Wasting our years, like the sands of his glass, In a dull and certain flow. THE QUAKER MEETING-HOUSE. 13 In friendship's wane and passion's decline, There 's nothing on earth so dear As the twinkling lights which again may shins In a distant hemisphere. Oh, Death, the proud archer, hath more of truth Than the stealthy graybeard, Time. M. A. C. Copied in CHINA : only identified by the initials. THE QUAKER MEETIXG-HOUSfE. SOLEMNLY he paced the schooner's quarter-deck, And of his many hardships thus he muttered : " I have been where the wild waves of the Missouri Have dashed in on the ' Sawyer ; ' I have been where my keel has 'scaped the coral rock In Madagascar seas ; But never in all my sad experiences of harm Met I a Quaker Meeting-house ! It comes in so questionable a shape I cannot even speak it ! So up jib, Josey, and steer for Xewport ! " ANONYMOUS (American Watchman). Copied : April 30, 1831. 14 THE MOON IS UP, THE EVENING STAR. THE MOON IS UP, THE EVENING STAR THE moon is up, the evening star Shines lonely from its home of blue, The fox howl 's heard from the fell afar, And the earth is robed in sombre hue ; From the shores of light the beams come down On the river's breast and the cold grave-stone. The kindling fires in heaven so bright Look sweetly out from yon azure sky, While the glittering pearls of the dewy night Seem trying to mimic their brilliancy ; Yet all these charms no joy can bring To the dead in the cold grave slumbering. To numbers wild, yet sweet withal, Should the harp be struck on the sleepy pillow, Soft murmuring, as the breezes fall. Of sighing winds on the foamy billow ; For who would disturb, in their silent bed, The fancied dreams of the lonely dead ? Oh, is there one in this world can say That the soul exists not after death, That the powers which illumine this mould of clay Are but a puff of common breath ? Oh, come this night to the grave and see The sleepy state of your destiny. I've seen the moon gild the mountain's brow, I Ve watched the mist over the river stealing ; TO A NEWLY OPENED OYSTER. 15 But ne'er did I feel in my breast till now So calm, so pure, and so holy a feeling : 'T is soft as the thrill that memory throws Athwart the soul in the hour of repose. Thou Father of all in the worlds of light, Fain would my spirit aspire to thee, And through the screen of this gentle night Behold the dawn of eternity ; For this the path which thou hast given, The only path to the bliss of heaven. ANONYMOUS. TO A NEWLY OPENED OYSTER WITH feelings strange and undefined I gaze upon thy face, Thou choice and juicy specimen of an ill-fated race ! How calmly, yea, how meekly thou reclinest in thy shell, Yet what thy woes and sufferings are man can conjecture well ! For thou wert torn from friends and home, and all thy heart could wish, Thou hapless, helpless innocent ! mute, persecuted fish ! Thou wert happy in thy native bed, where blithesome billows play, Till the cruel fisher fished thee from home, sweet home, away. He stowed thee in his cable, and he rowed thee to the strand ; Thou wert bought and sold and opened, and placed in this tight hand. I know that while I moralize thy flavor fades away ; I know thou shouldst be ate alive before thy sweets decay ; I know that it is foolishness, this weak delay of mine, And epicures may laugh at it as sentimental whine. 16 THE MARINER'S DREAM. Well, let them laugh, I still will drop a tear o'er thy sad fate, Thou wretched and ill-fated one, thou sad disconsolate ! O'er thee and o'er thy kindred hangs an all-consuming doom, To die a slow and lingering death, in living find a tomb. Like the Indian from the forest, like the roebuck from the glen, Thy race is dwindling silently before the arts of men ; Ye are passing from the river, from the sea-bank, from the shore, And the haunts that lo.ng have known ye shall know ye soon no more. The " Blue Point " and the " Shrewsbury " are fading fast away, And clamless soon will be our streams, and oysterless our bay. Why were ye made so racy, rich, and luscious to the taste? 'T is this has stripped your thickest banks, and made your beds a waste. Your virtues are made sanctified and holy traitors to ye, And that which was your proudest boast has served but to undo ye. ANONYMOUS. Copied iii CHINA, April 30, 1831. THE MARINER'S DREAM. IN slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers, 'And pleasures that waited on life's merry rnorn ; While memory stood sideways, half covered wi,th flowers, And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. THE MARINER'S DREAM. 17 Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; Now far, far behind him the green waters glide, And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch, And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er ; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, " God ! thou hast blest me, I ask for no more." Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear ? 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky ; 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere. He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ; Amazement confronts him with images dire ; Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire. Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell, And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave. 2 18 THOSE EVENING BELLS. sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss. Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? O sailor boy, sailor boy, never again Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main, Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge ; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. On a bed of green sea-flowers thy limbs shall be laid, Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made, And every part suit to thy mansion below. Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, O sailor boy, sailor boy, peace to thy soul ! WILLIAM DIMOND. Copied in CHINA, May 4, 1831. 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 ! MISSIONARY HYMN. 19 Those joyous hours are passed away ; And many a heart that then was gay 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. MOORE. CHINA, 1831. MISSIONARY HYMN. FKOM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand ; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain. What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle ; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile ; In vain with lavish kindness The gifts of God are strewn : The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone. 20 THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. Can we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted The lamp of life deny ? Salvation, oh, salvation, The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation Has learnt Messiah's name. Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory It spreads from pole to pole ; Till o'er our ransomed nature The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign. HEBER. Copied : June 14, 1831. THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. I SEE them on their winding way ; About their ranks the moonbeams play ; Their lofty deeds and daring high Blend with the notes of victory, And waving arms and banners bright Are glancing in the mellow light : They 're lost and gone, the moon is past, The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast ; And fainter, fainter, fainter still, The march is rising o'er the hilL PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 21 Again, again, the pealing drum, The clashing horn ; they come, they come ! Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep, In long and glittering files they sweep ; And nearer, nearer, yet more near, Their softened chorus meets the ear. Forth, forth, and meet them on their way ! The trampling hoofs brook no delay ; With thrilling fife, and pealing drum, And clashing horn, they come, they come ! HEBEB. Copied : June 15, 1831. PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, AVake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons ! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons. Come from the deep glen and From mountain so rocky ; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one ; Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. 22 MAN'S PILGRIMAGE. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter ; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar ; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges : Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come when forests are rended ; Come as the waves come when Navies are stranded : Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come ; See how they gather ! Wide waves the eagle plume, Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set ! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset ! SCOTT. Copied : June 17, 1831. The children and grandchildren will remember this in the nursery. MAN'S PILGEIMAGE. MAN'S is a weary pilgrimage, As through this world he wends ; In every age, from stage tt> stage, Still discontent attends. GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 23 With weariness he casts his eye Upon the road before, And still remembers with a sigh " The days that are no more." SOCTHEY. Copied in CHINA, Sunday, July 3, 1831. "Just one year since I drove Mrs. F. and the girls into Boston to see the barque 'Lintin. 1 " GREEN GROW THE RASHES. A FRAGMENT. THERE 's nought but care on ev'ry han', In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; What signifies the life o' man, An' 't were na for the lasses, ? CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O ; Green grow the rashes, O ; The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, Were spent among the lasses, O ! The warly race may riches chase, An' riches still may fly them, ; An' though at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O. Green grow, &c. But gie me a canny hour at e'en, My arms about my dearie, O ; An' warly cares an' warly men May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. Green grow, &c. 24 SONG. For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, Ye 're nought but senseless asses, ; The wisest man the warl' e'er saw, He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. Green grow, &c. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears Her noblest work she classes, ; Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, An' then she made the lasses, 0. Green grow, &c. BURNS. SONG. WHEN Time, who steals our years away, Shall steal our pleasures too, The memory of the past will stay, And half our joys renew. Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower Shall feel the wintry air, Remembrance will recall the hour AY hen thou alone wert fair ! Then talk no more of future gloom : Our joys shall always last ; For hope shall brighten days to come, And memory gild the past ! MOORE. THE RECALL. 25 \ KNOW YE THE LAND? A PARODY. KNOW ye the land where the bamboo and queue are, The emblems of deeds that are done in the China, "Where priestly fond writers the primest of swells are, And nothing in nature or man is sublime ? Where the flowers have no smell, no flavor the fruit, And 't is stupid to talk, and there 's nothing to shoot ; Where the earth is burnt mud and the sky is all blaze, Where the dew is death fog and the air a red blaze, And the beautiful blue of the exquisite land Is a compound of blue and brick-dust and sand ? 'T is the land of the East, 't is the region of curry, That slowly we come to and leave in a hurry : Know ye the land ? My good friend, if you do, By the Lord I don't envy you : I know it too ! ANONYMOUS. THE EECALL. O'ER the far blue mountain, o'er the white sea-foam, Come, thou long-parted one, back to thy home : When the bright fire shineth, sad looks thy place ; While the true heart pineth, missing thy face. Music is sorrowful since thou art gone, Sisters are mourning thee ; come to thine own. Hark ! the home voices call back to thy rest ; Come to thy father's hall, thy mother's breast. MRS. HEMAXS. Copied : Oct. 23, 1831. 26 IN VAIN, ALAS! IN VAIN. AWAY, AWAY WE BOUND O'ER THE DEEP. AWAY, away we bound o'er the deep ; Lightly, brightly our merry hearts leap ; Homeward we sail to the land of our love, The starlight beacon shining above. Softly, sweetly the murmurs of song Pour on the ear as we hasten along, Gently breathed from the mariner's lips, As the oar in the waveless mirror he dips. Swiftly we glide, and, oh, as we near The haven, the home of those we love dear, We think not of woe, we dream not of ill, For our star all lovely shines on us still. Away, then, with hope we dash o'er the deep ; Lightly, brightly our merry hearts leap ; Homeward we sail to the land of our love, By the starlight beacon shining above. ANONYMOUS. MRS. M. OLIVIA LONG'S song. IN VAIN, ALAS! IN VAIN. IN vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few, From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew. Oh, bloodiest picture on the book of Time ! Saxmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe, Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe ! MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE. 27 Dropped from her nerveless ^rm the shattered spear, Closed her bright eye and curbed her high career : Hope for a season bade the world farewell, And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell. CAMPBELL, Pleasures of Hope. Copied : March 7, 1832. A report of the surrender of Warsaw (via Manilla). - MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE. MY boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea ; But before I go, Tom Moore, Here 's a double health to thee. Here 's a sigh to those who love me, And a srnile to those who hate ; And, whatever sky 's above me, Here 's a heart for every fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath springs that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well, As 1 gasped upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirits fell, 'T is to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be Peace with thine and mine, And a health to thee, Tom Moore. BYRON. Copied in CHINA. 28 TO THOMAS MOORE. THE HELEN OF CANOVA. IN this beloved marble view, Beyond the works and thoughts of man, What Nature could, but would not do, And Beauty and Canova can. Beyond imagination's power, Beyond the Bard's defeated art, With immortality her dower, Behold the Helen of the Heart. BYRON. TO THOMAS MOORE. WHAT are you doing now, O Thomas Moore ! What are you doing now, O Thomas Moore ! Lying or swearing now, lUiyming or wooing now, Billing or cooing now, Which, Thomas Moore ? But the Carnival 's coming now, Thomas Moore ! The Carnival 's coming now, Thomas Moore ! Masking and humming now, Fifing and drumming now, Guitaring and strumming now, O Thomas Moore ! BYRON. Copied in CHINA. THE SHIP IS READY. 29 SHIP IS KEADY. FARE thee well ! the ship is ready, And the breeze is fresh and steady ; Hands are fast the anchor weighing, High in air the streamers playing. Spread the sails ; the waves are swelling Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling : Fare thee well ! and when at sea, Think of those who sigh for thee. When from land and home receding, And from hearts that ache to bleeding, Think of those behind that love thee, While the sun is bright above thee ; Then, as down the ocean glancing, With the waves his rays are dancing, Think how long the night will be To eyes that weep for thee. When the lonely night-watch keeping, All below thee still and sleeping, As the needle points the quarter, On the wide and trackless water, Let thy vigils ever find thee Mindful of the friends behind thee ; Let thy bosom's magnet be Turned to those who wake for thee. When with slow and gentle motion Heaves the bosom of the ocean, While in peace thy bark is riding, And the silver moon is gliding 30 THE LAKE OF WINDERMERE. On the sky with tranquil splendor, When the shining hosts attend her, Let the brightest vision be, Country, home, and friends to thee. When the tempest hovers o'er thee, Danger, death, and wreck before thee, W T hile the sword of fire is gleaming, Wild the winds, the torrents streaming, Then, a pious suppliant bending, Let thy thoughts ascending Reach the mercy- seat to be Met by prayers that rise for thee. Miss H. F. GOULD. Copied off CAPE BANK, Sunday, March 7, 1833. THE LAKE OF WINDERMERE. I WOULD I had a charmed boat To sail that lovely lake, Nor should another prow but mine Its silver silence wake. No one should cleave its sunny tide, But I would float along As if the breath that filled my sail Was but a murmured song. Then I would think all pleasant thoughts, Live early youth anew, When hope took tunes of prophecy, And tones of music too, GENEVIEVE. 31 And colored life with its own hues, The heart's true " Claude Lorraine," The rich, the warm, the beautiful, I 'd live them once again. Kind faces flit before my eyes, Sweet voices fill my ear ; And friends I long have ceased to love, 1 11 still think loved and here. With such fair phantasies to fill, Sweet lake, thy summer air, If thy banks were not paradise, Yet I would dream they were. ' Miss L. E. LANDON. M. P. F. Copied off ISLE OF FRANCE, Sunday, March 24, 1833, on bard ship " Alert." GENEVIEVE. ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. Had blended with the lights of eve ; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! 32 GENEVIEVE. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he wooed The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined ; and ah ! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace ; And she forgave me that I gazed Too fondly on her face. His dying words but when I reached That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity. All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve : The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherished long. ON A MISER. 33 She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love and virgin shame ; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, she stept aside, As conscious of my look sh'e stept, Then suddenly, with timorous eye, She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And, bending back her head, looked up And gazed upon my face. 'T was partly love, and partly fear, And partly 't was a bashful art That I might rather feel than see The swelling of her heart. I calmed her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride ; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous bride. COLERIDGE. ON A MISER. IRON was his chest, Iron his door : His hand was iron; His heart was more. ANONYMOUS. 3 34 DRINKING-SONG. DKINKING-SONG. BANISH sorrow, grief is folly ; Thought, unbend thy wrinkled brow ; Hence, dull care and melancholy ; Joy and mirth await us now. Bacchus opens all his treasures, Comus gives us wit and song; Follow, follow, follow pleasure ; Let us join the jovial throng. Life is short, 't is but a season, Time is ever on the wing; Then let 's the present moment seize on, Who knows what the next may bring ? All our time by mirth we measure, All dull cares we may despise ; Follow, follow, follow pleasure, To be merry, to be wise. Wherefore then should we perplex us, Why should we not merry be, Since in life there 's nought to vex us, Drinking sets our cares all free ? Let's have drinking without measure, Let 's have time, while time we have ; Follow, follow, follow pleasure, There 's no drinking in the grave. When Death comes in, we '11 say, " Good fellow, Come and sit you down by me ; THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. 35 Drink with me until you 're mellow, Then like us you shall be free. Sit down, Death, we must have leisure, Drinking can't be hurried so ; Follow, follow, follow pleasure ; One more bumper, then we '11 go." ANONYMOUS. Copied : March 24, 1833. Sung by Dr. JOHN JENNISON on the barque " Ltntin." THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. ONE night came on a hurricane, The sea was mountains rolling, When Barney Buntline turned his quid, And said to Billy Bowling : " A strong nor' wester 's blowing, Bill ; Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? Lord help 'em, how I pities them Unhappy folks on shore now ! " Foolhardy chaps who live in towns, What danger they are all in, And now lie quaking in their beds, For fear the roof shall fall in ! Poor creatures ! how they envies us, And wishes, I Ve a notion, For our good luck, in such a storm, To be upon the ocean ! " And as for them who 're out all day On business from their houses, And late at night are coming home, To cheer their babes and spouses, 36 THE FIVE DREAMS. While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying, My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots About their heads are flying ! "And very often have we heard How men are killed and undone, By overturns of carriages, By thieves and fires in London. We know what risks all landsmen run, From noblemen to tailors ; Then, Bill, let us thank Providence That you and I are sailors." WILLIAM PITT. A very old favorite. THE FIVE DREAMS ON A PIECE OF WEDDING-CAKE IN A SEALED PAPER, WITH FIVE LADIES' NAMES THERE WRITTEN. FIRST. THE first was a vision with flaxen hair, And such an ethereal eye and smile, As told of the genius that harbored there, And the art that in ambush lay the while ; And I knelt and I offered 't was much for me A heart ; but she laughed at the gift, and said 'T was kindly meant, but indeed 't would be Scarce worth her accepting without a head. SECOND. And the next was the very nymph of dreams, Transparently, beautifully pale, Like the moon when she sheds her mildest beams Through a summer cloud's faintest, fleeciest veil ; THE FIVE DREAMS. 37 And I knelt again, and she left me kneeling, And with queen-like steps and averted eyes She was gone, ere the power of devoted feeling Could shape into words what it uttered in sighs. THIKD. And the third was a perfect Hebe, glowing With all that life's loveliest morning brings, And radiant with happy spirits flowing From living and pure and sheltered springs. And I knelt with a sigh that she would not hear ; But she heard my petition and answered no. And she laughed at my sorrow and starting tear, And she vanished before it had time to flow. FOURTH. The fourth ! oh, I know that large, dark eye, Those curls of the glossiest, raven jet ; I have worshipped their beauty in hours gone by, And my spirit remembers its slavery yet. 'Shall the secret thoughts of my heart at length Not find to the lips their timid way ? Too late and in vain ! their collected strength Trembles and dies in a faint essay. FIFTH. But the last of the train is passing now, How she sways majestically by ! There 's moonlight upon her lofty brow, And romance in her visionary eye. Her thoughts in a far-away country roam, All peopled with fancies divinely fair, And thither her spirit is floating home, . To be welcomed, I ween, the fairest fair. ANONYMOUS, New York American. 38 HAIL, CHARMING POWER! ADDRESS TO THE BIRCH. BY A SCHOOLMASTER. LET others laud the storm-defying oak, Proof 'gainst the whirlwind and the lightning stroke, The graceful willow or the aspen tree, But birch, the useful stinging birch, for me ! A. E. DURIVAGE. Copied: April 14, 1833. STEOKE A NETTLE. TENDER-HANDED stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains ; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains. So it is with common natures, Use them kindly, they rebel ; But be rough as nutmeg graters, And the rogues obey you well. ANONYMOUS. HAIL, CHARMING POWER! HAIL, charming power of self-opinion ! For none be slaves in thy dominion : Secure in thee, the mind 's at ease ; The vain have only 'one to please. British Martial. ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 39 ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 'T is done, but yesterday a king, And arm'd with kings to strive ; And now thou art a nameless thing, So abject, yet alive. Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive ? Since he, miscalled the morning star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. Thanks for that lesson, it will teach To after-warriors more Than high philosophy can preach, And vainly preached before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. The Desolator desolate ! The Victor overthrown ! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own ! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly cope ? Or dread of death alone ? To die a prince, or live a slave, The choice is most ignobly brave. 40 RECEIPT TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE. He who of old would rend the oak, Dreamed not of the rebound ; Chained by the trunk he vainly broke, Alone, how looked he round ? Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found : He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; But thou must eat thy heart away ! But thou from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung, Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung. All evil spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean. BYRON. Copied : Sunday, April 28, 1833; passing ST. HELEXA. EECEIPT TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE. A BROW austere, a circumspective eye, A frequent shrug of the " os humeri," A nod significant, a stately gait, A blustering manner and a tone of weight, A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare, Adopt all these as time and place will bear, Then rest assured that those of little sense Will deem you sure a man of consequence. British Martial. NORNA'S PROPHECIES. 41 NOBNA'S PROPHECIES. FOE BEENDA. UNTOUCHED by love, the maiden's breast Is like the snow on Eona's crest, High seated in the middle sky, In bright and barren purity ; But by the sunbeam gently kissed, Scarce by the gazing eye 't is missed, Ere down the lonely valley stealing, Fresh grass and growth its course revealing, It cheers the flo'ck, revives the flower, And decks some happy shepherd's bower. FOE MINNA. Untouched by love, the maiden's breast Is like the snow on Eona's crest : So pure, so free from earthly dye, It seems, whilst leaning on the sky, Part of the heaven to which 't is nigh ; But passion, like the wild March rain, May soil the wreath with many a stain. We gaze, the lovely vision 's gone ; A torrent fills the bed of stone, That, hurrying to destruction's shock, Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. SCOTT, The Pirate. TO LIE on, and my revenge shall be To speak the very truth of thee. British Martial. 42 CUMNOR HALL. CUMNOR HALL. THE dews of summer night did fall ; The moon, sweet regent of the sky, Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, And many an oak that grew thereby. Now nought was heard beneath the skies, The sounds of busy life were still, Save an unhappy lady's sighs, That issued from that lonely pile. " Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love That thou so oft hast sworn to me, To leave me in this lonely grove, Immured in shameful privity ? " No more thou com'st with lover's speed, Thy once beloved bride to see ; But be she alive or be she dead, I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. " Not so the usage I received When happy in my father's hall ; No faithless husband then me grieved, No chilling fears did me appall. " Then, Leicester, why, again I plead (The injured surely may repine), Why didst thou wed a country maid, When some fair princess might be thine ? CUMNOR HALL. 43 " Why didst thou praise my humble charms, And, oh, then leave them to decay ? Why didst thou win me to thy arms, Then leave to mourn the livelong day ? " The village maidens of the plain Salute me lowly as they go ; Envious they mark my silken train, Nor think a Countess can have woe. " The simple nymphs, they little know How far more happy 's their estate, To smile for joy than sigh for woe, To be content than to be great. " My spirits flag, my hopes decay ; Still that dread death-bell smites my ear, And many a boding seems to say, ' Countess, prepare, thy end is near.' " Thus, sore and sad, that lady grieved, In Cumuor Hall, so lone and drear ; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. And ere the dawn of day appeared, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped its wings Around the towers of Cumnor HalL 44 CUMNOR HALL. The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for nevermore That hapless Countess e'er was seen. And in that manor now no more Is cheerful feast and sprightly ball ; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; Nor ever lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. Full many a traveller oft hath sighed, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onward they 've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE. Copied : MILTON HILL, Oct. 31, 1833. ON A STONE THROWN THAT MISSED A THICK HEAD. TALK no more of the lucky escape of the head From a flint so unluckily thrown ; I think, very different from thousands indeed, 'T was a lucky escape for the stone. ANONYMOUS. ANNE HATHAWAY. 45 ANNE HATHAWAY. WOULD ye be taught, ye feathered throng, With love's sweet notes to grace your song, To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, Listen to mine Anne Hathaway. She hath a way to sing so clear, Phosbus might wondering stop to hear ; To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, And nature charm, Anne hath a way. She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To breathe delight, Anne hath a way. When envy's breath and rancor's tooth Bo soil and bite fair worth and truth, And merit to distress betray, To soothe the heart, Anne hath a way. She hath a way to chase despair, To heal all grief, to cure all care, Turn foulest night to fairest day, Thou knowest, fond heart, Anne hath a way. She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. Talk not of gems, the Orient list, The diamond, topaz, amethyst, The emerald mild, the ruby gay Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway. She hath a way, with her bright eye, Their various lustre to defy ; The jewel she, and the foil they, So sweet to look Anne hath a way. 46 JEAN IE MORRISON. She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. But were it to my fancy given To rate her charms, I 'd call them heaven ; For though a mortal made of clay, Angels must love Anne Hathaway. She hath a way so to control, To rapture, the imprisoned soul, And sweetest heaven on earth display, That to be heaven Anne hath a way. She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way. Attributed to SHAKSPEARE. Copied : MILTON HILL, Oct. 31, 1833. JEANIE MORRISON. I 'VE wandered east, I Ve wandered west, Through inony a weary way ; But never, never can forget The luve o' life's young day. The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en May weel be black gin Yule ; i But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi' tears ; JEAN IE MORRISON. 47 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o' langsyne. T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 'T was then we twa did part ; Sweet time, sad time ! twa bairns at scule, Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink, To leir ilk ither lear ; And tones and looks and smiles were shed, Remembered evermair. I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet, When sitting on that bink, Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, What our wee heads could think. When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. The throssil whusslit in the wood, The burn sang to the trees, And we, with nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies ; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat. Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison, Tears trickled doun your cheek, 48 JEAN IE MORRISON. Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane Had ony power to speak. That was a time, a blessed time, When hearts were fresh and young, When freely gushed all feelings forth, Unsyllabled, unsung. I 've wandered east, I Ve wandered west, I 've borne a weary lot ; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart, Still travels on its way ; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, 1 've never seen your face, nor heard The music o' your tongue ; , But I could hug all wretchedness, And happy could I dee, Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 0' bygane days and me. . WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. Copied : MILTON HILL, Oct. 31, 1833. WONDERS CEASE. THE prophet Balaam was in wonder lost To have his ass speak ; asses now talk most. ANONYMOUS. DAY BREAKS ON THE MOUNTAIN. 49 DAY BEEAKS ON THE MOUNTAIN. DAY breaks on the mountain, Light bursts on the storm, The sun from the shower Glints silent and warm. But dark is the hour Of grief on my soul ; There 's no morn to awake it, No beam to console. The hawk to his corrie, The dove to her nest, The wolf to the greenwood, . The fox to his rest. But woe and morrow Are wakeful to me; There's no rest for my sorrow, No sleep for my ee. O Lily of England, O lady, my love, How fair is the sunbeam, Thy bower above ! And bright be thy blossom, And reckless thy glee, And crossed not thy bosom With sorrow for me. We have met in delight, We have dreamed ne'er to sever, 4 50 CLEVELAND'S SONG .TO MINNA. We have loved in despair, We have parted forever. But yet there's a rest To the mournful is given; We shall sleep on earth's breast, And awaken in heaven. ANONYMOUS, Bridal of Colchairn. Copied : MILTON, Oct. 31, 1833, from E. N. F.'s Log-book. CLEVELAND'S SONG TO MINNA. FAREWELL ! farewell ! the voice you hear, Has left its last soft tone with you ; Its next must join the seaward cheer, And shout among the shouting crew. The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check, Must give the word, above the storm, To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. The timid eye I dared not raise, The hand, that shook when pressed to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. To all I love, or hope or fear, Honour or own, a long adieu ! To all that life has soft and dear, Farewell ! save memory of you ! SCOTT, The Pirate. Copied: MILTON, Oct. 31, 1833. THE BRAES OF BALQUHIDDER. 51 THE BKAES OF BALQUHIDDER. LET us gae, lassie, gae To the braes of Balquhidder, Where the blae berries grow Mang the bonnie Highland heather ; Where the deer and the rae, Lightly bounding together, Sport the lang summer day 'Mang the braes o' Balquhidder. Will ye go, lassie, go To the braes o' Balquhidder Where the blae berries grow 'Mang the bonnie bloomin' heather ? I will twine thee a bower By the clear siller fountain, And I '11 cover it o'er Wi' the flow'rs o' the mountain.; I will range through the wilds, And the deep glens sae dreary, And return wi' the spoils To the bower o' my dearie, Will ye go, &c. When the rude wintry win' Idly raves round our dwelling, And the roar of the linn On the night breeze is swelling ; Sae merrily we '11 siiig As the storm rattles o'er us, Till the deer shieling ring Wi' the light lilting chorus. Will ye go, &c. 52 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. Now the summer is in prime Wi' the flow'rs richly blooming, And the wild mountain thyme A' the moorlands perfuming ; To our dear native scenes Let us journey together, Where glad innocence reigns, 'Mang the braes of Balquhidder. Will ye go, lassie, go, To the braes o' Balquhidder, Where the blae berries grow, 'Mang the bonnie bloomin' heather ? TANNAHILL. Copied : Oct. 31, 1833. Sung at NAUSHON. FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. FILL the goblet again ! for I never before Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core : Let us drink ! who would not ? since, through life's varied round, In the goblet alone no deception is found. I have tried in its turn all that life can supply : I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; I have loved ! who has not ? but what heart can declare That pleasure existed while passion was there ? In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring, And dreams that affection can never take wing, I had friends ! who has not \ but what tongue will avow That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ? FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 53 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, Friendship shifts with the sunbeam, thou never canst change : Thou grow'st old, who does not ? but on earth what appears, Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow, Should a rival bow down to our idol below, We are jealous ! who 's not ? thou hast no such alloy ; For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. Then the season of youth and its vanities past, For refuge we fly to the goblet at last : There we find, do we not? in the flow of the soul, That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown, The age of our nectar shall gladden our own: We must die who shall not? May our sins be forgiven, And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. BYRON. Copied in 5 N., 20 W. ; thermometer, 85 ; calm; dead-ahead ; " Logan." CLEAR-SIGHTED, YET BLIND. His own merits perceiving, sure S through the land For acute penetration unrivalled would stand, Were it not this one blemish pre-eminence smothers, He is totally blind to the merits of others. ANONYMOUS. 54 DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG GIRL. DEATH OF MAJOE HOWARD. THEIR praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; Yet one I would select from that proud throng, Partly because they blend me with his line, And partly that I did his sire some wrong, And partly that bright names will hallow song ; And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along, Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard BYRON, Childe Harold. Copied at sea 48 S., 24 W. ; " Logan." ON THE DEATH OF 'A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG GIRL. 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, when hope has built a bower, Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, To dwell therein securely, the self-deceivers trust, A whirlwind from the desert comes, and " all is in the dust.'* T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, that when the poor heart clings With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings, That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast, Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. i 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss, With looks too bright arid beautiful for such a world as this : One moment round about us their angel lightnings play ; Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away. ON ENGLISH TRAVELLERS. 55 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their birth : The golden shell is broken, the silver chord is mute ; The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lute. T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with all that 's best below : The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go, The bird that sings the sweetest ; the vine that crowns the rock, The glory of the garden ; " the flower of the flock." 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair, Too finely framed to bide the brunt more earthly natures bear ; A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love, Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home above. ANONYMOUS, Connecticut Mirror. Copied : June 17, 1834, " Logan," off Cape ; gale of wind and rolling sea. ON ENGLISH TRAVELLERS. ON knottiest points with ease debate, Without one just thought on the matter ; With scarce the traveller's art to gaze, You ape the sages to distinguish ; And while dear England's laws you praise, You quite forget the laws of English. Even now, while freedom through the lands Sweeps gathering on, behold in all His might on Murray's counter stands And fires his popgun Captain Hall ! 'T is said when famed Alcides slew The Earth's dread, that slumber bound him. The hero woke, attacked anew, 56 ONE STILL LINGERED. And found the tribe of pygmies round him. So truth some mighty victory gains, And, lo ! the dwarfs rush out to seize him ! The giant crushed, there still remains, Some tribe of Hall's that can but tease him. But from the traveller now we turn One moment to address the reader. BULWER, The Twins. THE GEAVE. THE grave is but a calmer bed, Where mortals sleep a longer sleep, A shelter for the houseless head, A spot where wretches cease to weep. ANONYMOUS, Blackwood's Magazine. Copied : Jan 29, 1835. ONE STILL LINGERED. ONE still lingered, pale and last, By the lonely' gallery stair, As if his soul had passed, Vanished with some stately fair. Who the Knight, to few was known ; Who his Love, he ne'er would tell ; But his eyes were like thine own, But his heart was Oh, farewell ! ANONYMOUS, Blackwood's Magazine Copied in CHINA, Jan. 29, 1835. BEFORE JEHOVAH'S AWFUL THRONE. 57 BEFOEE JEHOVAH'S AWFUL THEONE, BEFORE Jehovah's awful throne, Ye nations, bow with sacred joy. Know that the Lord is God alone ; He can create, and he destroy. His sovereign power, without our aid, Made us of clay, and formed us men ; And when like wandering sheep we strayed, He brought us to his fold again. We '11 crowd thy gates with thankful songs, High as the heavens our voices raise ; And earth, with her ten thousand tongues, Shall fill thy courts with sounding praise. Wide as the world is thy command ; Vast as eternity thy love ; Firm as a rock thy truth shall stand, When rolling years shall cease to move. WATTS. Copied in CHINA, 1835. HOPE. CEASE every joy to glimmer on my, mind, But leave, oh, leave the light of hope behind ; What though my winged hours of bliss have been Like angel's visits, few and far between, Her musing mood shall every pang appease, And charm when pleasures lose the power to please. ANONYMOUS. Copied : CANTON, Jan. 1, 1836. 58 LOVE NOT! LOVE NOT! LOVE not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers, Things that are made to fade and fall away Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. Love not ! Love not ! the thing ye love may change ! The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange ; The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. Love not ! Love not ! the thing you love may die, May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky, Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. Love not ! Love not ! oh, warning vainly said In present hours as in years gone by : Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. Love not ! CAROLINE NORTON. THE BKAGGAKT. JOHN puffs himself ; forbear to chide : An insect vile and mean Must, well he knows, be magnified Before it can be seen. ANONYMOUS. THE BELL AT SEA. 59 COUNTY GUY. AH, County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea ; The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day, Sits hushed his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour ; But where is County Guy ? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear ; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings high-born cavalier. The star of love, all stars above, Now reigns o'er earth and sky, And high and low the influence know ; But where is County Guy ? SCOTT, Quentin Durward. Copied: MACAO, July 15, 1836. THE BELL AT SEA. WHEN the tide's billowy swell Had reached its height, Then pealed the rock's lone bell Slowly by night. Far over cliff and surge Swept the deep sound; Making each wild wind's dirge Still more profound. 60 WOOING-TIME. Yet that funereal tone The sailor blest, Steering through darkness on . With fearless breast. E'en thus may we that float On life's wide sea, Welcome each warning note, Stern though it be. HEMANS. Copied from Mrs. GORDON'S Music-book : MACAO, July 21, 1836. WOOING-TIME. Woo her when with rosy blush Summer eve is sinking, When on rills that softly gush Stars are softly winking, When through boughs that knit the bower Moonlight gleams are stealing ; Woo her till the gentle hour Wakes a gentler feeling. Woo her when the north wind calls At the lattice nightly, When within the cheerful hall Blaze the fagots brightly. While the wintry tempest round Sweeps the landscape hoary, Sweeter in her ear shall sound Love's delightful story. BRYANT. ISLE OF BEAUTY. 61 HOW GAYLY ROWS THE GONDOLIER How gayly rows the gondolier, When love and hope his light bark steer ! Cheerily the southern breeze he braves, And boldly stems the swelling waves. The gondolier, how light he rows When not a star its radiance throws ! 'T is time his swift bark on to urge Across the gently flowing surge. ANONYMOUS. ISLE OF BEAUTY. SHADES of evening, close not o'er us, Leave our lonely bark awhile ; Morn, alas ! will not restore us Yonder dim and distant isle. Still my fancy can discover Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; Darker shadows round us hover : Isle of beauty, fare thee well. 'T is the hour when happy faces Smile around the taper's light ; Who will fill our vacant places, , Who will sing our songs to-night ? 62 THE LIGHT BARK. Through the mist that floats above us Faintly sounds the vesper bell, Like a voice from those who love us, Breathing fondly, Fare thee well ! When the waves are round me breaking, As I pace the deck alone, And my eye in vain is seeking ,Some green leaf to rest upon, What would I not give to wander Where my old companions dwell ? Absence makes the heart grow fonder : Isle of beauty, fare thee well ! T. H. BAYLY. THE LIGHT BARK. " OFF," said the stranger, " off, off, and away ! " And away flew the light bark o'er the silvery bay. " We must reach ere to-morrow the far distant wave ; The billows we'll laugh at, the tempest we'll brave." The young roving lovers, their vows have been given ; Unsmiled on by mortals, but hallowed in heaven : She was Italy's daughter, I knew by her eye ; It wore the bright beam that illumines her sky. And she has forsaken her palace and halls For the chill breeze and the light which falls O'er the pure wave from the heavens above ; And their guiding star was the bright star of love. ANONYMOUS. GONDOLA. 63 GONDOLA. WHAT fairy-like music Steals over the sea, Entrancing our senses With charmed melody ! 'T is the voice of the mermaid, That floats o'er the main, As she mingles her song With the gondolier's strain. The winds are all hushed, And the water 's at rest ; They sleep like the passions In infancy's breast ! Till the storms shall unchain them From out their dark cave, And break the repose Of the soul and the wave. ANONYMOUS. Copied: MACAO, July 21, 1836. Mrs. LONG'S song. MORTAL CAN any mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment ? For such a sacred and home-felt delight, Such sober certainty of waking bliss, I never knew till now. MILTON, Comus. 64 LINES TO A LADY. LINES TO A LADY. THE leaf floats by upon the stream, \Jn heeded in its silent path ; The vision of the shadowy dream A similar remembrance hath. The cloud that floats across the moon Scarce brightens ere its hues are gone ; The mist that shrouds the lake, as soon Must vanish as the night hath flown. The dove hath cleft the pure blue sky ; No traces of his wing are there. The light hath dwelt in beauty's eye ; It was but now and now is, where ? The winds of night have passed the flower ; Hath morning found its gay leaf dim ? The bird hath sung by lady's bower ; To-morrow will she think of him ? But still the cloud may not forget The moon's serene but parting light ; The bird, the leaf, remember yet One that hath made their pathway bright. And I, though cold neglect be mine. My name to deep oblivion given, Will, while on earth, remember thine, And breathe it to my lyre in heaven. ANONYMOUS. Copied: ALBION, July 22, 1836. BRIDAL SERENADE. 65 BEIDAL SEKENADE. WILT thou not waken, Bride of May, While flowers are fresh and the sweet bells chime ? Listen and learn from my roundelay How all life's pilot-boats sailed one day A match with Time. Love sat on a lotus leaf afloat, And saw old Time in his loaded boat ; Slowly he crossed life's narrow tide, While Love sat clapping his wings and cried, " Who will pass Time ? " \ i Patience came first, but soon was gone With helm and sail to help Time on ; Care and Grief could not lend an oar, And Prudence said, while he stayed on shore, " I '11 wait for Time." Hope filled with flowers her oak-tree bark, And lighted its helm with a glowworm's spark ; Then Love, when he saw her bark fly fast, Said, " Lingering Time will soon be past ; Hope outspeeds Time." Wit went nearest old Time to pass, With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass ; A feathery dart from his store he drew, And shouted, while far and swift it flew, " Oh, Mirth kills Time." 66 THE MOURNER. But Time sent the feathery arrows back, Hope's boat of amaranths missed the track ; Then Love bade his butterfly pilots move, And laughingly said, ""They shall see how Love Can conquer Time." His gossamer sails he spread with speed ; But Time has wings when Time has need. Swiftly he crossed Life's sparkling tide, And only Memory stayed to chide, Unpityiug Time ! Wake and listen, thou Bride of May ! Listen and heed thy minstrel's rhyme. Still for the'e some bright hours stay ; For it was a hand like thine, they say, Gave wings to Time. ANONYMOUS. THE MOURNER SHE flung her white arms around him. " Thou art all That this poor heart can cling to ; yet I feel That I am rich in blessings, and the fear Of this most bitter moment still is mingled With a strange joy. Eeposing on thy heart, I hear the blasts of fortune sweeping by, As a babe lists to music, wondering, But not affrighted. In the darkest hour Thy smile is brightest ; and when I am wretched, Then am I most beloved. In hours like this The soul's resources rise, and all its strength THE HOUR OF DEATH. 67 Bounds into being ! I would rather live With all my faculties thus wakened round me, Of hopes and fears and joys and sympathies, A few short moments, even with every feeling Smarting from Fate's deep lash, than a long age, However calm and free from turbulence, Bereft of these most high capacities. Not vainly have I nursed them : for there is An impulse. even in suffering, and so pure Eise the eternal hopes, called by them anguish, Of a world-wearied spirit." Miss ROSCOE, of Liverpool. Copied : MACAO, July 22, 1836. THE HOUR OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set, but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth ! The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth and song and wine ; There comes a day of griefs o'er whelming power, - A time for softer tears, but all are thine. 68 THE HOUR OF DEATH. Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, And smile at thee, but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north- wind's breath, And stars to set, but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! We know when moons shall wane, When siimmer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hues shall tinge the golden grain, But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? They have one season, all are ours to die ! Thou art where billows foam, Thou art where music melts upon the air ; Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; And the world calls us forth, and thou art there. Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set, but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! MRS. HEMANS. Copied : CHINA, July 22, 1836. ALNWICK CASTLE. 69 ALNWICK CASTLE. EXTRACTS. GAZE on the Abbey's ruined pile ; Does not the succoring ivy, keeping Her watch around it, seein to smile, As o'er a loved one sleeping ? One solitary turret gray Still tells, in melancholy glory, The legend of the Cheviot day, The Percy's proudest border-story. That day its roof was triumph's arch ; Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, The light step of the soldier's march, The music of the trump and drum ; And babe and sire, the old, the young, And the monk's hymn and minstrel's song, And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, Welcomed her warrior home. Wild roses by the Abbey towers Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; They were born of a race of funeral flowers That garlanded, in long-gone hours, A templar's knightly tomb. He died, the sword in his mailed hand, On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath, When blood ran free as festal wine, And the sainted air of Palestine Was thick with the darts of death. 70 ALNWICK CASTLE. Wise with the lore of centuries, What tales, if there he " tongues iu trees," Those giant oaks could tell, Of beings born and buried here, Tales of the peasant and the peer, Tales of the bridal and the bier, The welcome and farewell, Since on their boughs the startled bird First, in her twilight slumbers, heard The Norman's curfew-bell. And noble name and cultured land, Palace, and park, and vassal band, Are powerless to the notes of hand Of Eothschild or the Barings. The age of bargaining, said Burke, Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk (Sleep, Kichard of the lion heart ! Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) Is England's friend and fast ally ; The Moslem tramples on the Greek, And on the Cross and altar-stone, And Christendom looks tamely on, And hears the Christian maiden shriek, And sees the Christian father die ; And not a sabre blow is given For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven, By Europe's craven chivalry. , You '11 ask if yet the Perby lives In the armed pomp of feudal state. HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 71 The present representatives Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" Are some half-dozen serving-men In the drab coat of William Penn ; A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, Spoke nature's aristocracy ; And one, half groom, half seneschal, Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, From donjon-keep to turret wall, For ten-and-sixpence sterling. HALLECK. HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? SAID TO HAVE BEEN SUNG BY GENERAL WOLFE THE EVENING BEFORE HE WAS KILLED AT QUEBEC. How stands the glass around ? For shame, ye take no care, my boys ! How stands the glass around ? Let mirth and wine abound. The trumpets sound, The colors they are flying, boys, To fight, kill, or wound : May we still be found Content with our hard fate, my boys, On the cold ground ! Why, soldiers, why Should we be -melancholy, boys ? Why, soldiers, why, Whose business 't is to die ? What I sighing ? fie ! 72 TO THE DIM AND GLOOMY SHORE. Don't fear : drink on : be jolly, boys ! 'T is he, you, or I ! Cold, hot, wet, or dry, We 're always bound to follow, boys, And scorn to fly ! Tis but in vain, I mean not to upbraid you, boys, 'Tis but in vain For soldiers to complain : Should next campaign Send us to Him who made us, boys We 're free from pain ; But if we remain, A bottle and a kind landlady Cure all again. ANONYMOUS, Old Song. Copied: Oct. 9, 1836. TO THE DIM AND GLOOMY SHOEE. To the dim and gloomy shore Thou art gone some steps before ; But thither the swift hours lead us ! If Love may in life be brief, In death it is fixed forever ! In the hall which our feasts illume, The flower for an hour may bloom ; But the cypress that decks the tomb, The cypress, is green forever. BULWER. Sent me by MADGE. Copied : Sunday, Oct. 9, 1836. THE CATHEDRAL. 73 THE CATHEDRAL. How loud amid these silent aisles My quiet footstep falls, Where words, like ancient chronicles, Are scattered on the walls. A thousand phantoms seem to rise Beneath my lightest tread, And echoes bring me back replies From homes that hold the dead. The loftiest passions and the least Lie sleeping side by side, And love hath reared its staff of rest Beside the grave of pride. Alike o'er each, alike o'er all, Their lone memorials wave ; The banner on the sculptured wall, The thistle o'er the grave, Each, herald-like, proclaims the style And bearings of the dead, But hangs one moral all the while Above each slumbering head. And the breeze, like an ancient bard, comes by, And touches the solemn chords Of the harp which death has hung on high ; And fancy weaves the words, Songs that have one unwearied tone, Though they sing of many an age, And tales to which each graven stone Is but a titlepage ! 74 TO MY YACHT. The warrior here hath sheathed his sword, The poet crushed his lyre, The miser left his counted hoard, The chemist quenched his fire. The maiden nevermore steals forth To hear her lover's lute, And all the trumpets of the earth In the soldier's ear are mute. The moonlight sits, with her sad, sweet smile, O'er the heedless painter's rest, And the organ rings through the vaulted aisle, But it stirs not the minstrel's breast. The mariner has no wish to roam / From his safe and silent shore, And the weeping in the mourner's home Is hushed forevermore ! ANONYMOUS. TO MY YACHT. AWAY, o'er the wave to the home we are seeking, Bark of my hope, ere the evening be gone ! There 's a wild, ,wild note in the curlew's shrieking ; There 's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan. Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea, And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, Are beating beside me merrily, Yet far in the west, where the day's faded roses, Touched by the moonbeam, are withering fast, Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes, Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past, THE WINSOME WEE THING. 75 There, where the ocean wave sparkles at meeting (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, On his dun, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh. Another hour, and the death-word is given, Another hour, and his lightnings are here ; Speed, speed thee, my bark, ere the breeze of even Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near. Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming In shadowy light, like a shooting star ; Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming, In a stranger land, of his fireside afar. And while memory lingers I '11 fondly believe thee A being with life and its best feelings warm, And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee, Blessed spirit, that bore me and mine from the storm. HALLECK, Fanny. MACAO, Feb. 22, 1836. Copied: CANTON, Oct. 9, 1836. THE WINSOME WEE THING. SHE is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine 1 I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer ; And neist my heart I '11 wear her, For fear my jewel tina 76 All, MR. B. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a lo'esome wee thing, This dear wee wife o' mine ! The warld's wrack we share o 't, The warstle and the care o't ; Wi' her I '11 blithely bear it, And think my lot divine. BURNS. Copied oil board ship " Lucouia," at sea, Jan. 1, 1837. AH, MR B. Am : " County Guy." ( Written on Mr. Tom Seal's keeping a large party waiting at Vachills, June, 1831.) AH, Mr. B., 'tis half -past three: The soup has left the fire, The salmon fish perfumes the dish ; We all begin to tire. The soles in state thy coming wait, And fragrant lies the eel ; Fish, soup, and plate confess 'tis late, But where is Monsieur Beal ? A half-hour 's sped, he 's surely dead, Or else he 'd send a chit ; I '11 bet you two to one he 's had An apoplectic fit. (lost!) What bell rings .at the gate ? " His ghost, his ghost ! " loud cries our host ; 'T is Monsieur Beal, though late. ANONYMOUS. Copied : Jan. 1, 1837. MY TENT ON SHORE, MY GALLEY ON THE SEA. HE THAT HATH SAILED. HE that hath sailed upon the dark blue sea Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight, When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be, The white sails set, the gallant vessel light, Masts, spars, and strand retiring to the right, The glorious main expanding on the bow. BYROX, Childe Harold. Copied during a vexatious calm, a contrast to the above, on board ship " Luco- nia," Jan. 1, 1837. MY TENT ON SHOEE, MY GALLEY ON THE SEA. So let them ease their hearts with prate Of equal rights, which men ne'er knew ; I have a love for freedom too. Ay ! let me, like the ocean patriarch, roam, Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! My tent on shore, my galley on the sea, Are more than cities and Serais to me. Borne by my steed or wafted by my sail, Across the desert or before the gale, Bound where thou wilt, my barb! or glide, my prow ! But be the star that guides the wanderer, Thou ! Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; The dove of peace and promise to mine ark ! 78 ADDRESS TO MY WASHERWOMAN. Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life ; The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; To thee be Selim's tender as thine own, To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, Blend every thought, do all, but disunite. BYRON, TJie Bride of Abydos. Copied : Jan. 1, 1837. ADDRESS TO MY WASHERWOMAN ON MISSING SOME FINE SHIRTS. FALSEST of womankind, canst thou declare All my nice plaited shirts vanished like air ? To thy new master hie, On him the same trick try ; Then ask thy pocket why No cash is there. ANONYMOUS. ' EXTRACT. WE believe that fate is less capricious than is imagined ; that nearly all men (though this is a singular assertion) have through life, in their several grades, the same average of opportunities. It is he who can seize and connect them, and by keen sight and ready experience calculate on their re-occurrence, for whom men have their applause and Fortune her garland. BULWER, Disovmed. THE LAST JOURNEY. 79 THE LAST JOUKNEY. The custom of an Egyptian funeral procession is to pause before the door of certain houses, sometimes receding a few steps for the dead to bid a last farewell to their friends and to effect a reconciliation with their enemies. SLOWLY with measured tread Onward we bear the dead To his lone home. Short grows the homeward road ; On with your mortal load, O grave, we come ! Yet, yet, ah ! hasten not Past each remembered spot Where he had been ; Where late he walked in glee, There from henceforth to be Nevermore seen. Eest ye, set down the bier ; One he loved dwelleth here : Let the dead lie A moment that door beside, Wont to fly open wide, Ere he drew nigh. Hearken ! he speaketh yet : " O friend, wilt thou forget (Friend more than brother) How hand in hand we 've gone, Heart with heart linked in one, All to each other ? 80 THE LAST JOURNEY. " friend, I go from thee, Where the worm feasteth free, Darkly to dwell ; Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? Friend ! is it come to this ? friend, farewell ! " Uplift your load again ; Take up the mourning strain, Pour the deep wail. Lo ! the expected one To his place passeth on ; Grave, bid him hail ! Yet, yet, ah ! slowly move ; Bear not the form we love Fast from our sight : Let the air breathe on him, And the sun beam on him Last looks of light. Here dwells his mortal foe ; Lay the departed low, Even at his gate : Will the dead speak again, Utt'ring proud boasts and vain, Last words of hate ? Lo ! the cold lips unclose ; List ! list ! what sounds are those, Plaintive and low ? " thou, mine enemy, Come forth and look on me Ere hence I go. MORTON SEEKING THE BLIND WIDOW. 81 " Curse not thy f oeman now ; Mark on his pallid brow Whose seal is set. Pardoning, I pass away ; Then wage not war with clay, Pardon, forget!" Now all his labor 's done, Now, now the goal is won, O grave, we come ! , Seal up this precious dust, Land of the good and just ! Take the soul home. MRS. SOUTHEY. Copied : three days from ST. HELENA, Feb. 12, 1837. T is o'er, he sleeps ; the sea-bird and the surge, The tempest breezes, swell his only dirge. ANONYMOUS. MORTON SEEKING THE BLIND WIDOW. THE track of the road followed the course of the brook, which was now visible and now only to be distinguished by the brawl- ing heard among the stones, or in the clefts of the rock that occasionally interrupted its course. " Murmurer that thou art," said Morton, in the enthusiasm of his reverie, " why chafe with the rocks that stop thy course for a moment ? There is a sea to receive thee in its bosom, and an eternity for man when his fretful and hasty course through the vale of time shall be ceased and over. What thy petty fuming is to the deep and vast billows of a shoreless ocean are our cares, hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows, to the objects which most occupy us through the awful and boundless succession of ages." SCOTT, Old Mortality. 82 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. SOUND, SOUND THE CLARION. SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name. ANONYMOUS, Old Mortality. Copied : Sunday, Feb. 19, 1837, 5 S. ROB ROY'S GRAVE. A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, The English ballad-singer's joy ! And Scotland has a thief as good, An outlaw of as daring mood : She has her brave Rob Roy. Say, then, that he was wise as brave, As wise in thought, as bold in deed ; For in the principle of things He sought his moral creed. Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? Burn all the statutes and their shelves : They stir us up against our kind, And worse, against ourselves. " We have a passion, make a law, Too false to guide us or control ; And for the law itself we fight In bitterness of soul. ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 83 " And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose Distinctions that are plain and few : These find I graven on my heart ; That tells me what to do. " The creatures see of flood and field, And those that travel on the wind ! With them no strife can last : they live In peace, and peace of mind. " For why ? because the good old rule Sufficeth them, the simple plan, That they should take, who have the power, And they should keep, who can. " A lesson which is quickly learned, A signal this which all can see ! Thus nothing here provokes the strong To wanton cruelty. " All freakishness of mind is checked ; He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; While to the measure of his might Each fashions his desires. " All kinds and creatures stand and fall By strength of prowess or of wit : 'T is God's appointment who must sway And who is to submit. " Since then, the rule of right is plain, And longest life is but a day ; To have my ends, maintain my rights, I '11 take the shortest way." 84 "MERRY ENGLAND." And thus among the rocks he lived, Through summer's heat and winter's snow : The eagle, he was lord above, And Eob was lord below. WORDSWORTH. Copied at sea : Sunday, March 5, 1837 ; N. E. Trade ; 13 N., 42 W. "MERRY ENGLAND." " MERRY England ! " what picture do these simple words recall ! Hamlets resting in the shelter of the old ancestral hall ; Tower and spire, and park and palace, halls whose hospitable door Never yet repelled the weary, never closed against the poor. Bands of yeomen, brave and loyal ; nobles, courteous, frank, and free ; Fearless rulers, firmly blending gentleness with dignity ; Peaceful days, when old Religion, like a silver-circling band, Clasped alike round prince and peasant, bound in one accord the land. In their pew beside their household, Squire and Lady duly seen ; Blithesome looks at fair and market, lightsome dance on village green; Winter nights, where kindly neighbors passed the harmless jest or tale, While the fagot's cheerful crackle thawed the old October ale. Ruddy children daily whooping underneath the ancient oak, Hoary woods around them ringing to their father's stalwart stroke ; "MERRY ENGLAND." 85 Sunny slopes, where busy sickles sparkled through the golden grain ; And from darkening lanes at evening, sportive laugh of maid or swain. Still the land is fair as ever ; still the sun's departing glow Lies as bright on spire and turret, lingering there as loath to go: But the sunshine of the spirit, trusting heart, and open brow, Whither have they all departed ? " Merry England," where art thou ? i See, through yonder blazing city, riot, blood, and plunder rave ; Europe's savior scarce escaping death from those he fought to save; Startled streets, whose mournful echoes render back the bat- tle's din ; Flying crowds, and charging horsemen ! Peace abroad, but war within. Where the faith that with a glory wreathed the monarch's sacred crown ? Where the ties that linked the lowly with the loftiest peer's renown ? Where the reverence, deep and holy, which on lawn and ermine saw God's own stamp, and in their wearers, loved religion, feared the law ? Altars spurned and thrones insulted, order scoffed at, laws defied ; Factious subjects, dastard rulers, shifting with the shifting tide, 86 MATERNAL AFFECTION. Doubtful present, darker future! Anxious heart and clouded brow, These are now thy altered features, mournful England, such ANONYMOUS, Blackwood's Magazine. Copied from the "Boston Patriot," Sunday, March 12, 1837. EPITAPH ON NAPOLEON'S TOMB AT ST. HELENA. IN IMITATION OF BOMBASTES. HEEE lies Boney, stout of heart and limb, Who conquered all but Welly, Welly, him ! ANONYMOUS. MATERNAL AFFECTION. THERE is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood, that softens the heart and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness, in despondency, who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought of the mother that looked on his childhood, that smoothed his pillow and administered to his helplessness ? Oh, there is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all the affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience. She will glory in his fame, and exult in his pros- perity. If adversity overtake him, he will be dearer to her by misfortune; if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world cast him off, she will be all the world to him. Copied: Sunday, March 19, 1837; 28 K, 62" W. THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 87 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. CLANG, clang, the massive anvils ring ; Clang, clang, a hundred hammers swing, Like the thunder rattle of a tropic sky ; The mighty blows still multiply, Clang, clang. Say, brothers of the dusky brow, What are your strong arms forging now ? Clang, clang we forge the coulter now, The coulter of the kindly plough : Sweet Mary Mother, bless our toil ; May its broad furrow still unbind To genial rains, to sun and wind, The most benignant soil. Clang, clang our coulter's course shall be On many a sweet and sheltered lea, By many a streamlet's silver tide, Amidst the song of morning birds, Amidst the low of sauntering herds, Amidst soft breezes which do stray Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, Along the green hill's side. When regal autumn's bounteous hand With widespread glory clothes the land, When to the valleys, from the brow Of each resplendent slope, is rolled A ruddy sea of living gold, We bless, we bless THE PLOUGH. THE SONG OF THE FORGE. Clang, clang again, my mates, what glows Beneath the hammers' potent blows ? Clang, clang we forge the giant chain, Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; Secured by this, the good ship braves The rocky roadstead, and the waves Which thunder on her sides. Anxious no more, the merchant sees The mist drive dark before the breeze, The storm cloud 6n the hill ; Calmly he rests, though far away In boisterous climes his vessels lay, Reliant on our skill. Say, on what sands these links shall sleep, Fathoms beneath the solemn deep, By A flic's pestilential shore ; By many an iceberg, lone and hoar ; By many a palmy western isle, Basking in Spring's perpetual smile ; By stormy Labrador. Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, The crashing broadside make reply ; Or else, as at the glorious Nile, Hold grappling ships that strive the while For death or victory ? Hurrah clang, clang once more, what glows, Hark ! brothers of the forge, beneath The iron tempest of your blows, The furnace's red breath ? THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 89 Clang, clang a burning shower, clear And brilliant, of bright sparks, poured Around and up in the dusky air, As our hammers forge the SWORD. The sword ! extreme of dread ; yet when Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound, While for his altar and his hearth, While for his land that gave him birth, The war drums roll, the trumpets sound, How sacred is it then ! Whenever for the truth and right It flashes in the van of fight, Whether in some wild mountain pass, As that where fell Leonidas ; Or on some sterile plain and stern, A Marston, or a Bannockburn ; Or amidst crags and bursting rills, The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; Or, as when sunk the Armada's pride, It gleams above the stormy tide, Still, still, whene'er the battle word Is Liberty, where men do stand For justice and their native land, Then Heaven bless THE SWORD t ANONYMOUS, Calcutta Quarterly Magazine and Review. Copied: Sunday, March 19, 1837. 90 LINES IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION. LINES IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION. I 'LL tell thee why this weary world rneseemeth But as the visions light of one who dreameth, Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace behind ; Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly, In me awakes no melancholy, Nor leaveth shade or sadness o'er my mind. 'T is not that with an undiscerning eye I see the pageant wild go dancing by, Mistaking that which falsest is for true ; 'T is not that pleasure hath entwined me, 'T is not that sorrow hath enshrined me, I bear no badge of roses or of rue, But in the inmost chambers of my soul There is another world, a blessed home, O'er which no living power holdeth control, Anigh to which ill things do never come. There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought, With hope and faith holding communion high, Over a fragrant land, with flowers y-wrought, Where gush the living springs of poesy. There speak the voices that I love to hear, There smile the glances that I love to see, There live the forms of those my soul holds dear, Forever in that secret world with me. They who have walked with me along life's way, And severed been by fortune's adverse tide, Who ne'er again through time's uncertain day, In weal or woe, may wander by my side, NOW. 91 These all dwell here ; nor those whom life alone Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead, " Those weary ones who to their rest are gone, Whose footprints from the earth have vanished, Here dwell they all : and here within this world, Like light within a summer sun-cloud furled, My spirit dwells ; therefore this evil life, With all its gilded snares and fair deceivings, Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings, Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife. thou ! who readest of thy courtesy, Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee. MRS. KEMBLE. Copied : Sunday, March 26, 1837, on board the. " Luconia," edge of the Gulf, sixty miles from " the Cape of Storms," HATTERAS. S. P. C. NOW. EISE ! for the day is passing, And you lie dreaming on ; The others have buckled their armor, And forth to the fight are gone : A place in the ranks awaits you, Each man has some part to play ; The past and the future are nothing In the face of the stern to-day. Kise from your dreams of the future, Of gaining some hard-fought field ; Of storming some airy fortress, Or bidding some giant yield. 92 ONE BY ONE. Your future has deeds of glory, Of honor (God grant it may) ; But your arm will never be stronger, Or the need so great as to-day.- Else ! if the past detains you, Her sunshine and storms forget ; No chains so unworthy to hold you As those of a vain regret : Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever ; Cast her phantom arms away, Nor look back save to learn the lesson Of a nobler strife to-day. Eise ! for the day is passing. The sound that you scarcely hear Is the enemy marching to battle ; Arise, for the foe is here. Stay not to sharpen your weapons, Or the hour will strike at last, When from dreams of a coming battle You may wake to find it past. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. Copied from a newspaper, NAUSHON, Aug. 5, 1857. Distributed widely as a recruiting-song during the Rebellion. ONE BY ONE. ONE by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall ; Some are coming, some are going ; Do not strive to grasp them all. ONE BY ONE. 93 One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each ; Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach. One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below ; Take them readily when given, Ready too to let them go. One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do 'not fear an armed band ; One will fade as others greet thee, Shadows passing through the land. Do not look at life's long sorrow, See how small each moment's pain ; God will help thee for to-morrow, So each day begin again. Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear ; Luminous the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care. Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond, Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven ; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done. ADELAIDE A. PROCTER. Copied from a newspaper, NAUSHOX, Aug. 5, 1857. 94 TO THE FIRST OF THE SERAPHIM, DEA TH. TO THE FIRST OF THE SEEAPHIM, DEATH. STAKS, radiant stars, Ye that troop forth in your diamond cars, Who shall declare What bright things bless your dwelling fair ? "Tis I; 'tis!." Ssraph, dost thou deign reply ? Yes, I know the tones of that voice entrancing, And I turn to meet Its whispering sweet, And to catch, if it may be, thy balmy breath, And to bask in the light from thy clear eyes glancing ; For the voice is thine, Thou spirit of essence the most divine, Guide to the better land, benignant Death. Flowers, gem-like flowers, Ye light earth's else benighted bowers ; But who shall tell the charm that in your deep cups dwell ? "'Tis I; 'tis!" Comes on the zephyr the prompt reply. But, violet, 't is not thy perfumed sigh, And 't is not, rose, thy fragrant breath ; But thine, oh, thine, Thou spirit of essence the most divine, Best friend. and fairest hope, benignant Death. Moon, spectral moon, Gliding through pale night's haunted noon, Who shall withdraw the veil That shrouds thy being's law ? TO THE FIRST OF THE SERAPHIM, DEATH, 95 " This hand, this hand." Again, again those accents bland, But 't is not the music of worshipping spheres That comes to bless thy votary's ears, And 't is not the voice of a sinking star, Pouring in praise its latest breath, But a voice of import dearer far, Thine, yes, thine, Thou spirit of essence the most divine, Best friend, and fairest hope, benignant Death. Waves, glittering waves, Ye that lie soft o'er a myriad graves, How shall I know What ye conceal in your depths below ? " Through me, through me," In music floats o'er the sounding sea ; But 't is not thou, Bright southland breeze, that art whispering now, Not thou that through the bosom stealing Wakest the troubled depths of feeling, 'T is a warmer, a purer, a dearer breath, Thine, yes, thine, Thou spirit of essence the most divine, Guide to the better land, serenest Death. MRS. FOSTER. Written in ROME by a friend of Mrs. AMES, one of Mrs. FOLLEN'S English friends, and sent by her to Mrs. FOLLEN. Copied: Sept. 28, 1837. 96 THE RIVER. WHAT STEANGE, DEEP SECEET. WHAT strange, deep secret dost thou hold, Death, To hallow all thou claimest for thine own ? That which the open book could never teach The closed one whispers ; so we stand alone By one how more alone than we ! And strive to comprehend the passion of that peace. In vain our thoughts would wind within The heart of that great mystery of release, Baptism of death, which steepest infant years In grace of calm that saints might hope to win, And sets again the seal of childhood there. Our line of life in vain would sound thy sea ; Yet what we seek to know, we soon shall be ! ANONYMOUS. Copied: September, 1837. THE EIVEE. EIVER, river, little river, Bright you sparkle on your way, O'er the yellow pebbles dancing, Through the flowers and foliage glancing, Like a child at play. Eiver, river, swelling river, On you rush o'er rough and smooth ; Louder, faster, brawling, leaping Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, Like impetuous youth. THE DEAD DOG. 97 River, river, brimming river, Broad and deep and still as time, Seeming still, yet still in motion, Tending onward to the ocean, Just like mortal prime. River, river, rapid river, Swifter now you slip away ; Swift and silent as an arrow, Through a channel dark and narrow, Like life's closing day. River, river, headlong river, Down you dash into the sea, Sea that line hath never sounded, Sea that voyage hath never rounded, Like eternity. MBS. SOUTHET. Copied : MILTON, Aug. 10, 1860. THE DEAD DOO. "Poor dog, he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And never forsook me, for all I was poor ; But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day, And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray." CAMPBELL. UP, spaniel, the hunter is winding his horn In the green-wood ; the winged echoes float 'Mid the bright-bannered clouds like the heralds of morn : Hear'st thou not the wild choir, hear'st thou not ? Oh, it was not thy wont with the sluggard to lie When the dingles were voiced with the shrill hunting-cry. 7 98 THE DEAD DOG. Up, spaniel, the sunbeam hath stolen on thy lair With 'a smile that rebuketh thy sleep, The west wind is lifting thy shining brown hair, Yet thy slumber is changeless and deep ;' Can the sunbeam not kindle thine eye as of old With delight, that its glance is so dreamless and cold ? The west wind, oh, list to the spell which it brings From the hills and the green forest bowers, Where the wood birds sit laving their beautiful wings In the dew-drops that fill the wild flowers, And the sun-bee's glad roundelay bids thee rejoice : Up, up, honest heart, with thy welcoming voice ! You stir not ; but I have a charm beyond all That the shrill hunting clarion could be, Or the soft sunny smiles on thy bright locks that fall, Or the wind's wizard numbers to thee, Or the wood-pigeon's murmurs, the bee's madrigals : Up, Roswall, 't is she whom thou lovest that calls. 'T is she whom thou lovest, her voice was a spell That no slumber was wont to disown, And thy heart went as free as some blithe marriage bell, When her grateful caresses were won ; But now oh, what change has come over that heart When her gentlest caress can no pleasure Impart ! There 's a step on the threshold, the stranger is come ; Thou art stretched his dull shadow beneath. He has spoke ; but thy quick, ringing challenge is dumb, For the sentinel's slumber is death. No larum can rouse thee ; no joy of the past Can give light to thy sleeping, the longest and last. -EPITAPH ON A SLAVE. 99 But the merry green leaves of the spring-time shall wave Like some bonny bird's wings o'er thy bones, And the stars and the sunlight will brood o'er thy grave With a smile that had gladdened thee once ; But the pencil of memory with holier part Hath engraven thine epitaph deep on my heart. A. L. PICKERING, Spirit of the Times, May 13, 1840. EPITAPH ON A SLAVE IN OLD "BURIAL HILL, CONCORD, MASS. HEKE lies the body of JOHN JACK, A native of Africa, Who died March 20th, 1773, Aged about sixty years. God wills us free ; Man wills us slaves. I will as God wills ; God's will be done. Though born in a land of slavery, He was born free ; Though he lived in a land of freedom, He lived a slave, Till by his honest, though stolen labors He earned the source of slavery, Which gave him his freedom, Though not long before death, The great tyrant, Gave him his final emancipation, 100 WHY? And placed him on a footing with kings. Though a slave to vice, He practised those virtues Without which kings are but slaves. Supposed to have been written by Parson BLISS, of CONCORD. WHY? ANSWER TO THE QUESTION WHY I WISH TO RETURN TO NEW ENGLAND. You wonder why I still would seek To quit this land of yours, And count with sorrow every week My pilgrimage endures. You wonder 1 should wish to fly, And leave such scenes behind ; But if I pass their beauties by, Oh, think not I am blind ! There is the beauty for the eye, Another for the mind. Your skies may wear a deeper hue, Your woods a richer green, And brighter spring-flowers bloom for you, Than I have ever seen ; But in our rugged land to me There is a moral scenery, A sense of what hath been, That makes its homeliness more dear Than all the beauty that is here ; For there affection's silken chain First linked me to the earth, There have I wept in bitterest pain, And laughed in lightest mirth. THE LATE DEPUTATION TO PARIS. 101 There is my oivn, own home. And where I first beheld the day, Still let me tread my shaded way ; And when the Angel comes, And the stern mandate bids me die, Though sorrow closed the lifted eye, Yet it were joy to know, That when my ashes sleep below, New England's flower will o'er me blow, Above me drift New England snow, And bend her azure sky. JAMES H. PERKINS. THE LATE DEPUTATION TO PARIS. "THE MERCHANT PRINCE." THE Merchant Prince of England, What a glorious name he bears ! No minstrel tongue has ever sung The deeds the hero dares. Enlist that soldier in your Cause, No dangers bar his way, But gallantly he draws his check, If the Cause will only pay. Where Freedom waves her banners, He stands, her champion bold ; The noble English Merchant Prince For her unlocks his gold ; For her the Prince's glowing pulse With generous ardor thrills, If only sure that Freedom Will duly meet her bills. 102 THE LATE DEPUTATION TO PARIS. When scarce the gory bayonet Upholds the Despot's throne, The Merchant Prince, all chivalry, Springs forward with a loan ; And vain a nation's cry to scare That dauntless friend in need, Provided only that the loan Is safely guaranteed. See where a sovereign's crown rewards A venturous Parvenu, Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss His royal brother's shoe. For trampled law, for broken vow, No doit his Princeship cares, If that salute can raise, an eighth, His gain on railway shares. You, 'Christian of the slop-shop, And you, usurious Jew, Assert your royal blood, for both , Are Merchant Princes too. One common creed unites you, Devout professors of it, " There 's but one Allah, Mammon, And Cent per Cent 's his profit." What ! blame some petty huckster That his vote is bought and sold ; What ! chide some wretched juryman That he blinked at guilt, for gold ; What ! whip some crouching mendicant, Who fawned that he might eat With the Merchant Prince of England At the Third Napoleon's feet ? ANONYMOUS, Punch. THE FIRE-FIEND. 103 THE FIRE-FIEND. A NIGHTMARE. IN the deepest death of midnight, while the sad and solemn swell Still was floating, faintly echoed from the forest chapel bell, Faintly, falteringly floating o'er the sable waves of air That were through the midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with the tolling, In my chamber I lay dreaming by the firelight's fitful gleaming, And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore- doomed to care. On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak, Seemed to gibe and grin this phantom, when in terror I awoke. Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy pall of Fear, I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear, Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep, Muttering, "Higher! higher ! higher! I am Demon of the Fire; I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire, and each blazing roof 's my pyre, And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims weep." Through my ivy-fretted casements filtered in a tremulous note From the tall and stately linden, where a robin swelled his throat, Querulous, Quaker-breasted robin, calling quaintly for his mate ! Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber, nightmare- ridden, With the memory of that fire-demon in my central fire, On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a fate ! 104 THERE WAS A LISTENING FEAR. Ah ! the fiendish fire had smouldered to a white and formless heap, And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep ; But around its very centre, where the demon face had shone, Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral finger To a Bible, massive, golden, on a tahle carved and olden, And I bowed and said, " All power is of God, of God alone." POE. We' heard EDGAR A. POE recite " The Raven " at Mr. RODERICK SEDGWICK'S, NEW YORK, with great effect ; but we prefer this specimen to the later one. I'LL HASTE TO QUAFF MY WINE. ANACREONTIC. TO-DAY I '11 haste to quaff my wine, As if to-morrow ne'er should shine ; But if to-morrow comes, why, then, 1 11 haste to quaff my wine again. For Death may come with brow unpleasant, May come when least we wish him present, And beckon to the sable shore, And grimly bid us drink no more ! ANONYMOUS. THEEE WAS A LISTENING FEAR. THERE was a listening fear in her regard', As if calamity had but begun ; As if the vanward cloud of evil days Had spent their malice, and the sullen roar Was with its stored thunder laboring up. C. F. F. MILTON HILL. SENT TO HEAVEN. 105 W. M. HUNT'S FRENCH SONG. DEKRIERE chez vous il y a ,Jrim vert bocage Ou lea rossignol^t y chantait tous les jours, Et la il dit son charmant langage, " Les Amoureux sont malheureux toujours, Les Amoureux sont malheureux toujours." La nos detix noms sont ecrits sur un frene, La sur un frene nos deux noms sont graves ; Temps a efface nos noms sur le frene, Mais dans nos coeurs temps les a conserves, Mais dans nos creurs temps les a conserves. ANONYMOUS. SENT TO HEAVEN. I HAD a message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best ; But I had my task to finish, And she had gone home to rest, To rest in the far bright heaven, Oh, so far away from here ! It was vain to speak to my darling, For I knew she could not hear. I had a message to send her, So tender and true and sweet ; I longed for an angel to bear it, And lay it down at her feet. 106 SENT TO HEAVEN. I placed it one summer evening On a little white cloud's breast; But it -faded in golden splendor, And died in the crimson west. I gave it the lark, next morning, And I watched it soar and soar ; But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more. To the heart of a rose I told it ; And the perfume, sweet and rare, Growing faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air. I laid it upon a censer, And I saw the incense rise ; But its clouds of rolling silver Could not reach the far blue skies. I cried in my passionate longing : " Has the earth no angel friend Who will carry my love the message That my heart desires to send ? " Then I heard a strain of music, So mighty, so pure, so clear, That my very sorrow was silent, And my heart stood still to hear. And I felt in my soul's deep yearning At last the sure answer stir, " The music will go up to heaven, And carry my thought to her." SHALL WE EVER MEET AGAIN? 107 It rose in harmonious rushing Of mingled voices and strings, And I tenderly laid my message On the music's outspread wings. I heard it float further and further, In sound more perfect than speech ; Further than sight can follow, Further than soul can reach. And I know that at last my message Has passed through the golden gate ; So my heart is no longer restless, And I am content to wait. A. A. P., Cornhill Magazine. SHALL WE EVER MEET AGAIN? SHALL we ever meet again In the woodland by the sea ? Will the moment bringing pain To the heart and to the brain, Come again to thee and me ? Shall we hear again the moaning Of the ocean to the shore, Like the ever low intoning Of a celebrant, Lenore ? Shall we ever meet again ? Ah me, that Joy should borrow A thorn to wound the heart From the pale red rose of Sorrow ! Adieu ! for we must part. 108 THE STORM. We may never meet again In tb.e woodland by the sea ; But the song and the refrain Which we sang beside the main Will be ever dear to me. There is no sun that shineth But hath its spot of shade;' The brightest day declineth, And sweetest roses fade. We may never meet again. Ah me, that Love should borrow A thorn to wound the heart From the pale-red rose of Sorrow ! Adieu ! for we must part. EDWARD CAPERN. THE STOEM. CEASE, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! List, ye landsmen all, to me ; Messmates, hear a brother sailor Sing the dangers of the sea : From bounding billows, first in motion, When the distant whirlwinds rise, To the tempest-troubled ocean, Where the seas contend with skies. Hark ! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, By topsail sheets and haulyards stand ! Down top-gallants quick be hauling ! Down your staysails, hand, boys, hand ! Now it freshens, set the braces, The lee topsail-sheets let go : Luff, boys, luff ! don't make wry faces, Up your topsails nimbly clew. THE STORM. 109 The topsail-yards point to the wind, boys, See all clear to reef each course ; Let the foresheet go, don't mind, boys, Though the weather should prove worse. Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get, Eeef the mizzen, see all clear ; Hands up, each preventer-brace set ! Man the fore-yards ! Cheer, lads, cheer ! Now the dreadful thunder roaring, ' Peal on peal contending clash, On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, In our eyes blue lightnings flash. One wide water all around us, All above us one black sky ; Different deaths at once surround us, Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? The foremast 's gone ! cries every tongue out, O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck : A leak beneath the chest-tree 's sprung out, Call all hands to clear the wreck. Quick ! the lanyards cut to pieces : Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ! Plumb the well, the leak increases, Four feet water in the hold ! While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, We our wives and children mourn : Alas ! from hence there 's no retreating ; Alas ! from hence there 's no return. Still the leak is gaining on us, Both chain-pumps are choked below ; Heaven have mercy here upon us ! For only that can save us now. / 110 DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys ! Let the guns o'er board be thrown : -To the pump come every hand, boys ! See, our mizzen-mast is gone ! The leak we Ve found, it cannot pour fast : We Ve lightened her a foot or more ; Up and rig a jury foremast, She rights ! she rights, boys ! we 're off shore ! G. A. STEVENS. Sung by Dr. JOHN JENNISON on the " Lintin." DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted from its course that the body might be interred. WHEN I am dead, no pageant train Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, Nor worthless pomp of homage vain Stain it with hypocritic tear ; For I will die as I did live, Nor take the boon I cannot give. Ye shall not raise a marble bust Upon the spot where I repose ; Ye shall not fawn before my dust, In hollow circumstance of woes : Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, Insult the clay that moulds beneath. Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, Your monuments upon my breast, Nor yet within the common soil Lay down the wreck of power to rest, DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. Ill Where man can boast that he has trod On him that was " the scourge of God." But ye the mountain stream shall turn, And lay its secret channel bare, And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, A resting-place forever there : Then bid its everlasting springs Flow back upon the King of Kings ; And never be the secret said, Until the deep give up his dead. My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods that gave them birth, The captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth ; For, e'en though dead, will I control The trophies of a capitol. But when beneath the mountain tide Ye 've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look, And now that I have run my race, The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep, And from the northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep, And where I went the spot was cursed ; Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been. 112 DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. See how their haughty barriers fail Beneath the terror of the Goth ; Their iron-breasted legions quail Before my ruthless sabaoth ; And low the queen of empires kneels, And grovels at my chariot wheels. Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal car; 'T was God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war, To shake abroad, with iron hand, The appointed scourge of his command. With iron hand that scourge I reared O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; Destruction was the ship I steered, And vengeance sat upon the helm, When, launched in fury on the flood, I ploughed my way through seas of blood, And in the stream their hearts had spilt Washed out the long arrears of guilt. Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Csesars shrieked for help In vain within their seven-hilled towers I quenched in blood the brightest gem That glittered in their diadem, And struck a darker, deeper dye In the purple of their majesty, And bade my northern banners shine Upon the conquered Palatine. My course is run, my errand done : I go to him from whom' I came ; THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 113 But never yet shall set the sun Of glory that adorns my name ; And Koman hearts shall long be sick, When men shall think of Alaric. My course is run, my errand done : But darker ministers of fate, Impatient round the eternal throne And in the caves of vengeance, wait ; And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila. EDWARD EVERETT. THE AMERICAN EAGLE. THERE 's a fierce gray bird, with a bending beak, With an angry eye, and a startling shriek, That nurses her brood where the cliff flowers blow, On the precipice top, in perpetual snow ; That sits where the air is shrill and bleak, On the splintered point of a shivered peak, Bald-headed and stripped, like a vulture torn In wind and strife, her feathers worn, And ruffled and stained, while loose and bright Eound her serpent neck, that is writhing and bare, Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair, Like the crest of a warrior, thinned in fight, And shorn, and bristling : see her, where She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air, With wing half poised, and talons bleeding, And kindling eye, as if her prey Had suddenly been snatched away, While she was tearing it and feeding. 8 114 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. Above the dark torrent, above the bright stream, The voice may be heard Of the Thunderer's bird Calling out to her God in a clear, wild scream, As she mounts to his throne and unfolds in his beam ; While her young are laid out in his rich, red blaze, And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays. Proud bird of the cliff, where the barren yew springs, Where the sunshine stays, and the wind-harp sings, She sits, unapproachable, pluming her wings. She screams, she 's away, over hill-top and flood, Over valley and rock, over mountain and wood, That bird is abroad in the van of her brood. 'T is the bird of our banner, the free bird that braves, When the battle is there, all the wrath of the waves ; That dips her pinions in the sun's first gush ; Drinks his meridian blaze, his farewell flush ; Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak, Like the slipped falcon, when her piercing shriek Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing, To drink at some new victim's clear, red spring. That monarch bird, she slumbers in the night Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height ; Or sleeps upon the wing, amid the ray Of steady, cloudless, everlasting day ; Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march, And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch ; Soars wheeling through the storm, and screams away, Where the young pinions of the morning play ; Broods with her arrows in the hurricane ; Bears her green laurel o'er the starry plain, And sails around the skies and o'er the rolling deeps, With still unwearied wing, and eye that never sleeps. NEAL. NEW ENGLAND. 115 NEW ENGLAND. HAIL to the land whereon we tread, Our fondest boast ! The sepulchre of mighty dead, The truest hearts that ever bled, Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, A fearless host : No slave is here ; our unchained feet Walk freely as the waves that beat Our coast. There is no other land like thee, No dearer shore : Thou art the shelter of the free ; The home, the port of liberty, Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, Till time is o'er. Ere I forget to think upon My land, shall mother curse the son She bore. Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, On which we rest ; And, rising from thy hardy stock, Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, And slavery's galling chains unlock, And free the oppressed : All who the wreath of freedom twine Beneath the shadow of their vine, Are blessed. PERCIVAL. 116 ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S EXHIBITION. AND tliou hast walked about (how strange a story !) In Thebes' s streets three thousand years ago, When the Memnonium was in all its glory, And time had not begun to overthrow Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, Of which the very ruins are tremendous. Speak, for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; Thou hast a tongue, come, let us hear its tune : Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy, Revisiting the glimpses of the moon, Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures, But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect Of either Pyramid that bears his name ? Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade, Then say what secret melody was hidden In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles Are vain, Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles. ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY. 117 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass ; Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, A torch at the great temple's dedication. I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed, Has any Eoman soldier mauled and knuckled ; For tliou wert dead and buried and embalmed Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled : Antiquity appears to have begun Long after thy primeval race was run. Since first thy form was in this box extended, We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations : The Roman Empire has begun and ended ; New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations, And countless kings have into dust been humbled, While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head When the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, O'erthrew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, And shook the Pyramids with fear and wonder, When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder ? If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed, The nature of thy private life unfold : A heart has throbbed beneath that leathern breast, And tears adown that dusky cheek have rolled ; Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? What was thy name and station, age and race ? 118 THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG. Statue of flesh, immortal of the dead ! Imperishable type of evanescence ! Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, And standest undecayed within our presence ! Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. Why should this worthless tegument endure, If its undying guest be lost forever ? Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure In living virtue, that when both must sever, Although corruption may our frame consume, The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. HORACE SMITH, London New Monthly Magazine, THE GEEEK EMIGEANT'S SONG. Now launch the boat upon the wave ; The wind is blowing off the shore. I will not live, a cowering slave, In these polluted islands more ; Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea There is a better home for me. The wind is blowing off the shore, And out to sea the streamers fly. My music is the dashing roar, My canopy the stainless sky ; It bends above, so fair a blue, That heaven seems opening to my view. THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG. 119 I will not live a cowering slave, Though all the charms of life may shine Around me, and the land, the wave, And sky be drawn in tints divine: Give lowering skies and rocks to me, If there my spirit can be free. Sweeter than spicy gales that blow From orange groves with wooing breath, The winds may from these islands flow ; But 't is an atmosphere of death, The lotus which transformed the brave And haughty to a willing slave. Softer than Minder's winding stream, The wave may ripple on this coast, And, brighter than the morning beam, In golden swell be round it tost : Give me a rude and stormy shore, So power can never threat me more. Brighter than all the tales they tell Of Eastern pomp and pageantry, Our sunset skies in glory swell, Hung round with glowing tapestry ; The horrors of a whiter storm Swell brighter o'er a freeman's form. The Spring may here with Autumn twine, And both combined may rule the year, And fresh-blown flowers and racy wine In frosted clusters still be near : Dearer the wild and snowy hills Where hale and ruddy Freedom smiles. 120 WHAT IS PRAYER? Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea, And ocean's stormy vastness o'er, There is a better home for me, A welcomer and dearer shore ; ' There hands and hearts and souls are twined, And free the man, and free the mind. PERCIVAL. WHAT IS PRAYER? PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed ; The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast. Prayer is the burden of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward glancing of the eye, When none but God is near. Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try ; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The Majesty on high. Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways, While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry, " Behold, he prays ! " Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air; His watchword at the gates of death : He enters heaven with prayer. COME, THOU ALMIGHTY KING. 121 The saints in prayer appear as one In word and deed and mind, While with the Father and the Son Sweet fellowship they find. Thou, by whom we come to God ! The Life, the Truth, the Way ! The path of prayer Thyself hast trod : Lord, teach us how to pray ! MONTGOMERY. COME, THOU ALMIGHTY KING. COME, thou Almighty King, Help us thy name to sing, Help us to praise ; Father all-glorious, O'er all victorious, Come, and reign over us, Ancient of days. Jesus, our Lord, arise, Scatter our enemies, And make them fall; Let thine almighty aid Our sure defence be made ; Our souls on thee be stayed: Lord, hear our call. Come, thou incarnate Word, Gird on thy mighty sword, Our prayer attend ; 122 SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONB. Come, and thy people bless, And give thy word success : Spirit of holiness, On us descend. Come, holy Comforter, Thy sacred witness bear In this glad hour : Thou, who almighty art, Now rule in every heart, And ne'er from us depart, Spirit of power. To the great One and Three Eternal praises be Hence, evermore. His sovereign majesty May we in glory see, And to eternity Love and adore. CHARLES WESLEY. SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE SEKVANT of God, well done ! Thy glorious warfare 's past ; The battle 's fought, the race is won, And thou art crowned at last, Of all thy heart's desire Triumphantly possessed ; Lodged by the ministerial choir In the Redeemer's breast. AWAKE MY SOUL, STRETCH EVERY NERVE. 123 In condescending love, The ceaseless prayer he heard, And bade thee suddenly remove To thy complete reward. With saints enthroned on high, Thou dost thy Lord proclaim, And still to God salvation cry, Salvation to the Lamb. O happy, happy soul, In ecstasies of praise, Long as eternal ages roll, Thou seest thy Saviour's face. Kedeemed from earth and pain, Ah, when shall we ascend, And all in Jesus' presence reign With our translated friend ? CHARLES WESLEY. AWAKE, MY SOUL, STEETCH EVERY NEEVE. AWAKE, my soul, stretch every nerve, And press with vigor on ; A heavenly race demands thy zeal, And an immortal crown. 'T is God's all-animating voice That calls thee from on high; 'T is he whose hand presents the prize To thine aspiring eye. 124 NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. A cloud of witnesses around Hold thee in full survey ; Forget the steps already trod, And onward urge thy way. Blest Saviour, introduced by thee, Our race have we begun ; o y And, crowned with victor}', at thy feet We '11 lay our trophies down. DODDKIDGE. NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. NEARER, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me ; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee ! Though like a wanderer, The sun gone down, Darkness be over me, My rest a stone ; Yet in my dreams I 'd be Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee ! There let the way appear Steps unto heaven ; All that thou sendest me In mercy given ; THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 125 Angels to beckon me , Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee ! Then, with my waking thoughts Bright with thy praise, Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise ; So by my woes to be Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee ! Or if on joyful wing Cleaving the sky, Sun, moon, and stars forgot, Upward I fly ; Still all my song shall be, Nearer, my God, to thee, Nearer to thee ! SARAH FLOWER ADAMS. Sung Oct. 10, 1860. THE DYING CHEISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. VITAL spark of heavenly flame, Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying ! Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, And let me languish into life ! Hark ! they whisper : angels say, Sister spirit, come away ! 126 THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD. What is this absorbs me quite, Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be deatli ? The world recedes ; it disappears : ' Heaven opens on my eyes ; my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! grave ! where is thy victory ? death ! where is thy sting ? POPE. THE BUEIAL OF AENOLD. 1 YE 've gathered to your place of prayer With slow and measured tread ; Your ranks are full, your mates all there, But the soul of one has fled. He was the proudest in his strength, The manliest of ye all ; Why lies he- at that fearful length, And ye around his pall ? Ye reckon it in days since he Strode up that foot-worn aisle, With his dark eye flashing gloriously, And his lip wreathed with a smile. Oh, had it been but told you then, To mark whose lamp was dim, From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, Would ye have singled him ? 1 Member of the Senior class in Yale College. THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD. 127 Whose was the sinewy arm which flung Defiance to the ring ? Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, Yet not for glorying ? Whose heart, in generous deed and thought, No rivalry might brook, And yet distinction claiming not ? There lies he, go and look. On now, his requiem is done, The last deep prayer is said, On to his burial, comrades, on, With the noblest of the dead ! Slow, for it presses heavily, It is a man ye bear. Slow, for our thoughts dwell wearily On the noblest sleeper there. Tread lightly, comrades, we have laid His dark locks on his brow, Like life, save deeper light and shade ; We 11 not disturb them now. Tread lightly, for 't is beautiful, That blue-veined eyelid's sleep, Hiding the eye death left so dull; Its slumber we will keep. Best now, his journeying is done, Your feet are on his sod ; Death's chain is on your champion, He waiteth here his God. Ay, turn and weep, 't is manliness To be heart-broken here ; For the grave of earth's best nobleness Is watered by the tear. WILLIS. 123 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE PILGRIM FATHERS. THE Pilgrim Fathers, where are they ? The waves that brought them o'er Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray As they break along the shore, Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day When the Mayflower moored below, When the sea around was black with storms, And white the shore with snow. The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, Still brood upon the tide ; And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, To stay its waves of pride. But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, When the heavens look dark, is gone, As an angel's wing through an opening cloud Is seen, and then withdrawn. The Pilgrim exile, sainted name ! The hill, whose icy brow Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, In the morning's flame burns now. And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night On the hillside and the sea, Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; But the Pilgrim, where is he ? The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; When summer 's throned on high, And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, Go, stand on the hill where they lie. DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 129 The earliest ray of the golden day On the hallowed spot is cast ; And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, Looks kindly on that spot last. The Pilgrim spirit has not fled : It walks in noon's broad light ; And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, With the holy stars, by night. 1 1 watches the bed of the brave who have bled, And shall guard this ice-bound shore, Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay Shall foam and freeze no more. ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 1820. " The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Bum to the socket." WORDSWORTH. GREEN be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise. Tears fell, when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep, When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, 9 130 THE MEETING OF THE SHIP*. There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth ; And I, who woke each morrow- To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine, It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow ; But 1 've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. HALLECK. THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. ' WHEN o'er the silent seas alone For days and nights we 've cheerless gone, Oh, they who Ve felt it know how sweet, Some sunny morn, a sail to meet. Sparkling on deck is every eye, " Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " our joyful cry ; While answering back the sounds we hear, " Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " what cheer ? what cheer ? Then sails are backed, we nearer come, Kind words are said of friends and home ; And soon, too soon., we part with pain, To sail o'er silent seas again. MOORE. Sung by S. S. F. THE BONNY BOAT. 131 THE BONNY BOAT. OH, swiftly glides the bonny boat, Just parted from the shore, And to the fisher's chorus note Soft moves the dripping oar. These toils are borne with happy cheer, And ever may they speed, That feeble age, and helpmate dear, And tender bairnies feed. CHORUS. We cast our lines in Largo Bay, Our nets are floating wide ; Our bonny boat with yielding sway Rocks lightly to the tide. And happy prove our daily lot Upon the summer sea, And blest on land our kindly cot, Where all our treasures be. The mermaid on her rock may sing, The witch may weave her charm, Nor water-sprite, nor eldrich thing, The bonny boat can harm. It safely bears its scaly store Through many a stormy gale ; While joyful shouts rise from the shore, Its homeward prow to hail. We cast our lines, &c. Now, safe arrived on shores, we meet Our friends with happy cheer, 132 SONG. And with the fisher's chorus greet All those we hold most dear. With happy cheer the echoing cove Repeats the chanted note, As homeward to our cot we move Our bonny, bonny boat. We cast our lines, &c. JOANNA BAILLIE (?) Sung by S. S. F. . SONG. Eow gently here, My gondolier ! So softly wake the tide, That not an ear On earth may hear, But hers to whom we glide. Had heaven but tongues to speak, As well as starry eyes to see ; Oh, think what tales 't would have to tell Of wandering youths like me. Now rest thee here, My gondolier ! Hush, hush, for up I go, To climb yon light Balcony's height, While thou keep'st watch below. Oh, did we take for heaven above, But half such pains as we Take day and night for woman's love, What angels we should be ! MOORE. THE HIGHLANDER. 133 THE HIGHLANDER Many years ago, a poor Highland soldier OH his return to his native hills, fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march and the heat of the weather, sat down under the shade of a birch-tree, on the solitary road of Lowrin, that winds along the margin of Loch Ken, in Galloway. Here he was found dead; and this incident forms the subject of the following verses. FROM the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, The Highlander sped to his youthful abode ; Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary, Though fierce was the noonbeam and steep was the road. Till, spent with the march that still lengthened before him, He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat ; The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him, And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet. He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended, One dream of his childhood his fancy passed o'er; But his battles are fought, and his march it is ended : The sound of the bagpipe . shall wake him no more. No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill ; Now the angel of death in the desert has found him, Now stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill. Pale autumn spreads o'er him the leaves of the forest, The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest ; And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest, And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his breast. W. GILLESPIE. 134 CASABIANCA. CASABIANCA. THE boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled ; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm ; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though childlike form. The flames rolled on, he would not go Without his father's word ; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He called aloud, " Say, father, say, If yet my task is done ! " He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. " Speak, father," once again he cried, " If I may yet be gone ! " And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on. Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still, yet brave despair. I.1XES ADDRESSED TO YOUNG MEN. 135 And shouted but once more aloud, " My father, must I stay ? " While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud ; The wreathing fires made way. They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky. There came a burst of thunder sound ; The boy, oh, where was he ? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea, With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part ; But the noblest thing that perished there Was that young, faithful heart. MRS. HEMANS. Repeated by K. S. LINES ADDRESSED TO THE YOUNG MEN LEAVING THE ACADEMY AT LENOX, MASSACHUSETTS. LIFE is before ye, and while now ye stand, Eager to spring upon the promised land, Fair smiles the way, where yet your feet have trod But few light steps, upon a flowery sod ; Round ye are youth's green bowers, and to your eyes The horizon's line joins earth with the bright skies ; 136 LINES ADDRESSED TO YOUNG Ml'.X. Daring and triumph, pleasure, fame, and joy, Friendship unwavering, love without alloy, Brave thoughts of noble deeds, and glory won, Like angels, beckon ye to venture on. And if o'er the bright scene some shadows rise, Far off they seem, at hand the sunshine lies. The distant clouds which of ye pause to fear ? Shall not a brightness gild them when more near ? Dismay and doubt ye know riot, for the power Of youth is strong within ye at this hour, And the great mortal conflict seems to ye Not so much strife as certain victory, v A glory ending in eternity. Life is before ye, oh, if ye could look Into the secrets of that sealed book, Strong as ye are in youth and hope and faith, Ye should sink down and falter, " Give us death." Could the dread Sphinx's lips but once disclose, And utter but a whisper of the woes Which must o'ertake ye, in your lifelong doom, Well might ye cry, " Our cradle be our tomb." Could ye foresee your spirit's broken wings, Earth's brightest triumphs what despised things, Friendship how feeble, love how fierce a flame, Your joy half sorrow, half your glory shame, Hollowness, weariness, and, worst of all, Self-scorn that pities not its own deep fall ; Fast-gathering darkness, and fast- waning light, Oh, could ye see it all, ye might, ye might Cower in the dust, unequal to the strife, And die but in beholding what is life. Life is before ye, from the fated road Ye cannot turn ; then take ye up your load. LINES ADDRESSED TO YOUNG MEN. 137 Not yours to tread or leave the unknown way ; Ye must go o'er it, meet ye what ye may. Gird up your souls within ye to the deed ; Angels and fellow spirits bid ye speed. What though the brightness dim, the pleasure fade, The glory wane, oh, not of these is made The awful life that to your trust is given, Children of God, inheritors of heaven ! Mourn not the perishing of each fair toy : Ye were ordained to do, not to enjoy ; To suffer, which is nobler than to dare. A sacred burden is this life ye bear ; Look on it, lift it, bear it solemnly, Stand up and walk beneath it steadfastly ; Fail not for sorrow, falter not for sin, But onward, upward, till the goal ye win. God guard ye, and God guide ye on your way, Young pilgrim warriors who set forth to-day. I heard Youth's silver clarion call to fate, And, looking forth, beheld his flower-fair face Framed in his shining helmet as he sate Sheathed in white armor, full of careless grace, Watching the coming of a threatening cloud, Hueless and shapeless, that with stealthy pace Was creeping towards him. " Oh, dear youth, beware ! " But answer made he none, save laughed aloud. " Beware," I cried ; " it hides some hideous snare." At it he made, and vanished in the shroud, Whence there broke forth, Christ, so sharp a cry Of dire defeat and bitter agony, That all my blood ran back in all my veins. And when the accursed blackness rolled away, 138 FILL THE BUMPER FAIR! Prone in the dust my lovely warrior lay, Defiled, not dead ; sore wounded ; shamed, not slain ; His shining armor smirched with many a stain, Filthy and foul, ne'er to be bright agaiir. MRS. KEMBLE. The last stanza is copied from her own manuscript, sent me, November, 1883. FILL THE BUMPER FAIR! FILL the bumper fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Wit's electric flame Ne'er so swiftly passes, As when through the frame It shoots from brimming glasses. Fill the bumper fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. Sages can, they say, Grasp the lightning's pinions, And bring down its ray From the starred dominions ; So we, Sages, sit And, 'mid bumpers brightening, From the heaven of Wit Draw down all its lightning. FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 139 Wouldst thou know what first Made our souls inherit This ennobling thirst For wine's celestial spirit ? It chanced upon that day, When, as bards inform us, Prometheus stole away The living fires that warm us, The careless Youth, when up To Glory's fount aspiring, Took nor urn nor cup To hide the pilfered fire in, But, oh, his joy when, round The halls of heaven spying, Among the stars he found A bowl of Bacchus lying. Some drops were in that bowl, Eemains of last night's pleasure, With which the Sparks of Soul Mixed their burning treasure. Hence the goblet's shower Hath such spells to win us ; Hence its mighty power O'er that flame within us. Fill the bumper fair ! Every drop we sprinkle O'er the brow of Care Smooths away a wrinkle. MOORE. 140 DRINK TO HER. DRINK TO HER. DKINK to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. Oh ! woman's heart was made For minstrel hands alone ; By other fingers played, It yields not half the tone. Then here 's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. At Beauty's door of glass, When Wealth and Wit once stood, They asked her, " Which might pass ? " She answered, " He who could. " With golden key Wealth thought To pass, but 't would not do ; While Wit a diamond brought, Which cut his bright way through. So here 's to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. The love that seeks a home Where wealth and grandeur shines, Is like the gloomy gnome That dwells in dark gold-mines. OH, HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE. But, oh, the poet's love Can boast a brighter sphere ; Its native home 's above, Though woman keeps it here. Then drink to her who long Hath waked the poet's sigh, The girl who gave to song What gold could never buy. MOORE. OH, HAD WE SOME BEIGHT LITTLE ISLE OF OUK OWN! OH, had we some bright little isle of our own, In a blue summer ocean far off and alone, Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; Where the sun loves to pause With so fond a delay, That the night only draws A thin veil o'er the day ; Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live, Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. There with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, We should love as they loved in the first golden time ; The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air, Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. With affection as free From decline as the bowers, And with hope, like the bee, Living always on flowers, Our life should resemble a long day of light, And our death come on holy and calm as the night. MOORE. 142 REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. THE GIPSY LADDIE. THE gipsies cam to our Laird's yett, And, oh, but they sang sae sweetly ! They sang sae sweet, sae very complete, That doun cam the fair Ladye. She cam tripping doun the stair Wi' all her maids before her ; And when they saw her weel-faur'd face They cast the glamour o'er her. " Tak frae rne my gay mantle, And bring to me my plaidie ; For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, I 'm off with the Gipsy Laddie." And when her Laird cam hame at e'en, And speired for his fair Ladye, The ane she cried, the tither replied, " She 's off with the Gipsy Laddie." ANONYMOUS. [" This is an incorrect version of the ballad ; but I never knew any other, and sang it so." MRS. KEMBLE.] This poem is from manuscript in Mrs. FANNY KEMBLE'S handwriting, received in BOSTON, Nov. 3, 1883, and sung by her after a skating-party at MILTON, about 1853. ON THE REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY POETEAITS. SILENT friends, fare ye well! Shadows, adieu ! Living friends long I 've lost, Now I lose you. REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 143 Bitter tears many I Ve shed, Ye 've seen them flow ; Dreary hours many I Ve sped, Full well ye know. Yet in my loneliness, Kindly, methought, Still ye looked down on me, Mocking me not With light speech and hollow words, Grating so sore The sad heart, with many ills Sick to the core. Then, if my clouded skies *Brightened awhile, Seemed your soft, serious eyes Almost to smile. Silent friends, fare ye well ! Shadows, adieu ! Living friends long I Ve lost, Now I lose you. Taken from hearth and board, When all' were gone, I looked up at you and felt Not quite alone. Not quite companionless, While in each face Met me familiar The stamp of my race. 144 REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. Thine, gentle ancestress ! Dove-eyed and fair, Melting in sympathy Oft for my care. i Grim Knight and stern-visaged ! Yet could I see (Smoothing that furrowed face) Good-will to me. Bland looks were beaming Upon me I knew, Fair sir, bonnie lady, From you, and from you. Little think happy ones, Heart-circled round, How fast to senseless things Hearts may be bound ; How, when the living prop 's Mouldered and gone, Heart-strings, low trailing left, Clasp the cold stone. Silent friends, fare ye well ! Shadows, adieu ! Living friends long I Ve lost, Now I lose you. Often when spirit-vexed, Weary and worn, To your quiet faces, mute Friends, would I turn. REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 145 Soft as I gazed on them, Soothing as balm, Lulling the passion-storm, Stole your deep calm. Till, as I longer looked, Surely, methought, Ye read and replied to My questioning thought. "Daughter," ye softly said, " Peace to thine heart : We too yes, daughter ! have Been as thou art ; " Tossed on the troubled waves, Life's stormy sea ; Chance and change manifold Proving like thee. " Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, Seeing in part, Tried, troubled, tempted, Sustained as thou art, ." Our God is thy God, what He Willeth is best ; Trust him as we trusted, then Eest as we rest." Silent friends, fare ye well ! Shadows, adieu ! "" One friend abideth still All changes through. MRS. SOUTHEY. 10 146 TWO KINDS OF PIETY. TWO KINDS OF PIETY. The following lines may be objected to by some for a seeming irreverence of language, but the discerning reader will see that they are far from irreverent in purpose and spirit. In this respect they remind us of the eccentric methods by which Rev. Rowland Hill and other excellent divines have sometimes inculcated the most sacred lessons of Scripture. The incident on which they are founded is thus related for the "New York Evening Post" : "A few years since, a powerful revival of religion was witnessed at Oldtown, Maine. Among the converts was an Indian of the Penobscot tribe. Soon after his conversion, Peol attended a prayer- meeting, and was called upon to "tell his experience." Not exactly understand- ing the construction of the King's English, Peol expressed himself as follows : " Oh, glory, me feel pious like hell ! " THE hand of religion is potent to save, Its value no mortal can prize ; . It leads us in safety clear down to the grave, Then gives us a pass to the skies. But since the grand choice in the garden was given, Since Adam from paradise fell, Full many are found to be pious like heaven, While many are " pious like hell." I once was an orphan-boy, mortgaged and leased, And served without hope of a fee, For one who was lending the Lord what she fleeced From the girl in the kitchen and me. 'T was a day or two since that I gazed on the face Of her, the once Mademoiselle, And thought, though she bragged of "abounding grace," That she, too, was " pious like hell." But tares in the wheat, and the counterfeit coin, Should rob us of none of our rest ; DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 147 Let this be our motto while journeying on, " God orders all things for the best." And, mind you, no knowledge to mortal is given, By which that frail mortal can tell, Except by the fruits, who is pious like heaven, Or as Peol was, " pious like hell." DAVID BARKER. DOLCE FA'R NIENTE. SHE bends above me like a night Deep-skied and tropic-starred ; Her face a clime of peace wherefrom All sorrow is debarred. She drops above me like a spell All potent in repose, While from her mouth the kisses fall Like rose leaves from a rose. I cannot move for utter bliss, Her beauty weighs me down ; It broods about me like a sea, Wherein I dream and drown. The water wields me at its will, Along with all sea things, Hither and thither swayed and sent In endless journeyings. O rare strange face ! within whose round Glad things and sad things meet, Sufficient sweetness yet made up Of things diversely sweet, 148 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. Your beauty bends the souls of men, As a wind bends the wheat ; And they who cannot reach your lips Die happy at your feet. I lie inert, I take no care For better or for worse ; Her beauty bears me dizzily Safe through the universe ; One moment sunk in soundless depths, And the next skyward driven, The buoyant blossom of her face Floats me as high as heaven. JOSEPH BRADFORD. ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. ST. SENANUS. OH, haste and leave this sacred isle, Unholy bark, ere morning smile ; For on thy deck, though dark it be, A female form I see, And I have sworn this sainted sod Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod. THE LADY. father ! send not hence my bark, Through wintry winds and billows dark ; 1 come with humble heart to share Thy morn and evening prayer: Nor mine the feet, holy saint, The brightness of thy sod to taint SHAN VAN VOCHT. 149 The lady's prayer Senanus spurned ; The winds blew fresh, the bark returned ; But legends hint that had the maid Till morning's light delayed, And given the saint one rosy smile, She ne'er had left his lonely isle. MOORE. WOMAN'S LOVE. DOES woman always love where she is loved ? The heart is not so blunt mechanical That it should instant throb to outward touch. A woman who is woman aptest is To ope the virgin petals of her love Where a true warmth wooes for their fragrancy ; And even when she cannot interchange, Will with a sigh distil some tenderness. GEORGE H. CALVERT, Boston Transcript. SHAN VAN VOCHT. OH, the French are on the say, Says the Shan Van Vocht ; The French are on the say, Says the Shan Van Vocht. Oh, the French are in the bay, They 11 be here without delay, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Vocht. Oh, the French are in the bay, They '11 be here by break of day, And the Orange will decay, Says the Shan Van Vocht. 150 SHAN -VAN VOCHT. And where will they have their camp ? Says the Shan Van Vocht ; Where will they have their camp ? Says the Shan Van Vocht. On the Currach of Kildare ; The boys they will he there With their pikes in good repair, Says the Shan Van Vocht. To the Currach of Kildare The hoys they will repair, And Lord Edward will be there, Says the Shan Van Vocht. Then what will the yeoman do ? Says the Shan Van Vocht ; What will the yeoman do ? Says the Shan Van Vocht. What should the yeoman do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they '11 be true To the Shan Van Vocht. What should the yeoman do, But throw off the red and blue, And swear that they '11 be true To the Shan Van Vocht. And what color will they wear ? Says the Shan Van Vocht ; What color will they wear ? Says the Shan Van Vocht. What color should be seen, Where our fathers' homes have been, But our own immortal green ? THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 151 Says the Shan Van Vocht. What color should be seen, Where our fathers' homes have been, But our own immortal green ? Says the Shan Van Vocht. And will Ireland then be free ? Says the Shan Van Vocht ; Will Ireland then be free ? Says the Shan Van Vocht. Yes, Ireland shall be free, From the centre to the sea ; Then hurrah for liberty, Says the Shan Van Vocht. Yes, Ireland shall be free, From the centre to the sea ; Then hurrah for liberty, Says the Shan Van Vocht. ANONYMOUS. THE CAVALIER'S SONG. A STEED a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene ! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come ; And oh, the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war-cryes swell, SONG OF THE GALLEY. May tole from heaven an angel bright, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte then mounte, brave gallants, all, And don your helmes amaine ; Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt 's in our hand, Heart-whole we '11 part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land. Let piping swaine and craven wight Thus weepe and puling crye ; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. SONG OF THE GALLEY. YE mariners of Spain, Bend strongly on your oars, And bring my love again, For he lies among the Moors. Ye galleys fairly built, Like cockles on the sea, Oh, great will be your guilt If ye bring him not to me. Lift up, lift up your sail, And bend upon your oars ; Oh, lose not the fair gale, For he lies among the Moors. THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 153 It is a narrow strait, I see the blue hills over ; Your coming I '11 await, And thank you for my lover. To Mary I will pray, While ye bend upon your oars ; 'T will be a blessed day, If ye fetch him from the Moors. LOCKHART. Sung by F. K. and Mrs. A. F. W. THE MEETING OF THE WATEES. THERE is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart, Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart ! Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 'T was not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, Oh, no ! it was something more exquisite still. 'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve When we see them reflected from looks that we love. Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best, Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. M. P. F." MooRE - 154 THE LEGACY. THE LEGACY. WHEN in death I shall calm recline, Oh, bear my heart to my mistress dear ! Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine Of the brightest hue while it lingered here. Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow, To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, To bathe the relic from morn till night. When the light of my song is o'er, Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; Hang it up at that friendly door Where weary travellers love to call. Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, Revive its soft note in passing along, Oh, let one thought of its master/ waken Your warmest smile for the child of song. Keep this cup, which is now o'erflowing, To grace your revel when I 'm at rest ; Never, oh, never its balm bestowing On lips that beauty hath seldom blessed. But w r hen some warm, devoted lover To her he adores shall bathe its brim, Then, then my spirit around shall hover,* And hallow each drop that foams for him. MOORE. IVRY. 155 IVEY. A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre. Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, pleasant land of France ! And thou, Eochelle, our own Eochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters ; As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold and stiff and still they are who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah, hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war. Hurrah, hurrah, for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre ! Eight well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day, And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey ; But we of the religion have borne us best in fight, And the good Lord of Eosny 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. 156 THE MINSTREL BOY. Ho, maidens of Vienna ! ho, matrons of Lucerne ! Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho, Philip ! send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho, gallant 'nobles of the league ! look that your arms be bright ; Ho, burghers of Saint Genevieve ! keep watch and ward to- night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are, And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. MACAU LAY. THE MINSTEEL BOY. THE Minstrel boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you '11 find him ; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. " Land of song," said the warrior bard, " Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee." The Minstrel fell, but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under ; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its cords asunder, THE LAY OF ELENA. 157 And said, " No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery ! Thy songs were made for the brave and free, They shall never sound in slavery." MOORE. THE LAY OF ELENA. HE asked me. had I yet forgot The mountains of my native land ; I sought an answer, but had not The words at my command. They would not come, and it was better so ; For had I uttered aught, my tears, I know, Had started at the word as free to flow. But I can answer when there 's none that hears ; And now, if I should weep, none sees my tears ; And in my soul the voice is rising strong That speaks in solitude, the voice of song. Yes, I remember well The land of many hues, Whose charms what praise can tell, Whose praise what heart refuse ? Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare Nor misty, are the mountains there, Softly sublime, profusely fair. Up to their summits clothed in green, And fruitful as the vales between, They lightly rise And scale the skies, 158 THE LAY OF ELENA. And groves and gardens still abound. For where no shoot Could else take root, The peaks are shelved and terra ced-rqunJ. Earthward appear in mingled growth The mulberry and maize ; above, The trellised vine extends to both The leafy shade they love. Looks out the white-walled cottage here, The lowly chapel rises near ; Far down the foot must roam to reach The lovely lake and bending beech, Whilst chestnut green and olive gray Checker the steep and winding way. A bark is launched on Como's lake, A maiden sits abaft ; A little sail is loosed to take The night wind's breath, and waft The maiden and her bark away, Across the lake and up the bay. And what doth there that lady fair, Upon the wavelet tossed ? Before her shines the evening star, Behind her in the woods afar The castle lights are lost. What doth she there ? The evening air Lifts her locks, and her neck is bare ; And the dews that now are falling fast May work her harm, or a rougher blast May come from yonder cloud, And that her bark might scarce sustain, So slightly built, and why remain ? And would she be allowed THE LAY OF ELENA. 159 To brave the wind and sit in the dew At night on the lake, if her mother knew ? Her mother, sixteen years before, The burden of the baby bore ; And though brought forth in joy, the day So joyful, she was wont to say, In taking count of after years, Gave birth to fewer hopes than fears. For seldom smiled The serious child ; And as she passed from childhood, grew More far-between those smiles and few, More sad and wild. And though she loved her father well, And though she loved her mother more, Upon her heart a sorrow fell And sapped it to the core. And in her father's castle nought She ever found of what she sought, And all her pleasure was to roam Among the mountains far from home, And through thick woods, and wheresoe'er She saddest felt to sojourn there ; And, oh ! she loved to linger afloat On the lonely lake in the little boat. It was not for the forms, though fair, Though grand they were beyond compare, It was not only for the forms Of hills in sunshine or in storms, Or only unrestrained to look On wood and lake, that she forsook, By day or night, Her home, and far 160 THE VALE OF CASHMERE. Wandered by light Of sun or star, It was to feel her fancy free, Free in a world without an end, With ears to hear, and eyes to see, And heart to apprehend ; It was to leave the earth behind, And rove with liberated mind, As fancy led, or choice, or chance, Through 'wildered regions of romance. HENRY TAYLOR, Philip Van Artevelde. THE VALE OF CASHMEEE. WHO has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave ? Oh, to see it at sunset, when warm o'er the lake Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws, Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to take A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ; When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown, And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, Here the Magian his urn full of perfume is swinging, And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells Round the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines ; THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 161 When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, And the nightingale's hymn from the Isle of Cheuars Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet. But the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feeling, That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing, Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. Oh, best of delights as it everywhere is To be near the loved one, what a rapture is his Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that one by his side ! If woman can make the worst wilderness dear, Think, think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere. So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar, When from power and pomp and the trophies of war He flew to that valley, forgetting them all With the Light of the Harem, his young Nourmahal ; When free and uncrowned as the conqueror roved By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved, He saw, in the wreaths she would playfully snatch From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match, And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled Down her exquisite neck to the throne of the world. There 's a beauty forever unchangingly bright, Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light ; Shining on, shining on, by no shadows made tender, Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. This was not the beauty oh, nothing like this That to young Xourmahal gave such. magic of bliss; But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 11 162 BEFORE THE BATTLE. Like the light upon autumn's soft shadowy days, Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams. When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace, That charm of all others, was born with her face ; And when angry, for e'en in the tranquillest climes Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes, The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye At once took a darker; a heavenlier dye, From the depths of whose shadow, like holy revealings From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. Then her mirth oh, 't was sportive as ever took wing From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring. MOORE, Light of the Harem. BEFORE THE BATTLE. BY the hope within us springing, Herald of to-morrow's strife ; By that sun whose light is bringing Chains or freedom, death or life, Oh, remember life can be No charm for him who lives not free ! Like the day-star in the wave, Sinks a hero in his grave, 'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. MOORE. IT IS THIS, IT IS THIS. 163 FLY TO THE DESERT. FLY to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But, oh ! the choice what heart can doubt Of tents with love, or thrones without ? Our rocks are rough ; but smiling there . The acacia waves her yellow hair, Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less For flowering in a wilderness. , Our sands are bare ; but down their slope The silvery-footed antelope As gracefully and gayly springs As o'er the marble courts of kings. Then come, thy Arab maid will be The loved and lone acacia-tree ; The antelope, whose feet shall bless With their light sound thy loneliness. MOORE, Light of the Harem- IT IS THIS, IT IS THIS. THERE 's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie, With heart never changing, and brow never cold, Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. One hour of a passion so sacred is worth Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; And, oh, if there be an Elysium on earth, It is this, it is this. MOORE, Light of the Harem. 164 MAN'S MORTALITY. THE FOKTUNATE LAND. KNOW'ST thou the land where hangs the citron-flower, Where gleams the golden orange in the bower, Where gentle zephyrs in the blue sky play, And myrtles creep beneath the towering bay ? Know'st thou, indeed? Oh, there, oh, there, Would I with thee, my best beloved, speed. Know'st thou the house that rests on columns tall, Its gay saloon, its glittering banquet-hall, Where marble statues stand and gaze on me ? What have they done, thou hapless child, to thee ? Know'st thou, indeed ? Oh, there, oh, there, Would I with thee, my own kind guardian, speed. Know'st thou the mount, and its cloud-crested steep, Where poring mules the misty pathway keep, In caves the dragon hides her ancient brood, Down leaps the rock, and over it the flood ? Know'st thou, indeed ? Oh, there, oh, there, Our journey tends ; my father, let us speed. GOETHE. MAN'S MORTALITY. LIKE as the damask rose you see, Or like the blossom on the tree, Or like the dainty flower in May, Or like the morning of the day, THE BELFRY PIGEON. 165 Or like the sun, or like the shade, Or like the gourd which Jonas had, E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; The flower fades, the morning hasteth ; The sun sets, the shadow flies ; The gourd consumes, and man he dies. Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, Or like a tale that 's new begun, Or like the bird that 's here to-day, Or like the pearled dew of May, Or like an hour, or like a span, Or like the singing of a swan, E'en such is man, who lives by breath, Is here, now there, in life and death. The grass withers, the tale is ended ; The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended ; The hour is short, the span is long ; The swan 's near death, man's life is done. SIMON WASTELL. THE BELFRY PIGEON. ON the cross-beam under the Old South bell The .nest of a pigeon is builded well ; In summer and winter that bird is there, Out and in with the morning air. I love to see him track the street, With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs, Circling the steeple with easy wings, 166 THE BELFRY PIGEON. Till across the dial his shade has passed, And the belfry edge is gained at last. 'T is a bird I love, with its brooding note, And the trembling throb in its mottled throat : There 's a human look in its swelling breast, And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel, He runs so close to the rapid wheel. Whatever is rung on that noisy bell, Chime of the hour or funeral knell, The dove in the belfry must hear it well. When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon, When the sexton cheerily rings for noon, When the clock strikes clear at morning light, When the child is waked with " nine at night," When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, Filling the spirit with tones of prayer, Whatever tale in the bell is heard, He broods on his folded feet unstirred, Or, rising half in his rounded nest, He takes the time to smooth his breast, Then drops again with filmed eyes, And sleeps as the last vibration dies. Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen, Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men, And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread,' like thee, the crowded street ; But, unlike ine, when day is o'er, Thou canst dismiss the world and soar, Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast, And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. A HEALTH. 167 I would that in such wings of gold I could my weary heart unfold ; I would I could look down unmoved (Unloving as I am unloved), And while the world throngs on beneath, Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe, And, never sad with others' sadness, And never glad with others' gladnass, Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. WILLIS. A HEALTH. I FILL this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman of her gentle sex The seeming paragon ; To whom the better elements And kindly stars have given A form so fair, that, like the air, 'T is less of earth than heaven. Her every tone is music's own, Like those of morning birds, And something more than melody Dwells ever in her words ; The coinage of her heart are, they, And from her lips each flows, As one may see the burdened bee Forth issue from the rose. 168 SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF DAWN. Of her bright face one glance will trace A picture on the brain, And of her voice in echoing hearts A sound must long remain ; But memory, such as mine of her, So very much endears, When death is nigh, my latest sigh Will not be life's, but hers. I fill this cup to one made up Of loveliness alone, A woman of her gentle sex The seeming paragon : Her health ! and would on earth there stood Some more of such a frame, That life might all be poetry, And weariness a name. EDWARD COATE PINKNEY. Now on their couch of rest Mortals are sleeping, While in dark dewy nest Flowerets are weeping ; Ere the last star of night Fades in the fountain, My finger of rosy light Touches the mountain. Far on his filmy wing Twilight is wending, Shadows encompassing, Terrors attending ; SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 169 While my foot's fiery print, Up my path showing, Gleams with celestial tint Brilliantly glowing. Now from my pinions fair Freshness is streaming, And from my yellow hair Glories are gleaming. Nature, with pure delight, Hails my returning, And Sol from his chamber bright Crowns the young morning. MRS. KEMBLE. THE SWORD CHANT OF THOESTEIN EAUDI. 'T is not the gray hawk's flight O'er mountain and mere ; 'T is not the fleet hound's course Tracking the deer ; 'T is not the light hoof -print Of black steed or gray, Though sweltering it gallop A long summer's day, "Which mete forth the Lordships I challenge as mine ; Ha, ha ! 't is the good brand I clutch in my strong hand, That can their broad marches And numbers define. Land-giver, I kiss thee. 170 SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. Dull builders of houses, Base tillers of earth, Gaping, ask me what lordships I owned at my birth ; But the pale fools wax mute When I point with my sword East, west, north, and south, Shouting, " There am I Lord." Wold and waste, town and tower, Hill, valley, and stream, Trembling, bow to my sway In the fierce battle-fray, When the star that rules fate is This falchion's red gleam. Might-giver, I kiss thee. I Ve heard great harps sounding In brave bower and hall, . I Ve drank the sweet music That bright lips let fall,' I Ve hunted in greenwood And heard small birds sing ; But away with this idle And cold jargoning : The music I love, is The shout of the brave, The yell of the dying, The scream of the flying, When this arm wields death's sickle, And garners the grave. Joy-giver, I kiss thee. Far isles of the ocean Thy lightning have known, THE SWORD CHANT OF THORSTEIN RAUDI. 171 And wide o'er the mainland Thy horrors have shown. Great sword of my father, Stern joy of his hand, Thou hast carved his name deep on The stranger's red strand, And won him the glory Of undying song. Keen cleaver of gay crests, Sliarp piercer of broad breasts, Grim slayer of heroes, And scourge of the strong ! Fame-giver, I kiss thee. In a love more abiding Than that the heart knows For maiden more lovely Than summer's first rose, My heart 's knit to thine, And lives but for thee ; . In dreamings of gladness, Thou 'rt dancing with me Brave measures of madness In some battle-field, t Where armor is ringing, And noble blood springing, And cloven, yawn helmet, Stout hauberk and shield. Death-giver, I kiss thee. When the path of our glory Is shadowed in death, With me thou wilt slumber Below the brown heath ; Thou wilt rest on my bosom, 172 THE BROTHERS. And with it decay, While harps shall be ringing, And 'scalds shall be singing, The deeds we have done in Our old fearless day. Song-giver, I kiss thee. WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. THE BEOTHEES. WE are but two, the others sleep Through Death's untroubled night ; We are but two, oh, let us keep The link that binds us bright! Heart leaps to heart, the sacred flood That warms us is the same ; That good old man, his honest blood Alike we fondly claim. We in one mother's arms were locked, - Long be her love repaid ! In the same cradle we were rocked, Eound the same hearth we played. Our boyish sports were all the same, Each little joy and woe ; Let manhood keep alive the flame, Lit up so long ago. We are but two, be that the band To hold us till we die ; Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, Till side by side we lie. CHARLES SPRAGUE. A SPIRIT THERE IS. 173 THEEE'S A BOWEK OF ROSES. THERE 's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; In the time of my childhood 't was like a sweet dream, To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. That bower and its musip I never forget, But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, I think is the nightingale singing there yet ? Are the -roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? No, the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave ; But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone, And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, An essence that breathes of it many a year ; Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes, Is that bower on the banks of the calm Becdemeer. MOORE, Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. A favorite of M. P. F. I remember it the day the " Luconia " sailed from MACAO ROADS, with a gale of wind blowing, and I walking the deck. A SPIRIT THEEE IS. A SPIRIT there is, whose fragrant sigh Is burning now through earth arid air : Where cheeks are blushing, the Spirit is nigh ; Where lips are meeting, the Spirit is there. 174 A SPIRIT THERE IS. His breath is the soul of flowers like these, And his floating eyes oh, they resemble Blue water-lilies, when the breeze Is making the stream around them tremble. Hail to thee, hail to thee, kindling power ! Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. By the fair and brave, Who blushing unite, Like the sun and wave When they meet at night ; By the tear that shows When passion is nigh, As the rain-drop flows From the heat of the sky ; By the first love-beat Of the youthful heart, By the bliss to meet, And the pain to part, By all that thou hast To mortals given, Which oh, could it last, This earth were heaven ! We call thee hither, entrancing power, Spirit of Love, Spirit of Bliss ! Thy holiest time is the moonlight hour, And there never was moonlight so sweet as this. MOORE, Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. THE CONFLICT. 175 THE CONFLICT. TWICE hath the sun upon their conflict set, And risen again, and found them grappling yet ; While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze, Smoke up to heaven hot as that crimson haze, By which the prostrate caravan is awed, In the red Desert, when the wind 's abroad. " On, Swords of God ! " the panting Caliph calls, " Thrones for the living, heaven for him who falls." " On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, " And Eblis blast the recreant .slave that flies !" Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day ; They clash, they strive, the Caliph's troops give way. Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down, And now the Orient world's imperial crown Is just within his grasp, when, hark, that shout ! Some hand hath checked the flying Moslems' rout, And now they turn, they rally, at their head A warrior (like those angel youths, who led, In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, The champions of the Faith through Beder's vale), Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives, Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives At once the multitudinous torrent back, While hope and courage kindle in his track, And at each step his bloody falchion makes Terrible vistas through which victory breaks. In vain Mokanna, 'midst the general flight, Stands, like the red moon on some stormy night, Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, Leave only her unshaken in the sky. 176 / SAW FROM THE BEACH. In vain he yells liis desperate curses out, Deals death promiscuously to all about, To foes that charge and coward friends that fly, And seems of all the great Arch-enemy. The panic spreads "A miracle," throughout The Moslem ranks, " a miracle ! " they shout, All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; And every sword, true as o'er billows dim The needle tracks the loadstar, following him. Eight towards Mokanna now he cleaves his path, Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath He bears from heaven withheld its awful burst From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst, To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst ! But vain his speed, though, in that hour of blood, Had all God's seraphs round Mokanna stood, With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, Mokanna' s soul would have defied them all ; Yet now the rush of fugitives, too strong For hrynan force, hurries even him along ; In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array Of flying thousands, he is borne away. MOOEE, Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. I SAW FEOM THE BEACH. I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on. I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining ; The bark was still there, but the waters were gone. THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING. Ill And such is the fate of our life's early promise, So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known ; Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. Ne'er tell me of glories serenely adorning The close of our day, the calm eve of our night ; Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of Morning ; Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light. Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, When passion first waked a new life through his frame, And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning, Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ? MOOEE. Sung by Mrs. LONG. THE TIME I'VE LOST IN "WOOING. THE time I 've lost in wooing, In watching and pursuing The light that lies In woman's eyes, Has been my heart's undoing. Though Wisdom oft has sought me, I scorned the lore she brought me, My only books Were woman's looks, And folly 's all they Ve taught me. Her smile when Beauty granted, I hung with gaze enchanted, Like him the sprite Whom maids by night Oft meet in glen that 's haunted. 12 178 SOME LOVE TO ROAM. Like him, too, Beauty won me ; But while her eyes were on me, If once their ray Was turned away, Oh, winds could not outrun me ! And are those follies going ? And is my proud heart growing Too cold or wise For brilliant eyes Again to set it glowing ? No, vain, alas ! the endeavor From bonds so sweet to sever ; Poor Wisdom's chance Against a glance Is now as weak as ever. MOORE. SOME LOVE TO EOAM. SOME love to roam o'er the dark sea foam, Where the shrill winds whistle free ; But a chosen band in a mountain land, And a life in the woods for me, Where the shrill winds whistle free, But a chosen band in a mountain land, And a life in the woods for me. When morning beams, o'er the mountain streams, Oh, merrily forth we go, To follow the stag to his slippery crag, And to chase the bounding roe, To follow the stag to his slippery crag, And to chase the bounding roe. Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho 1 HORATIUS COCLES. 179 Some love to roam o'er the dark sea foam, Where the shrill winds whistle free ; But a chosen band in a mountain land, And a life in the woods for me. The deer we mark through the forest dark, And the prowling wolf we track ; And for right good cheer, in the wild woods here, Oh, why should a hunter lack ? For with steady aim at the bounding game, And hearts that fear no foe, To the darksome glade, in the forest shade, Oh, merrily forth we go ! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! Some love to roam o'er the dark sea foam, Where the shrill winds whistle free ; But a chosen band in a mountain land, And a life in the woods for me. CHARLES MACKAY. A favorite of W. H. H., NAUSHON. HOKATIUS COCLES. WHEN the oldest cask is opened, And tlie largest lamp is lit ; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit ; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close ; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows ; 180 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING, ETC. When the goodman mends his armor, And trims his helmet's plume ; When the goodwife's shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom, - With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. MACAULAY. BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEAKING YOUNG CHARMS. BELIEVE me, if all those endearing young charms, Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms, Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art. Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own, And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, To which time will but make thee more dear ; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, But as truly loves on to the close, As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, The same look which she turned when he rose. MOORE. THE PERI AT THE GATE. 181 THE PERI AT THE GATE. ONE morn a Peri at the gate Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; And as she listened to the springs Of life within, like music flowing, And caught the light upon her wings Through the half-open portal glowing, She wept to think her recreant race Should e'er have lost that glorious place. " How happy," exclaimed this child of air, "Are the holy spirits who wander there, 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ; Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea, And the stars themselves have flowers for me, One blossom of heaven outblooms them alL Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, With its plane-tree isle reflected clear, And sweetly the founts of that valley fall ; Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, And the golden floods that thitherward stray, Yet, oh, 't is only the blest can say How the waters of heaven outshine them all. " Go, wing thy flight from star to star, From world to luminous world, as far As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years, One minute of heaven is worth them all." MOORE, Paradise and the Peri. 182 JENNY KISSED ME. RICH AND EAEE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE. RICH and rare were the gems she wore, And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore ; But, oh, her beauty was far beyond Her sparkling gems or snow-white wand. " Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? Are Erin's sons so good or so cold As not to be tempted by woman or gold ? " " Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm. No son of Erin will offer me harm ; For, though they love women and golden store, Sir Knight, they love honor and virtue more." On she went, and her maiden smile In safety lighted her round the green isle ; And blest forever is she who relied Upon Erin's honor and Erin's pride. MOORE. Sung by Mrs. LONG. JENNY KISSED MR JENNY kissed me when we met, Jumping from the chair she sat in. Time, you thief ! who love to get Sweets into your 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. TELL ME NOT OF JOYS ABOVE. 183 TELL ME NOT OF JOYS ABOVE. TELL me not of joys above, If that world can give no bliss Truer, happier than the love Which enslaves our souls in this. Tell me not of Houris' eyes ; Far from me their dangerous glow, If those looks that light the skies Wound like some that burn below. Who that feels what love is here, All its falsehood, all its pain, Would, for even Elysium's sphere, Risk the fatal dream again ? Who that midst a desert's heat Sees the waters fade away, Would not rather die than meet Streams again as false as they ? MOORE, Lalla -Rookh. NURSERY RHYME. HAKK ! the little drummer beats to bed ; See ! the little fifer hangs his head ; Still and mute is the Moorish flute, And nodding guards watch wearily. Oh, then shall we, From prison free, March on by moonlight cheerily. ANONYMOOS. 184 THE LIGHTHOUSE, THE LIGHTHOUSE. THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye Than if day in its pride had arrayed it ; The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure -arched sky Looked pure as the spirit that made it : The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed On the shadowy waves' playful motion, From the dim, distant hill, till the lighthouse fire blazed Like a star in the midst of the ocean. No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast Was heard in his wildly breathed numbers ; The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, All hushed was the billow's commotion, And thought that the lighthouse looked lovely as hope, That star of life's tremulous ocean. The time is long past, and the scene is afar. Yet when my head rests on its pillow, Will memory sometimes rekindle the star That blazed on the breast of the billow : In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, And death stills the heart's last emotion, Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise, ' Like a star on eternity's ocean. PAUL MOON JAMES. A great favorite of my mother. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 185 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. SHE was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight ; A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament : Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn : A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions, light and free, And steps of virgin liberty ; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet : A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food, For transient sorrows, simple wiles, Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine ! A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death : The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill : A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. WORDSWORTH. 186 SONG. LINES WEITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION. E 'EN such is time, which takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust ; Which in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days ; But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. SONG. WHEN you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes, That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away, On some bright orb that seems, through the still, sapphire skies, In beauty and splendor to roll on its way, Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar, Appears w r rapt in a halo as soft and as bright As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star, Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night. And at this very midnight, perhaps, some poor heart That is aching or breaking in that distant sphere Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart From its own dismal home to a happier one here. MRS. KEMBLE. OH, EVER THUS. 187 FAITH. BETTEK trust all, and be deceived, And weep that trust and that deceiving, Than doubt one heart that, if believed, Had blessed one's life with true believing. Oh, in this mocking world, too fast ' The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ! Better be cheated to the last Than lose the blessed hope of truth. MRS. KEMBLE. OH, EVEE THUS. OH, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I Ve seen my fondest hopes decay ! I never loved a tree or flower, But 't was the first to fade away. I never nursed a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die. Now, too, the joy most like divine Of all I ever dreamt or knew, To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine, Oh, misery ! must I lose that too. ? Yet go ! on peril's brink we meet ; Those frightful rocks, that treacherous sea No, never come again, though sweet, Though heaven, it may be death to thee. Farewell ! and blessings on thy way, 188 EPITAPH ON TIMOTHY JOHN. Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger ! Better to sit and watch that ray, And think thee safe, though far away, Than have thee near me and in danger. MOORE, The Fire-JForshippers. HYMN TO THE VIBGIN. AVE Sanctissima, 'T is nightfall on the sea ; Ora pro nobis, Our souls rise to thee ; Watch us while shadows lie Far o'er the water spread ; Hear the heart's lonely sigh, Thine too hath bled. Thou that hast looked on death, Aid us when death is near ; Whisper of heaven to faith, Sweet Mother, hear! Ora pro nobis, The wave must rock our sleep ; Ora, Mater, ora, Star of the deep. MRS. HEMANS, The Forest Sanctuary. EPITAPH ON TIMOTHY JOHN. SACRED to the memory of Timothy John, Who died in the year one thousand and one. Stranger, pray for the soul of Timothy John, Or let it alone, 't is all one to Timothy John, Who died in the year one thousand and one. ANONYMOUS. M.'s philosophy. THE APPEAL TO HAFED. 189 LINES FOE MUSIC. SUNNY Love ! Crowned with fresh-flowering May, Breath like the Indian clove, Eyes like the dawn of day ; O sunny Love ! fatal Love ! Thy wreath is nightshade all, With gloomy cypress wove ; Thy kiss is bitter gall, O fatal Love ! MRS. KEMBLE. THE APPEAL TO HAPED. " HAFED, my own beloved lord," She kneeling cries, " first, last adored ! If in that soul thou 'st ever felt Half what thy lips impassioned swore, Here, on my knees that never knelt To any but their God before, I pray thee, as thou lov'st me, fly Now, now, ere yet their blades are nigh. Oh, haste ! the bark that bore me hither Can waft us o'er yon darkening sea, East, west, alas ! I care not whither, So thou art safe, and I with thee. 190 CADYOW CASTLE. Go where we will, this hand in thine, Those eyes before me smiling thus, Through good and ill, through storm and shine, The world 's a world of love for us. On some calm, blessed shore we '11 dwell, Where 't is no crime to love too well ; Where thus to worship tenderly An erring child of light like thee Will not be sin ; or, if it be, Where we may weep our faults away, Together kneeling, night and day, Thou, for my sake, at Alla's shrine, And I, at any god's, for thine." MOOEE, The Fire-Worshippers. CADYOW CASTLE. WHEN pricely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, The song went round, the goblet flowed, And revel sped the laughing hours. Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, And echoed light the dancer's bound, As mirth and music cheered the hall. 'T is noon, against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear ; Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. CADYOW CASTLE. 191 Proudly the Chieftain marked his clan, On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet missed his eye the boldest man, That bore the name of Hamilton. "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, Still wont our weal and woe to share ? Why comes he not our sport to grace ? Why shares he not our hunter's fare ? " Stern Claud replied, with darkening face (Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he) : " At merry feast or buxom chase No more the warrior wilt thou see. " Few suns have set since Woodhouselee Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam, When to his hearth, in social glee, The war-worn soldier turned him home. " There, wan from her maternal throes, His Margaret, beautiful and mild, Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, And peaceful nursed her new-born child. " Oh, change accursed ! past are those days ; False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, Ascends destruction's volumed flame." He ceased ; and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling Chief, And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 192 CADYOW CASTLE. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, Rides headlong with resistless speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap his jaded steed ? Sternly he spoke : " 'T is sweet to hear In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear To drink a tyrant's dying groan. " Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode, At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode Through old Lirilithgow's crowdpd town. " With hackbut bent, my secret stand, Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, And marked where, mingling in his band, Trooped Scottish pikes and English bows. " Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, Murder's foul minion, led the van ; And clashed their broadswords in the rear The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. " 'Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; Scarce could his trampling charger move, So close the minions crowded nigh. " But yet his saddened brow confessed A passing shade of doubt and awe ; Some fiend was whispering in his breast, ' Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. 193 " The death-shot parts, the charger springs, Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! And Murray's plumy helmet rings, Rings on the ground, to rise no more. " What joy the raptured youth can feel To hear her love the loved one tell ; Or he who broaches on his steel The wolf by whom his infant fell ! " But dearer to my injured eye To see in dust proud Murray roll ; And mine was ten times trebled joy, To hear him groan his felon soul." SCOTT. WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. WHEN twilight dews are falling soft Upon the rosy sea, love, I watch the star, whose beam so oft Has lighted me to thee, love. And thou, too, on that orb so dear, Ah, dost thou gaze at even ; And think, though lost forever here, Thou 'It yet be mine in heaven ? There 's not a garden-walk I tread, There 's not a flower I see, love, But brings to mind some hope that 's fled, Some joy I Ve lost with thee, love. 13 194 TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN. And still I wish that hour was near, When friends and foes forgiven, The pains, the ills, we Ve wept through here May turn to smiles in heaven. ' MOORE. Sung by Mrs. LONG. TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIN. To sigh, yet feel no pain ; To weep, yet scarce know why ; To sport an hour with beauty's chain, Then throw it idly by ; To kneel at many a shrine, Yet lay the heart on none ; To think all other charms divine, But those we just have won, This is love, faithless love, Such as kindleth hearts that rove. To keep one sacred flame, Through life unchilled, unmoved ; To love in wintry age the same As first in youth we loved ; To feel that we adore, Even to such fond excess, That, though the heart would break with more, It could not live with less, This is love, faithful love, Such as saints might feel above. MOORE. BALLAD STANZAS. 195 IMPEOMPTU . WKITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF THE SONNENBERG. THOU who within thyself dost not behold Ruins as great as these, though not as old, Canst scarce through life have travelled many a year, Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here. Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride ; Love, its warm hearth-stones; hope, its prospects wide: Life's fortress in thee held these, one and all ; And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall. MRS. KEMBLE. BALLAD STANZAS. I KNEW, by the smoke that so gracefully curled Above the green elms, that a cottage was near, And I said, " If there 's peace to be found in the world, A heart that is humble might hope for it here." It was noon, and on flowers that languished around In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound But the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. And " Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye, Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline, And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips Which had never been sighed on by any but mine." MOORE. One of my very oldest boyhood favorites. 196 THE ERL-KING. THE EEL-KING. WHO rides there so late through the night dark and drear ? The father it is, with his infant so dear : He holdeth the boy tightly clasped in his arm ; He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm. " My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide ?" " Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side ! Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train ? " " My son, 't is the mist rising over the plain." " Oh, come, thou dear infant ! oh, come thou with me ! Full many a game I will play there with thee ; On my strand lovely flowers their blossoms unfold, My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold." "My father, my father, and dost thou not hear The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear ? " " Be calm, dearest child ! 't is thy fancy deceives ; 'T is the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves." " Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there ? My daughters, shall tend thee with sisterly care : My daughters by night their glad festival keep ; They '11 dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep." " My father, my father, and dost thou not see How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me ? " " My darling, my darling, I see it aright ; 'T is the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight." " I love thee, I 'm charmed by thy beauty, dear boy ! And if thou 'rt unwilling, then force I '11 employ." " My father, my father, he seizes me fast ; Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last." YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 197 The father now gallops, with terror half wild ; He grasps in his. arms the poor shuddering child : He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread, The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead. GOETHE. YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride, How meekly she blessed her humble lot, When the stranger, William, had made her his bride, And love was the light of their lowly cot. Together they toiled through winds and rains, Till William at length in sadness said, " We must seek our fortune on other plains ; " Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. They roamed a long and a weary way, Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, When now, at the close of one stormy day, They see a proud castle among the trees. " To-night," said the youth, " we '11 shelter there ; The wind blows cold, and the hour is late." So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air, And the porter bowed as they passed the gate. " Now, welcome, lady," exclaimed the youth, " This castle is thine, and these dark woods all ! " She believed him crazed, but his words were truth, For Ellen is Lady of Eosna Hall. And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves What William the stranger wooed and wed ; And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves, Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed. MOORE. Sung by Mrs. LONG. . 198 THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. THE YOUNG MAY MOOK THE young May moon is beaming, love" ; The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love. How sweet to rove Through Morna's grove, When the drowsy world is dreaming, love. Then awake, the heavens look bright, my dear ; 'T is never too late for delight, my dear, And the best of all ways To lengthen our days Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. Now all the world is sleeping, love, But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love ; And I, whose star, More glorious far, Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. Then awake, till rise of sun, my dear, The Sage's glass we '11 shun, my dear, Or., in watching the flight Of bodies of light, He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. MOOKE. THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. WRITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE. WHEN freshly blows the northern gale, And under courses snug we fly ; When lighter breezes swell the sail, And royals proudly sweep the sky, THE WOOD FIRE. 199 'Longside the wheel, unwearied still I stand, and as my watchful eye Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, I think of her I love, and cry, "Port, my boy, port ! " When calms delay, or breezes blow Eight from the point we wish to steer ; When by the wind close-hauled we go, And strive in vain the port to near, " I think 't is thus the Fates defer My bliss with one that 's far away ; And while remembrance springs to her, I watch the sails, and sighing say, " Thus, my boy, thus." But, see ! the wind draws kindly aft ; All hands are up the yards to square, And now the floating stu'n-sails waft Our stately ship through waves and air. Oh, then I think that yet for me Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee, And in that hope I smiling sing, " Steady, boy, so." MOORE. THE WOOD FIRE. THIS bright wood-fire, So like to that which warmed and lit My youthful days, how doth it flit Back on the periods nigher, Relighting and rewarming in its glow The bright scenes of my youth, all gone out now. 200 THE WOOD FIRE. How eagerly its flickering blaze doth catch On every point, now wrapped in time's deep shade ! Into what wild grotesquen'ess by its flash And fitful checkering is the picture made ! When I am glad or gay, Let me walk forth into the brilliant sun, And with congenial rays be shone upon ; When I am sad, or thought-bewitched would be, Let me glide forth in moonlight's mystery ; But never, while I live this varied life, This past and future, with all wonders rife, Never, dear flame, may be denied to me Thy dear life-imaging, close sympathy. What but my hopes shot upward e'er so bright ? What but my fortunes sank so low in night ! Why art thou banished now from hearth and hall, Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all ? "Was thy existence then too fanciful For our world's common light, who are so dull ? Did thy bright gleams mysterious converse hold With our congenial souls, secrets too bold ! Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit, Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire Warms feet and hands, nor does to more aspire ; By whose compact utilitarian heap The present may sit down and go to sleep, Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked, And with us by the unequal light of the old wood-fire talked. E. S. H. E. S. H. filled my boyhood's picture of intellectual brightness and infinite beauty and sweetness. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 201 THE WINGED WOKSHIPPEES. ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO CHAUNCY PLACE CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. GAY, guiltless pair, What seek ye from the fields of heaven ? Ye have no need of prayer, Ye have no sins to be forgiven. Why perch ye here, Where mortals to their Maker bend ? Can your pure spirits fear The God ye never could offend ? Ye never knew The crimes for which we come to weep. Penance is not for you, Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. To you 'tis given To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; Beneath the arch of heaven To chirp away a life of praise. Then spread each wing, Far, far above o'er lakes and lands, And join the choirs that sing In yon blue dome not reared with hands. Or, if ye stay To note the consecrated hour, Teach me the airy way, And let me try your envied power. 202 SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. Above the crowd On upward wings could I but fly, I 'd bathe in yon bright cloud, And seek the stars that gem the- sky. 'T were heaven indeed Through fields of trackless light to soar, On Nature's charms to feed, And nature's own great God adore. CHARLES SPRAGUE. A lifetime favorite. I remember well the poet, with the desk and the buzz of the bank around him, in odd contrast to his refined and classical features. SOUND THE LOUD TIMBEEL. MIEIAM'S SONG. AIR: " Avison." " And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand ; and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances." EXOD. xv. 20. SOUND the foud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free. Sing, for the pride of the tyrant is broken. His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, How vain was their boasting, the Lord hath but spoken, And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free. Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword. Who shall return to tell Egypt the story Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. 203 For he hath looked out from his pillar of glory, And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; Jehovah has triumphed, his people are free. MOORE. THE TURF SHALL BE MY FEAGEANT SHEINE. AIR: "Stevenson." THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; My temple, Lord, that arch of thine ; My censer's breath the mountain airs, And silent thoughts my only prayers. My choir shall be the moonlight waves, When murmuring homeward to their caves, Or when the stillness of the sea, E'en more than music, breathes of thee. I '11 seek, by day, some glade unknown, All light and silence, like thy throne ; And the pale stars shall be, at night, The only eyes that watch my rite. Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look, Shall be my pure and shining book, Where I shall read, in words of flame, The glories of thy wondrous name. 1 11 read thy anger in the rack That clouds awhile the daybeam's track ; Thy mercy in the azure hue Of sunny brightness, breaking through. 204 THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. There 's nothing bright, above, below, From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, But in its light my soul can see Some feature of thy deity. There 's nothing dark, below, above, But in its gloom I trace thy love, And meekly wait that moment when Thy touch shall turn all bright again. MOORE. THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. AIR : "Stevenson." THIS world is all a fleeting show, For man's illusion given ; The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Deceitful shine, deceitful flow, There 's nothing true but heaven. And false the light on Glory's plume, As fading hues of even ; And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, There 's nothing bright but heaven. Poor wanderers of a stormy day, From wave to wave we 're driven ; And fancy's flash and reason's ray Serve but to light the troubled way, There 's nothing calm but heaven. MOORE. ABSENCE. 205 ABSENCE. WHAT shall I do with all the days and hours That must be counted ere I see thy 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 ? Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive To bring the hour that brings thee back more near ? How may I teach my drooping hope to live Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? I '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 my 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 pain. I will this dreary blank of absence make A noble task-time ; and will therein strive 206 HUNTING-SONG FOR 1839. To follow excellence, and to o'ertake More good than I have won since yet alive. 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 divine. MKS. KEMBLE. HUNTING-SONG FOE 1839. YE hunters of New England Who bear the rusty guns Your fathers shot the redcoats with, And left them to their sons ! With all your firelocks blaze away Before the bucks are gone, As you aim at the game In the woods of old Naushon, Wh'ere the shot are flying right and left In the woods of old Naushon. Our sportsmen are proverbial Among the ducks and loons, And greatly feared of quadrupeds, From mammoths down to coons. With double barrels loaded high, Their triggers both are drawn, As they clang and they bang In the woods of old Naushon, Where the bucks are leaping through the leaves In the woods of old Naushon. THE BUGLE-HORN. 207 New England's trusty sportsmen Shall leave their wives so dear, To hunt with our brave Governor For many a happy year. Then, then, ye gallant gentlemen, When ancient corks are drawn, Fill the toasts to the host In the hall of old Naushon, While the wine is flowing bright and free In the hall of old Naushon. HOLMES. THE BUGLE-HOKN. OH, who does not love the bugle-horn ? How sweet are its tones on the breezes borne ! They seem like the voice of a spirit to be, Breathing its heavenly melody. What a lovely morn is this to blend It? music with that which the forests lend ! The sunlight breaks through the leaves of green, And softly rests on the limbs between, And the gale of autumn has checked its career, While the hills re-echo the cadence clear. How thrillingly sweet the notes float along, And the sheen of the ocean still bears them on, As calmly wrapped in an emerald bed, It sleeps in peace, for the storm spirit has fled. So pure and clear in repose it seems Like the face of a sleeper who sinless dreams ;. And the crash in the distance that 's brought to my ear Is caused by the leap of the forest deer. 208 COME TO THE SPORTS, ETC. At the sound of rny bugle he 's up and away : No music to him is the huntsman's lay. Oh, Death, when he comes, let it be such a morn ! From its tenement here when my spirit -is borne, May it pass like the notes of my bugle-horn ! 1835. W. H. H. W. H. H. introduced the bugle into NAUSHON woods. His instrument still belongs to one of iny grandchildren. We have lately tried to reproduce the effect of it at the hunt of 1883. COME TO THE SPOETS OF OUE WAVE-CIRCLED ISLE. COME to the sports of our wave-circled isle, Come when the forest is changing ; By the starry light of an autumn night, The deer through the woods are ranging. The hoar-frost fringes the moss-covered tree, The wind through the boughs is sighing ; Though its leaves are sear with the waning year, A buck in their shade is lying. The hues of summer are gone from the hill, But the sunshine around it is streaming ; With a living light the forest is bright, Where the doe in her lair is dreaming. These are the glories of Nature's decay, She fades with no tinge of sadness ; O'er her scarlet bowers, o'er the dying flowers, The fawns are leaping in gladness. OH, LET NO CHANGE IN AFTER YEARS. 209 And thus should life, like the fleeting year, Grow bright as it nears the gloaming, Till it shines a star in the fields of air, Where the loved and lost ones are roaming. Then come to the sports of our wave-circled isle, Come when the forest is changing ; By the starry light of an autumn night, The deer through its woods are ranging. w. w. s. Sung at the hunt, October, 1839. OH, LET NO CHANGE IN AFTER YEARS. OH, let no change in after years Efface the magic spell That fancy weaves around these scenes, Where memory loves to dwell ! Amidst the toiling throngs of life, The world's most tainted air, Oh, keep unstained from vulgar strife The feelings cherished here ! We 11 then, as now, round friendship's shrine The heart's libation pour, And sadly still fresh garlands twine, At twilight's musing hour. When loudly moans the autumn gale, In storm the daylight fades, And lifelike tones of seeming wail Sound through the forest glades, Oh, they, the loved of other days, How fondly then they seem 14 210 / NUMBER NONE BUT THE CLOUDLESS HOURS." To hover round our thoughtful gaze, Like a remembered dream ! We '11 then, as now, &c. And when the tranquil summer air Breathes on its earliest flowers, The thought, amid these scenes so fair, Steals o'er our happiest hours, Of those whom oft with joy we met, They still are lingering near ; We meet them yet, we meet them yet, In storm and sunshine here. We '11 now, as then, round friendship's shrine The heart's libation pour, And sadly still fresh garlands twine, At twilight's musing hour. W. W. S. October, 1841. This always seemed to me the best original thing in the Island Book. I NUMBER NONE BUT THE CLOUDLESS HOURS." Am : " Fair Harvard." THERE stands, in the garden of old St. Mark, A sun-dial, quaint and gray, And takes no heed as the hours in the dark Pass over it day by day ; It has stood for ages among the flowers, In the land of sky and song, " I number none but the cloudless hours," Its motto, the livelong day. So let my heart in this garden of life Its calendar cheerfully keep, WELCOME TO A SUPPER. 211 Taking no note of the sorrow and strife Which in shadow across it creep ; Content to dwell in this land of ours, In the hope that is twin with love, And numbering none but the cloudless hours, Till the day-spring dawn from above, ANONYMOUS. NAUSHON, Sept. 1, 1866. WELCOME TO A SUPPER GIVEN TO DR. 0. W. HOLMES, FEB. 16, 1865, AT MILTON. As 'mid the storm-cloud's parting veil A ray of sunshine streams, So through rude winter, snow, and hail, His bright-eyed visage gleams AVho gilds the lore of ancient days With gems of wit and mirth, And weaves the poet's sweetest lays That genius gives to earth. Fill up till o'er the crystal rim The sparkling wine-drops flow ; While lips that drain the beaker's brim With warmest welcome glow. Twine round his brows a triple wreath Of rarest wildwood flowers, Plucked when Aurora's perfumed breath Plays with the laughing hours ; And while fresh laurels thus we cull For learning, wit, and art, Fill up your glasses, fill them full To his large, genial heart. 212 HUNTING-SONG. Fill up till o'er the crystal rim The sparkling wine-drops flow, While lips that drain the beaker's brim With warmest welcome glow. W. W. SWAIN. HUNTING-SONG. NOT a buck was shot, nor a doe, nor a fawn, As from drive to drive we hurried, Though the huntsmen were dragged from their beds at dawn, And the deer were terribly worried. We crawled back slowly at fall of night, At a funeral trot returning, As we steered our course by the dim red light Of the captain's cheroot a-burning. Short, not sweet, were the words we said, As we smoked in silent sorrow ; But we swore that the deer must all be dead, And we 'd try it again to-morrow. No rush for saddle or haunch was heard, We did not care a button ; For we said with a grin how much we preferred A leg of the island mutton. Then we jogged in silence along the road ; But we kept up a mighty thinking Of the wagon showing its empty load, And the folks all staring and winking. AN OPAL GEM. 213 We thought, as we sadly removed the caps From the useless shot and powder, How we 'd better have stayed at home perhaps, And fired with our spoons at chowder ! Slowly and solemnly one by one We entered and told our story, The hearing whereof brought lots of fun And a plentiful lack of glory. HOLMES. September 23, 1857. AN OPAL GEM. AN opal gem, the island lies, Set in the blue surrounding sea ; And there beneath the sunny skies Wander young footsteps, light and free. There gayly gleam the ruddy leaves, Soft shimmering in the autumn sun, Her rainbow robe the rich year weaves, Rare robe, to deck the harvest spun. It is the month the hunters love ; Sound the wild horn, bring forth the steed ! O'er hill and dell we 'd gladly rove ; But who the gallant chase shall lead ? Sad silence hangs upon the hall ; No hunter's troop to-day you '11 find. He who was first to sound the call In his still grave hears not the wind, 214 AN OPAL GEM. > Nor song of bird, nor voice of friend ; Nor feels the warmth of morning sun, Or of true hearts that sadly blend For love of him whose race is run. . The deer may toss her antlers high, To seek the covert of the brake : No need the hunter's foot to fly ; This year we hunt not, for his sake, For sake of him who once did own With heart so free this sea-girt isle, Whose memory in thy woods, Naushon, Is writ in Nature's sunny smile ; But not in Nature's smile alone ! More deeply writ in those two graves, The love that gathered to its own Now shares the life from death that saves. And he who in the distant years Shall call his own these woodlands fair, Who seeks of earthly hopes and fears To know the end, shall find it there. Yet not in sadness close the strain That tells of this last " Harvest home ; " A. moment pause, to wind again The jocund notes which sounded " Come ! " And when the friends who at that call With joy appear in ready bands, In turn lie low, still may this hall Know the warm grasp of cordial hands : NO MORE THE SUMMER FLOWERET CHARMS. 215 Still may the early breeze and sun Keep fresh the cheerful thought of him Who from the morn till day was done In gladness joined their joyful hymn. A. S. H. COTUIT, Oct. 12 or 17, 1858. NO MORE THE SUMMER FLOWERET CHARMS. No more the summer floweret charms, The leaves will soon be sear, And Autumn folds his jewelled arms Around the dying year ; So, ere the whitening seasons claim Our leafless groves awhile, With golden wine and glowing flame We 11 crown our lonely isle. Once more the merry voices sound Within the antlered hall, And long and loud the baying hound Returns the hunter's call. And through the woods, and o'er the hill, And far along the bay, The driver's horn is sounding still, Up, sportsmen, and away ! No bars of steel, nor walls of stone, Our little empire bound, But, circling with his azure zone, The sea runs foaming round. The whitening wave, the purpled skies, The blue and lifted shore, Braid with their dim .and blending dyes Our wide horizon o'er. 216 CHARADE. And who will leave the grave debate That shakes the smoky town, To rule amidst our island state, And wear our oak-leaf crown ? And who will be awhile content To hunt our woodland game, And leave the vulgar pack that scent The reeking tracks of fame ? And who, that shares in toils like these, Will sigh not to prolong Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, Our nights of mirth and song ? Then leave the dust of noisy streets, Ye outlaws of the wood, And follow through his green retreats Your noble Eobiu Hood. October, 1849. O. W. H. CHARADE. A BARK from Targus' golden strand My First floats on the stream ; Go seek it where the Emerald land Smiles with her brightest gleam. My Second through my first pursues By turns its winding way ; And when descend the twilight dews, And Bacchus bears the sway, My Whole the imprisoned spirit frees, Whilst loud the jest and song Are borne upon the evening breeze In joyous notes along. W. W. S. THE STORM PETREL. 217 SOFT GLEAMS THE OCTOBER SUN. SOFT gleams the October sun : We look for the feet of the hunter ; But the hunter's race is run, No more he mounts with the morning. Old boon companions and friends, This year we meet not each other ; No voice the greeting sends, In stillness shines the morning. No more shall his cheerful halloo Arouse the deer in the dell ; The earth hath taken its due, Till shines the eternal morning. A. S. H. Supposed to refer to Governor SWAIN. THE STOEM PETREL. BIRD of untiring wing, Whose home is the wave's crest, When clouds and darkness fling Their curtains o'er the deep, It cradles thy light sleep Upon its heaving breast. With morning's early light, Far o'er the long low wave Begins thy wandering flight ; All day thy pinions sweep Above the unfathomed deep, Thy heritage and grave. 218 ON A. B. Dark harbinger of storm ! Amidst the roaring surge Is seen thy shadowy form, As phantom-like it glides Far down their caverned sides, Or scales the crested verge. Along their foaming track, When ships, by tempest tossed, Eeel madly through the rack, And stout hearts quail with fear, Then thou art hovering near, '' Lone wandering, but not lost." W. W. S. ON A. B. THE music clamors shrill and loud, And vibrates on the perfumed air ; The myriad murmurs of the crowd Die into breathless silence there. We hear the tread of marching feet, We hear the rattling roll of drums ; All vagrant eyes together meet, The maskers gay procession comes. And, first and x fairest of them all, The glad night's sovereign leads the line. Each heart beats proud to own the thrall Of youth and beauty's right divine ; And swift the yielding mass divides To leave her princely progress free, As through the spacious path she glides, Like Israel through the parted sea. IT IS A BEAUTIFUL BELIEF. 219 What crown is wortli her own dark hair, What arms so fatal as her eyes ? What banner ever shone so fair As in her cheek faint flushing flies ? Decked with these emblems of her power, Her beauty lights the gilded room ; One heart, one worship, gilds the hour, As one sun warms a summer's bloorn. And after her there comes a swarm Of smaller stars less grandly bright, As in the tropic midnight warm I Ve seen faint glimmers fire the night, That in some proud ship's wake were rife, Whose full-sailed beauty cleft the waves, That in her passage found their life, And in her shadow found their graves, The pageant passes, and she goes ; Her beauty gladdens other eyes, And in iny passing dream the rose Fades to the gray of winter skies. I sigh as round my heart is rolled Indifference that beguiles despair, Would I were only half as old, Or she were only half as fair ! COLONEL HAY. IT IS A BEAUTIFUL BELIEF. IT is a beautiful belief That ever round our head Are hovering, with noiseless wing, The spirits of the dead. 220 DRYBURGH ABBEY. It is a beautiful belief, When finished our career, That it will be our destiny To watch o'er others here ; To lend a moral to the flower, Breathe wisdom on the wind ; To hold commune, at night's pure noon, With the imprisoned mind; To bid the erring cease to err, The trembling be forgiven ; To bear away from ills of clay The infant to its heaven. Ah, when delight was found in life, And joy in every breath, I cannot tell how terrible The mystery of death. But now the past is bright to me, And all the future clear ; For 't is my faith that after death We still shall linger here. JAMES H. PERKINS. DKYBUEGH ABBEY. 'T WAS morn, but not the ray which falls the summer boughc among, When beauty walks in gladness forth, with all her light and song; 'T was morn, but mist and cloud hung deep upon the lonely vale, And shadows, like the wings of death, were out upon the gale. DRYBURGH ABBEY. 221 For he whose spirit woke the dust of nations into life, That o'er the waste and barren earth spread flowers and fruitage rife; Whose genius like the sun illumed the. mighty realms of mind, Had fled forever from the fame, love, friendship of mankind. To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit swept afar, Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the light. of moon or star, To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth, To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence worlds had birth. There was wailing on the early breeze, and darkness in the sky, When with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train swept by ; Methought St. Mary shield us well ! that other forms moved there Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and fair. Was it a dream ? How oft in sleep we ask, Can this be true ? Whilst warm imagination paints her marvels to our view ; Earth's glory seems a tarnished down to that which we behold When dreams enchant our sight with things whose meanest garb is gold. Was it a dream ? Methought, the " dauntless Harold " passed me by; The proud " Fitz James," with martial step, and dark intrepid eye; That " Marmion's " haughty crest was there, a mourner for his sake ; And she, the bold, the beautiful, sweet " Lady of the Lake." The minstrel whose last lay was o'er, whose broken harp lay low, And with him glorious " Waverley " with glance and step of woe ; 222 DRYBURGH ABBEY. And " Stuart's " voice rose there as when, 'midst fate's disastrous war, He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave " Ich Ian Vohr." Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the " Dominie " stalked past, With " Bertram," " Julia," by his side, whose tears were flowing fast; " Guy Mannering," too, moved there, o'erpowered by that afflict- ing sight, And " Merrilies," as when she wept on Ellangowan's height. Solemn and grave, " Monkbarns " approached, amidst that burial line, And " Ochiltree " bent o'er his staff and mourned for " Auld lang syne." Slow moved the gallant " Mclntyre," whilst " Lovel " mused alone ; For once " Miss Wardour's " image left that bosom's faithful throne. With coronach and arms reversed forth came " MacGregor's " clan, Eed " % Dougal's " cry pealed shrill and wild, " Eob Roy's " bold brow looked wan. The pale " Diana " kissed her cross, and blessed its sainted ray ; And " Wae is me," the "Bailie" sighed, "that I should see this day!" Next rode in melancholy guise, with sombre vest and scarf, Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far renowned " Black Dwarf." Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks flowing free, The pious sculptor of the grave, stood " Old Mortality." " Balfour of Burley," " Claverhouse," the " Lord of Evandale," And stately " Lady Margaret," whose woe might nought avail ; A CHARADE. 223 Fierce "Both well" on his charger black, as from the conflict won, And pale " Hebakuk Mucklewrath," who cried, " God's will be done ! " Still onward like the gathering night advanced that funeral train, Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy main ; Where'er the eager gaze might reach in noble ranks were seen Dark plume and glittering mail and crest, and woman's beau- teous mien. A sound thrilled through the lengthening host ; methought the vault was closed Where in his glory and renown fair Scotia's bard reposed. A sound thrilled through that lengthening host ; and forth my vision fled ; But, ah, that mournful dream proved true, the immortal Scott was dead. CHARLES SWAIN. A CHARADE. It is said to have been sent some years ago in a blank cover to Queen Adelaide. She attributed the lines to Sir Walter Scott, and enclosed them to him ; but his answer was that he had never written anything half so good. The author is still unknown. SIR HILARY charged at Agincourt, Sooth, 't was a dreadful day ; And though in those old days of sport The rufflers of the camp and court Found little time to pray, 'T is said Sir Hilary uttered there Two syllables in form of prayer : 224 SEASONS HAVE PASSED AWAY. My First for all the brave and proud Who see to-morrow's sun ; My Next, with its cold, quiet cloud, To those who find a dewy shroud' Before the day be done : My Whole for those whose bright blue eyes Weep when a warrior nobly dies. SEASONS HAVE PASSED AWAY. SEASONS have passed away Since last we met : Springs have to summers blushed, Summers on autumn rushed, Autumns fallen, winter crushed ; Love bloometh yet. Kingdoms have passed away Since last we met : See from the thrones of pride Monarchs like spectres glide ; Love's laws do still abide, Love reigneth yet. Dear ones have passed away, Since last we met : Brother and friend have gone, Heart of twin heart is shorn ; Love laugheth death to scorn, Love liveth yet. MRS. HOWE. Sung by H. C. B. SUN AND SHADOW. 225 CHARADE. MY First, beloved of many an ancient dame, Within my Next from Eastern countries came. fragrant Whole, of which each forms a part, Thou art not science, but thou teachest art. (Tea-chest.} BISHOP WILLIAMS. First heard at our friend's, CHARLES B. SEDGEWICK, SYRACUSE. SUN AND SHADOW. As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green, To the billows of foam-crested blue, Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen, Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue : Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray As the chaff in the stroke of the flail ; Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way, The sun gleaming bright on her sail. Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun, Of breakers that whiten and roar ; How little he cares if in shadow or sun They see him who gaze from the shore ! He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef, To the rock that is under his lee, As he drifts on the blast, like a wind- wafted leaf, O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea. Thus drifting afar to the dim, vaulted caves Where life and its ventures are laid, 15 226 A NATIONAL SONG OF TRIUMPH. The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves May see us in sunshine or shade ; Yet true to. our course, though our shadow grow dark, We '11 trim our broad sail as before, And stand by the rudder that governs the bark, Nor ask how we look from the shore. HOLMES. Written in the northeast lower room of the NAUSHON MANSION HOUSE. A NATIONAL SONG OF TEIUMPH. Written for, and sung at, a large social meeting of friends, who met by appoint- ment at Young's Tavern, Edinburgh, to celebrate the entry of the Allies into Paris in 1814. Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw Look prouder o'er the marled main ; The bastard Eagle bears awa', An' ne'er shall ee thy shores again. Come, bang thy banners to the wain, The struggle 's past, the prize is won ; Well may thy Lion shake his mane, And turn his gray beard to the sun. Lang hae I bragged o' thine an' thee, E'en when thy back was at the wa' ; Now thou my proudest sang shalt be, As lang as I hae breath to draw. Where now the coofs who boded woe, And coldness o'er our efforts threw ? An' where the proudest, fellest foe, Frae hell's black porch that ever flew ? Oh, he might conquer feckless kings, Those bars in Nature's onward plan, OUR ISLAND CHRISTMAS EVE. 227 But fool is he the yoke that flings O'er the unshackled soul of man. 'T is like a cobweb on his breast, That binds the giant while asleep ; Or curtain hung upon the east The daylight from the world to keep. Here 's to the hands sae long upbore, The Eose and Shamrock, blooming still ; An' here 's the burly plant of yore, The Thistle of the Norlan' hill ! Lang may auld Britain's banners pale Stream o'er the seas her might has won ; Lang may her Lions paw the gale An' turn their dewlaps to the sun. JAMES HOGG. A great favorite of Governor SWAIN, upon whose lips it often was. Taken from a copy furnished by Governor J. H. CLIFFORD, of NEW BEDFORD. OUR ISLAND CHRISTMAS EVE. THE song bird has flown from our sea-girded isle. And the greenwood once vocal is silent and sear ; The sun has withdrawn from the heaven his smile, And deep in his covert lies hid the red deer. O'er the desert is" sweeping the bleak wintry blast, And the rocks, they are frosted with wind-driven foam ; But the sailor, light-hearted, his anchor well-cast, In the Cove's friendly shelter sleeps dreaming of home. From tree-arch and column moss-garlands are waving, Like the ivy that droops on the gray minster wall, While the moon through the cloud-rifts with silver is paving The dim forest-aisles like a festival hall. 228 THE GATHERING OF THE HAYS. And, hark ! what rare music swells around us and o'er us, As though on the wings of the breezes were borne ! Tis the winds and the waves join their voices in chorus, To hail with fit anthem the glad Christmas- morn. The starlight that shone over Bethlehem's plain, And guided the shepherds to Mary's sweet boy, To-night sheds its radiant blessing again, And fills the poor heart with a treasure of joy. CAPTAIN CLARKE. THE GATHEBING OF THE HAYS. GATHERING. * MAC GARADH ! Mac Garadh ! red race of the Tay, Ho ! gather ho ! gather like hawks to the prey. Mac Garadh, Mac Garadh, Mac Garadh, come fast ; The flame 's on the beacon, the horn 's on the blast. The standard of Errol unfolds its white breast, And the falcon of Loncartie stirs in her nest. Come away, come away, come to the tryst, Come in, Mac Garadh, from east and from west. Mac Garadh ! Mac Garadh ! Mac Garadh, come forth ! Come from your bowers from south and from north, Come in all Gowrie, Kinnoul, and Tweeddale, Drumelzier and Naughton, come locked in your mail. Come, Stuart, come, Stuart, set up thy white rose ; Killour and Buccleuch, bring thy bills and thy bows ; Come in, Mac Garadh, come armed for the fray, Wide is the war-cry, and dark is the day. THE GATHERING OF THE HAYS. 229 QUICK MAECH. The Hay ! the Hay ! the Hay ! the Hay ! Mac Garadh is coming, give way ! give way ! The Hay ! the Hay ! the Hay ! the Hay ! Mac Garadh is coming, give way ! Mac Garadh is coming, clear the way ! Mac Garadh is coming, hurra, hurra ! Mac Garadh is coming, clear the way ! Mac Garadh is coming, hurra ! Mac Garadh is coming like beam of war ; The blood-red shields are glinting far ; The Stuart is up, his banner white Is flung to the breeze like flake of light. Dark as the mountain's heather wave, The rose and the thistle are coming brave. Bright as the sun which gilds its thread, King James' tartan is flashing red. Upon them, Mac Garadh, bill and bow ; Cry, Holleu, Mac Garadh ! holleu, holleu ! CHARGE. Mac Garadh is coming ! like stream from the hill, Mac Garadh is coming, lance, claymore, and bill ! Like thunder's wide rattle, Is mingled the battle, With cry of the falling and shout of the charge ; The lances are flashing, The claymores are clashing, And ringing the arrows on buckler and targe. BATTLE. Mac Garadh is coming ! the banners are shaking, The war-tide is turning, the phalanx is breaking, 230 THE JACOBITE'S PLEDGE. The Southrons are flying, " Saint George " vainly crying, And Brunswick's white horse on the field is home down ; The red cross is shattered, The red roses scattered, And bloody and torn the white plume in its crown. . PURSUIT. Far shows the dark field like the streams of Cairn Gorin, Wild, broken, and red in the skirt of the storm ; Give the spur to the steed, Give the war-cry its holleu, Cast loose to wild speed, Shake the bridle and follow. The rout's in the battle, Like blast in the cloud ; The flight's mingled rattle Peals thickly and loud. Then holleu, Mac Garadh ! holleu, Mac Garadh ! Holleu, holleu, holleu, Mac Garadh ! ANONYMOUS. THE JACOBITE'S PLEDGE. HERE 's a health to them that 's awa', Here 's a health to them that 's awa' ; Here 's a health to him that was here yestreen, But durstna bide till day. Oh, wha winna drink it dry ? Oh, wha winna drink it dry ? Wha winna drink to the lad that 's gane, Is nane o' our company. THE CHANGE. 231 Let him be swung on a tree, Let him be swung on a tree ; Wha winna drink to the lad that 's gane, Can ne'er be the man for me. It 's good to be merry and wise, It 's good to be honest and true, It 's good to be aff wi' the auld king Afore we be on wi' the new. ANONYMOUS. THE CHANGE. STAR of the twilight gray, Where wast thou blinking, When in the olden day, Eve dim was sinking ? " O'er knight and baron's hall, Turret and tower, O'er fell and forest tall, Green brake and bower." Star of the silver eve, What hast thou noted, While o'er the tower and tree High hast thou floated ? " Blue blades and bonnet gear, Plaids lightly daricing, Lairs of the dun deer, And shafts dimly glancing." Star of the maiden's dream, Star of the gloaming, 232 GATHERING OF ATHOL. Where now doth blink thy beam, When owls are roaming ? " Where in the baron's hall Green moss is creeping, Where o'er the forest's fall Gray dew is weeping." Star of the even still, What now doth meet thee, When from the lonely hill Looks thy blink sweetly ? " Hearths in the wind bleached bare, Eoofs in earth smouldered, Sheep on the dun deer's lair, Trees felled and mouldered." ANONYMOUS. GATHERING OF ATHOL. WHA will ride wi' gallant Murray ? Wha will ride wi' Geordie's sel' ? He 's the flow'r o' a' Glen Isla, And the darlin o' Dunkel'. See the white rose in his bonnet ! See his banner o'er the Tay ! His gude sword he now has drawn it, And has flung the sheath away. Every faithful Murray follows ; First of heroes, best of men ! Every true and trusty Stewart Blythely leaves his native glen. Athol lads are lads of honor, Westland rogues are rebels a' : O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. 233 When we come within their border, We may gar the Campbells' claw. Menzies, he 's our friend and brother; Gask and Strowan are nae slack ; Noble Perth has ta'en the field, And a' the Drummonds at his back. Let us ride wi' gallant Murray, Let us fight for Charlie's crown ; From the right we '11 never sinder, Till we bring the tyrants down. Mackintosh, the gallant soldier, Wi' the Grahams and Gordons gay, They have ta'en the field of honor, Spits of all their chiefs could say. Bend the musket, point the rapier, Shift the brog for Lowland shoe, Scour the durk, and face the danger : Mackintosh has all to do. ANONYMOCS. O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. COME boat me o'er, come row me o'er, Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 1 11 gie John Ross auither bawbee To ferry me o'er to Charlie. We '11 o'er the water, we '11 o'er the sea, We '11 o'er the water to Charlie ; Come weel, come wo, we '11 gather and go, And live or die wi' CharL'e. 234 HOME, SWEET HOME. It 's weel I lo'e iny Charlie's name, Though some there be abhor him ; But, oh, to see auld Nick gaun harne, And Charlie's faes before him. We '11 o'er the water, &c. I swear by moon and starns sae bright, And sun that glances early, If I had twenty thousand lives, I 'd gie them a' for Charlie. We '11 o'er the water, &c. I ance had sons, but now hae nane : I bred them toiling sairly ; And I wad bear them a' again, And lose them a' for Charlie. We 11 o'er the water, we '11 o'er the sea, We '11 o'er the water to Charlie ; Come weel, come wo, we '11 gather and go, And live or die wi' Charlie. ANONYMOUS. HOME, SWEET HOME. 'Mm pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home ! A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere Home, home, sweet, sweet home ! There 's 110 place like home. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ; OLD FOLKS AT HOME. , 235 The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call ; Give me them, and the peace of niind dearer than all. Home, sweet, sweet, sweet home ! There 's no place like home. JOHN HOWARD PAYNE. I personally knew Mr. PAYNE in NEW YOUK during 1837, when with quaint cynicism, during the panic of that year, he remarked to me, "I bear the misfor- tunes of my fellow-creatures with the same philosophy which they have always shown towards mine." OLD FOLKS AT HOME. WAY down upon de Swannee Eibber, Far, far away, Dare 's wha my heart is turning ebber, Dare 's wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation Sadly I roam ; Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at homB. All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home ! All round de little farm I wandered, When I was young ; Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder, Happy was I ; Oh, take me to my kind old mudder, Dare let me live and die. 236 A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary Far from de old folks at home ! One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes, No matter where I rove. When will I see de bees a humming All round de comb ? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home ? All de world am sad and dreary Eb'rywhere I roam ; Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home ! STEPHEN C. FOSTER. A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. A LIFE on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep. Like an eagle caged I pine On this dull, unchanging shore : Oh, give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest's roar. Once more on the deck I stand, Of my own swift-gliding craft : Set sail, farewell to the land ; The gale follows fair abaft. SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 237 We shoot through the sparkling foam, Like an ocean bird set free, Like the ocean bird, our home We 11 find far out on the sea. The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown ; But with a stout vessel and crew, We '11 say, Let the storm come down. And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea, A life on the ocean wave. EPES SARGENT. A favorite Island song. SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. SPARKLING and bright in liquid light, Does the wine our goblets gleam in ; With hue as red as the rosy bed Which a bee would choose to dream in. Then fill to-night, with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. Oh if mirth might arrest the flight Of Time through Life's dominions, We here awhile would now beguile The graybeard of his pinions ! So drink to-night with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beakers brim, And break on the lips while meeting. 238 ANNIE LAURIE. But since Delight can't tempt the wight, Nor fond Regret delay him, Nor Love himself can hold the elf, Nor soher Friendship stay him, ' We 11 drink to-night, with hearts as light, To loves as gay and fleeting As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, And break on the lips while meeting. CHARLES FENNO HOFFMAN. WILL'S song ; a favorite Island song. 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 doon and dee. Her brow is like the snaw-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 doon and dee. Like the dew on the gowan lying Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; COME, BRAVE WITH ME THE SEA. 239 And like the winds in summer sighing, Her voice is low and sweet, Her voice is low and sweet, And she 's a' the world to me ; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I 'd lay me doon and dee. ANONYMOUS. Sung by C. W. _c~ COME, BRAVE WITH ME THE SEA. Am: " Suoni la Tromba." COME, brave with me the sea, love, The empire of the free, love ! There shalt thou dwell with me, love, My blessing and my pride ! Come, hasten with me there, love, While yet the wind is fair, love, Where sparkling billows foam, love, Where fate may bid us roam, love. My ship shall be thy home, love, And thou a sailor's bride ! Though fair the earth may be, love, It is not like the sea, love, When soars the spirit free, love, As o'er its breast we ride. Come then, dwell with me there, love, Come, while the wind is fair, love, Where sparkling billows foam, love, So boundless and so wide ; With me all danger dare, love, As should a sailor's bride. ANONYMOUS. This air has always been a favorite of mine ever since I first heard BADIALLI sing it in the opera of " II Puritani." The band of the First Massachusetts Cavalry also played it with great effect in SOUTH CAROLINA during the war. 240 THE DISASTER. O PESCATOE DELL' ONDE. O PESCATOR dell' onde Fidelin, pescator dell' onde Fidel in, Viene pescar in qua colla bella sua barca, Colla bella se ne va, Fidelin. Non voglio cento scudi Fidelin, Non voglio cento scudi Fidelin, Ne borsa ricama colla bella sua barca, Colla bella se ne va, Fidelin. lo voun bazin d' amore Fidelin, lo voun bazin d' amore Fidelin, Che qual mi pagher& colla bella sua bocca, Colla bella se ne va, Fidelin. ANONYMOUS, Popular Venetian, Sony. Sung by Mrs. RUSSELL STURGIS at MACAO. THE DISASTER. HE wandered through the briery woods, And through the tangled fern, And tore his must n't mention 'ems, And had to put on hern. ANONYMOUS. This reminds me of a party of young Boston men who in their city clothes were taken through the Blue Hill briers after quail. Returning home, one of them disappeared and was found in the stable mending his torn garment, being too modest to ask any one to do it for him. His name was N. H. or G. K. M. HOME BY THE SEA. 241 HOME BY THE SEA. OH, give me a home by the sea, Where the white waves are crested with foam, Where the shrill winds are carolling free, As o'er the wild waters I roam. For I '11 list to ocean's wild roar And join in its stormiest glee, Nor ask in the wide world for more Than a home by the deep rolling sea, A home, a home, A home by the deep rolling sea, A home, a home, A home by the deep rolling sea. At morn, when the sun from the east Comes mantled with purple and gold, Whose hues on the billows are cast, Which sparkle with splendor untold, Oh, then, by the shore would I stray, And roam as the halcyon, free, From envy and care far away, In my home by the deep rolling sea, A home, a home, &c. At eve, when the moon in her pride Rides queen of the soft summer night, And gleams on the murmuring tide, With floods of her silvery light, Oh, earth has no beauty so rare, No place that is dearer to me ; 10 242 YE BANKS AND BRAES 0' BONNIE DOON. Then give me, so free and so fair, A home by the deep rolling sea, A home, a home, &c. ' ANONYMOUS. Sung by S. J. on the " Rambler," in a gale of wind, holding on to the shrouds the little yacht under close reefs. YE BANKS AND BEAES 0' BONNIE DOON. TUNE : " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? How can ye chant, ye little birds, An' I sae weary, f u' o' care ? Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed, never to return. Thou 'It break my heart, thou bonnie bird, That sings beside thy mate ; For sae I sat, and sae I sang, And wistna o' my fate. Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its love, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; And my fause luver stole my rose, But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. BURNS. M. P. F. BRIG N ALL BANKS. 243 BEIGNALL BANKS. OH, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton Hall, Beneath the turrets high, A maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily, CHORUS. " Oh, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green ; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there, Than reign our English queen." " If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down ? And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blithe as Queen of May." CHORUS. Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green ; I 'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen." 244 BRIGNALL BANKS. " With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum." " I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear ; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. CHORUS. " And, oh, though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare Would reign my Queen of May. " Maiden, a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I '11 die ; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead, Were better mate than I. And when I 'm with my comrades met, Beneath the greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now. CHORUS. " Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen." SCOTT, Rokeby. A favorite of M. P. F. WHILE THEE I SEEK. 245 THE BLUE JUNIATA. WILD roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata, Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata ; Swift as an antelope, through the forest going, Loose were her jetty locks, in wavy tresses flowing. Gay was the mountain song of bright Alfarata, Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata : " Strong and true my arrows are, in my painted quiver ; Swift goes my light canoe adown the rapid river." So sang the Indian girl, bright Alfarata, Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata. Fleeting years have borne away the voice of Alfarata ; Still sweeps the river on, the blue Juniata. ANONYMOUS. WHILE THEE I SEEK. WHILE thee I seek, protecting Power ! Be my vain wishes stilled ; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled. Thy love the powers of thought bestowed ; To thee my thoughts would soar ; Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed, That mercy I adore ! In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see ! Each blessing to my soul more dear, Because conferred by thee. 246 FREEDOM OF THE MIND. In every joy that crowns my days, In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer. When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; Resigned when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet thy will. My lifted eye without a tear The gathering storm shall see ; My steadfast heart shall know no fear ; That heart shall rest on thee ! H. M. WILLIAMS. FREEDOM OF THE MIND. HIGH walls and huge the body may confine, And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design, And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways ; Yet scorns th' immortal mind this base control ! No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, And, in a flash, from earth to heaven it goes ! It leaps from mount to mount, from vale to vale It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers ; It visits home, to hear the fireside tale, Or in sweet converse pass the joyous hours : 'T is up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star ! WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON. BALTIMORE JAIL, 1830. SHAKSPE ARE'S EPITAPH. 247 TELL HER I'LL LOVE HER. TELL her I '11 love her while the clouds drop rain, Or while there 's water in the pathless main ; Tell her I '11 love her till this life is o'er, And then my ghost shall visit this sweet shore, Tell her I '11 love her till this life is o'er, And then my ghost shall visit this sweet shore. Tell her I only ask she '11 think of me, I '11 love her while there 's salt within the sea ; Tell her all this, tell it, tell it o'er and o'er, I '11 love her while there 's salt within the sea ; Tell her all this, tell it, tell it o'er and o'er : The anchor 's weighed, or I would tell her more. Go to Jane Glover And tell her I love her, And when the moon 's o'er the hill I will come to her. ANONYMOUS. SHAKSPEARE'S EPITAPH. GOOD frend for Jesus' sake forheare To digg the dust enclosed heare ; Bleste be ye man yt spares these stones, And curst be he yt moves my bones. Attributed to SHAKSPEARE. 248 HOME. HOME. No, it is not a poet's dream, It does not live in thought alone ; For here, by Housatonic's stream, Home, as she wrote of it, is known. Here, where round every rock and peak Clings some tradition dim and hoary, And every valley seems to speak Of the lost Indian's pride and glory ; Where the pure mists long linger nigh, Like guardian Naiads to. the rills, And the vast shades flit silently, As giant spectres, o'er the hills ; Where neither slaves nor nobles bend, But all in love aid one another ; Where every stranger is a friend, And every honest man a brother ; Where all gives proof of woman's power, The might of nature, not of art ; And day by day, and hour by hour, Heart clingeth closer still to heart. Here is a home, a home in truth, One that can chase away the ills Of age, and lend new joy to youth ; A holy home among the hills. LETTER OF FRANKLIN TO MR. S TEA HAN. 249 Here may we see a stronger bond Than interest, ambition, pelf, Which, reaching to the world beyond, Still makes a world within itself. For though to few the power is given To guide, to govern, or to move, Yet .unto each all-bounteous Heaven Holds out the Godlike power to love. Long may that flame within us burn, As here each bounding heart it fills, Although we never should return To this sweet home among the hills. JAMES HANDASYD PERKINS. STOCKBRIDGE, August, 1836. Written on hearing some one say that there were no such homes as CATHERINE M. SEDGWICK describes in her "Home." A LETTER OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TO MR. STRAHAN. PHILADELPHIA, July 5, 1775. MR. STRAHAN, You are a Member of Parliament, and one of that majority which has doomed my Country to Destruction. You have begun to burn our towns and murder our people. Look upon your hands! they are stained with the blood of your relations ! You and I were long friends ; you are now my Enemy, and I am Yours, B. FRANKLIN. 250 SPIRITS WHICH HOVER ROUND. SPIEITS WHICH HOVER ROUND. SPIRITS which hover round me, ye whose wings Beat back the tempter, whose sweet presence brings Calm, gentle feelings, wishes pure and kind, An eye for all God's beauty, and a mind Open to all his voices, still be nigh When the great mystery his broad shadow flings Over earth's firmest visions, till they fly Like shadows of the night, and teach me how to die ! When my breath faileth as the summer air Dieth at evening ; when my heart, whose care Jesus hath lightened, throbs, stops, throbs again, Then, slowly sinking, ceases without pain Its noiseless, voiceless labors, still be nigh. Let not the ghastly form of Death be there ; But to my clouded, yet clear-seeing eye, Reveal your forms of light and make me love to die. The pinions of the dark and dreaded one Shall not then fan my temples ; when 't is done, This hard-fought fight, your fingers shall untie My earthward bonds, your voices silently Whisper, " Come home, your life is but begun ; " And in your arms borne upward, far on high, With mind and heart grown to heaven's harmony, I shall know all, love all, and find 't is life to die. AJJONYMOUS. Copied by E. P. F. MR. WEDDERBURN ON FRANKLIN. 251 GAYLY THE TROUBADOUR. GAYLY the Troubadour touched his guitar, When he was hastening home from the war ; Singing, " From Palestine hither I come. Ladye Love ! Ladye Love ! welcome me home." She for the Troubadour hopelessly wept, Sadly she thought of him when others slept ; Singing^ " In search of thee would I might roam ! Troubadour ! Troubadour ! come to thy home." Hark ! 't was the troubadour breathing her name, Under the battlement softly he came ; Singing, " From Palestine hither I come. Ladye Love ! Ladye Love ! welcome me home." T. H. BAYLY. MR. WEDDERBURN ON FRANKLIN. 1 . . . HERE is a man who, with the utmost insensibility of remorse, stands up and avows himself the author of all. I can compare it only to Zanga in Dr. Young's " Revenge," " Know then 't was I ; I forged the letter, I disposed the picture ; I hated, I despised, and I destroy." 1 Benjamin Franklin, while in England as agent of the Massachusetts Colony, sent home the famous " Hutehinson letters." On learning that a duel had been fought on account of the supposed responsibility of that act, he published a letter stating that he alone was responsible for the letters being transmitted to America. The above extract is from the speech of Mr. Wedderburn in the English Privy Council ; referring to Franklin and his avowed connection with that transaction. 252 I'VE BEEN ROAMING. MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT. MEET me by moonlight alone, And then I will tell you a tale, Must be told by the moonlight alone, In the grove at the end of the vale. You must promise to come, for I said I would show the night flowers their queen : Nay, turn not away that sweet head ; 'T is the loveliest ever was seen ! Daylight may do for the gay, The thoughtless, the heartless, the free; But there 's something about the moon's ray That is sweeter to you and to me : Oh ! remember, be sure to be there, For though dearly a moonlight I prize, I care not for all in the air, If I want the sweet light of your eyes. J. A. WADE. I'VE BEEN EOAMING. I 'VE been roaming where the meadow dew is sweet, And I 'm coming with its pearls upon my feet; I Ve been roaming o'er the rose and lily fair, And I 'm coming with their blossoms in my hair. I 've been roaming where the honeysuckle creeps, And I 'm coming with its kisses on my lips ; I 've been roaming over hill and over plain, And I 'm coming to my bower back again. GEORGE SOANE. SHOULD HE UPBRAID. 253 BEGONE! DULL CARE. BEGONE ! dull care, I prithee begone from me, Begone! dull care, You and I shall never agree. Long time hast thou been tarrying here, And fain thou wouldst me kill, But i' faith, dull care, Thou never shalt have thy will. Too much care Will make a young man turn gray, And too much care Will turn an old man to clay. My wife shall dance and I will sing, So merrily pass the day ; For I hold it one of the wisest things, To drive dull care away. ANONYMOUS (seventeenth century). Sung by Dr. JENNISON. SHOULD HE UPBRAID. SHOULD he upbraid, I '11 own that he prevail, And sing as sweetly as the nightingale ; Say that he frown, I '11 say his looks I view As morning roses newly tipped with dew ; Say he be mute, I '11 answer with a smile, And dance, and play, and wrinkled care beguile. ANONYMOUS. 254 BID ME DISCOURSE. LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. AIR: "Cadul gu lo." OH, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright ; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, &c. Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows ; It calls but the warders that guard thy repose. Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red, Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, &c. Oh, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum ; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, &c. SCOTT. BID ME DISCOURSE. BID me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or like a fairy trip upon the green ; Or like a nymph, with bright and flowing hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. SHAKSPEARE, Venus and Adonis. THE BANKS OF THE BLUE MOSELLE. 255 OH, BID YOUR FAITHFUL AEIEL FLY. OH, bid your faithful Ariel fly To the farthest Indian sky ! And then, at thy afresh command, I '11 traverse o'er the silver sand, I'll climb the mountains, plunge the deep: I, like mortals, never sleep. I '11 do your task, whate'er it be, / Not with ill will, but merrily. Oh, bid your faithful Ariel fly To the farthest Indian sky ! And then, at thy afresh command, I '11 traverse o'er the silver sand. ANONYMOUS. THE BANKS OF THE BLUE MOSELLE. WHEN the glow-worm gilds the elfin flower That clings round the ruined shrine Where first we met, where first we loved, And I confessed me thine, 'T is there I '11 fly to meet thee still, At sound of vesper bell, In the starry light of a summer night, On the banks of the blue Moselle. If the cares of life should shade thy brow, Yes, yes, in our native bowers My lute and heart might best accord To tell of happier hours ; 256 TITANIA'S SONG. Yes, there I '11 soothe thy griefs to rest, Each sigh of sorrow quell, In the starry light of a summer night, On the banks of the blue Moselle." ANONYMOUS. TITANIA'S SONG. CHILD of earth with the golden hair, Thy soul 's too pure, and thy face too fair, To dwell with the creatures of mortal mould, Whose lips are warm as their hearts are cold. Boarn, roam to our fairy home, Ch^ld of earth with the golden hair. I '11 rob of its sweets the humblebee, I '11 crush the wine from the cowslip tree, I '11 pull thee berries, 1 11 heap thy bed, Of downy moss and the poppies red. Eoam, roam, &c. Thou shalt dance with the fairy queen, Through summer nights on the moonlit green, To music murmuring sweeter far Than ever was heard 'neath the morning's star. Eoam, roam, &c. Dim sleep shall woo thee, my darling boy, In her mildest mood with dreams of joy ; And when the morning ends her reign, Pleasure shall bid thee welcome again. Eoam, roam, &c. ANONYMOUS. / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 257 IS THERE A HEART THAT NEVER LOVED? Is there a heart that never loved, Or felt soft woman's sigh ? Is there a man can mark unmoved Dear woman's tearful eye ? Oh, bear him to some distant shore, Or solitary cell, Where none but savage monsters roar, And love ne'er deigned to dwell For there 's a charm in woman's eye, A language in her tear, A spell in every sacred sigh, To man, to virtue, dear. And he who could resist her smiles With brutes alone should live, Nor taste that joy which care beguiles, That joy her virtues give. MOORE. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I REMEMBER, I remember, How my childhood fleeted by, The mirth of its December, And the warmth of its July. On my brow, love, on my brow, love, There are no signs of care ; But my pleasures are not now, love, What childhood's pleasures were. 17 258 THOU SOFT-FLOWING AVON. Then the bowers, then the bowers, Were as blithe as blithe could be, And all their radiant flowers, Were coronals for me : Gems to-night, love, gems to-night, love, Are gleaming in my hair ; But they are not half so bright, love, As childhood's roses were. I was singing, I was singing, And my songs were idle words ; But from my heart was springing Wild music like a bird's : Now I sing, love, now I sing, love, A fine Italian air ; But it 's not so fine a thing, love, As childhood's ballads were. I was merry, I was merry, When my little lovers came, With a lily, or a cherry, Or a new invented game : Now I Ve you, love, now I Ve you, love, To kneel before me there; But you know you 're not so true, love, As childhood's lovers were. W. M. PRAED. THOU SOFT-FLOWING AVON. THOU soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream, Of things more than mortal -thy Shakspeare would dream ; The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. LOVE'S RITORNELLA. 259 The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain, Here rove without danger and sigh without pain ; The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. Here youth shall be famed for their love and their truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth ; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallowed the turf is that pillowed his head. Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow ! Be the swans on thy borders still whiter than snow ! Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread, And the turf ever hallowed which pillowed his head ! DAVID GARRICK. .LOVE'S EITOENELLA. " GENTLE Zitella, whither away ? Love's Kitornella, list while I play." " No ! I have lingered too long on the road, Night is advancing, the brigand 's abroad ; Lonely Zitella hath too much to fear, Love's Eitornella she may not hear." " Charming Zitella, why shouldst thou care ? Night is not darker than thy raven hair ; And those bright eyes if the brigand should see, Thou art the robber, the captive he. Gentle Zitella, banish thy fear : Love's Eitornella tarry and hear." Simple Zitella, beware ! oh, beware ! List ye no ditty, grant ye no prayer ! 260 SOLDIER, REST! To your light footsteps let terror add wings, 'T is Massaroni himself who now sings, " Gentle Zitella, banish thy fear ; Love's Eitornella tarry and hear." ANONYMOUS. SOLDIER, EEST! " SOLDIER, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking. In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing. Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, Dream of fighting fields no more ; Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Morn of toil, nor night of waking. " No rude sound shall reach thine ear, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, Trump nor pibroch summon here Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. Yet the lark's shrill fife may come At the daybreak from the fallow, And the bittern sound his drum, Booming from the sedgy shallow. Ruder sounds shall none be near ; Guards nor warders challenge here, Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing, Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping." She paused, then blushing led the lay, To grace the stranger of the day ; LEE Z IE LINDSAY. 261 Her mellow notes awhile prolong The cadence of the flowing song, Till to her lips, in measured frame, The minstrel verse spontaneous came. " Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, While our slumbrous spells assail ye, Dream not, with the rising sun, Bugles here shall sound reveille. Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying, Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen How thy gallant steed lay dying. Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; Think not of the rising sun, For at dawning to assail ye, Here no bugles sound reveille." SCOTT, Lady of the Lake. Repeated with great effect by W. S. at SWAN ISLAND. LEEZIE LINDSAY. " WILL ye gang to the Hielan's, Leezie Lindsay ? Will ye gang to the Hielan's wi' me ? Will ye gang to the Hielan's, Leezie Lindsay, My bride and my darling to 'be?" " To gang to the Hielan's wi' you, sir, I dinna ken how that may be ; For I ken na the Ian' that ye live in, Nor ken I the lad I 'm gaun wi' ! " " O, Leezie lass, ye maun ken little If sae be that ye dinna ken me ! 262 LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. My name is Lord Konald Mac Donald, A chieftain o' high degree." She has kilted her coats o' green satin, She has kilted them up to the knee, And she 's aff wi' Lord Eonald Mac Donald, His bride an' his daiiin' to be. ANONYMOUS. Sung by Mrs. LONG and by Mr. ANGIER. LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. COME live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yields. There -will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And will I make thee beds of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Slippers lined choicely for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight, each May morning ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love. CHRISTOPHER MARLOWE. THE LARK. 2.63 THE MLNSTKEL'S BEQUEST. SUMMER eve is gone and past, Summer dew is falling fast : I have wandered all the day, Do not bid me farther stray : Gentle hearts of gentle kin, Take the wandering harper in. I have song of war for knight, Lay of love for lady bright, Fairy tale to lull the heir, Goblin grim the maids to scare : Dark the night, and long till day, Do not bid me farther stray. Ancient lords had fair regard For the harp and for the bard : Baron's race throve never well Where the curse of minstrel fell ; If you love your noble kin, Take the weary harper in. SCOTT, Rokeby. THE LARK. BIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 264 YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. Wild is thy lay, and loud, Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be. Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place, Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! JAMES HOGG. YE GENTLEMEN" OF ENGLAND. YE gentlemen of England, That live at home at ease, Ah, little do you think upon The dangers of the seas ! Give ear unto the mariners, And they will plainly show All the cares and the fears When the stormy winds do blow. All you that will be seamen Must bear a valiant heart, YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 265 For when you come upon the seas, , You must not think to start : Nor once to be faint-hearted, In rain, hail, blow, or snow, Nor to think for to shrink When the stormy winds do blow. The lawyer and the usurer, That sit in gowns of fur, In closets warm can take no harm, Abroad they need not stir : When winter fierce with cold doth pierce, And beats with hail and snow, We are sure to endure, When the stormy winds do blow. Then courage, all brave mariners, And never be dismayed, Whilst we have bold adventurers, We ne'er shall want a trade : Our merchants will employ us To fetch them wealth, I know ; Then be bold, work for gold, When the stormy winds do blow. When tempests are blown over, And greatest fears are past, In weather fair, and temperate air, We straight lie down to rest ; But when the billows tumble, And waves do furious grow, Then we rouse, up we rouse, When the stormy winds do blow. 266 THE DASHING WHITE SERGEANT. When we return in safety, With wages for our pains, The tapster and the vintner Will help to share our gains : We '11 call for liquor roundly, And pay before we go; Then we '11 roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow. MARTVN PARKER. I heard this sung by Admiral GOLDSBORO' when he was a Lieutenant. THE DASHING WHITE SERGEANT. IF I had a beau, For a soldier who 'd go, Do you think I 'd say no ? No, no, not I. When his red coat I saw, Not a tear would it draw ; But I'd give him eclat for his bravery ! If an army of Amazons e'er came in play, As a dashing white sergeant I 'd march away. When my soldier is gone, Do you think 1 'd take on, Or sit moping forlorn ? No, no, not I. His fame my concern, How my bosom would burn, When I saw him return crowned with victory ! If an army of Amazons e'er came in play, As a dashing white sergeant I 'd inarch away. GENERAL BURGOYNE. TOM BOWLING. 267 TOM BOWLING. HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew ; No more he '11 hear the tempest howling, For death has broached him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft ; Faithful below he did his duty, But now he 's gone aloft. Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare ; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair. And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many 's the time and oft ! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft. Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, w^ho kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's Ufe has doffed ; For, though his bo.dy 's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft. CHARLES DIBDIN. I remember J. HOWARD, of SPRINGFIELD, singing this. 268 THE TWINS. THE TWINS. IN form and feature, face and limb, I grew so like my brother, That folks got taking me for him, And each for one another. It puzzled all our kith and kin, It reached a fearful pitch ; For one of us was born a twin, And not a soul knew which. One day, to make the matter worse, Before our names were fixed, As we were being washed by nurse, We got completely mixed ; And thus, you see, by fate's decree, Or rather nurse's whim, My brother John got christened me, And I got christened him. This fatal likeness ever dogged My footsteps when at school ; And I was always getting flogged, When John turned out a fool. I put this question, fruitlessly, To every one I knew : " What would you do, if you were me, To prove that you were you ? " Our close resemblance turned the tide Of my domestic life, For somehow my intended bride Became my brother's wife. SIGH NO MORE, LADIES. 269 In fact, year after year the same Absurd mistakes went on ; And when I died, the neighbors came And buried brother John. HENRY S. LEIGH. One of MALCOLM'S songs, associated with the intense enjoyment of Mr. EMEU- SON, who could never laugh long enough over it. CEABBED AGE AND YOUTH. CEABBED age and youth cannot live together : Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care ; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather ; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare ; Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame ; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold ; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee ; youth, I do adore thee. Oh, my love, my love is young ! Age, I do defy thee. Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay'st too long. SHAKSPEARE, Passionate Pilgrim, SIGH NO MORE, LADIES. SIGH no more, ladies, sigh no more : Men were deceivers ever. One foot in sea, and one on shore ; To one thing constant never. SHAKSPEARE, Much Ado about Nothing, 270 THE SOLDIER TIRED OF WAR'S ALARMS. THE CAMPBELLS AEE COMIN'. (Traditional.) THE Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! The Campbells are comin' to bonnie Lochleven ; The Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay, I looked down to bonnie Lochleven, And saw three bonnie pipers play. Great Argyle, he goes before ; He makes the cannons and guns to roar. Wi' sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum, The Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! The Campbells are comin', &c. The Campbells they are a' in arms, Their loyal faith and truth to show ; Wi' banners rattlin' in the wind, The Campbells are comin' oho, oho ! The Campbells are comin', &c. ANONYMOUS. A nursery song which the grandchildren will all recognize. THE SOLDIER TIRED OF WAR'S ALARMS. THE soldier tired of war's alarms Forswears the clang of hostile arms, And scorns the spear and shield ; But if the brazen trumpet sound, He burns with conquest to be crowned, And dares again the field. ANONYMOUS. THE PARISH PRIEST TO HIS SUCCESSOR. 271 REQUIEM FOR A. YOUNG SOLDIER. BREATHE, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest wailing ; Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums ! Comrades, with downcast eyes and muskets trailing, Attend him home, the youthful warrior comes. Upon his shield, upon his shield returning, Borne from the field of honor where he fell, Glory and Grief, together clasped in mourning, His fame, his fate, with sobs exulting tell. Wrap round his breast the flag his breast defended, His country's flag, in battle's front enrolled : For it he died ; on earth forever ended, His brave young life lives in each sacred fold. With proud, proud tears, by tinge of shame untainted, Bear him, and lay him gently in his grave ; Above the hero write, the young half -sainted, " His country asked his life ; his life he gave." GEORGE LUNT. Referring to Colonel LOWELL. THE PARISH PRIEST TO HIS SUCCESSOR. IF thou dost find A house built to thy mind Without thy cost, Serve thou the more God and the poor ; My labor is not-lost. HERBERT. 272 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. THE SOLDIEE'S DBEAM. OUK bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud had lowered, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky, And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 'T was autumn, and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. "Stay, stay with us, rest; thou art weary and worn." And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. CAMPBELL. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 273 INCIDENT OF THE FKENCH CAMP. You know, we French stormed Ratisbon : A mile or so away, On a little mound, Napoleon Stood on our storming-day ; With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, Legs wide, arms locked behind, As if to balance the prone brow, Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans, That soar, to earth may fall, Let once my army-leader, Lannes, Waver at yonder wall," Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping ; nor bridle 1 drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, And held himself erect By just his horse's 'mane, a boy : You hardly could suspect (So tight he kept his lips compressed, , Scarce any blood came through), You looked twice ere you saw his breast Was all but shot in two. " Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace We 've got you Ratisbon ! The Marshal 's in the market-place, And you '11 be there anon 18 274 HYMNE DES MARSEILLAIS. To see your flag-bird flap his vans Where I, to heart's desire, Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed, but presently Softened itself, as sheathes A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes : " You 're wounded ! " " Nay," the soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said ; " I 'ni killed. Sire ! " And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. ROBERT BROWNING. HYMNE DES MAESEILLA1S. ALLONS, enfans de la patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrive. Centre nous de la tyrannic L'etendard sanglant est lev<$, L'etendard sanglant est leve. Entendez-vous dans les campagnes Mugir ces f eroces soldats ? Us viennent jusque dans vos bras figorger vos fils, vos compagnes. Aux armes, citoyens ! formez vos bataillons : Marchez ! marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons. Que veut cette horde d'esclaves, De traitres, de rois conjures ? Pour qui ces ignobles entraves, Ces fers, des longtemps prepares ? HYMNE DES MARSEILLAIS. 275 Franq_ais pour nous, ah, quel outrage ! Quel transports il doit exciter ! C'est nous qu'on ose menacer De rendre a 1'antique esclavage. Aux armes, &c. Quoi ! des cohortes etrangeres Feraient la loi dans nos foyers ? Quoi ! ces phalanges mercenaires Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers, Grand Dieu ! par des mains enchainees, Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient, De vils despotes deviendraient, Les maitres de nos destinees. Aux armes, &c. Tremblez, tyrans ! et vous, perfides. L'opprobre de tous les partis ; Tremblez ! vos projets parricides Vont enfin recevoir leur prix. Tout est soldat pour vous combattre ; S'ils tombent, nos jeunes heros, La France en produit de nouveaux Contre vous tous prets a se battre. Aux armes, &c. Franqais, en guerriers magnamines, Portez ou retenez vos coups ; fipargnez ces tristes victiines A regret s'armant centre nous ; Mais le despote sanguinaire, Mais les complices de Bouille Tous ces tigres qui, sans pitie, Dechirent le sein de leur mere ! Aux armes, &c. 276 MOURIR POUR LA PA TRIE. Amour sacre de la patrie, Conduis, soutiens nos bras vengeurs ! Liberte, Liberte cherie, Combats avec tes defenseurs ! Sous nos drapeaux que la victoire Accoure a tes males accens ; Que tes ennemis expirans Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire ! Aux armes, citoyens ! formez vos bataillons : Marchez ! marchez ! qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons. ROUGET DE LISLE. Sung by W. M. H. MOURIE POUR LA PATRIE. PAR la voix du canon d'alarme, La France appelle ses enfants ; Allons, dit le soldat, aux armes ; C'est ma mere, je la defends. C'est le sort le plus beau, Le plus digne d'envie, C'est le sort le plus beau, Le plus digne d'envie. Nos amis qui loin^ des batailles Succombent dans 1'obscurite' ; du moins nos funerailles, A la France sa liberte, Mourir pour la patrie. C'est le sort le plus beau, Le plus digne d'envie, C'est le sort le plus beau, Le plus digne d'envie. ALEXANDRE DUMAS. Sung by W. M. H. RULE, BRITANNIA. 277 EULE, BEITANNIA. WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command, ' Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung this strain : Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; While thou shalt flourish, great and free, The dread and envy of them all : Eule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. Still more majestic shalt thou rise, More dreadful from each foreign stroke : As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. Eule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves, Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame, But work their woe and thy renown. Eule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; 278 BALAKLAVA. All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore it circles, thine. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. The Muses, still with Freedom found, Shall to thy happy coast repair ; Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, And manly hearts to guard the fair. Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; Britons never will be slaves. JAMES THOMSON. BALAKLAVA. THEY gave the fatal order, Charge ! And so the Light Brigade went down, Where bristling brows of cannon crown The front of either marge. Traced all in fire we saw our way, And the black goal of death beyond, It was no moment to despond, To question, or to pray. Firm in the saddle, stout of heart, With plume and sabre waving high, With gathering stride and onward cry, The Band was swift to start. They took the field with solemn eye ; However wild the deed they knew, However who so bade should rue, Their business was, to die. BALAKLAVA. 279 'T was the old gallant English blood ; And many a shadowy ancestor, Guarding his sculptured arms afar, That day in memory stood. At serried gallop on they press, Swerveless as pencilled lines of light ; And where a steed turns back in fright, That steed is riderless. They charge in high, immortal ire ; The war-cloud swallowed them, the young, The brave, a handful widely flung, But of heroic fire. They fell, unconquered, nor in vain, No, by the sacrificial cost Of Faith and Courage, never lost, Theirs doth the day remain. Reft heart of love, contain thy wound ! Flash, eyes, though lips press close and pale ! Still, mourners I let us hear no wail Above the trumpet's sound. Nor wait the sire to weep the son That bore his fortune and his pride ; Nor shall the mother's wish divide From these, her cherished one. But tearful England holds her breath, Listening, uncomforted, their fame Who, in the greatness of her name, Rode glorious unto death. MRS. HOWE. I have always considered this much better than TENNYSON'S " Balaklava." 280 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. THE CHAEGE 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. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " Charge for the guns ! " he said : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " Was there a man dismayed ? Not though the soldier knew Some one had blundered : Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die : Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them, Volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well ; Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell, Rode the six hundred. CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 281 Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned hi air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wondered : Plunged in the battery-smoke, Right through the line they broke ; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre-stroke, Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them, Volleyed and thundered ; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, - All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade ? Oh the wild charge they made ! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made ! Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred ! TENNYSON. Inserted here to show its inferiority to Mrs. HOWE'S poem on the same subject. 282 THE WATCH ON THE RHINE. THE WATCH ON THE EHINE. A ROAR like thunder strikes the ear Like clang of arms or breakers near. Kush forward for the German Ehine ! Who shields thee, dear beloved Ehine ? Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear, Thy Ehineland watch stands firmly here. A hundred thousand hearts beat high, The flash darts forth from every eye ; For Teutons brave, inured by toil, Protect their country's holy soil. Dear Fatherland, &c. When heavenward ascends the eye, Our heroes' ghosts look down from high ; We swear to guard our dear bequest, And shield it with the German breast. Dear Fatherland, &c. As long as German blood still glows, The German sword strikes mighty blows, And German marksmen take their stand, No foe shall tread our native land. Dear Fatherland, &c. We take the pledge. The stream runs high, Our banners proud are wafting high. On for the Ehine, the German Ehine ! We all die for our native Ehine. Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer, Thy Ehineland watch stands firmly here. MAX SCHUECKENBURGER. HAIL, COLUMBIA! 283 HAIL, COLUMBIA! HAIL, Columbia ! happy land ! Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-born band, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause, And when the storm of war was gone, Enjoyed the peace your valor won. Let independence be our boast, Ever mindful what it cost ; Ever grateful for the prize, Let its altar reach the skies. Firm, united, let us be, Kallying round our Liberty ; As a band of brothers joined, Peace and safety we shall find. Immortal Patriots ! rise once more ; Defend your rights, defend your shora Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Let no rude foe, with impious hand, Invade the shrine where sacred lies Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. While offering peace sincere and just, In heaven we place a manly trust, That truth and justice will prevail, And every scheme of bondage fail. Firm, united, &c. Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! Let WASHINGTON'S great name Eing through the world with loud applause, Eing through the world with loud applause ; 284 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. Let every clime to Freedom dear, Listen with a joyful ear. With equal skill and godlike power, He governs in the fearful hour Of horrid war, or guides with ease The happier times of honest peace. Firm, united, &c. Behold the chief who now commands, Once more to serve his country stands, The rock on which the storm will beat, The rock on which the storm will beat ; But, armed in virtue firm and true, His hopes are fixed on heaven and you. When hope was sinking in dismay, When glooms obscured Columbia's day, His steady mind, from changes free, Resolved on death or liberty. . Firm, united, &c. JUDGE JOSEPH HOPKINSON. ANTONY -AND CLEOPATEA. "I am dying, Egypt, dying." SHAKSPEARE. I AM dying, Egypt, dying; Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, And the dark Plutonian shadows Gather on the evening blast. Let thine arms, queen, enfold me, Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; Listen to the great heart-secrets Thou, and thou alone, must hear. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 285 Though my scarred and veteran legions Bear their eagles high no more, And my wrecked and scattered galleys Strew dark Actium's fatal shore, Though no glittering guards surround me, Prompt to do their master's will, I must perish like a Eoman, Die the great Triumvir still. Let not Caesar's servile minions Mock the lion thus laid low ; 'T was no foeman's arm that felled him, 'T was his own that struck the blow. His who, pillowed on thy bosom, Turned aside from glory's ray, His who, drunk with thy caresses, Madly threw a world away. Should the base plebeian rabble Dare assail my name at Rome, Where my noble spouse, Octavia, Weeps within her widowed home, Seek her ; say the gods bear witness Altars, augurs, circling wings That her blood, with mine commingled, Yet shall mount the throne of kings. As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! Light the path to Stygian horrors With the splendors of thy smile. Give the Caesar crowns and arches, Let his brow the laurel twine ; I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, Triumphing in love like thine. 286 LEXINGTON. I am dying, Egypt, dying ; Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ; They are coming quick, my falchion ! Let me front them ere I die. Ah ! no more amid the battle Shall my heart exulting swell ; Isis and Osiris, guard thee ! Cleopatra, Rome farewell ! WILLIAM II. LYTLE. The author of this poem was a general in the Union army from OHIO, and was killed at CHICKAMAUGA. LEXINGTON. SLOWLY the mist o'er the meadow was creeping, Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, When from his couch, while his children were sleeping, Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. Waving her golden veil Over the silent dale, Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire ; Hushed was his parting sigh, While from his noble eye Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, Never to shadow his cold brow again ; Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing, Reeking and panting he droops on the rein. Pale is the lip of scorn, Voiceless the trumpet horn, Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high ; THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 287 Many a belted breast Low on the turf shall rest, Ere the dark hunters the herd have passed by. Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying ! Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, While o'er their ashes the starry fold flying Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. Borne on her Northern pine, Long o'er the foaming brine Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun ; Heaven keep her ever free, Wide as o'er land and sea Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! HOLMES. THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. OH, say, can you see by the dawn's early light What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming ? And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there : Oh. say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ? 288 JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream : 'T is the star-spangled banner ; oh, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! And where are the foes who so vauntingly swore That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion A home and a country should leave us, no more ? Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave ; And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand Between their loved homes and the war's desolation. Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just ; And this be our motto, " In God is our trust: " And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. FRANCIS SCOTT KEY. JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. JOHN BROWX in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, Brave and godly, with four sons, all stalwart men of might. There he spoke aloud for Freedom, and the Border strife grew warmer, Till the Rangers fired his dwelling, in his absence, in the night ; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Came homeward in the morning, to find his house burned down. JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 289 Then he grasped his trusty rifle, and boldly fought for freedom ; Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band ; And he and his brave boys vowed so might Heaven help and speed 'em ! They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that blights the land; And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Said, " Boys, the Lord will aid us ! " and he shoved his ramrod down. And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day and even, Saving Kansas from its peril, and their very lives seemed charmed ; Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of heaven, In cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all unarmed. Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible frown ! Then they seized another brave boy, not amid the heat of battle, But in peace, behind his ploughshare, and they loaded him with chains, And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their cattle, Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his brains ; Then Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Eaised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance down. 19 290 JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty, He would hunt this ravening evil that had scathed and torn him so ; He would seize it by the vitals ; he would crush it day and night; he Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow, That Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town ! Took the guarded armory building, and the muskets, and the cannon ; Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one ; Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on, And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done. Mad Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town. Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder, made he ; It was all done in the midnight, like the emperor's coup-d'etat ; " Cut the wires ! stop the rail-cars ! hold the streets and bridges ! " said he, Then declared the new Bepublic, with himself for guiding star, This Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown ; And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town. Tallyho ! the old Virginia gentry gather to the baying ! In they rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away; And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for slaying, Not to lose a share of glory, fixed their bullets in his clay ; JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 291 And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him down. How the conquerors wore their laurels ; how they hastened on the trial ; How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestown court-house floor ; How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial ; What the brave old madman told them, these are known the country o'er, " Hang Old Brown," Osawatomie Brown," Said the judge, " and all such rebels ! " with his most judicial frown. But, Virginians, don't do it ! for I tell you that the flagon, Filled with blood of Old Brown's offspring, was first poured by Southern hands ; And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, like the red gore of the dragon, May spring up a vengeful fury, hissing through your slave- worn lands ! And Old Brown, Osawatomie Brown, May trouble you more than ever, when you Ve nailed his coffin down ! E. C. STEUMAN. This poem recalls the night which JOHN BROWN spent at my house a few months before the fatal enterprise at Harper's Ferry. He passed several hours recounting, very modestly, under cross-examination, his battles of Osawatomie and Black Jack ; and he left us with the same impression of heroism which his later history left with the world. On the day of his death Mrs. FOLLEN and Miss SUSAN CABOT took refuge with us to count his last hours, watching the hands of the clock as the moment of his execution approached, with strained eyes and bated breath. None of us who were there will ever forget either him, or them as they appeared on that day. 292 ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE. ON THE SHOEES OF TENNESSEE. " MOVE my arm-chair, faithful Pompey, In the sunshine bright and strong, For this world is fading, Pompey, Massa won't be with you long ; And I fain would hear the south-wind Bring the sound once more to me, Of the wavelets softly breaking On the shores of Tennessee. " Mournful though the ripples murmur, As they still the story tell, How no vessels float the banner That I Ve loved so long and well, I shall listen to their music, Dreaming that again I see Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop, Sailing up the Tennessee." Still the south-wind fondly lingers 'Mid the veteran's silver hair ; Still the bondman, close beside him, Stands behind the old arm-chair. With his dark-hued hand uplifted, Shading eyes, he bends to see Where the woodland, boldly jutting, Turns aside the Tennessee. Thus he watches cloud-born shadows Glide from tree to mountain crest, Softly creeping, aye and ever, To the river's yielding breast. TOGETHER. 293 Ha, above the foliage yonder Something nutters wild and free ! " Massa, massa ! hallelujah ! The flag 's come back to Tennessee ! " " Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, Help me stand on foot once more, That I may salute the colors As they pass before my door. Here's the paper signed that frees you, Give a freeman's shout with me ! God and Union be our watchword Evermore in Tennessee ! " Then the trembling voice grew fainter, And the limbs refused to stand; One prayer to Jesus, and the soldier Glided to that better land. When the flag went down the river Man and master both were free, While the ringdove's note was mingled With the rippling Tennessee. ETHEL LYNN BEERS. My favorite among war-songs, as sung by M . TOGETHER O FAIR-HAIRED Northern hero, With thy guard of dusky hue, Up from the field of battle Kise to the last review ! Sweep downward, holy angels, In legions dazzling bright, 294 THE PICKET-GUARD. And bear these souls together Before Christ's throne of light. The Master, who remembers The cross, the thorns, the spear, Smiles on the risen freedmen, As their ransomed souls appear. And thou, young generous spirit, What will thy welcome be ? " Thou hast aided the down-trodden, Thou hast done it unto me ! " ANONYMOUS. Refers to Colonel ROBERT G. SHAW. THE PICKET-GUAKD. ALL quiet along the Potomac, they say, Except now and then a stray picket Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, By a rifleman hid in the thicket. 'Tis nothing : a private or two, now and then, Will not count in the news of the battle ; Not an officer lost, only one of the men, Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, Keep guard, for the army is sleeping. THE PICKET-GUARD. 295 There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, As he tramps from the rock to the fountain, And thinks of the two in the lone trundle-bed, Far away in the cot on the mountain. His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim, Grows gentle with memories tender, As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, For their mother, may Heaven defend her ! The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, That night when the love yet unspoken Leaped up to his lips, when low-murmured vows Were pledged to be ever unbroken ; Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes, He dashes off tears that are welling, And gathers his gun closer up to its place, As if to keep down the heart-swelling. He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, The footstep is lagging and weary ; Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. Hark ! was it the night-wind that rustled the leaves ? Was it moonlight so wondrously flashing? It looked like a rifle : " Ah ! Mary, good-by ! " And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. All quiet along the Potomac to-night, No sound save the rush of the river ; While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, The picket 's off duty forever. ETHEL LYNN BEERS. 296 THE FLAG. THE FLAG. THERE 's a flag hangs over my threshold, whose folds are more dear to me Than the blood that thrills in my bosom its earnest of liberty ; And dear are the stars it harbors in its sunny field of blue As the hope of a further heaven that lights all our dim lives through. But now should my guests be merry, the house is in holiday guise, Looking out, through its burnished windows like a score of welcoming eyes. Come hither, my brothers, who wander in saintliness and in sin ! Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature ! my heart doth invite you in. My wine is not of the choicest, yet bears it an honest brand ; And the bread that I bid you lighten I break with no sparing hand; But pause, ere you pass to taste it, one act must accomplished be: Salute the flag in its virtue, before ye sit down with me. The flag of our stately battles, not struggles of wrath and greed : Its stripes were a holy lesson, its spangles a deathless creed ; 'T was red with the blood of freemen, and white with the fear of the foe, And the stars that fight in their courses 'gainst tyrants its symbols know. Come hither, thou son of my mother ! we were reared in the self-same arms ; Thou hast many a pleasant gesture, thy mind hath its gifts and charms, THE FLAG. 297 But my heart is as stern to question as mine eyes are of sorrows full: Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass on where others rule. , Thou lord of a. thousand acres, with heaps of uncounted gold, The steeds of thy stall are haughty, thy lackeys cunning and bold ; I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail at thy follies none : Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave my poor house alone. Fair lady with silken trappings, high waving thy stainless plume, We welcome thee to our numbers, a flower of costliest bloom : Let a hundred maids live widowed to furnish thy bridal bed ; But pause where the flag doth question, and bend thy trium- phant head. Take down now your flaunting banner, for a. scout comes breath- less and pale, With the terror of death upon him ; of failure is all his tale : " They have fled while the flag waved o'er them ! they have turned to the foe their back ! They are scattered, pursued, and slaughtered ! the fields are all rout and wrack ! " Pass hence, then, the friends I gathered, a goodly company ! All ye that have manhood in you, go, perish for Liberty ! But I and the babes God gave me will wait with uplifted hearts, With the firm smile ready to kindle, and the will to perform our parts. When the last true heart lies bloodless, when the fierce and the false have won, 1 11 press in turn to my bosom each daughter and either son ; Bid them loose the flag from its bearings, and we '11 lay us down to rest With the glory of home about us, and its freedom locked in our breast. MBS. HOWE. 298 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord ; He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored. He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword ; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps. I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel : " As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal: Let the hero,, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat : Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him, be jubilant, my feet ! Our God is marching on. i In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me : As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. MRS. HOWE. The great hymn of the war. GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH! 299 GLOEY, GLOEY, HALLELUJAH! JOHN BROWN'S body lies a-mouldering in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, His soul is marching on. Glory glory, hallelujah ! Glory, glory, hallelujah ! Glory, glory, hallelujah ! His soul is marching on. The stars of heaven are looking kindly down, The stars of heaven are looking kindly down, , The stars of heaven are looking kindly down, On the grave of old John Brown. Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, His soul is marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, His soul is marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. His pet lamb will meet him on the way, His pet lamb will meet him on the way, His pet lamb will meet him on the way, And they '11 go marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 300 THE AMERICAN FLAG. They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree, They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree, They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree, As they go marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. Let's give three good, rousing cheers for the Union, Let 's give three good, rousing cheers for the Union, Let 's give three good, rousing cheers for the Union, As we go marching on. Glory, glory, hallelujah ! Glory, glory, hallelujah ! Glory, glory, hallelujah ! Hip, hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! ANONYMOUS. This is the John Brown song used by the soldiers and negroes. Just after the war I was on the St. John's River, on the old steamer "Darlington," com- manded by the worst of rebels, Captain BUOCK. The night was dark, and the fires of the boat flashed brightly on the trees as we passed. The negro crew gave us in chorus this song, while the rebel captain was grinding his teeth on the upper deck. Such a song in that place five years earlier, before the war, could only have been had at the cost of several lives ; and the contrast, together with the dusky faces, the illumined shores, and the sparkling water, formed a picture never to be effaced from memory. THE AMERICAN FLAG. WHEN Freedom from her mountain height Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory there ; She mingled with its gorgeous dyes The milky baldric of the skies, And striped its pure, celestial white With streakings of the morning light; THE AMERICAN FLAG. 301 Then from his mansion in the sun She called her eagle-bearer down, . And gave into his mighty hand The symbol of her chosen land. Majestic monarch of the cloud, Who rear'st aloft thy regal form, To hear the tempest trumpings loud, And see the lightning lances driven, When strive the warriors of the storm, And rolls the thunder drum of heaven, Child of the sun, to thee 't is given To guard the banner of the free, To hover in the sulphur smoke, To ward away the battle stroke, And bid its blendings shine afar, Like rainbows on the cloud of war, The harbingers of victory. Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, The sign of hope and triumph high, When speaks the signal trumpet tone, And the long line comes gleaming on ; Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet, Has dimmed the glistening bayonet, Each soldier eye shall brightly turn To where thy sky-born glories burn, And, as his springing steps advance, Catch war and vengeance from the glance. And when the cannon-mouthings loud Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, And gory sabres rise and fall, Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, Then shall thy meteor-glances glow, And cowering foes shall sink beneath 302 WE ARE COMING, FATHER A BRA 'AM. Each gallant arm that strikes below That lovely messenger of death. Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave . Thy stars shall glitter o'er the brave ; When death, careering on the gale, Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, And frighted waves rush wildly back Before the broadside's reeling rack, Each dying wanderer of the sea Shall look at once to heaven and thee, And smile to see thy splendors fly In triumph o'er his closing eye. Flag of the free heart's hope and home, By angel hands to valor given, Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet ! Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet, And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? DRAKE. WE AEE COMING, FATHEE ABRA'AM. WE are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more, From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's shore ; We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and children dear, With hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear : We dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before. WE ARE COMING, FATHER ABRA'AM. 303 We are coining, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! We are coming, we are coming, our Union to restore ; We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! If you look across the hill-tops that meet the Northern sky, Long moving lines of rising dust your vision may descry ; And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride ; And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music pour, We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! We are coming, &c. If you look up our valleys, where the growing harvests shine, You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line ; And children at their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, And learning how to reap and sow against their country's needs, And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door. We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! We are coming, &c. You have called us, and we 're coming, by Eichmond's bloody tide, To lay us down for freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside ; Or from foul treason's savage group to wrench the murderous blade, And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before ; We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! We are coming, &c. ANONYMOUS, New York Evening Post. 304 AT PORT ROYAL. AT POET ROYAL. THE tent-lights glimmer on the land, The ship-lights on the sea ; The night-wind smooths with drifting sand Our track on long Tybee. At last our grating keels outslide, Our good boats forward swing ; And while we ride the land-locked tide, Our negroes row and sing. For dear the bondman holds his gifts Of music and of song, The gold that kindly nature sifts Among his sands of wrong ; The power to make his toiling days And poor home-comforts please ; The quaint relief of mirth that plays With sorrow's minor keys. Another glow than sunset's fire Has filled the west with light, Where field and garner, barn and byre, Are blazing through the night. The land is wild with fear and hate, The rout runs mad and fast ; From hand to hand, from gate to gate, The flaming brand is passed. AT PORT ROYAL. 305 The lurid glow falls strong across Dark faces broad with smiles ; Not* theirs the terror, hate, and loss That fire yon blazing piles. With oar-strokes timing to their song, They weave in simple lays The pathos of remembered wrong, The hope of better days, The triumph note that Miriam sung, The joy of uncaged birds ; Softening with Afric's mellow tongue Their broken Saxon words. So sing our dusky gondoliers ; And with a secret pain, And smiles that seem akin to tears, We hear the wild refrain. We dare not share the negro's trust, Nor yet his hope deny ; We only know that God is just, And every wrong shall die. Eude seems the song ; each swarthy face, Flame-lighted, ruder still : We start to think that hapless race Must shape our good or ill ; That laws of changeless justice bind Oppressor with oppressed ; 20 306 THE FALL OF RICHMOND. And, close as sin and suffering joined, We march to fate abreast, Sing on, po9r hearts ! your chant shall be Our sign of blight or bloom, The Vala-song of Liberty, Or death-rune of our doom. WHITTIER. This always recalls our winter at Port Royal, 1862, and the songs of the negroes which we heard as they passed our house, just outside of the Union .lines and within four miles of the enemy. THE FALL OF RICHMOND. ROLL not a drum, sound not a clarion note Of haughty triumph to the listening sky ; Hushed be the shout of joy in every throat, And veiled the flash of pride in every eye. Not with Te Deums loud, and high hosannas, Hail we the awful victory we have won ; But with our arms reversed, and lowered banners, Stand we, our work is done. Thy work is done, God, terrible and just, Who lay'st upon our hearts and hands this task, Now kneeling with our foreheads in the dust, We venture peace to ask. Bleeding and writhing underneath our sword, Prostrate our brothers lie, my fallen foe, Struck down through us by thee, omnipotent Lord, By thy dread hand laid low. THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 307 For our own guilt have we been doomed to smite These our own kindred, thy great law defying, These our own flesh and blood who now unite For one thing with us, bravely dying ; Dying how bravely, but how bitterly, Not for the better side, but for the worse ; Blindly and wearily striving against thee, For the bad cause where thou hast set thy curse. At whose defeat we may not raise our voice, Save in the deep thanksgiving of our prayers. Lord, we have fought the fight, but to rejoice Is ours no more than theirs. Call back thy dreadful ministers of wrath Who have led on our hosts to this great day ; Let our feet halt in the avenger's path, And bid our weapons stay. And our land, freedom's inheritance, Turn thou once more the blessing of thy face ; Where nations serving thee towards light advance, Give us again our place. Not our bewildering past prosperity, Not all thy former ill-acknowledged grace, But this one boon, God grant us still to be The home of hope for the whole human race. MRS. KEMBLE. 308 SONNETS ON THE AMERICAN WAR. SONNETS ON THE AMERICAN WAR. SHE has gone down ; they shout it from ai'ar, Kings, nobles, priests, all men of every race Whose lagging clogs time's swift, relentless pace. She has gone down, our evil-boding star. Rebellion smitten with rebellion's sword, Anarchy done to death by slavery Of ancient right, insolvent enemy ; Beneath a hideous cloud of civil war, Strife, such as heathen slaughterers had abhorred, The lawless land where no man was called lord, Spurning all wholesome curb, and dreaming free, Her rabble rules licentious tyranny ; In the fierce splendor of her arrogant morn She has gone down, the world's eternal scorn. II. SHE has gone down, woe for the world and all The weary workers, gazing from afar At the clear rising of that hopeful star ; Star of redemption to each weeping thrall Of power decrepit, and of rule outworn ; Beautiful shining of that blessed morn Which was to bring leave for the poor to live, To work and rest, to labor and to thrive, And righteous room for all who nobly strive. She has gone down, woe for the struggling world, Back on its path of progress sternly hurled ! Land of sufficient harvests for all dearth, JOHN A. ANDREW. 309 Home of far-seeing hope, time's latest birth, Woe for the promised land of the whole earth ! in. TRIUMPH not, fools, and weep not, ye faint-hearted ! Have ye believed that the supreme decree Of Heaven had given this people o'er to perish ? Have ye believed that God had ceased to cherish This great, new world of Christian liberty ? Nay, by the precious blood shed to redeem The nation from its selfishness and sin ; By each brave heart that bends in holy strife, Leaving its kindred hearts to break through life ; By all the bitter tears, whose source must stream Forever every desolate home within, We will return to our appointed place, First in the vanguard of the human race. MRS. KEMBLE. JOHN A. ANDKEW. 1867. O LARGE of heart, and grand, and calm, Who held the helm of State so long, Our plaining mingles with our praise, Our sorrow sanctifies our song. Clear eyes, kind lips so silent now, Ears deaf to all our worldly din, Great soul, which has not left its peer, We would the grave-sods had shut in 310 THE NATION'S DEAD. Some lesser man, and we, to-day, Had thy strong will to urge us on, Thy brain to plan, thy hands to help, Thy cheerful voice to say " Well done ! " LOUISE CHANDLER, MOULTON. THE NATION'S DEAD. FOUR hundred thousand men, The brave, the good, the true, In tangled wood, in mountain glen, On battle plain, in prison pen, Lie dead for me and you. Four hundred thousand of the brave Have made our ransomed soil their grave, For me and you, Good friend, for me and you. In many a fevered swamp, By many a black bayou, In many a cold and frozen camp, The weary sentinel ceased his tramp, And died for me and you. From western plain to ocean tide Are stretched the graves of those who died For me and you, Good friend, for me and you. On many a bloody plain Their ready swords they drew, And poured their life-blood like the rain, A home, a heritage, to gain, To gain for me and you. THE NATION'S DEAD. 311 Our brothers mustered by our side, They marched, and fought, and bravely died For me and you, Good friend, for me and you. Up many a fortress wall They charged, those boys in blue ; 'Mid surging smoke and volleyed ball, The bravest were the first to fall, To fall for me and you. Those noble men, the nation's pride, Four hundred thousand men, have died For me and you, Good friend, for me and you. In treason's prison-hold Their martyr spirits grew To stature like the saints of old, While, amid agonies untold, They starved for me and you. The good, the patient, and the trie'd, Four hundred thousand men, have died For me and you, Good friend, for me and you. A debt we ne'er can pay To them is justly due ; And to the nation's latest day Our children's children still shall say, " They died for me and you." Four hundred thousand of the brave Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave, For me and you, Good friend, for me and you. ANONYMOUS, Round Table. 312 RED, WHITE, AND BLUE. RED, WHITE, AND BLUE.. O COLUMBIA, the gem of the ocean, The home of the brave and the free, The shrine of each patriot's devotion, A world offers homage to thee ! Thy mandates make heroes assemble When liberty's form stands in view, Thy banners make tyranny tremble When borne by the red, white, and blue. When war winged its wide desolation, And threatened the land to deform, The ark then of freedom's foundation, Columbia rode safe through the storm ; With garlands of victory around her, When so proudly she bore her brave crew, With her flag proudly floating before her, The boast of the red, white, and blue. - Cold water, cold water, bring hither, And fill up the cup to the brim ; May the wreaths it has worn never wither, Nor the star of its glory grow dim ! May its subjects, united, ne'er sever, But they to their colors prove true, The flag of our Union forever, Three cheers for the red, white, and blue ! ANONYMOUS. THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM. 313 THE BATTLE-CKY OF FEEEDOM. KALLYING-SONG. YES, we 11 rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting tha battle-cry of freedom ; And we 11 rally from the hillside, we 11 gather from the plain, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah ! Down with the traitor, up with the star ; While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once again, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; And we '11 fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. The Union forever, &c. We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. The Union forever, &c. So we 're springing to the call, from the East and from the West, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; And well hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. The Union forever, &c. BATTLE-SONG. ''e are marching to the field, boys, we 're going to the fight, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 314 MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA. And we bear the glorious stars for the Union and the right, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; The Union forever,*hurrah, boys, hurrah ! Down with the traitor, up with the star, For we 're marching to the field, boys, going to the fight, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. We will meet the rebel host, boys, with fearless heart and true, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; And we '11 show what Uncle Sam has for loyal men to do, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom.- The Union forever, &c. If we fall amid the fray, boys, we '11 face them to the last, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; And our comrades brave shall hear us, as they go rushing past, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. , The Union forever, &c. Yes, for Liberty and Union we 're springing to the fight, , Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; And the victory shall be ours, for we 're rising in our might, Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. The Union forever, &c. ROOT. MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA. BRING the good old bugle, boys, we '11 sing another song, Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along, Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong, While we were marching through Georgia. - Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the Jubilee ! Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free ! So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea, While we were marching through Georgia. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 315 How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound, How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found, How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, While we were marching through Georgia. Hurrah, hurrah, &c. Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears, When they saw the honored flag they had not seen for years ; Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers, While we were marching through Georgia. Hurrah, hurrah, &c. " Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast," So the saucy rebels said ; and 't was a handsome boast, Had they not forgot, alas ! to reckon with the host, While we were marching through Georgia. Hurrah, hurrah, &c. So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train, Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main ; Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, . While we were marching through Georgia. Hurrah, hurrah, &c. WORK. When General SHERMAN, Admirals PORTER, ALDRN, and others visited NAUSHON just after the war, this, and similar songs were sung by our young people with great glee on their part, and with much apparent enjoyment hy our visitors. 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. 316 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 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 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. " Halt ! " the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; " Fire ! " out blazed the rifle-blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash ; It rent the banner with seam and gash. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 317 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; She leaned far out on the window-sill, And shook it forth with a royal will. " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came ; The nobler nature within him stirred To life at that woman's deed and word : " Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog march on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tread of marching feet ; All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host- Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; / And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietc'hie'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 Stone wall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of freedom and union, wave ! 318 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 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. WHITTIER. TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. IN the prison cell I sit, thinking, mother dear, of you, And our bright and happy home so far away ; And the tears they fill my eyes, spite of all that I can do, Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay. Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching, Cheer up, comrades, they will come ; And beneath the starry flag We shall breathe the air again Of the free land in our own beloved home. In the battle front we stood, when their fiercest charge they made, And they swept us off, a hundred men or more ; But before they reached our lines they were beaten back dis- mayed, And we heard the cry of victory o'er and o'er. Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. So within the prison cell we are waiting for the day That shall come to open wide the iron door ; And the hollow eye grows bright, and the poor heart almost gay, As we think of seeing home and friends once more. Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. ROOT. BOSTON. 319 BOSTON. SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS. THE rocky nook with hill-tops three Looked eastward from the farms, And twice each day the flowing sea Took Boston in its arms ; The men of yore were stout and poor, And sailed for bread to every shore. And where they went, on trade intent, They did what freemen can ; Their dauntless ways did all men praise, The merchant was a man. The world was made for honest trade, To plant and eat be none afraid. The waves that rocked them on the deep To them their secret told ; Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep, " Like us be free and bold ! " The honest waves refuse to slaves The empire of the ocean caves. Old Europe groans with palaces, Has lords enough and more ; We plant and build by foaming seas A city of the poor ; For day by day could Boston Bay Their honest labor overpay. We grant no dukedoms to the few, We hold like rights and shall; 320 BOSTON. Equal on Sunday in the pew, Oh Monday in the mall. For what avail the plough or sail, Or land or life, if freedom fail ? The noble craftsmen we promote, Disown the knave and fool ; Each honest man shall have his vote, Each child shall have his school. A union then of honest men, Or union nevermore again. The wild rose and the barbary thorn Hung out their summer pride Where now on heated pavements worn The feet of millions stride. happy town beside the sea, Whose roads lead everywhere to all ; Than thine no deeper moat can be, No stouter fence, no steeper wall ! Bad news from George on the English throne " You are thriving well," said he ; " Now by these presents be it known, You shall pay us a tax on tea ; 'T is very small, no load at all, Honor enough that we send the call." " Not so," said Boston, " good my lord, We pay your governors here Abundant for their bed and board, Six thousand pounds a year. FREMONT AND VICTORY. , 321 (Your Highness knows our homely word,) Millions for self-government, But for tribute never a cent." The cargo came ! and who could blame If Indians seized the tea, And, chest by chest, let down the same Into the laughing sea ? For what avail the plough or sail, Or land or life, if freedom fail ? EMERSON. Read in Faneuil Hall, on the Centennial Anniversary of the Destruction of the Tea, Dec. 16, 1873. FREMONT AND VICTORY. PRIZE SONG. AlR : " Suoni la Tromba. " MEN of the North, who remember The deeds of your sires, ever glorious, Join in our psean victorious, The paean of liberty ! Hark ! on the gales of November Millions of voices are ringing ; Glorious the song they are singing, Fremont and Victory ! Hurrah ! Join the great chorus they 're singing, Fremont and Victory ! Come from your forest-clad mountains, Come from the fields of your tillage, Come forth from city and village, Join the great host of the free ! 21 322 FREMONT AND VICTORY. As from their cavernous fountains Koll the deep floods to the ocean, Join the great army in motion, Marching to Victory ! Hurrah ! Echoes from ocean to ocean, Fremont and Victory ! Far in the West rolls the thunder, The tumult of battle is raging, Where bleeding Kansas is waging Warfare with slavery! Struggling with foes who surround her, Lo ! she implores you to stay her ! Will you to slavery betray her ? Never she shall be free ! i Hurrah ! Swear that you '11 never betray her : Kansas shall yet be free ! March ! we have sworn to support her ; The prayers of the righteous shall speed us, A chief never conquered shall lead us, Fremont shall lead the free ! Then from those fields red with slaughter, Slavery's hordes shall be driven, Freedom to Kansas be given, Fremont shall make her free ! Hurrah ! To Kansas shall freedom be given : Fremont shall make her free ! Men of the North, who remember The deeds of your sires, ever glorious, TO R. W. E. 323 Join in our psean victorious, The psean of liberty ! Hark ! on the gales of November, Millions of voices are ringing ; Glorious the song they are singing, Fremont and Victory ! Hurrah ! Join the great chorus they 're singing, Fremont and Victory ! CHARLES S* WEYMAN. On Aug. 2, 1856, during the Fremont campaign, I offered anonymously through the editorial columns of the "New York Evening Post," a prize of $100 for the best Republican song in English, and $100 for the best one in German ; the songs to be handed in to the office of the "Post" on or before Sept. 1, 1856. The advertisement also stated that, "if equal in other respects, preference will be given to songs adapted to the air of Suoni la Tromba, from II Puritani." In the issue of Sept. 2, 1856, the " Post '' announced that GEORGE W. CURTIS, PARKE GODWIN, and FREDERIC W. RACKEMAN had consented to act as a committee to examine the songs and award the prizes. On September 12, these gentlemen reported that they had "carefully read and examined about one hun- dred and fifty contributions, which were sent in from nearly all parts of the Union," and had awarded one prize to the above poem by CHARLES S. WEYMAN, of NEW YORK, and the other to the German song entitled " Freiheitslied der Deutschen Republicaner," by E. VITALIS SCHREB, of BOSTON. Another very valuable poem came in too late for the award, from Mr. WHITTIER. It has been lost ; but we still hope to recover it. TO R W. E. " Dry light makes the best souls." R. W. E. " DRY-LIGHTED soul," the ray that shines in thee Shot without reflex from primeval sun ; We twine the laurel for the victories Which thou on Thought's broad, bloodless field hast won. 324 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. Thou art the mountain where we climb to see The land our feet have trod this many a year ; Thou art the deep and crystal winter sky, Where noiseless, one by one, bright stars appear. It may be, Bacchus at thy birth forgot That drop from out the purple grape to press Which is his gift to man, and so thy blood Doth miss the heat which ofttimes breeds excess. But all more surely do we turn to thee When the day's heat and blinding dust are o'er, And cool our souls in thy refreshing air, And find the peace which we had lost before. E. S. H. TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. BURLY, dozing humble-bee ! Where thou art is clime for me ; Let them sail for Porto Rique, Far-off heats through seas to seek, I will follow thee alone, Thou animated torrid zone ! Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, Let me chase thy waving lines ; Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, Singing over shrubs and vines. Insect lover of the sun, Joy of thy dominion ! Sailor of the atmosphere, Swimmer through the waves of air, TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 325 Voyager of light and noon, Epicurean of June ! Wait, I prithee, till I come Within ear-shot of thy hum, All without is martyrdom. When the south-wind, in May days, With a net of shining haze Silvers the horizon wall, And, with softness touching all, Tints the human countenance With the color of romance, And infusing subtle heats Turns the sod to violets, Thou in sunny solitudes, Rover of the underwoods, The green silence dost displace With thy mellow breezy bass. Hot Midsummer's petted crone, Sweet to me thy drowsy tone Tells of countless sunny hours, Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, In Indian wildernesses found; Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure. Aught unsavory or unclean Hath my insect never seen ; But violets, and bilberry bells, Maple sap, and daffodels, Grass with green flag half-mast high, Succory to match the sky, 326 / WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. Columbine with horn of honey, Scented fern, and agrimony, Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, And brier-roses, dwelt among : All beside was unknown waste, All was picture as he passed. . Wiser far than human seer, Yellow-breeched philosopher, Seeing only what is fair, Sipping only what is sweet, Thou dost mock at fate and care, Leave the chaff and take the wheat. When the fierce northwestern blast Cools sea and land so far and fast, Thou already slumberest deep : Woe and want thou canst out-sleep ; Want and woe, which torture us, Thy sleep makes ridiculous. EMERSON. I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. Who, who would live alway away from his God, Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode, WHY THUS LONGING f 327 Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet, While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? W. A. MCHLEXBERG. WHY THUS LONGING? WHY thus longing, thus forever sighing, For the far-off, unattained, and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying, Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still ; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, If no silken cord of love hath bound thee To some little world through weal and woe ; If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, No fond voices answer to thine own, If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten By daily sympathy and gentle tone. Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, Not by works that win thee world renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses', Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 328 COMMEMORATION ODE. Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, Every day a rich reward will give ; Thou wilt find by hearty striving only, . And truly loving, thou canst truly live. t Dost thou revel in the rosy morning When all nature hails the lord of light, And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning, Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height ? Other hands may grasp the field and forest, Proud proprietors in pomp may shine ; But with fervent love if thou adorest, Thou art wealthier, all the world is thine. Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest, Sighing that they are not thine alone, Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest, And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL. COMMEMOEATION ODE. HARVARD UNIVERSITY, JULY 21, 1865 WE sit here in the Promised Land That flows with Freedom's honey and milk ; But 't was they won it, sword in hand, Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. We welcome back our bravest and our best ; Ah me ! not all ! some come not with the rest, Who went forth brave and bright as any here ! I strive to mix some gladness with my strain, But the sad strings complain, COMMEMORATION ODE. 329 And will not please the ear ; I sweep them for a paean, but they wane Again and yet again Into a dirge, and die away in pain. In these brave ranks I only see the gaps, Thinking of dear ones whom the dumb turf wraps, Dark to the triumph which they died to gain : Fitlier may others greet the living, For me the past is unforgiving ; I with uncovered head Salute the sacred dead, Who went, and who return not. Say not so ! 'T is not the grapes of Canaan that repay, But the high faith that failed not by the way ; Virtue treads paths that end not in the grave; No bar of endless night exiles the brave ; And to the saner mind We rather seem the, dead that stayed behind. Blow, trumpets, all your exultations blow ! For never shall their aureoled presence lack : I see them muster in a gleaming row, With ever-youthful brows that nobler show ; We find in our dull road their shining track ; In every nobler mood We feel the orient of their spirit glow, Part of our life's unalterable good, Of all our saintlier aspiration ; They come transfigured back, Secure from change in their high-hearted ways, Beautiful evermore, and with the rays Of morn on their white Shields of Expectation ! LOWELL. 330 SONG. SONG. READ BY THE AUTHOR AT THE DICKENS DINNER, 1872. Am : " Gramachree." THE stars their early vigils keep, The silent hours are near, When drooping eyes forget to weep Yet still we linger here. And what the passing churl may ask - Can claim such wondrous power, That toil forgets his wonted task, And love his promised hour ? The Irish harp no longer thrills, Or breathes a fainter tone, The clarion blast from Scotland's hills, Alas ! no more is blown ; And passion's burning lip bewails Her Harold's wasted fire, Still lingering o'er the dust that veils The Lord of England's lyre. But grieve not o'er its broken strings, Nor think its soul hath died, While yet the lark at Heaven's gate sings, As once o'er Avon's tide, While gentle summer sheds her bloom, And dewy blossoms wave Alike o'er Juliet's storied tomb And Nelly's nameless grave. BURNS. 331 Thou glorious island of the sea, Though wide the wasting flood That parts our distant land from thee, We claim thy generous blood ; , Nor o'er thy far horizon springs One hallowed star of fame, But kindles, like an angel's wings, Our western skies in flame ! HOLMES. BURNS. TO A ROSE, BROUGHT FROM NEAR ALLOWAY KIRK, IN AYRSHIRE, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1822. WILD rose of Alloway ! my thanks : Thou 'mind'st me of that autumn noon When first we met upon " the banks And braes o' bonnie Doon." Not so his memory, for whose sake My bosom bore thee far and long, His, who a humbler flower could make Immortal as his song : The memory of Burns, a name That calls, when brimmed her festal cup, A nation's glory and her shame In silent sadness up ; A nation's glory, be the rest Forgot, she 's canonized his mind ; And it is joy to speak the best We may of humankind. 332 BURNS. I 've stood beside the cottage bed Where the bard-peasant first drew breath ; A straw-thatched roof above his head, . A straw-wrought couch beneath. And I have stood beside the pile, His monument, that tells to Heaven The homage of earth's proudest isle To that bard-peasant given. There have been loftier themes than his, And longer scrolls, and louder lyres, And lays lit up with Poesy's Purer and holier fires : Yet read the names that know not death ; Few nobler ones than Burns' are there, And few have won a greener wreath Than that which binds his hair. His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak, Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light the cheek ; And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime. Arid who hath heard his song, nor knelt Before its spell with willing knee, And listened, and believed, and felt The poet's mastery BURNS. 333 O'er the mind's sea, in calm and storm, O'er the heart's sunshine and its showers, O'er Passion's moments, bright and warm, O'er Reason's dark, cold hours; On fields where brave men " die or do," In halls where rings the banquet's mirth, Where mourners weep, where lovers woo, From throne to cottage hearth ? What sweet tears dim the eye unshed, What wild vows falter on the tongue, When " Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled," Or " Auld Lang Syne " is sung ? Pure hopes, that lift the soul above, Come with his Cotter's hymn of praise, And dreams of youth and truth and love, With " Logan's " banks and braes. And when he breathes his master-lay Of Alloway's witch-haunted wall, All passions in our frames of clay Come thronging at his call. Imagination's world of air, And our own world, its gloom and glee, Wit, pathos, poetry, are there, And death's sublimity. And Burns though brief the race he ran, Though rough and dark the path he trod Lived, died, in form and soul a Man, The image of his God. 334 BURNS. Through care and pain, and want and woe, With wounds that only death could heal, Tortures the poor alone can know, The proud alone can feel, He kept his honesty and truth, His independent tongue and pen, And moved, in manhood as in youth, Pride of his fellow-men. Strong sense, deep feeling, passions strong, A hate of tyrant and of knave, A love of right, a scorn of wrong, Of coward and of slave ; A kind, true heart ; a spirit high, That could not fear, and would not bow, Were written in his manly eye And on his manly brow. Such graves as his are pilgrim-shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined, The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas, of the mind. Sages, with wisdom's garland wreathed, Crowned kings, and mitred priests of power, And warriors with their bright swords sheathed, The mightiest of the hour; And lowlier names, whose humble home Is lit by Fortune's dimmer star, Are there o'er wave and mountain come, From countries near and far ; A FAREWELL TO AGASSI Z. 335 Pilgrims whose wandering feet have pressed The Switzer's snow, the Arab's sand, Or trod the piled leaves of the West, My own green forest-land. All ask the cottage of his birth, Gaze on the scenes he loved and sung, And gather feelings not of earth His fields and streams among. HALLECK. A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ. How the mountains talked together, Looking down upon the weather, When they heard our friend had planned his Little trip among the Andes ! How they 11 bare their snowy scalps To the climber of the Alps When the cry goes through their passes, " Here comes the great Agassiz ! " " Yes, I 'ui tall," says Chimborazo, " But I wait for him to say so, That 's the only thing that lacks, he Must see me, Cotopaxi ! " "Ay, ay," the fire peak thunders, " And he must view my wonders ! I 'm but a lonely crater Till I have him for spectator." The mountain hearts are yearning, The lava-torches burning, The rivers bend to meet him, The forests bow to greet him, 336 A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ. It thrills the spinal column Of fossil fishes solemn, And glaciers crawl the faster To the feet of their old master. Heaven keep him well and hearty, Both him and all his party ! From the sun that broils and smites, From the centipede that bites, From the hail-storm and the thunder, From the vampire and the condor, From the gust upon the river, From the sudden earthquake-shiver, From the trip of mule or donkey, From the midnight-howling monkey, From the stroke of knife or dagger, From the puma and the jaguar, From the horrid boa-constrictor That has scared us in the pictur', From the Indians of the Pampas Who would dine upon their gran'pas, From every beast and vermin That to think of sets us squirming, From every snake that tries on The traveller his p'ison, From every pest of natur', Likewise the alligator, And from two things left behind him, (Be sure they '11 try to find him,) The tax bill and assessor, Heaven keep the great Professor ! May he find, with his apostles, That the land is full of fossils, That the waters swarm with fishes A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ. 337 Shaped according to his wishes, That every pool is fertile In fancy kinds of turtle, New birds around him singing, New insects, never stinging, With a million novel data About the articulata, And facts that strip off all husks From the history of mollusks. And when, with loud Te Deum, He returns to his Museum, May he find the monstrous reptile That so long the land has kept ill By Grant and Sherman throttled, And by Father Abraham bottled, (All specked and streaked and mottled With the scars of murderous battles, Where he clashed the iron rattles That gods and men he shook at,) For all the world to look at. God bless the great Professor ! And Madam, too, God bless her ! Bless him and all his band, On the sea and on the land, Bless them head and heart and hand, Till their glorious raid is o'er, And they touch our ransomed shore ! Then the welcome of a nation, With its shout of exultation, Shall awake the dumb creation, And the shapes of buried aeons Join the living creatures' pseans, Till the fossil echoes roar ; 22 338 RED JACKET. While the mighty megalosaurus Leads the palaeozoic chorus, God bless the great Professor, And the land his proud possessor, Bless them now and evermore ! 1865. HOLMES. This brings up vividly his genial face, as well as that of the poet, who always met and always enjoyed each other at our Club, where also the discussions between Agassiz and Jeffries Wyman master spirits, who took diametrically opposite grounds upon the Darwinian theory were specially notable. RED JACKET. A CHIEF OF THE TUSCARORAS, ON LOOKING AT HIS PORTRAIT BY WEIR. WHO will believe that, with a smile whose blessing Would, like the patriarch's, soothe a dying hour ; With voice as low, as gentle, and caressing, As e'er won maiden's lip in moonlight bower; With look, like patient Job's, eschewing evil ; With motions graceful as a bird's in air, Thou art, in sober truth, the veriest devil That e'er clenched fingers in a captive's hair ! That in thy breast there springs a poison fountain, Deadlier than that where bathes the Upas-tree ; And in thy wrath a nursing cat-o'-mountain Is calm as her babe's sleep compared with thee ! And underneath that face, like summer ocean's, Its lip as moveless, and its cheek as clear, Slumbers a whirlwind of the heart's emotions, Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, all save fear : SAADI AND THE DERVISH. 339 Love for thy land, as if she were thy daughter, Her pipe in peace, her tomahawk in wars ; Hatred of missionaries and cold water ; Pride in thy rifle-trophies and thy scars ; Hope that thy wrongs may be, by the Great Spirit, Eemembered and revenged when thou art gone ; Sorrow that none are left thee to inherit Thy name, thy fame, thy passions, and thy throne ! HALLECK. SAADI AND THE DERVISH. THE Dervish whined to Said, " Thou didst not tarry while I prayed." But Saadi answered : " Once with manlike hope and fear I gave thee for an hour my ear ; I kept the sun and stars at bay, And love, for words thy tongue could say. I cannot sell my heaven again For all that rattles in thy brain." Said Saadi : " When I stood before Hassan the camel-driver's door, I scorned the fame of Timour brave, Timour to Hassan was a slave ; In every glance of Hassan's eye . I read great years of victory : And I, who cower mean and small In the 'frequent interval When wisdom not with me resides, Worship toil's wisdom that abides. I shunned his eyes, that faithful man's ; I shunned the toiling Hassan's glance." EMERSON, Fragments on the Poet. 340 STORY OF A BRIDGE. STOEY OF A BEIDGE. A BOY sat at my feet, With his head upon my knee. His face was fair and sweet, And into the fire looked he. I read him the famous story, In English verses told, How Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. " Now tell me another story Of some brave man you know ; For I like to hear of those great deeds Which men did long ago." "And many other noble deeds Have been at bridges done ; And if you are not tired, I think That I can tell you one. " A story not of war and blood, But of a deed as brave As his who leaped into the flood And' swam across the wave. " 'Twas at the end of winter In the North Windsor town, Where the broad Connecticut River From the hills comes flowing down. And two strong wooden bridges Provide safe way across, One for the speeding railway train, And one for foot and horse. STORY OF A BRIDGE. 341 The ice, as firm as marble Through all the winter's cold, Now in the sunny southern winds Had loosed its clinging hold, And from its northern winter forts Came rolling thundering /down, Like an army of the winter king, Till it came to Windsor town. And there with force and fury, Like the giant's war of rocks, It broke along the wide foot-bridge With strong resistless shocks ; And drove the timbers downward, In its relentless way, Till pressed against the railroad bridge They for a moment stay. The people stand upon the bank And watch with breathless fear ; For they know the train from the other side Is swiftly coming near, And unless a warning signal Can be sent to let them know, They will rush right down into the flood, For the bridge is sure to go. But who will dare to cross it While it quivers with the strain Of the timbers and the dashing ice, Coming down on it amain ? 342 STORY OF A BRIDGE. Some were fathers and mothers, With children waiting at home ; , Some were young men unwedded, And blooming maidens some. Then outspoke a lad of eighteen years, And his name it was Hayes Brown ; " I will take a lantern and run across, And stop them at Cornish town." No time to lose, away he goes, From beam to beam he springs, And sets his foot on the Cornish shore, And turns and his lantern swings. And at that instant, with a crash, The railway bridge goes down ; Its last strength spent, but not in vain Had it carried the brave Hayes Brown. It was many years ago, And I know "not if this be true ; But they say that Mary was on the train, And they think that her sweetheart knew. Dec. 31, 1877. ELIZABETH HOAR. Read by R. "W. E. on a New Year's night at MILTON. Would that we had more from the same gifted pen ! CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 343 CUKFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. ENGLAND'S sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day ; And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, He with steps so slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair ; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful ; she with lips so cold and white, Struggled to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must not ring to-night." " Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old, With its turrets tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp, and cold, " I Ve a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die, At the ringing of the curfew ; and no earthly help is nigh. Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her lips grew strangely white, As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night.' " Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart), " Long, long years I 've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shad- owed tower ; Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour. I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right; Now I 'm old I will not miss it. Curfew-bell must ring to-night." 344 CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thought- ful hrow ; And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a solemn vow. She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, "At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must die." And her hreath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright ; One low murmur, faintly spoken, " Curfew must not ring to-night." She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door, Left the old man coming slowly paths he 'd trod so oft before. Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow aglow, Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro ; Then she climbed the slimy ladder on which fell no ray of light, Up, upward still, her pale lips saying, " Curfew shall not ring to-night." She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great, dark bell ; Awful is the gloom beneath, her, like the pathway down to hell. See ! the ponderous tongue is swinging ; 't is the hour of curfew now, Arid the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! Her eyes flash with sudden light, As she springs, and grasps it firmly : " Curfew shall not ring to-night." CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 345 Out she swung, far out, the city seemed a speck of light below, There 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro. And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell, But he thought it still was ringing fair young Basil's funeral knell. Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white, Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating, " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying ; and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before, Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told in long years after, as the rays of setting sun Light the sky witli mellow beauty, aged sires, with heads of white, Tell the children why -the curfew Did not ring that one sad night. O'er the distant hills came Cromwell. Bessie sees him ; and her brow, Lately white with sickening terror, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn; And her sweet young face, still haggard with the anguish it had worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light : " Go ! your lover lives," cried Cromwell, " Curfew shall not ring to-night ! " ROSA HARTWICK THORPE. 346 VOLUNTARIES. VOLUNTARIES. Low and mournful be the strain, Haughty thought be far from me : Tones of penitence and pain, Moanings of the tropic sea : Low and tender in the cell Where a captive sits in chains, Crooning ditties treasured well From his Afric's torrid plains. Sole estate his sire bequea'thed Hapless sire to hapless son Was the wailing song he breathed, And his chain when life was done. What his fault, or what his crime ? Or what ill planet crossed his- prime ? Heart too soft a.nd will too weak To front the fate that crouches near, Dove beneath the vulture's Hbeak : Will song dissuade the thirsty spear ? Dragged from his mother's arms and breast, Displaced, disfurnished here, His wistful toil to do his best Chilled by a ribald jeer. Great men in the senate sate, Sage and hero side by side, Building for their sons the State, Which they shall rule with pride. They forbore to break the chain VOLUNTARIES. 347 Checked by the owners' fierce disdain, Lured by " Union " as the bribe. Destiny sat by and said, " Pang for pang your seed shall pay, Hide in false peace your coward head, I bring round the harvest day." II. Freedom all winged expands, Nor perches in a narrow place : Her broad van seeks unplanted lands ; She loves a poor and virtuous race. Clinging to a colder zone, Whose dark sky shakes the snow-flake down, The snow-flake is her banner's star, Her stripes the boreal streamers are. Long, she loved the Northman well : Now the iron age is done, She will not refuse to dwell With the offspring of the sun : Foundling of the desert far, Where palms plume, siroccos blaze, He roves unhurt the burning ways In climates of the summer star. He has avenues to God Hid from men of Northern brain, Far beholding, without cloud, What these with slowest steps attain. If once the generous chief arrive To lead him willing to be led, For freedom he will strike and strive, And drain his heart till he be dead. 348 VOLUNTARIES. III. In an age of fops and toys, Wanting wisdom, void of right, Who shall nerve heroic boys To hazard all in freedom's fight, Break sharply off their jolly games, Forsake their comrades gay, And quit proud homes and youthful dames, For famine, toil, and fray ? Yet on the nimble air benign Speed nimbler messages, That Waft the breath of grace divine To hearts in sloth and ease. So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When duty whispers low, Thou must, The youth replies, / can. i IV. Oh, well for the fortunate soul Which music's wings infold, Stealing away the memory Of sorrows new and old ! Yet happier he whose inward sight, Stayed on his subtile thought, Shuts his sense on joys of time, To vacant bosoms brought. But best befriended of the God He who, in evil times, Warned by an inward voice, Heeds not the darkness and the dread, Biding by his rule and choice, Feeling only the fiery thread VOLUNTARIES. 349 Which bound the dusky tribe, Leading over heroic ground, Walled with mortal terror round, To the aim which him allures, And the sweet heaven his deed secures. Peril around all else appalling, Cannon in front and leaden rain, Him duty through the clarion calling To the van called not in vain. Stainless soldier l on the walls, Knowing this, and knows no more, Whoever fights, whoever falls, Justice conquers evermore, Justice after as before, And he who battles on her side, God, though he were ten times slain, Crowns him victor glorified, Victor over death and pain ; Forever : but his erring foe, Self-assured that he prevails, Looks from his victim lying low, And sees aloft the red right arm Redress the eternal scales. He, the poor foe, whom angels foil, Blind with pride, and fooled by hate, Writhes within the dragon coil, Reserved to a speechless fate. v. Blooms the laurel which belongs To the valiant chief who fights : I see the wreath, I hear the songs Lauding the Eternal Rights, 1 Colonel R. G. S. 350 THE FIELD OF THE GROUNDED ARMS. Victors over daily wrongs : Awful victors, they misguide Whom they will destroy, And their coming triumph hide In our downfall or our joy ; They reach no term, they never sleep, In equal strength through space abide : Though feigning dwarfs, they crouch and creep, The strong they slay, the swift outstride : Fate's grass grows rank in valley clods, And rankly on the castled steep, Speak it firmly, these are gods, All are ghosts beside. EMERSON. THE FIELD OF THE GEOUNDED ARMS. SARATOGA. A FOE is heard in every rustling leaf, A fortress seen in every rock and tree, The eagle eye of art Is dim and powerless then. And war becomes a people's joy, the drum Man's merriest music, and the field of death His couch of happy dreams, After life's harvest home. He battles heart and arm, his own blue sky Above him, and his own green land around, Land of his father's grave, His blessing and his prayers, ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM HOWARD ALLEN. 351 Land where he learned to lisp a mother's name, The first beloved in life, the last forgot, Land of his frolic youth, Land of his bridal eve, Land of his children vain your columned strength, Invaders ! vain your battles' steel and fire ! Choose ye the morrow's doom, A prison or a grave. HALLECK. ON THE DEATH OF WILLIAM HOWAED ALLEN, LIEUTENANT OF THE AMERICAN NAVY. HE hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave, And wept as nations weep their cherished dead, With bitter, but proud tears ; and o'er his head The eternal flowers whose root is in the grave, The flowers of Fame, are beautiful and green ; And by his grave's side pilgrim feet have been, And blessings, pure as men to martyrs give, Have there been breathed by those he died to save. Pride of his country's banded chivalry, His fame their hope, his name their battle-cry, He lived as mothers wish their sons to live, He died as fathers wish their sons to die. If on the grief-worn cheek the hues of bliss, Which fade when all we love is in the tomb, Could ever know on earth a second bloom, The memory of a gallant deed like his Would call them into being ; but the few Who as their friend, their brother, or their son, 352 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. His kind warm heart and gentle spirit knew, Had long lived, hoped, and feared for him alone ; His voice their morning music, and his eye The only starlight of their evening sky, Till even the sun of happiness seemed dim, And life's best joys were sorrows but with him ; And when, the burning bullet in his breast, He dropped, like summer fruit from off the bough, There was one heart that knew and loved him best, It was a mother's and is broken now. HALLECK. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. SPEAK and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array, Who is losing? who is winning? are they far, or come they near Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. " Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls !" Who is losing ? who is winning ? " Over hill and over plain, I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain." Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once more. " Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before, Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse, Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course." Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Ah ! the smoke has rolled away ; And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 353 Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon wheels ; There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels. " Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance ! Eight against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance. Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together fall: Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball." Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on : Speak, Xiinena, speak and tell us, who has lost and who has won? " Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall, 'er the dying rush the living ; pray, my sisters, for them all ! " Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Mother, save my brain ! 1 can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive to rise ; Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes. " O my heart's love ! my dear one ! lay thy poor head on my knee : r Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? canst thou hear me ? canst thou see ? my husband, brave and gentle ! my Bernal, look once more On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er." Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest; Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast ; Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said ; To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 23 354 THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away ; But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt, She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol belt. With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head ; With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead : But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain, And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled : Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside her child ? All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied ; With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother ! " murmured he, and died. " A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping lonely in the North ! " Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead, And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled. Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind Eolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind ; Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the 'dust the wounded strive ; Hide your faces, holy angels ! thou Christ of God, forgive ! " MARCO BOZZARIS. 355 Sink, O Night, among thy mountains ! let the cool, gray shad- ows fall ; Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all ! Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled, In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food ; Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung, And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue. Not wholly lost, O Father, is this evil world of ours ; Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers ; From its smoking hell of battle Love and Pity send their prayer, And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air. WHITTIEE. MARCO BOZZARIS. THEY fought like brave men, long and well ; They piled the ground with Moslem slain : They conquered but Bozzaris fell, Bleeding at every vein. His few surviving comrades saw His smile when rang their proud hurrah, And the red field was won ; Then saw in death his eyelids close Calmly, as to a night's repose, Like flowers at set of sun. 356 MARCO BOZZARIS. Come to the bridal chamber, Death ! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath ; And all we know, or .dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word ; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. Come when his task of fame is wrought ; Come with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought ; Come in her crowning hour, and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight Of sky and stars to prisoned men : Thy grasp is welcome as the hand Of brother in a foreign land ; Thy summons welcome as the cry That -told the Indian isles were nigh To the world-seeking Genoese, When the land wind, from woods of palm, And orange groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytian seas. Bozzaris, with the storied brave Greece nurtured in her glory's time, Eest thee ! there is no prouder grave, Even in her own proud clime. HALLECK. THE DAMSEL OF PERU. 357 THE DAMSEL OF PERU. WHERE olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew, There sat beneath the pleasant shade a damsel of Peru. Betwixt the slender boughs, as they opened to the air, Came glimpses of her ivory neck and of her glossy hair ; And sweetly rang her silver voice, within that shady nook, As from the shrubby glen is heard the sound of hidden brook. 'T is a song of love and valor, in the noble Spanish tongue, That once upon the sunny plains of old Castile was sung ; When, from their mountain holds, on the Moorish rout below, Had rushed the Christians like a flood, and swept away the foe. Awhile that melody is still, and then breaks forth anew A wilder rhyme, a livelier note, of freedom and Peru. For she has bound the sword to a youthful lover's side, And sent him to the war the day she should have been his bride, And bade him bear a faithful heart to battle for the right, And held the fountains of her eyes till he was out of sight. Since the parting kiss was given, six weary months are fled, And yet the foe is in the land, and blood must yet be shed, A white hand parts the branches, a lovely face looks forth, And bright dark eyes gaze steadfastly and sadly toward the north. Thou look'st in vain, sweet maiden, the sharpest sight would fail To spy a sign of human life abroad in all the vale ; For the noon is coming on, and the sunbeams fiercely beat, And the silent hills and forest-tops seem reeling in the heat. That white hand is withdrawn, that fair, sad face is gone ; But the music of that silver voice is flowing sweetly on, Not as of late, in cheerful tones, but mournfully and low, 358 THE SNOW-STORM. A ballad of a tender maid heart-broken long ago, Of him who died in battle, the youthful and the brave, And her who died of sorrow, upon his early grave. But see, along that mountain slope, a fiery horseman ride ; Mark his torn plume, his tarnished belt, the sabre at his side. His spurs are buried rowel-deep, he rides with loosened rein, There 's blood upon his charger's flank and foam upon the mane ; He speeds him toward the olive grove, along that shaded hill : God shield the helpless maiden there, if he should mean her ill And suddenly that song has ceased, and suddenly I hear A shriek sent up amid the shade, a shriek but not of fear. For tender accents follow, and tenderer pauses speak The overflow of gladness, when words are all too weak : " I lay my good sword at thy feet, for now Peru is free, And I am come to dwell beside the orange grove with thee." BRYANT. THE SNOW-STOKM. ANNOUNCED by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight : the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farrn-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry ! Out of an unseen quarry, evermore MAGDALEN. 359 Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake or tree or door ; Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work So fanciful, so savage ; nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn ; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow. EMERSON. MAGDALEN. IN Greece, the brave heart's Holy Land, Its soldier-song the bugle sings ; And I had buckled on my brand, And waited but the sea-wind's wings, To bear me where, or lost or won Her battle, in its frown or smile, Men live with those of Marathon, Or die with those of Scio's isle ; And find in Valor's tent or tomb, In life or .death, a glorious home. 360 MAGDALEN. I could have left but yesterday The scene of my boy-years behind, And floated on my careless way Wherever willed the breathing wiiid. I could have bade adieu to aught I Ve sought or met or welcomed here, Without an hour of shaded thought, A sigh, a murmur, or a tear. Such was I yesterday but then I had not known thee, Magdalen. My sword it slumbers in its sheath ; My hopes their starry light is gone ; My heart the fabled clock of death Beats with the same low, lingering tone ; And this, the land of Magdalen, Seems now the only spot on earth Where skies are blue and flowers are green ; And here I build my household hearth, And breathe my song of joy, and twine A lovely being's name with mine. In vain, in vain ! the sail is spread ; To sea, to sea ! my task is there ; But when among the unmourned dead They lay me, and the ocean air Brings tidings of my day of doom, Mayst thou be then, as now thou art, The loadstar of a happy home ; In smile and voice, in eye and heart, The same that thou hast ever been, The loved, the lovely Magdalen. HALLECK. GREEN RIVER. 361 GEEEN ETVER WHEN breezes are soft and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green, As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink Had given their stain to the wave they drink ; And they whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue. Yet pure its waters its shallows are bright With colored pebbles and sparkles of light, And clear the depths where its eddies play, And dimples deepen and whirl away, And the plane-tree's speckled arms o'ershoot The swifter current that mines its root, Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond-stone. Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms and birds, and wild bees' hum ; The flowers of summer are fairest there, And freshest the breath of the summer air ; And sweetest the golden autumn day In silence and sunshine glides away. Yet fair as thou art, thou shunnest to glide, Beautiful stream, by the village side ; But windest away from haunts of men, To quiet valley and shaded glen ; And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, 362 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. Around thee, are lonely, lovely, and still, Lonely, save when, by thy rippling tides, From thicket to thicket the angler glides ; Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, For herbs of power on thy banks to look ; Or haply, some idle dreamer, like me. BRYANT. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wiklwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well. 9 How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips ! CONNECTICUT. 363 Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well : The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWOKTH. A great favorite of R. B. F. when he was young. CONNECTICUT. " The woods in which we had dwelt pleasantly rustled their green leaves in the son", and our streams were there with the sound of all their waters." MONTKOSE. HERS are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring, Nor the long summer of Cathayau vales, The vines, the flowers, the air, the skies, that fling Such wild enchantment o'er Boccaccio's tales Of Florence and the Arno ; yet the wing Of life's best angel, Health, is on her gales Through sun and snow ; and in the autumn time Earth has no purer and no lovelier clime. Her clear, warm heaven at noon, the mist that shrouds Her twilight hills, her cool and starry eves, The glorious splendor of her sunset clouds, The rainbow beauty of her forest leaves, Come o'er the eye, in solitude and crowds, Where'er his web of song her poet weaves ; And his mind's brightest vision but displays The autumn scenery of his boyhood's days. 364 CRY OF EACH PLANET'S NIGHT. And when you dream of woman, and her love, Her truth, her tenderness, her gentle power; The maiden listening in the moonlight grove, The mother smiling in her infant's bower; Forms, features worshipped while we breathe or move, Be by some spirit of your dreaming hour Borne, like Loretto's chapel, through the air To the green land I sing, then wake, you '11 find them there. HALLECK. CEY OF EACH PLANET'S NIGHT. FAK, far beyond the blazing wanderer's quest, Beyond the constellated sphere's array, Dreamless of us, her children, here oppressed With circumscription of eternal day, The venerable Darkness lives alway, Wrapt in her own dread majesty of rest. Rest rest alas ! there is no rest for me, Though to a weary world I be fts giver. By summer and by spring, by land and sea, The flaming persecutor clips me ever. When will the silver bow exhaust its quiver ? When will old Darkness come and set me free ? Mother, mother, when wilt thou deliver Thy lone child from this fiery agony ? Quiet, oh, quiet when shall I belying Nowhere, within thy peaceful void again, Evermore drifting down, in solemn slumber, Where never star gleamed through the empty main ? Ascribed to E. S. H. HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 365 HYMN TO THE NIGHT. I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night Sweep through her marble halls ; I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light From the celestial walls. I felt her presence, by its spell of might, Stoop o'er me from above ; The calm, majestic presence of the Night, As of the one I love. I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight, The manifold, soft chimes, That filled the haunted chambers of the Night, Like some old poet's rhymes. From the cool cisterns of the midnight air My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there, From those deep cisterns flows. holy Night ! from thee I learn to bear What man has borne before. Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care, And they complain no more. Peace ! peace ! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer. Descend with broad-winged flight, The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most fair, The best-beloved Night. LONGFELLOW. 366 BRAHMA. MAHABHAEATA. (Translation from a Hindoo epic poem of that name, composed three centuries before the Christian era.) FOR he that thinks to slay the soul, or he that thinks the soul is slain, Are fondly both alike deceived : it is not slain, it slayeth not : It is not born, it doth not die ; past, present, future, knows it not: Ancient, eternal, and unchanged, it dies not 'with the dying frame. Who knows it incorruptible and everlasting and unborn, What heeds he whether he may slay, or fall himself in battle slain ? ANONYMOUS. BEAHMA. (Undoubtedly suggested by the foregoing.) IF the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near ; Shadow and sunlight are the same. The vanished gods to me appear ; And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out ; When me they fly, I am the wings. I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. THE BEGGAR. 367 The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred seven ; But thou, meek lover of the good ! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. EMERSON. MY THOUGHTS. MY thoughts are bound within a cell of care, I have not eye nor ear which strays beyond ; The overseer, Time, threats and will not spare, And I of life and liberty despond. Now to my soul a vision is arrayed : Far trees are shivered by a gentle breeze ; The blessed moonlight gleameth through their shade, And hearts there wander forth which are at ease. Thou passing world, it well was said of thee, A time to sow and reap is in thy destiny. E. S. H. THE BEGGAR A BEGGAR through the world am I, - From place to place I wander by. Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me, For Christ's sweet sake and charity ! A little of thy steadfastness, Bounded with leafy gracefulness, Old oak, give me, 368 EACH AND ALL. That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro, While my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unshaken be. Heaven help me ! how could I forget To beg of thee, dear violet ? Some of thy modesty, That blossoms here as well, unseen, As if before the world thou 'dst be*en, Oh, give, to strengthen me ! LOWELL. EACH AND ALL. LITTLE thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown Of thee from the hill-top looking down ; The heifer that lows in the upland farm, Far-heard, lows not thine ear to charm ; The sexton, tolling his bell at noon, Deems not that great Napoleon Stops his horse and lists with delight, Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height ; Nor knowest thou what argument Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent. All are needed by each one ; Nothing is fair or good alone. I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home in his nest at even. He sings the song, but it cheers not now ; For I did not bring home the river and sky : He sang to my ear, they sang to my eye. EACH AND ALL. 369 The delicate shells lay on the shore ; The bubbles of the latest wave Fresh pearls to their enamel gave ; And the bellowing of the savage sea Greeted their safe escape to me. I wiped away the weeds and foam, I fetched my sea-born treasures home ; But the ppor, unsightly, noisome things Had left their beauty on the shore, With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar. The lover watched his graceful maid As 'mid the virgin train she strayed ; Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. At last she came to his hermitage, Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage ; The gay enchantment was undone ; A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, " I covet truth ; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat ; I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burrs ; I inhaled the violet's breath ; Around me stood the oaks and firs ; Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground ; Over me soared the eternal sky, Full of light and of deity ; Again I saw, again I heard, The rolling river, the morning bird; Beauty through my senses stole ; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. EMERSON. Read more than once at our house by Mr. E. 24 370 SLEEP. SLEEP. "I cannot tell how I knew him, but I knew him to be the genius of death. Breathless as I was at beholding him, I soon became familiar with his features. First, they seemed calm ; presently they grew contemplative ; and lastly, beauti- ful : those of the Graces themselves are less regular, less harmonious, less composed." LANDOR. O GENTLE Sleep, who oft hast cradled me In weary hours, Hast laid thy still palm on my heated brow, And bound thereon, when I was sad as now, The silent poppy flowers ! Thou canst not aid me here; but there is One, Brother of thine, Who holds a medicine that will ease all pain : Tell him, I pray thee, straightway, I would fain Be eased of mine. Blessings on thee, Thou guardian angel to the lost child, Time ! All sorrowing hearts Beat thanks to thee, but look with longing eye To where thy brother's kinder ministry The lax cord parts. Paler than thou, Elder and far more beautiful is he, And on his brow Sits the high calm that warrants all redress ; Abiding home to heads all shelterless Will he allow. MY PSALM. 371 Go, gentle Sleep, Tell him the woes of time come thick and fast ; Tell him we lie Within the shadow of the ebon gate And for the music of its opening wait, Longing to die. E. S. H. MY PSALM. I MOURN no more my vanished years ; Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. No longer forward nor behind I look in hope and fear ; But, grateful, take the good I find, The best of now, and here. I plough no more a desert land To harvest weed and tare; The manna dropping from God's hand Rebukes my painful care. That more and more a Providence Of love is understood, Making the springs of time and sense Sweet with eternal good ; That death seems but a covered way, Which opens into light. Wherein no blinded child can stray Beyond the Father's sight ; 372 THE LIGHT OF STARS. That care and trial seem at last, Through memory's sunset air, Like mountain ranges overpast , In purple distance fair ; That all the jarring notes of life Seem blending in a psalm, And all the angles of its strife Slow rounding into calm. And so the shadows fall apart, And so the west- winds play ; And all the windows of my heart I open to the day. WHITTIER. THE LIGHT OF STARS. THE night is come, but not too soon ; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven But the cold light of stars ; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love ? The star' of love and dreams ? Oh, no ! from that blue tent above, A hero's armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies, The shield of that red star. A PSALM OF LIFE. 373 star of strength ! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain ; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light But the cold light of stars ; 1 give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong. LONGFELLOW. A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; 374 A PSALM OF LIFE. Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, ' Is our destined end or way ; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, act in the living Present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead ! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate ; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait. LONGFELLOW. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 375 QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. WHERE, oh, where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime ? Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time. Where, oh, where are life's lilies and roses, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile ? Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, On the old banks of the Nile. Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore ? Look in the columns of old Advertisers, Married and dead by the score. Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Saturday's triumph and joy ? Gone, like our friend TroSa? &KVS Achilles, Homer's ferocious old boy. Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, Hopes like young eagles at play, Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, How ye have faded away ! Yet, though the ebbing of time's mighty river Leave our young blossoms to die, Let him roll smooth in his current forever, Till the last pebble is dry. HOLMES. Almost the first among my favorites ; so too with W. S. 376 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS. FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS., WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, And the voices of the Night Wake the better soul, that slumbered, To a holy, calm delight, Ere the evening lamps are lighted, And, like phantoms grim and tall, Shadows from the fitful firelight Dance upon the parlor wall ; Then the forms of the departed Enter at the open door, The beloved, the true-hearted, Come to visit me once more. He, the young and strong, who cherished Noble longings for the strife, By the roadside fell and perished, Weary with the march of life ! They, the holy ones and weakly, Who the cross of suffering bore, Folded their pale hands so meekly, Spake with us on earth no more ! And with them the Being Beauteous,' Who unto my youth was given, More than all things else to love me, And is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep Comes that messenger divine, FABLE. 377 Takes the vacant chair beside me, Lays her gentle hand in mine ; And she sits and gazes at me With those deep and tender eyes, Like the stars, so still and saint-like, Looking downward from the skies. Uttered not, yet comprehended, Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, Soft rebukes, in blessings ended, Breathing from her lips of air. Oh, though oft depressed and lonely, All my fears are laid aside If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died. LONGFELLOW. FABLE. THE mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel; And the former called the latter " Little Prig." Bun replied : " You are doubtless very big ; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I 'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. 378 FORBEARANCE. I '11 not deny you make A/ very pretty squirrel track : Talents differ ; all is well and wisely put ; If I cannot carry forests on iny back, Neither can you crack a nut." EMERSON. FORBEARANCE. HAST thou named all the birds without a gun ? Loved the wood rose, and left it on its stalk ? At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse ? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust ? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay ? Oh, be my friend, and teach me to be thine ! EMERSON. BETTER a sin which purposed wrong to none Than this still wintry coldness at the heart. A penance might be borne for evil done, And tears of grief and love might ease the smart ; But this self-satisfied and cold respect To virtue which must be its own reward, Heaven keep us through this danger still alive, Lead us not into greatness, heart-abhorred ! O God, who framed this stern New England land, Its clear, cold waters, and its clear, cold soul, Thou givest tropic climes and youthful hearts, Thou weighest spirits and dost all control ! THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 379 Teach me to wait for all, to bear the fault That most I hate because it is my own ; And if I fail through foul conceit of good, Let me sin deep, so I may cast no stone. E. S. H. ANSWEK TO "LOVE NOT." LOVE thou ! for though the thing thou lov'st must die, Must perish from the earth and from the sky, Its memory until thy dying hour Shall be to thee a spell of love and power. Love thou ! for though the thing thou lov'st may change, The fond eye wander, and the leal heart range, It is more blest to give than to receive, And he who truly loves can well afford to grieve. Love thou ! for though thou oft must love in vain, Though the dove fly forth and come not back again, Brave thou the storm ! thou yet shalt find thy dove, And shalt know at last, to live is yet to love. Perhaps her best. THE AEEOW AND THE SONG. I SHOT an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where ; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight- of song ? 380 TERMINUS. Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke ; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. LONGFELLOW. TERMINUS. IT is time to be old, To take in sail : The god of bounds, Who sets to seas a shore, Came to me in his fatal rounds, And said : " No more ! No farther shoot The broad ambitious branches, and thy root : Fancy departs ; no more invent, Contract thy firmament To compass of a tent. There 's not enough for this and that, Make thy option which of two ; Economize the failing river, Not the less revere the Giver, Leave the many and hold the few. Timely wise accept the terms, Soften the fall with wary foot : A little while \ Still plan and smile, And, fault of novel germs, Mature the unfallen fruit. Curse, if thou wilt, thy sires, Bad husbands of their fires, Who, when they gave thee breath, JUNE. 381 Failed to bequeath The needful sinew stark as once The Baresark marrow to thy bones, But left a legacy of ebbing veins, Inconstant heat and nerveless reins, Amid the muses, left thee deaf and dumb ; Amid the gladiators, halt and numb." As the bird trims her to the gale, I trim myself to the storm of time, I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime : " Lowly faithful, banish fear, Eight onward drive unharmed ; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed." EMERSON. JUNE. V AND what is so rare as a day in June ? Then, if ever, come perfect days ; Then heaven tries the earth if it be in tune, And over it softly her warm ear lays. Whether we look, or whether we listen, We hear life murmur, or see it glisten ; Every clod feels a stir of might, An instinct within it that reaches and towers, And, groping blindly above it for light, Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers. The flush of life may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 382 THE WISEST MAN COULD ASK NO MORE. The cowslip startles in meadows green, The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice, And there 's never a leaf or a blade too mean To be some happy creature's palace. The little bird sits at his door in the sun, Atilt like a blossom among the leaves, And lets his illumined being o'errun With the deluge of summer it receives ; His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings, And the heart in her dumb breast nutters and sings : He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best ? LOWELL, Sir LaunfaVs Vision. THE WISEST MAN COULD ASK NO MOKE. THE wisest man could ask no more of fate, Than to be simple, modest, manly, true, Safe from the many, honored by the few, Nothing to covet in world or church or state, But inwardly in secret to be great ; To feel mysterious nature ever new, To touch, if not to grasp, her endless clew, And learn by each discovery how to wait ; To widen knowledge and escape the praise, Wisely to teach, because more wise to learn ; To toil for science, not to draw men's gaze, But for her love of self-denial stern. That such a man could spring from our decays Fans the soul's nobler faith until it burn. LOWELL, TJie Nation. DOROTHY. 383 IT MAY NOT BE OUR LOT TO WIELD. IT may not be our lot to wield The sickle in the ripened field Nor ours to hear on summer eves The reapers' song among the sheaves. Yet where our duty's task is wrought In unison with God's great thought, The near and future blend in one, And whatsoe'er is willed, is done ! WHITTIER, Seedtime and Harvest. DOROTHY. You say that my love is plain ; But that I can ne'er allow, When I look at the thought for others That 's written on her brow. Her eyes are not fine, I own ; She has n't a well-cut nose, But a smile for others' pleasures, And a tear for others' woes ; And yet I will own she 's plain, Plain to be understood, For who could doubt that her nature Is simple and pure and good ? You say that you think her slow ; But how can that be with one Who 's the first to do a kindness Whenever it can be done ? 384 DOROTHY. Quick to perceive a want, Quicker to set it right, Quickest in overlooking Injury, wrong, and slight ? And yet she is slow indeed, Slow any praise to claim, Slow to see faults in others, Slow to give careless blame. " Nothing to say for herself," That is the fault you find ? Hark to her words to the children, Merry and bright and kind. Hark to her words to the sick, Look at her patient ways ; Every word she utters Speaks in the speaker's praise. Nothing to say for herself ! Yet right, most right you are ; But plenty to say to others, And that is better by far. You say she is " commonplace," But there you make a mistake : I would I could think she were so, For other maidens' sake. Purity, truth, and love, Are they such common things ? If hers were a common nature, Women would all have wings. Talent she may not have, Beauty, nor wit, nor grace ; But until she 's among the angels She will not be " commonplace." November, 1871. W. L. T., Good Words. / SLEPT AND DREAMED. 385 LINES ON BEING ASKED, "WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?" IN May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Ehodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black waters with their beauty gay ; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Ehodora ! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being. Why thou wert there, rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask ; I never knew, But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there, brought you. EMERSON. I SLEPT AND DREAMED. I SLEPT, and dreamed that life was beauty, I woke, and found that life was duty. Was thy dream then a shadowy lie ? Toil on, poor heart, unceasingly, And thou shalt find thy dream to be A truth, and noonday light to thee. E. S. H. 25 386 ON A CHILD DROWNED. EPITAPH. STRANGER, them readest carelessly The stone on this hillside, And little dost thou know how much Doth lie within those words, "He died." What years of rich, eventful life, What waste and what increase Of a strong heart's deep, heaving sea Are gathered in this peace. E. S. H. ON A CHILD DROWNED. NOT by thy bed of tedious, lingering pain Friends wept, and doubted life were loss or gain, Watching the ebbing pulse and failing eye, The slow defeat of sad mortality : Thy doom came on thee, like God's lightning, sent For human wonder and admonishment. One moment in thy merry infant glee Laughing and prattling at thy mother's knee ; The next gay wandering in summer's air, To meet thy welcome and thy farewell there. Did some low voice, unheard by all beside, Summon thee out, so helpless and untried, To tread with thy small feet and faltering breath The Valley of the Shadow of thy Death ? TO ELIZA. 387 No ; God, whose smile spread o'er the heavens that day, Bore thee himself along the unuttered way. Grieve not, O mother, that thou wast not there : Swift was the passage, tender was the care ; That brief pang o'er, we scarce could say, " She died," So sweetly pastured on the other side. E. S. H. EXTEACT FROM "THRENODY." CHILD of paradise, Boy who made dear his father's home, In whose deep eyes Men read the welfare of the times to come, 1 am too much bereft. The world dishonored thou hast left. O truth's and nature's costly lie-! O trusted broken prophecy ! O richest fortune sourly crossed ! Born for the future, to the future lost ! EMERSON. TO ELIZA. THE world is bright before thee, Its summer flowers are thine, Its calm blue sky is o'er thee, Thy bosom Pleasure's shrine ; And thine the sunbeam given To Nature's morning hour, Pure, warm, as when from heaven It burst on Eden's bower. 388 WOMAN. There is a song of sorrow, The death-dirge of the gay, That tells, ere dawn of morrow, These charms may melt away, That sun's bright beam be shaded, That sky be blue no more, The summer flowers be faded, And youth's warm promise o'er. Believe it not, though lonely Thy evening home may be, Though Beauty's bark can only Float on a summer sea ; Though Time thy bloom is stealing, There's still beyond his art The wild-flower wreath of feeling, The sunbeam of the heart. HALLECK. WOMAN. WKITTEN IN THE ALBUM OF AN UNKNOWN LADY. LADY, although we have not met, And may not meet, beneath the sky ; And whether thine are eyes of jet, Gray, or dark blue, or violet, Or hazel Heaven knows, not I. Whether around thy cheek of rose A maiden's glowing locks are curled, And to some thousand kneeling beaux Thy frown is cold as winter's snows, Thy smile is worth a world ; WOMAN. 389 Or whether, past youth's joyous strife, The calm of thought is on thy brow, And thou art in thy noon of life, Loving and loved, a happy wife, And happier mother now, I know not ; but, whate'er thou art, Whoe'er thou art, were mine the spell To call Fate's joys or blunt his dart, There should not be one hand or heart But served or wished thee well For thou art Woman, with that word Life's dearest hopes and memories come ; Truth, Beauty, Love, in her adored, And earth's lost Paradise restored In the green bower of home. If to his song the echo rings Of Fame, 't is woman's voice he hears ; If ever from his lyre's proud strings Flow sounds like rush of angel wings, 'Tis that she listens while he sings, With blended smiles and tears, Smiles, tears, whose blessed and blessing power, Like sun and dew o'er summer's tree, Alone keeps green, through time's long hour, That frailer thing than leaf or flower, A Poet's immortality. HALLECK. 390 THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. v THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS. I EESIDE at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James : I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; And I '11 tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to " put a head " on him. Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same Society ; Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare : And Jones then asked the chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules. Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at fault ; It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault. He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass, at least, to all intent ; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent. THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. 391 Then Abner Dean, of Angel's, raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen ; And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in. And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James ; And I 've told in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. BRET HARTE. Associated with the pleasant evening when I first heard it, at the Club reading at Mr. ROCKWELL'S house. THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. "And this our life exempt from public haunt Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything." SHAKSPEARE. (Written while sailing in an open boat on the Hudson River, between Stony Point and the Highlands, on seeing the wreck of an old sloop, June, 1821.) HER side is in the water, Her keel is in the sand, And her bowsprit rests on the low gray rock That bounds the sea and land. Her deck is without a mast, And sand and shells are there, 392 THE RHYME OF THE ANCIENT COASTER. And the teeth of decay are gnawing her planks, In the sun and sultry air. No more on the river's bosom, When sky and wave are calm, And the clouds are in summer quietness, And the cool night-breath is balm, Will she glide in the swan-like stillness Of the moon in the blue above, A messenger from other lands, A beacon to hope and love. No more, in the midnight tempest, Will she mock the mounting sea, Strong in her oaken timbers And her white sail's bravery. She hath borne, in days departed, Warm hearts upon her deck ; Those hearts, like her, are mouldering now, The victims and the wreck Of time, whose touch erases Each vestige of all we love. The wanderers, home returning, Who gazed that deck above, And they who stood to welcome Their loved ones on that shore, Are gone, and the place that knew them Shall know them nevermore. It was a night of terror, In the autumn equinox, THE FIRST KISS OF AFFECTION. 393 When that gallant vessel found a grave Upon the Peekskill rocks. Captain, mate, cook, and seamen (They were in all but three) Were saved by swimming fast and well, And their gallows-destiny. But two, a youth and maiden, Were left to brave the storm, With unpronounceable Dutch names, And hearts with true love warm. And they for love has" watchers In air, on earth, and sea Were saved by clinging to the wreck, And their marriage-destiny. HALLECK. THE FIRST KISS OF AFFECTION. HUMID seal of soft affections, Tenderest pledge of future bliss, Dearest tie of young connections, Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. Speaking silence, dumb confession, Passion's birth and infant play, Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, Glowing dawn of brighter day. Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action, When lingering lips no more must join, What words can ever speak affection So thrilling and sincere as thine ? BURNS. 394 JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. . AIR : A Border Melody. " WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie ? Why weep ye by the tide ? I '11 wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sail be his bride : And ye sail be his bride, ladie, Sae comely to be seen." But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. " Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale ; Young Frank is chief of Errington, And lord of Langley-dale ; His step is first in peaceful ha', His sword in battle keen." But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. " A chain of gold ye sail not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair ; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And you, the foremost o' them a', Shall ride our forest queen." But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean. The kirk was decked at morning-tide, The tapers glimmered fair ; A RIDDLE. 395 The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight are there. They sought her baith by bpwer and ha' : The ladie was not seen. She 's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. SCOTT. A KIDDLE. 'T WAS whispered in heaven, and 't was muttered in hell, And echo caught faintly the sound ,as it fell ; On the confines of earth 't was permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the lightning and heard in the thunder. 'T was allotted to man with his earliest breath, Attends him at birth, and awaits him in death, Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth. In the heaps of the miser 't is hoarded with care, But is sure to be lost on his prodigal heir. It begins every hope, every wish it must bound/ With the husbandman toils, and with monarchs is crowned. Without it the soldier, the seaman, may roam ; But woe to the wretch who expels it from home ! In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'T will not soften the heart ; but, though deaf be the ear, It will make it acutely and instantly hear. Yet in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower, Ah ! breathe on it softly, it dies in an hour. CATHERINE FANSHAWE. 396 COURTSHIP OF OUR CID. WOMAN. WOMAN ! in our hours of ease Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light, quivering aspen made ; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou ! SCOTT, Marmion. COUKTSHIP OF OUR CID. WHAT a pang of sweet emotion Thrilled the master of the ring When he first beheld the lady Through the stabled portals spring ! Midway in his wild grimacing Stopped the piebald-visaged clown ; And the thunders of the audience Nearly brought the gallery down. And she beckoned for her courser, And they brought a milk-white mare. Proud, I ween, was that Arabian Such a gentle freight to.bear; And the master moved to greet her, With a proud and stately walk, And in reverential homage Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk. MY KATE. 397 Hark ! the blare of yonder trumpet ! See ! the gates are opened wide ! Boom there, room there, for Gomersalez, Gomersalez in his pride ! Rose the shouts of exultation, Rose the cat's triumphant call, As he bounded, man and courser, Over master, clown, and all. Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! . Why those blushes on thy cheek ? Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee He hath come thy love to seek ? Fleet thy Arab, but behind thee He is rushing like a gale ; One foot on his coal-black's .shoulders, And the other on his tail ! AYTOON. MY KATE. SHE was not as pretty as women I know, And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways, While she 's still remembered on warm and cold days, My Kate. Her hair had a meaning, her movement a grace ; You turned from the fairest to gaze in her face : And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth, You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth, My Kate. 398 MY KATE. Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke, You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke ; When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone, Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone, My Kate. I doubt if she said to you much that could act As a thought or suggestion ; she did not attract In the sense of the brilliant and wise : I infer 'T was her thinking of others made you think of her, t My Kate. She never found fault with you, never implied Your wrong by her right ; and yet men at her side Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town The children were gladder that pulled at her gown, My Kate, None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall ; They knelt more to God than they used, that was all. If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant ; But the charm of her presence was felt when she went, My Kate. The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude, She took as she found them, and did them all good ; It always was so with her, see what you liave ! She has made the grass greener even here with her grave, My Kate. My dear one ! when thou wast alive with the rest, I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best ; And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part, As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweetheart, My Kate. MRS. BROWNIN2 498 THE IMMORTAL MIND. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still ; Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar, now, See where the victor victim bleeds. All heads must come To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust. SHIRLEY. THE IMMOETAL MIND. WHEN coldness wraps this suffering clay, Ah, whither strays the immortal mind ? It cannot die, it cannot stay, But leaves its darkened dust behind. Then, unembodied, doth it trace By steps each planet's heavenly way ? Or fill at once the 'realms of space, A thing of eyes, that all survey ? Eternal, boundless, undecayed, A thought unseen, but seeing all, All, all in earth, or skies displayed, Shall it survey, shall it recall : AN ODE. 499 Each fainter trace that memory holds, So darkly of departed years, In one broad glance the soul beholds, And all, that was, at once appears. Before creation peopled earth, Its eyes shall roll through chaos back ; And where the farthest heaven had birth, The spirit trace its rising track. And where the future mars or makes, ' Its glance dilate o'er all to be, While sun is quenched or system breaks, Fixed in its own eternity. Above or love, hope, hate, or fear, It lives all passionless and pure : An age shall fleet like earthly year ; Its years as moments shall endure. Away, away, without a whig, O'er all, through all, its thoughts shall fly ; A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die. BYRON. AN ODE. THE spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. 500 JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly, to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth ; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round this dark, terrestrial ball ? What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing as they shine, " The hand that made us is divine." ADDISON. JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER SINCE our country, our God, my sire ! Demand that thy daughter expire ; Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow, - Strike the bosom that 's bared for thee now ! And the voice of my mourning is o'er, And the mountains behold me no more : If the hand that I love lay me low, There cannot be pain in the blow ! And of this, my father ! be sure, That the blood of thy child is as pure PSALM XVIII. 501 As the blessing I beg ere it flow, And the last thought that soothes me below. Though the virgins of Salem lament, Be the judge and the hero unbent ! I have won the great battle for thee, And my father and country are free ! When this blood of thy giving hath gushed, When the voice that thou lovest is hushed, Let my memory still hjp thy pride, And forget not I smiled as I died ! BYRON. PSALM XVIII. THE Lord descended from above, And bowed the heavens high ; And underneath his feet he cast The darkness of the sky. On Cherubim and Seraphim Full royally he rode ; And on the wings of mighty winds Came flying all abroad. He sat serene upon the floods, Their fury to restrain ; And he as Sovereign Lord and King, Forevermore shall reign. STEBNHOLD. OnviiXE DEWEY'S voice runs through this. 502 BOA DICE A. BOADICEA. WHEN the British warrior queen, Bleeding from the Eoman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien, Counsel of her country's gods, Sage beneath the spreading oak Sat the druid, hoary chief ; Every burning word he spoke Full of rage and full of grief. " Princess ! if our aged eyes Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'T is because resentment ties All the terrors of our tongues. " Home shall perish, write that word In the blood that she has spilt, Perish, hopeless and abhorred, Deep in ruin as in guilt. " Eome, for empire far renowned, Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground : Hark ! the Gaul is at her gates ! " Other Eomans shall arise, Heedless of a soldier's name ; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, Harmony the path to fame. " Then the progeny that springs From the forests of our land, HOTSPUR. 503 Armed with thunder, clad with wings, Shall a wider world command. Regions Caesar never knew Thy posterity shall sway ; Where his eagles never flew, None invincible as they." Such the bard's prophetic words, Pregnant with celestial fire, Bending as he swept the chords Of his sweet but awful lyre. She, with all a monarch's pride, Felt them in her bosom glow : Rushed to battle, fought, and died ; Dying, hurled them at the foe. Ruffians ! pitiless as proud, . Heaven awards the vengeance due ; Empire is on us bestowed, Shame and ruin wait for you. COWPER. HOTSPUR. Hotspur. Send danger from the east unto the west, So honor cross it from the north to south, And let them grapple : Oh ! the blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare. By Heaven, methinks it were an easy leap, To pluck bright honor from the pale-faced moon ; 504 BANNOCKBURN. Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fathom line could never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned honor by the locks,: So he that doth redeem her thence, might wear, Without corrival, all her dignities : But out upon this half-faced fellowship ! SHAKSPKARE, King Henry IV. BANNOCKBUKN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. AIR : " Hey, tuttie taitie." SCOTS , wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed, Or to glorious victorie. Now 's the day, and now 's the hour ; See the front o' battle lour : See approach proud Edward's pow'r Edward ! chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ? Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ( ? Caledonian ! on wi' me ! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 505 By Oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty 's in every blow ! Forward ! let us do, or die ! BURNS. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. OF Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold, determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line ; It was ten of April morn by the chime : As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time. 506 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene, And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. " Hearts of oak ! " our captains cried ; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. Again ! again ! again ! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back. Their shots along the deep slowly boom ; Then ceased and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail, Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave, " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! And we conquer but to save ! So peace, instead of death, let us bring ! But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our king ! " Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND! 507 As death withdrew his shades from the day ; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise ! For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in, light ; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore ! Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Eiou ; Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave ! While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave ! CAMPBELL. YE MARINEKS OF ENGLAND ! A NAVAL ODE. YE mariners of England ! That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze : 508 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. Your glorious standard launch again, To match another foe ! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The spirit of your fathers Shall start from every wave ! For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their graye ; Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow ; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. Britannia needs no bulwark, No towers along the steep ; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blo.w ; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow. The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's trqubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors, Our song and feast shall flow HOHENLINDEN. 509. To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery tight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. CAMPBELL. HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven ; Then rushed the steeds to battle driven ; And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. But redder yet those fires shall glow On Linden's hills of crimsoned snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 510 WATERLOO. 'T is morn ; but scarce yon lurid sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave ! And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet; And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. CAMPBELL. WATEELOO. THERE was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men : A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell ; But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it ? No ; 't was but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street : On with the dance! let joy be unconfined; No sleep till morn; when youth and pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet. WATERLOO. 511 But, hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat, And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm ! arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! "Within a windowed niche of that high hall Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain : he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival, And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear ; And when they smiled because he deemed it near, His heart more truly knew that peal too well Which stretched his father on a bloody bier, And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell : He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell. Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and fro, And gathering tears, 'and tremblings of distress, And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness; And there were sudden partings, such as press The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise ? And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed, The mustering squadron, and the clattering car, Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; And the deep thunder peal on peal afar ; And near, the beat of the alarming drum Roused up the soldier ere the morning star ; While thronged the citizens with terror dumb, Or whispering with white lips, " The foe ! they come ! they come ! " BYRON, Cliilde Harold. 512 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships ; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions, Their cannon, through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations On every citadel ; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts, As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azure, No drum-beat from the wall, ICHABOD. 513 No morning-gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call ! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The long line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post ! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room ; And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble, But smote the Warden hoar; Ah ! what a blow ! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead ; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. LONGFELLOW. ICHABOD ! So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn Which once he wore ! The glory from his gray hairs gone Forevermore ! 33 514 1C HA BOD. Eevile him not, the tempter hath A snare for all ; And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath, Befit his fall ! Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage, When he who might Have lighted up and led his age, Falls back in night. Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark A bright soul driven, Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark, From hope and heaven ? Let not the land once proud of him Insult him now, Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, Dishonored brow. But let its humbled sons, instead, From sea to lake, A long lament, as for the dead, In sadness make. Of all we loved and honored, nought Save power remains, A fallen angel's pride of thought, Still strong in chains. All else is gone ; from those great eyes The soul has fled : When faith is lost, when honor dies, The man is dead ! THE LOST LEADER. 515 Then pay the reverence of old days To his dead fame ; Walk backward, with averted gaze, And hide the shame ! WHITTIEB. THE LOST LEADER JUST for a handful of silver he left us, Just for a ribbon to stick in his coat ; Found the one gift of which Fortune bereft us, Lost all the others she lets us devote. They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, So much was theirs who so little allowed. How all our copper had gone for his service ! Rags, were they purple, his heart had been proud : We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, Made him our pattern to live and to die ! Shakspeare was of us, Milton was for us, Burns, Shelley, were with us, they watch from their graves ! He alone breaks from the van and the freemen ; He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! We shall march prospering, not through his presence ; Songs may inspirit us, not from his lyre ; Deeds will be done, while he boasts his quiescence, Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire. Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, One more triumph for devils, and sorrow for angels, One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 516 OLD IRONSIDES. Life's night begins ; let him never coine back to us ! There would be doubt, hesitation, and pain, Forced praise on our part, the glimmer of, twilight, Never glad, confident morning again ! B.est fight on well, for we taught him, strike gallantly, Aim at our heart ere we pierce through his own ; Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! BROWNING. I don't see why pardoned in heaven. Repeated by K. S. OLD IEONSIDES. AY, tear her tattered ensign down ! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky ; Beneath it rung the battle-shout, And burst the cannon's roar : The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below, No more shall feel the victor's tread, Or know the conquered knee : The harpies of the shore shall pluck The eagle of the sea ! NEVER OR NOW. 517 Oh, better that her shattered hulk Should sink beneath the wave ! Her thunders shook the mighty deep, And there should be her grave. Nail to the mast her holy flag, Set every threadbare sail, And give her to the god of storms, The lightning, and the gale ! HOLMES. Let the children not forget that this poem saved the old frigate "Constitu- tion " from being broken up. NEVER OE NOW. IN vain the common theme my tongue would shun, All tongues, all thoughts, all hearts, can find but one. Our alcoves, where the noisy world was dumb, Throb with dull drum-beats, and the echoes come Laden with sounds of battle and wild cries, That mingle their discordant symphonies. Old books from yonder shelves are whispering, " Peace ! This is the realm of letters, not of strife." Old graves in yonder field are saying, " Cease ! Hie jacet ends the noisiest mortal's life." Shut your old books ! What says the telegraph ? We want an Extra, not an epitaph. Old classmates (Time's unconscious almanacs, Counting the years we leave behind our backs, And wearing them in wrinkles on the brow Of friendship with his kind " How are you now ? ") Take us by the hand, and speak of times that were. Then conies a moment's pause : " Pray tell me where 518 A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. Your boy is now ! Wounded, as I am told." " Twenty ? " " What bless me ! twenty-one years old ! " " Yes, time moves fast." That 's so. Old classmate, say, Do you remember our Commencement Day ? Were we such boys as these at twenty ? " Nay, God called them to a nobler task than ours, And gave them holier thoughts and manlier powers, This is the day of fruits and not of flowers ! These " boys " we talk about like ancient sages Are the same men we read of in old pages, The bronze recast of dead heroic ages ! We grudge them not, our dearest, bravest, best, Let but the quarrel's issue stand confest : . 'T is Earth's old slave-God battling for his crown, And Freedom fighting with her visor down HOLMES. A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. No ! is my answer from this cold bleak ridge Down to your valley : you may rest you there ; The gulf is wide, and none can build a bridge That your gross weight would safely hither bear. Pity me, if you will. I look at you With something that is kinder far than scorn, And think, " Ah, well ! " I might have grovelled too ; I might have walked there, fettered and forsworn. I am of nature weak as others are ; I might have chosen comfortable ways ; Once from these heights I shrank, beheld afar, In the soft lap of quiet, easy days. A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. 519 I might (I will not hide it), once I might Have lost, in the warm whirlpools of your voice, The sense of evil, the stern cry of right ; But truth has steered me free, and I rejoice : Not with the triumph that looks back to jeer At the poor herd that call their misery bliss ; But as a mortal speaks when God is near, I drop you down my answer ; it is this : I am not yours, because you seek in me What is the lowest in my own esteem : Only my flowery levels can you see, Nor of my heaven-smit summits do you dream. I am not yours, because you love yourself : Your heart has scarcely room for me beside. I could not be shut in with name and pelf ; I spurn the shelter of your narrow pride ! Not yours, because you are not man enough To grasp your country's measure of a man ! If such as you, when Freedom's ways are rough, Cannot walk in them, learn that women can ! Not yours, because, in this the nation's need, You stoop to bend her losses to your gain, And do not feel the meanness of your deed ; I touch no palm defiled with such a stain ! Whether man's thought can find too lofty steeps For woman's scaling, care not I to know ; But when he falters by her side, or creeps, She must not clog her soul with him to go. 520 A LOYAL WOMAN'S NO. Who weds me must at least with equal pace Sometimes move with me at my being's height : To follow him to his more glorious place, . His purer atmosphere, were keen delight. You lure me to the valley : men should call Up to the mountains, where the air is clear. Win me and help me climbing, if at all ! Beyond these peaks rich harmonies I hear, The morning chant of Liberty and Law ! The dawn pours in, to wash out Slavery's blot : Fairer than aught the bright sun ever saw Eises a nation without stain or spot. The men and women mated for that time Tread not the soothing mosses of the plain ; Their hands are joined in sacrifice sublime ; Their feet firm set in upward paths of pain. Sleep your thick sleep, and go your drowsy way ! You cannot hear the voices in the air ! Ignoble souls will shrivel in that day : The brightness of its coming can you bear ? For me, I do not walk these hills alone : Heroes who poured their blood out for the truth, Women whose hearts bled, martyrs all unknown, Here catch the sunrise of immortal youth On their pale cheeks and consecrated brows ! . It charms me not, your call to rest below ; I press their hands, my lips pronounce their vows : Take my life's silence for your answer : Xo. LUCY LARCOM. This recalls the gentle, dignified writer, met at J. T. FIELDS'S. THERE IS A LIGHT CLOUD BY THE MOON. 521 LIFE. WE '11 shed no tear, we '11 breathe no sigh, But calmly yield to mortal fate : Content to live, content to die, Nor woes depress, nor joys elate. In Naushon's hall, we Ve tasted all That earth could give of social mirth ; Henceforth, its pleasures at the call, Resigned, we render back to earth. But one fond wish we '11 still retain, Till life's poor, varying scene is o'er, That we but part to meet again Where we shall meet to part no more. GEORGE B. UPTON. Autumn of 1839. THERE IS A LIGHT CLOUD BY THE MOOX. " THERE is a light cloud by the moon, 'T is passing, and will pass full soon, If, by the time its vapory sail Hath ceased her shaded orb to veil, Thy heart within thee is not changed, Then God and man are both avenged: Dark will thy doom be, darker still Thine immortality of ill." Alp looked to heaven, and saw on high The sign she spake of in the sky ; 522 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. But his heart was swollen, and turned aside, By deep, interminable pride. This first false passion of his breast Rolled like a torrent o'er the rest. He sue for mercy ! he dismayed By wild words of a timid maid ! He, wronged by Venice, vow to save Her sons, devoted to the grave ! No, though that cloud were thunder's worst, And charged to crush him, let it burst ! BYKON, Tlie Siege of Corinth. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still. And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. ODE. 523 And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown : And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord. BYKON. ODE SUNG ON THE OCCASION OF DECORATING THE GRAVES OP THE CON- FEDERATE DEAD, AT MAGNOLIA CEMETERY, CHARLESTON, 8. C. SLEEP sweetly in your humble graves, Sleep, martyrs of a fallen cause ! Though yet no marble column craves The pilgrim here to pause. In seeds of laurel in the earth The blossom of your fame is blown, And somewhere, waiting for its birth, The shaft is in the stone ! Meanwhile, behalf the tardy years Which keep in trust your storied tombs, Behold ! your sisters bring their tears, And these memorial blooms. Small tributes ! but your shades will smile More proudly on these wreaths to-day, Than when some cannon-moulded pile Shall overlook this bay. 524 / AM A FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. Stoop, angels, hither from the skies ! There is no holier spot of ground Than where defeated valor lies, By mourning beauty crowned ! HENRY TIMROD. I AM A FBIAR OF ORDERS GRAY. I AM a friar of orders gray, And down in the valleys I take my way ; I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip Good store of venison fills my scrip ; My long bead-roll I merrily chant ; Where'er I walk no money I want ; And why I 'm so plump the reason I tell Who leads a good life is sure to live welL What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar ? After supper, of heaven I dream, But that is a pullet and clouted cream ; Myself, by denial, I mortify With a dainty bit of warden pie ; I 'm clothed in sackcloth for my sin With old sack wine I 'm lined within ; A chirping cup is my matin song, And the vesper's bell is my bowl, ding, dong ! What baron or squire, Or knight of the shire, Lives half so well as a holy friar ? JOHN O'KEEFE. THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. 525 THE LAKE OF THE DISMAL SWAMP. A BALLAD WEITTEN AT NORFOLK, IN VIRGINIA. " They tell of a young man who lost his mind upon the death of a girl he loved, and who, suddenly disappearing from his friends, was never afterwards heard of. As he had frequently said, in his ravings, that the girl was not dead, but gone to the Dismal Swamp, it is supposed he had wandered into that dreary wilderness, and died of hunger, or been lost in some of its dreadful morasses." ANON. " La Poesie a ses monstres comme la Nature." D'ALEMBERT. " THEY made her a grave, too cold and damp For a soul so warm and true ; And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp, Where, all night long, by a firefly lamp, She paddles her white canoe. " And her firefly lamp I soon shall see, And her paddle I soon shall hear ; Long and loving our life shall be, And I '11 hide the maid in a cypress-tree, When the footstep of Death is near." Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds, His path was rugged and sore, Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds, Through many a fen where the serpent feeds And man never trod before. And when on the earth he sunk to sleep, If slumber his eyelids knew, He lay, where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear, and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew. 526 LOCHINVAR. And near him the she-wolf stirred the brake, And the copper-snake breathed in his ear, Till he starting cried, from his dream awake, " Oh ! when shall I see the dusky Lake, And the white canoe of my dear ? " He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface played " Welcome." he said, " my dear one's light ! " And the dim shore echoed, for many a night, The name of the death-cold maid. Till he hollowed a boat of the birchen bark, Which carried him off from shore ; Far he followed the meteor spark, The wind was high and the clouds were dark, And the boat returned no more. But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp, This lover and maid so true Are seen, at the hour of midnight damp, To cross the Lake by a firefly lamp, And paddle their white canoe. MOORE. Sung by M. P. F. LOCHINVAR. OH, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the'best ; And save his good broadsword he weapon 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. LOCHINVAR. 527 He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late. For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. - So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers,/and all ; Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), " Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar ? " " I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet : the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "'Twere better by far To have matched 'our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,. When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near ; 528 GLENARA. 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 '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? SCOTT, Marmion. GLENAKA. OH, heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 'T is the Chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; And her sire and her people, are called to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they followed, but mourned not aloud : Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; They marched all in silence, they looked on the ground. " And tell me, I charge ye ! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your brows ? " So spake the rude chieftain; no answer is made, But each mantle, unfolding, a dagger displayed. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; " And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. 529 Oh ! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen ; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief ; On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem : Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " In dust low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert revealed where his lady was found ; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne: Now joy to the House of fair Ellen of Lorn ! CAMPBELL. LADY CLAEA VEEE DE VEKE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere, % Of me you shall not win renown ; You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired : The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, I know you proud to bear your name ; Your pride is yet no mate for mine, Too proud to care from whence I came. Nor would I break for your sweet sake A heart that dotes on truer charms. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. 34 530 LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Some meeker pupil you must find, For were you queen of all that is, I could not stoop to such a mind. You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, You put strange memories in my head. Not thrice your branching limes have blown Since I beheld young Laurence dead. Oh, your sweet eyes, your low replies : A great enchantress you may be; But there was that across his throat Which you had hardly cared to see. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, When thus he met his mother's view, She had the passions of her kind, She spake some certain truths of you. Indeed, I heard one bitter word That scarce is fit for you to hear ; Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Lady Clara Vere de Vere, There stands a spectre in your hall ; The guilt of blood is at your door : You changed a wholesome heart to gall, You held your course without remorse, To make him trust his modest worth, And, last, you fixed a vacant stare, And slew him with your noble birth. LADY CLARA VERB DE VERE. 531 Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'T is only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. I know you, Clara Vere de Vere : You pine among your halls and towers ; The languid light of your proud eyes Is wearied of the rolling hours. In glowing health, with boundless wealth, But sickening of a vague disease, You know so ill to deal with time, You needs must play such pranks as these. Clara, Clara Vere de Vere, If Time be heavy on your hands, Are there no beggars at your gate, Nor any poor about your lands ? Oh ! teach the orphan boy to read, Or teach the orphan girl to sew, Pray .Heaven for a human heart, And let the foolish yeoman go. TENNYSON. 532 LADY CLARE. LADY CLAEE. LORD RONALD courted Lady Clare, I trow they did not part in scorn ; Lord Eonald, her cousin, courted her, And they will wed the morrow morn. " He does not love me for my birth, Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare. In there came old Alice the nurse, Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " " It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, " To-morrow he weds with me." " Oh, God be thanked ! " said Alice the nurse, " That all comes round so just and fair : Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, And you are not the Lady Clare." " Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " " As God 's above," said Alice the nurse, " I speak the truth : you are my child. , " The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! I buried her like my own sweet child, And put my child in her stead." " Falsely, falsely have ye done, mother," she said, " if this be true, To keep the best man under the sun So many years from his due." LADY CLARE. 533 " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret for your life, And all you have will be Lord Konald's, "When you are man and wife." " If I 'm a beggar born," she said, " I will speak out, for I dare not He. Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." " Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, " But keep the secret all ye can." She said, " Not so ; but I will know If there be any faith in man." " Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse " The man will cleave unto his right." " And he shall have it," the lady replied, " Though I should die to-night." " Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! Alas, my child, I sinned for thee." " mother, mother, mother," she said, " So strange it seems to me. " Yet here 's a kiss for my mother dear, My mother dear, if this be so ; And lay your hand upon my head, And bless me, mother, ere I go." She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare ; She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. 534 LADY CLARE. A lily-white doe Lord Eonald had brought Leapt up from where she lay, Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, And followed her all the way. Down stept Lord Eonald from his towe'r : " Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! Why come you drest like a village maid, That are the flower of the earth ? " " If I come drest like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are : I am a beggar born," she said, " And not the Lady Clare." " Play me no tricks," said Lord Eonald, " For I am yours in word and in deed ; Play me no tricks," said Lord Eonald, " Your riddle is hard to read." Oh, and proudly stood she up ! Her heart within her did not fail : She looked into Lord Eonald's eyes, And told him all her nurse's tale. He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; He turned and kissed her where she stood: " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the next in blood, " If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, " the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare." TENNYSON. ARABY'S DAUGHTER. 535 ARABY'S DAUGHTER. FAREWELL, farewell to thee, Araby's daughter ! (Thus warbled a Peri beneath the dark sea ;) No pearl ever lay under Oman's green water More pure in its shell than thy spirit in thee. Oh ! fair as the sea-flower close to thee growing, How light was thy heart till love's witchery came, Like the wind of the south o'er a summer lute blowing, And hushed all its music and withered its frame. But long, upon Araby's green sunny highlands, Shall maids and their lovers remember the doom Of her who lies sleeping among the Pearl Islands, With nought but the sea-star to light up her tomb. And still, when the merry date-season is burning, And calls to the palm-groves the young and the old, Ths happiest there, from their pastime returning, At sunset, will weep when thy story is told. The young village maid, when with flowers she dresses Her dark flowing hair for some festival day, Will think of thy fate till, neglecting her tresses, She mournfully turns from the mirror away. Nor shall Iran, beloved of her hero, forget thee ; Though tyrants watch over her tears as they start ; Close, close by the side of that hero she '11 set thee, Embalmed in the innermost shrine of her heart. Farewell ! be it ours to embellish thy pillow With everything beauteous that grows in the deep, Each flower of the rock and each gem of the billow Shall sweeten thy bed and illumine thy sleep. 536 OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. Around thee shall glisten the loveliest amber That ever the sorrowing sea-bird has wept ; With many a shell, in whose hollow- wreathed chamber We, Peris of Ocean, by moonlight have slept. We '11 dive where the gardens of coral lie darkling, And plant all the rosiest sterns at thy head ; We '11 seek where the sands of the Caspian are sparkling, And gather their gold to strew over thy bed. Farewell! farewell! until pity's sweet fountain Is lost in the hearts of the fair and the brave, They '11 weep for the chieftain who died on that mountain, They '11 weep for the maiden who sleeps in this wave. MOORE, TJie Fire- Worshippers. First heard sung by P. A., Jr., in China. OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. OFT in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me : The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years ; The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone ; The cheerful hearts now broken. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. 537 When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I 've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. MOORE. A CANADIAN BOAT-SONG. WRITTEN ON THE RIVER ST. LAWRENCE. " Et remigem cantus hortatur." QUINTILIAN. 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. Eow, 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 ! 538 A SEA DIRGE. Utawa's tide ! this trembling moon Shall see us float 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 ! MOORE. Sung by M. P. F. AEIEL'S SONG. WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I : In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer, merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough. SHAKSPEARE, The Tempest. A SEA DIEGE. FULL fathom five thy father lies; Of his bones are coral made ; Those are pearls that were his eyes : Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell : Hark ! now I hear them, Ding, dong, bell. SHAKSPEAEE, Tlie Tempest. JOHN ANDERSON. 539 THE HAEP THAT ONCE THEOUGH 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. MOORE. JOHN ANDEESON. JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo ! 540 SONG. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And mony a canty day, John, We Ve had wi' ane anither : Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we '11 go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo ! BURNS. SONG. UNDER the greenwood tree Who loves to lie with me, And turn his merry note Unto the sweet bird's throat, Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. Who doth ambition shun, And loves to live i' the sun, Seeking the food he eats, And pleased with what he gets, Come hither ! come hither ! come hither ! Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather. SHAKSPEABE, As You Like it. JEAN. 541 TELL ME, WHERE IS FANCY BRED. TELL me, where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head ? How begot, how nourished ? Reply, reply. It is engendered in the eyes, With gazing fed ; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell : I '11 begin it, Ding-dong, bell. All. Ding-dong, bell. SHAKSPEA.RE, Merchant of Venice. JEAN. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the west, For there the bonnie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best ; There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And mony a hill between, But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean. I see her 'in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air ; 542 A RED, RED ROSE. There 's not a bonnie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green, There 's not a bonnie bird that sings, But 'minds me o' my Jean. Oh, blaw, ye westlin winds, blaw saft Amang the leafy trees ; Wi' gentle gale, frae muir and dale, Bring hame the laden bees ; And bring the lassie back to me That 's aye sae neat and clean ; Ae blink o' her wad banish care, Sae charming is my Jean. What sighs and vows ainang the knowes Hae passed atween us twa ! How fain to meet, iiow wae to part That day she gaed awa' ! The Powers aboon can only ken, To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me As my sweet lovely Jean ! BURNS. W. M. H. : ROXIE : W. H. F. A EED, BED EOSE. AIR: " Wishaw's Favorite." OH, my luve 's like a red, red rose That 's newly sprung in June : Oh, my luve 's like the melodie That 's sweetly played in tune. TAKE, OH, TAKE THOSE LIPS AWAY. 543 As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I ; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry. Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun : I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! And fare thee weel awhile. And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. BURNS. 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. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 544 THE MANLY HEART. TO CELIA. DKINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine ; Or leave a kiss but in the cup, And 1 11 not look for wine. The thirst that from my soul doth rise Doth ask a drink divine ; But might I of Jove's' nectar sup, I would not change for thine. I sent thee late a rosy wreath, Not so much honoring thee, ' As giving it a hope that there It would not withered be ; But thou thereon didst only breathe, And sent it back to me ; Since then it grows and smells, I swear, Not of itself, but thee. BEN JONSON. THE MANLY HEAET. SHALL I, wasting in despair, Die because a woman 's fair ? Or my cheeks make pale with ccire 'Cause another's rosy are ? Be she fairer than the day, Or the flowery meads in May, If she be not so to me, What care I how fair she be ? THE NIGHT-PIECE. 545 Shall a woman's virtues move Me to perish for her love ? Or her merit's value known Make me quite forget mine own ? Be she with that goodness blest Which may gain her name of Best ; If she seem not such to me, What care I how good she be ? Great or good, or kind or fair, I will ne'er the more despair ; If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve ; If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? G. WITHER. THE NIGHT-PIECE: TO JULIA. HER eyes the glow-worme lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee ; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow, Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No will-o'-th'-wispe mislight thee, , Nor snake nor slow-worme bite thee ; But on, on thy way, Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. 35 546 LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. Let not the dark thee cumber, What though the moon do slumber ? The starres of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers cleare, without number. Then, Julia, let me wooe thee, Thus, thus to come unto me ; And when I shall meet Thy silvery feet, My soule I'll poure into thee. HERRICK. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. OH, the days are gone when Beauty bright My heart's chain wove ; When my dream of life, from morn till night, Was love, still love. New hope may bloom, And days may come Of milder, calmer beam ; But there 's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream : No, there 's nothing half so sweet in life As love's young dream. Though the bard to purer fame may soar, When wild youth 's past ; Though he win the wise, who frowned before, To smile at last, He '11 never meet A joy so sweet, BONNIE DUNDEE. 547 In all his noon of fame, As when first he sung to woman's ear His soul-felt flame, And at every close she blushed to hear The one loved name. No ! that hallowed form is ne'er forgot Which first love traced; Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot On memory's waste. 'T was odor fled As soon as shed ; 'T was morning's winged dream ; 'T was a light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream : Oh ! 't was light that ne'er can shine again On life's dull stream. MOORE. BONNIE DUNDEE. To the Lords of Convention 't was Claverhonse who spoke, " Ere the king's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke ; So let each cavalier who loves honor and me, Come follow the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! " Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle your horses and call up your men ; Come open the westport and let us gang free, And it 's room for the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat ; 548 THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. But the provost, douce man, said, "Just e'en let him be, The gude town is well quit of that de'il of Dundee ! " Come fill up my cup, &c. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers ; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free At the toss of the bonnet of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, &c. He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettledrums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Eavelston's cliffs and on Cleriniston's lea Died away the wild war notes of bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can ; Come saddle the horses, and call up the men ; Come open your doors and let me gae free, For it 's up with the bonnets of bonnie Dundee ! SCOTT, The Doom of Devorgoil. W. H. F THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. " EISE up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowhlg, And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere, And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. THE BRIDAL OF AND ALL A. 549 " Arise, arise, Xarifa ! I see Andalla's face, He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace ; Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquivir Eode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely, never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white, I guess 't was wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night. Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town. " What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down ? Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town ? I Ve heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer among all Granada's youth ; Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow : Then rise oh, rise, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town." The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ; But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove, And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove ; One bonny rosebud she had traced before the noise drew nigh, That bonny bud a. tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye " No no ! " she sighs, "bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town." " Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down, Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town ? Hear, hear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry : He stops at Zara's palace gate, why sit ye still, oh, why ? " 550 CORONACH. "At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate ; in him shall I discover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was, my lover ! I will not rise with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town." LOCKHART. My beautiful thoroughbred "Xarifa," which came to an unhappy end by a nail, was named after the heroine of this poem. COEONACH. HE is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow ! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest; But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Eed hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! J. A. SONG. 551 Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever ! SCOTT, Lady of the Lake. HOW SLEEP THE BEAVE. How sleep the brave who sink to rest By all their country's wishes blest ! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung : There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there. WILLIAM COLLINS. SONG. FEAR no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages ! Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone and ta'en thy wages : Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. 552 ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE." Fear no more the frown o' the great, Thou art past the tyrant's stroke : Care no more to clothe and eat ; To thee the reed is as the oak : * The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust. Fear no more the lightning-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder stone ; i Fear not slander, censure rash : Thou hast finished joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exerciser harm thee ! Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! Ghost unlaid forbear thee ! Nothing ill come near thee ! Quiet consummation have : And renowned be thy grave ! SHAKSPEARE, Cymbeline. ON THE LOSS OF THE "EOYAL GEOKGE." WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED. TOLL for the brave, The brave that are no more ! All sunk beneath the wave, Fast by their native shore ! Eight hundred of the brave, ^ Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel, And laid her on her side. ON THE LOSS OF THE "ROYAL GEORGE." 553 A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset, Down went the " Koyal George," With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kenipenfelt is gone ; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done. It was not in the battle ; No tempest gave the shock ; She sprang no fatal leak ; She ran upon no rock. His sword was in its sheath, His fingers held the pen, When Kenipenfelt went down, With twice, four hundred men. Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, 1 And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kenipenfelt is gone, His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the waves no more. COWPER. Can the new history be true, that the ship died of red tape and neglect ? 554 BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE. BUKIAL OF Sill JOHN MOORE. NOT a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rarnpart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sod with our bayonets turning ; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning^ No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow ; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow ! Lightly they '11 talk of the spirit that 's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ; But little he 11 reck if they let him sleep on, In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring ; And we knew by the distant random gun That the foe was sullenly firing, CHIQUITA. 555 Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory ; We carved not a line, we raised not a stone, But we left him alone in his glory. WOLFE. CHIQUITA. BEAUTIFUL ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n't her match in . the county. Is thar, old gal, Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? Feel of that neck, sir, thar 's velvet ! Whoa ! Steady, ah, will you, you vixen ! Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look at her paces. Morgan ! She ain't nothin' else, and I 've got the papers to prove it. Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won't buy her. Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of Tuolumne ? Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down in 'Frisco ? Hed n't no savey hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that '11 do, quit that foolin' ! Nothin' to what she kin 'do, when she 's got her work cut out before her. Hosses is bosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is jockeys ; And 't ain't ev'ry man as can ride as knows what a boss has got in him. 556 CHIQUITA. Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan's leaders ? Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low water ! Well, it ain't six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his nevey Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain and the water all round us ; Up to our flanks in the gulch, and Eattlesnake Creek jest a bilin', Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the river. I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, Chiquita ; And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of the canon. Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chiquita Buckled right down to her work, and afore I could yell to her rider, Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge' and me standing, And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and a driftin' to thunder ! Would ye b'lieve it ? that night that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita, Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and dripping ; Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, Jest as she swam to the Fork, that hoss, that ar' filly, Chiquita. PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. 557 That 's what I call a hoss ! and What did you say ? Oh, the nevey ? Drownded, I reckon, leastways, he never kern back to deny it. Ye see, the derned fool had no seat, ye could n't have made him a rider ; And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and bosses, well, bosses is bosses ! BRET HARTE. PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. WHICH I wish to remark And my language is plain That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar : Which the same I would rise to explain. Ah Sin was his name, And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply ; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies : Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise ; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise. 558 PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES. Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand : It was euchre. The same He did not understand ; But he smiled as he sat by the table, With the smile that was childlike and bland. Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve ; Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive. But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made, Were quite frightful to see, Till at last he put down a right bower Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me ; And he rose with a sigh, And said, " Can this be ? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor," And he went for that heathen Chinee. In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand ; But the floor it was strewed, Like the leaves on the strand, With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, In the game he " did not understand." THE NOBLY BORN. 559 In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty -four packs Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts ; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers that 's wax. Which is why I remark And my language is plain That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar : Which the same I am free to maintain. BRET HAUTE. THE NOBLY BOEN. WHO counts himself as nobly born Is noble in despite of place, And honors are but brands to one Who wears them not with nature's grace. The prince may sit with clown or churl, Nor feel himself disgraced thereby ; But he who has but small esteem Husbands that little carefully. Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer, Count it still more thou art thine own ; Stand on a larger heraldry Than that of nation or of zone. What though not bid to knightly halls ? Those halls have missed a courtly guest ; 560 HUMAN LIFE. That mansion is not privileged, Which is not open to the best. Give honor due when custom asks, Nor wrangle for this lesser claim ; It is not to be destitute, To have the thing without the name. Then dost thou come of gentle blood, Disgrace not thy good company ; If lowly born, so bear thyself That gentle blood may come of thee. Strive not with pain to scale the height Of some fair garden's petty wall, But climb the open mountain side, Whose summit rises over all. E. S. H. HUMAN LIFE PROSPERO. OUR revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits, and Are melted into air, into thin air : And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. SHAKSPEAEE, The Tempest. THE BARD. 561 i THE BAED. PINDAKIC ODE. " EUIN seize thee, ruthless King ! Confusion on thy banners wait ! Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears ! " Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride -Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome inarch his long array. Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance ; " To arms ! " cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance. On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er cold Con way's foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the Poet stood (Loose his beard and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air), And with a master's hand and prophet's fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. " Hark, how each giant oak and desert-cave Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath ! O'er thee, King ! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe ; Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day, To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay. 36 562 THE BARD. " Cold is Cadwallo's tongue, That hushed the stormy main : Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed : Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon's shore they lie, Smeared with gore and ghastly pale : Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail ; The famished eagle screams, and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's cries No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit ; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land : With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line. " Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year, and mark the night, When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkley's roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king ! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait Amazement in his van, with flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind. THE BARD. 563 " Mighty victor, mighty lord ! Low on his funeral couch he lies ! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled ? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born ? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o'er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes, Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm, Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway, That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey. " Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare ; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast : Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance, and horse to horso ? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his Consort's faith, his father's fame, And spare the meek usurper's holy head. Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread : The bristled boar in infant gore Wallows beneath the, thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom. 564 THE BARD. " Edward, lo ! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh, stay ! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn : In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt , they vanish from my eyes. But, oh, what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll ? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight ! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul ! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail ! " Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear ; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old " In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine ! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line : Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play ! Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear ! They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Eapture calls, and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings. " The verse adorn again Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe by fairy fiction drest. In buskined measures move ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG. 565 Pale grief, and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear ; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Eaised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day ? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me, with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair and sceptred care, To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. GRAY. 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 wondrous short, It cannot hold you long. In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say That still a godly race he ran, Whene'er he went to pray. A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes ; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes. 566 MY HEART 'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 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. Around from all the neighboring streets The wondering 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 they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite. The dog it was that died. GOLDSMITH. MY HEAET'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. MY heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart 's in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth ; HUNTING-SONG. 567 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, nay 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. BURNS. Dr. JEXNISON : bark "Lintin." HUNTING-SONG. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day ; All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ! Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling. Merrily, merrily, mingle they, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springfets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green ; Now we come to chant our lay, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." 568 ELSPETH'S BALLAD. Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the greenwood haste away ; We can show you where he lies, Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; We can show the. marks he made, When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed. You shall see him brought to bay ; " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay ! Tell them youth and mirth and glee Eun a course as well as we ; Time, stern huntsman ! who can balk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk ; Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay. SCOTT. ELSPETH'S BALLAD. Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, And listen great and sma', And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl That fought on the red Harlaw. The cronach's cried on Bennachie, And doun v the Don and a', And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be For the sair field of Harlaw. They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 569 With a chafron of steel on each horse's head, Arid a good knight upon his back. They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile but barely ten, When Donald came branking down the brae Wi' twenty thousand men. Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear. The great Earl in his stirrups stood, That Highland host to see : " Now here a knight that 's stout and good May prove a jeopardie : " What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, That rides beside my rein, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, And I were Roland Cheyne ? " To turn the rein were sin and shame, To fight were wondrous peril, What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl ? " " Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse's side, And the bridle upon his mane. 570 LORD ULLTN'S DAUGHTER. " If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men. " My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, As through the moorland fern, Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude Grow cauld for Highland kerne." SCOTT, The Antiquary. LOED ULLIN'S DAUGHTER A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I '11 give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water ? " " Oh, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, ' And this Lord Ullin's daughter. " And fast before her father's men Three days we 've fled together ; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover ? " LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 571 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I '11 go, my chief, I 'm ready : It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady : " And by my word ! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So though the waves are raging white, I '11 row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace ; The water-wraith was shrieking ; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still, as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. " Oh, haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather ; I '11 meet the raging of the skias, But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her When, oh ! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her. And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore ; His wrath was changed to wailing. 572 SONG. For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover ; One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover. " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, " Across this stormy water ; And 1 11 forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! O my daughter ! " 'T was vain ; the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. CAMPBELL. SONG. " A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine ! To pull the thorn, thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine ! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me you knew, My love ! No more of me you knew. "This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain, But she shall bloom in whiter snow, Ere we two meet again." CAVALIER SONG. 573 He turned his charger, as he spake, Upon the river shore, He gave his bridle reins a shake, Said, "Adieu forevermore, My love ! And adieu forevermore." SCOTT, Rokeby. CAVALIER SONG. WHILE the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down ; Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the Crown ! He has doffed the silk doublet, the breastplate to bear ; He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair ; From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down ; Heaven shield 'the brave gallant that fights for the Crown ! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws ; Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause ; His watchword is honor, his pay is renown ; God strike with the gallant that strikes for the Crown ! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheade.d rebels of Westminster Hall ; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown ! There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes ; There 's Erin's high Ormond and Scotland's Montrose ! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown, With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown ? 574 GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier ! Be his banner unconquered, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown ! SCOTT, Rokeby. GLEE FOR KING CHAELES. BEING the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim ; 'T is to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up ! And avaunt, ye base cailes ! Were there death in the cup, Here 's a Health to King Charles ! Though he wanders through dangers, Unaided, unknown, Dependent on strangers, Estranged from his own; Though 't is under our breath, Amidst forfeits and perils, Here 's to honor and faith, And a Health to King Charles ! Let such honors abound As the time can afford, The knee on the ground, And the hand on the sword ; But the time shall come round When, 'mid lords, dukes, and earls, The loud trumpet shall sound, Here 's a Health to King Charles ! SCOTT, Woodstock. W. H. F. LIFE AND DEATH. 575 LOVE OF COUNTRY. BREATHES there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land ! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned From wandering on a foreign strand ! If such there breathe, go, mark him well ! For him no minstrel raptures swell ; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung ! SCOTT, Lay of the Last Minstrel. LIFE AND DEATH. LIFE ! I know not what thou art, But know that thou and I must part ; And when, or how, or where we met, I own to me 's a secret yet. Life ! we 've been long together* Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 'T is hard to part when friends are dear, Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear : 576 THE INCHCAPE ROCK. Then steal away, give little warning, Choose thine own time ; Say not Good Night, but in some brighter clime Bid me Good Morning ! ANNA L^ETITIA BARBAULU. " Among the best. " S. F. THE INCHCAPE ROCK. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was as still as she could be ; Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock ; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape bell The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock ; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell, The mariners heard the warning bell ; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blessed the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The sun in heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day ; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled around, And there was joyance in their sound. THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 577 The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ealph the Eover walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing ; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Eover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float ; Quoth he, " My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I '11 plague the priest of Aberbrothok." The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. Down sank the bell with a gurgling sound ; The bubbles rose and burst around. . Quoth Sir Ralph, " The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok." Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away, He scoured the seas for many a day ; And now, grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore. So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the sun on high ; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away. 37 578 CLAN-ALPINE BOAT-SONG. On the deck the Eover takes his stand ; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon." " Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar ? For methinks we should be near the shore ; Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape bell." They hear no sound, the swell is strong ; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock : Cried they, " It is the Inchcape Rock ! " Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He cursed himself in his despair ; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, A sound as if with the Inchcape bell The fiends below were ringing his knell. SOUTHEY. CLAN-ALPINE BOAT-SONG. HAIL to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Honored and blessed be the ever-green pine ! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line ! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, CLAN-ALPINE BOAT-SONG. 579 Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow ; While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, " Eoderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan- Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied ; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan- Alpine with fear and with woe ; Lennox and Leven-gleu Shake when they hear agen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands ! Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green pine ! Oh that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine ! Oh that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, 580 BORDER BALLAD. Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow ! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from her deepmost glen, " Roderigh Vich Alpine dim, ho ! ieroe !" SCOTT, Lady of tlie BORDER BALLAD. MAKCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale ! Why the de'il dinna ye march forward in order ? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready, then, Sons of the mountain-glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe ; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War steeds are bounding ; Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, W^hen the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. SCOTT, The Monastery. My own nursery song. REBECCA'S HYMN. 581 EEBECCA'S HYMN. WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Eeturned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answered keen, And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know Thy ways, Arid Thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen ! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning and a shining light ! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 582 SONG OF THE GREEK POET. But Thou hast said, " The blood of goat, The flesh of rams K I will not prize ; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice." SCOTT, Ivanhoe. SONG OF THE GREEK POET. THE Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose and Pho3bus sprung ! Eternal summer gilds them yet ; But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse ; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sires' "Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon, And Marathon looks on the sea ; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free ; For standing on the Persian's grave, I could not deem myself a slave. Must we but weep o'er days more blest ? Must we but blush ? our fathers bled. Earth ! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead ! SONG OF THE GREEK POET. 583 Of the three hundred grant but three To make a new Thermopylae ! What ! silent still ? and silent all ? Ah no ! the voices of the dead Sound like a distant torrent's fall, And answer, " Let one living head, But one, arise, we coine, we come ! " T is but the living who are dumb. In vain in vain ! strike other chords ; Fill high the cup with Saniian wine ! Leave battles to the Turkish hordes, And shed the blood of Scio's vine ! Hark ! rising to the ignoble call, How answers each bold Bacchanal ! Fill high the bowl with Samian wine ! Our virgins dance beneath the shade; I see their glorious black eyes shine ; But, gazing on each glowing maid, My own the burning tear-drop laves, To think such breasts must suckle slaves. Place me on Sunium's marbled steep, Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep ; There, swan-like, let me sing and die ! A land of slaves shall ne'er be mine, Dash down yon cup of Samian wine ! BYRON, Don Juan. Rejected with scorn by those getting up the Greek musical testimonial as not being musical. 584 / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER I KEMEMBEE, I remember The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day ; But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light ! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, The tree is living yet ! I remember, I remember Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing ; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. I remember, I remember The fir-trees dark and high ; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 585 It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. HOOD. Sung by Mrs. LONG. THE SKELETON IN AEMOR " SPEAK ! speak ! thou fearful guest ! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me ! Wrapt not in Eastern balms, But with thy fleshless palms Stretched, as if asking alms, Why dost thou haunt me ? " Then, from those cavernous eyes Pale flashes seemed to rise, As when the Northern skies Gleam in December ; And, like the water's flow Under December's snow, Came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. " I was a Viking old ! My deeds, though manifold, No Skald in song has told, No Saga taught thee ! Take heed, that in thy verse Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse ; For this I sought thee. 586 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. " Far in the Northern Land, By the wild Baltic's strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed the gerfalcon ; And, with my skates fast-bound, Skimmed the half-frozen Sound, That the poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on. " I wooed the blue-eyed maid, Yielding, yet half afraid, And in the forest's shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Fluttered her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frighted. " Bright in her father's hall Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrels all, Chanting his glory ; When of old Hildebrand I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrels stand To hear my story. " While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed ; And as the wind-gusts waft The sea-foam brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn, Out of those lips unshorn, From the deep drinking-horn Blew the foam lightly. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. 587 " She was a Prince's child, I but a Viking wild, And though she blushed and smiled, I was discarded ! Should not the dove so white Follow the sea-mew's flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded ? " Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen ! When on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, Saw we old Hildebrand, With twenty horsemen. " Then launched they to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast, When the wind failed us ; And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty Skaw, So that our foe we saw Laugh as he hailed us. " And as to catch the gale Eound veered the flapping sail, Death ! was the helmsman's hail, Death without quarter ! Mid-ships with iron keel Struck we her ribs of steel ; Down her black hulk did reel Through the black water ! 588 THE SKELETON IN ARMOR. "As with his wings aslant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt, With his prey laden, So toward the open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. " Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloudlike we saw the shore Stretching to lee-ward ; There for my lady's bower Built I the lofty tower, Which, to this very hour, Stands looking seaward. " There lived we many years ; Time dried the maiden's tears ;' She had forgot her fears, She was a mother ; Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies ; Ne'er shall the sun arise On such another ! " Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen ! Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful ! In the vast forest here, Clad in my warlike gear, Fell I upon my spear, Oh, death was grateful ! LONGFELLOW. THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 589 CAVALIER'S SONG. BOOT, saddle to horse and away ! Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray : Boot, saddle to horse and away ! Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you 'd say ; Many 's the friend there will listen and pray, " God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay, Boot, saddle to horse and away ! " Forty miles off like a roebuck at bay, Floats Castle Brancepith, the Roundheads' array ; Who laughs, " Good fellows, ere this, by my fay, Boot, saddle to horse and away " ? Who ? my wife Gertrude,'' that 's honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay ! " I Ve better counsellors ; what counsel they ? " Boot, saddle to horse and away ! " BROWNING. THE PILGRIM'S VISION. " I SAW in the naked forest Our scattered remnant cast, A screen of shivering branches Between them and the blast ; The snow was falling round them, The dying fell as fast ; I looked to see them perish, When, lo ! the vision passed. 590 THE PILGRIM'S VISION. " Again mine eyes were opened, The feeble had waxed strong, The babes had grown to sturdy men, The remnant was a throng ; By shadowed lake and winding stream, And all the shores along, The howling demons quaked to hear The Christian's godly song. " They slept the village fathers By river, lake, and shore, When far adown the steep of time The vision rose once more ; I saw along the winter snow A spectral column pour, And high above their broken ranks A tattered flag they bore. " Their leader rode before them, Of bearing calm and high, The light of heaven's own kindling Throned in his awful eye, These were a nation's champions Her dread appeal to try ; God for the right ! I faltered, And, lo ! the train passed by. " A crash, as when some swollen cloud Cracks o'er the tangled trees ! With side to side, and spar to spar, Whose smoking decks are these ? I know St. George's blood-red cross, Thou Mistress of the Seas, But what is she, whose streaming bars Eoll out before the breeze ? THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 591 " Ah, well her iron ribs are knit, Whose thunders strive to quell The bellowing throats, the blazing lips, That pealed the Armada's knell ! The mist was cleared, a wreath of stars Rose o'er the crimsoned swell, And, wavering from its haughty peak, The cross of England fell ! " O trembling faith ! though dark the morn, A heavenly torch is thine ; While feebler races melt away, And paler orbs decline, Still shall the fiery pillar's ray Along the pathway shine, To light the chosen tribe that sought This western Palestine ! " I see the living tide roll on ; It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, The Spaniard's ' land of flowers ! ' It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the northern showers ; From eastern rock to sunset wave, The continent is ours." The weary pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown ; His hands were crossed, his lids were closed, The dust was o'er him strewn ; The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, Along the sod were blown ; His mound has melted into earth, His memory lives alone. 592 HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS, So let it live unfading, The memory of the dead, Long as the pale anemone Springs where their tears were shed, Or, raining in the summer's wind In flakes of burning red, The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled. HOLMES. I heard the original reading of this by Mr. HOLMES at PLYMOUTH before a brilliant audience. It had more effect than all the speeches which preceded it, including those of Everett, Choate, and Hillard. HYMN OF THE MOEAVIAN NUNS OF BETHLEHEM, AT THE CONSECKATION OF PULASKl'S BANNER. WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head ; And the censer burning swung, Where, before the altar, hung The crimson banner, that with prayer Had been consecrated there. And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while, Sung low, in the dim, mysterious aisle. " Take thy banner ! May it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave, When the battle's distant wail Breaks the Sabbath of our vale, AUF WIEDERSEHEN! 593 | When the clarion's music thrills To the hearts of these lone hills, When the spear in conflict, shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks. " Take thy banner ! and, beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it, till our homes are free ! Guard it ! God will prosper thee ! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then." LONGFELLOW. AUF WIEDEESEHEN ! SUMMER. THE little gate was reached at last, Half hid in lilacs down the lane ; She pushed it wide, and, as she past, A wistful look she backward cast, And said, " Auf Wiedersehen ! " With hand on latch, a vision white Lingered reluctant, and again Half doubting if she did aright, Soft as the dews that fell that night, She said, " Auf Wiedersehen ! " The lamp's clear gleam flits up the stair ; I linger in delicious pain ; 88 594 HYMN. Ah, in that chamber whose rich air To breathe in thought I scarcely dare, Thinks she, " Avf Wicderselicn ! " 'T is thirteen years ; once more I press The turf that silences the lane ; I hear the rustle of her dress, I smell the lilacs, and ah, yes, I hear " Auf Wiedersehen ! ' Sweet piece of bashful maiden art ! The English words had seemed too fain, But these they drew us heart to heart, Yet held us tenderly apart ; She said, " Auf Wiedersehen I " LOWELL. HYMN SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1846. BY the rude bridge that arched the flood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, Here once the embattled farmers stood, And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept ; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone ; That memory may their deed redeem, When, like our sires, our sons are gone. JONATHAN TO JOHN. 595 Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. EMERSOX. JONATHAN TO JOHN. IT don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John, Your cousin, tu, John Bull ! Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess We know it now," sez he, " The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet 's fit for you an' me ! " You wonder why we 're hot, John ? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sons : Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess There 's human blood," sez he, " By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More 'n it would you an' me." Ef / turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, I on'y guess," sez he, 596 JONATHAN TO JOHN. " Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 'T would kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " We own the ocean, tu, J ohn : You mus' n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It 's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, Ef tliet 's his claim," sez he, " The fencin'-stuff '11 cost enough To bust up friend J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 't was right ; It warn't your bullyin' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess We Ve a hard row," sez he, " To hoe jest now ; but thet, somehow, May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me ! " We ain't so weak an' poor, John, With twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess It is a fact," sez he, '' The surest plan to make a mail Is, Think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me ! " THE HAPPIEST LAND. 597 The South says, " Poor folks down!" John, An' " All men up ! " say we, White, yaller, black, an' brown, John : Now which is your idee ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess John preaches wal," sez he ; " Hut, sermon thru, an' come to du Why, there 's the old J. B. A crowdin' you an' me ! " Shall it be love, or hate, John ? It 's you thet 's to decide ; Ain't your bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, " But not forget ; an' some time yet Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me !" LOWELL. THE HAPPIEST LAND. (From the German.) THERE sat one day in quiet, By an alehouse on the Rhine, Four hale and hearty fellows, And drank the precious wine. The landlord's daughter filled their cups, Around the rustic board ; Then sat they all so calm and still, And spake not one rude word. 598 THE HAPPIEST LAND. But when the maid departed, A Swabian raised his hand, And cried, all hot and flushed with wine, " Long live the Swabian land ! " The greatest kingdom upon earth Cannot with that compare ; With all the stout and hardy men, And the nut-brown maidens there." " Ha ! " cried a Saxon, laughing, And dashed his beard with wine , " I had rather live in Lapland, Than that Swabian land of thine ! " The goodliest land on all this earth, It is the Saxon land ! There have I as many maidens As fingers on this hand ! " " Hold your tongues ! both Swabian and Saxon ! " A bold Bohemian cries ; " If there 's a heaven upon this earth, In Bohemia it lies. " There the tailor blows the flute, And the cobbler blows the horn, And the miner blows the bugle, Over mountain gorge and bourn." And then the landlord's daughter Up to heaven raised her hand, And said, " Ye may no more contend ; There lies the happiest land !" LONGFELLOW. THE BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. 599 THE BALLAD OF THE BEIDES OF QUAIE. A STILLNESS crept about the house, At even's fall, in noontide glare; Upon the silent hills looked forth The many-windowed house of Quair. The peacock on the terrace screamed, Browsed on the lawn the timid hare, The great trees grew i' the avenue, Calm by the sheltered house of Quair. The pool was still, around its brim The alders sickened all the air ; There came no murmur from the streams, Though nigh flowed Leithern, Tweed, and Quair. The days hold on their wonted pace, And men to court and camp repair, Their part to fill, of good or ill, While women keep the house of Quair. And one is clad in widow's weeds, And one is maiden-like and fair ; And day by day they seek the paths About the lonely fields of Quair. To see the trout leap in the streams, The summer clouds reflected there, The maiden loves in happy dreams To hang o'er silver Tweed and Quair. 600 THE BALLAD OF THE BRIDES OF QUAIR. Or oft in pall-black velvet clad, Sat stately in the oaken chair, Like many a dame of her ancient name, The mother of the house of Quair. Her daughter broidered by her side, With heavy drooping golden hair, And listened to her frequent plaint, " 111 fare the brides that come to Quair. " For more than one hath lived in pine, And more than one hath died of care, And more than one hath sorely sinned, Left lonely in the house of Quair. " Alas ! and ere thy father died, I had not in his heart a share, And now may God foreferid her ill Thy brother brings his bride to Quair." She came : they kissed her in the hall, They kissed her on the winding stair ; They led her to her chamber high, The fairest in the house of Quair. They bade her from the window look, And mark the scene how passing i'air, Among whose ways the quiet days Would linger o'er the wife of Quair. " 'T is fair," she said on looking forth, " But what although 't were bleak and bare - She looked the love she did not speak., And broke the ancient curse on Quair. VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 601 " Where'er he dwells, where'er he goes, His dangers and his toils I share." What need be said ? she was not one Of the ill-fated brides of Quair. ISA CRAIQ. VISION OF BELSHAZZAK. THE king was on his throne, The satraps thronged the hall ; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, Iii Judah deemed divine, Jehovah's vessels hold The godless heathen's wine ! In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall, And wrote as if on sand : The fingers of a man ; A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw, and shook, And bade no more rejoice : All bloodless waxed his look, And tremulous his voice. " Let the men of lore appear, The wisest of the earth, And expound the words of fear Which mar our royal mirth." 602 TO THE DEVIL. Chaldsea's seers are good, But here they have no skill ; And the unknown letters stood Untold and awful still. And Babel's men of age Are wise and deep in lore ; But now they were not sage, They saw, but knew no more. A captive in the land, A stranger and a youth, He heard the king's command, He saw that writing's truth. The lamps around were bright, The prophecy in view : He read it on that night, The morrow proved it true. " Belshazzar's grave is made, His kingdom passed away ; He in the balance weighed Is light and worthless clay. The shroud, his robe of state ; His canopy, the stone ; The Mede is at his gate ! The Persian on his throne ! " BY EON. TO THE DEVIL. BUT fare you weel, auld Nickie-ben ! Oh, wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! Ye aiblins might I dinna ken Still hae a stake : I 'm wae to think upon yon den, Ev'n for your sake ! BURNS. HOW THEY BROUGHT GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT. 603 HOW THEY BEOUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FKOM GHENT TO AIX. I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris and he ; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three ; " Good speed ! " cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew, " Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other : we kept the great pace Neck and neck, stride by stride, never changing our place. I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, Then shortened each stirrup and set the pique right, Eebuckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit ; Nor galloped less steadily Eoland a whit. 'T was moonset at starting, but while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight dawned clear ; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see ; At Diiffeld, 't was morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half chime, So Joris broke silence with " Yet there is time." At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, And against him the cattle stood black every one To stare through the mist at us galloping past ; And I saw my stout galloper, Eoland, at last, With resolute shoulders each butting away The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ; 604 HOW THEY BROUGHT GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT. And one eye's black intelligence, ever that glance O'er its white edge at me, its own master, askance ! And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! Your Eoos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her, We '11 remember at Aix ; " for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky ; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhelm a dome-spire sprang white, And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " " How they '11 greet us ! " and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news, which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. Then I cast loose my buff coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer ; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is friends flocking round, As I sate with his head twixt my knees on the ground, LOCHIEL'S WARNING. 605 And no voice but was praising this Eoland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. BROWNING. LOCHIEL'S WARNING. LOCHIEL. FALSE wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan ; Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! They are true to the last of their blood and their breath, And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock ! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock ! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the prc-ud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array WIZARD. Lochiel Lochiel beware of the day ; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore," And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo ! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 606 LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight : Eise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? where ? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no ! for a darker departure is near : The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling. Oh ! mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat, With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale LOCHIEL. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of fire in his bosom remains, Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe ! And, leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame. CAMPBELL. PERCY CLAIMING HIS OWN. 607 PERCY CLAIMING HIS OWK Too long, too long a masquer, Arthur comes, Stripped of disguise, this night,, to execute His father's testament, whose blood lies spilt, Whose murmurs from the tomb are in his ears, Whose injuries are treasured in a scroll Steeped with a mother's and an orphan's tears. O'er that dark record has my spirit groaned, Since dawning reason, in unuttered anguish. When others danced, struck the glad wire, or caught The thrilling murmurs of loved lips, I roamed Where the hill-foxes howl, and eagles cry, Brooding, o'er wrongs that haunted me for vengeance. For I have been an outcast from my cradle ; Poor, and in exile, while an alien called My birthright, home. Halls founded by my sires Have blazed and rudely rung with stranger triumphs ; Their honorable name rivals have stained ; Trampled their laurels and profaned their bones ; Hence have I labored ; watched while others slept ; Known not the spring of life, nor ever plucked One vernal blossom in the day of youth. The harvest of my toils, this night, I reap ; For death, this night, or better life awaits me. Before my lord the King I stand, and claim Northumberland, my just inheritance, As Henry Percy, son and heir of Hotspur. JAMES A. HILLHOUSE, Percy's Masque. 608 THE CUMBERLAND. THE CUMBERLAND. AT anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war ; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south uprose A little feather of snow-white smoke, And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort ; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back in a full broadside ! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate, Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. " Strike your flag ! " the rebel cries, In his arrogant old plantation strain. MOURNER A LA MODE. 609 " Never ! " our gallant Morris replies : "It is better to sink than to yield ! " And the whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp ! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay, Still floated our flag at the mainmast-head. Lord, how beautiful was thy day ! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho ! brave hearts that went down in the seas ! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream. Ho ! brave land ! with hearts like these, Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again, And without a seam ! LONGFELLOW. I was there the following week. J. M. F. MOURNER 1 LA MODE. I SAW her last night at a party (The elegant party at Mead's), And looking remarkably hearty For a widow so young in her weeds. 39 610 MOURNER A LA MODE. , Yet I know she was suffering sorrow Too deep for the tongue to express, Or why had she chosen to borrow So much from the language of dress ? ,Her shawl was as sable as night ; Her gloves were as dark as her shawl ; And her jewels that flashed in the light Were black as a funeral pall ; Her robe had the hue of the rest, (How nicely it fitted her shape !) And the grief that was heaving her breast Boiled over in billows of crape ! What tears of vicarious woe, That else might have sullied her face, Were kindly permitted to flow In ripples of ebony lace ! While even her fan, in its play, Had quite a lugubrious scope, And seemed to be waving away The ghost of the angel of hope ! Yet rich as the robes of a queen Was the sombre apparel she wore. I 'm certain I never had seen Such a sumptuous sorrow before ; And I could n't help thinking the beauty, In mourning the loved and the lost, Was doing her conjugal duty Altogether regardless of cost ! One surely would say a devotion Performed at so vast an expense Betrayed an excess of emotion That was really something immense ; THE GHEBERS* FIGHT. 611 And yet, as I viewed at my leisure, These tokens of tender regard, I thought, It is scarce without measure, The sorrow that goes by the yard ! SAXE. THE GHEBERS' FIGHT. THERE was a deep ravine that lay Yet darkling in the Moslems' way, Fit spot to make invaders rue The many fallen before the few. The torrents from that morning's sky Had filled the narrow chasm breast-high, And on each side, aloft and wild, Huge cliffs and toppling crags were piled, The guards with which young Freedom lines The pathways to her mountain shrines. Here, at this pass, the scanty band Of Iran's last avengers stand ; Here wait, in silence like the dead, And listen for the Moslems' tread So anxiously, the carrion-bird Above them flaps his wings unheard ! They come, that plunge into the water Gives signal for the work of slaughter. Now, Ghebers, now, if e'er your blades Had point or prowess, prove them now ! Woe to the file that foremost wades ! They corne, a falchion greets each brow, And, as they tumble, trunk on trunk, Beneath the gory waters sunk, 612 MASON AND SLIDELL. Still o'er their drowning bodies press New victims quick and numberless ; Till scarce an arm in Hafed's band, So fierce their toil, hath power to stir, But listless from each crimson hand The sword hangs, clogged with massacre. MOORE, TJie Fire-Worshippers. MASON AND SLIDELL. HEARKEN in your ear, I 'm older 'n you, Peace wun't keep house with Fear Ef you want peace, the thing you 've gut to du Is jes' to show you 're up to fightin' tu. I recollect how sailors' rights was won Yard locked in yard, hot gun-lip kissin' gun : Why, afore thet, John Bull sot up thet he Hed gut a kind o' mortgage on the sea ; You 'd thought he held by Gran'ther Adam's will, An' ef you knuckle down, he 11 think so still. Better thet all our ships an' all their crews Should sink to rot in ocean's dreamless ooze, Each torn flag wavin' chellenge ez it went, An' each dumb gun a brave man's moniment, Than seek sech peace ez only cowards crave : Give me the peace of dead men or of brave ! An' I tell you it wun't be money lost; We wun't give up afore the ship goes down : It's a stiff gale, but Providence wun't drown; An' God wun't leave us yit to sink or swim, THE DESPAIRING LOVER. 613 Ef we don't fail to du wut 's right by him. This land o' ourn, I tell ye, 's gut to be A better country than man ever see. I feel my sperit swellin' with a cry Thet seems to say, " Break forth an' prophesy ! " O strange New World, thet yit wast never young, Whose youth from thee by gripin' need was wrung, Brown foundlin' o' the woods, whose baby-bed Was prowled roun' by the Injuns' cracklin' tread, An' who grew'st strong thru shifts an' wants an' pains, Nussed by stern men with empires in their brains, Who saw in vision their young Ishmel strain With each hard hand a vassal ocean's mane, Thou, skilled by Freedom an' by gret events To pitch new States ez Old- World men pitch tents, Thou, taught by Fate to know Jehovah's plan, Thet man's devices can't unmake a man, An' whose free latch-string never was drawed in Against the poorest child of Adam's kin, The grave 's not dug where traitor hands shall lay In fearful haste thy murdered corse away ! LOWELL. THE DESPAIRING LOVER DISTRACTED with care For Phyllis the fair, Since nothing would move her, Poor Damon, her lover, Resolves not to languish And bear so much anguish ; But, mad with his love, 614 THE BARRING 0' THE DOOR. To a precipice goes, Where a leap from above Would soon finish his woes. When in rage he caine there, Beholding how steep The sides did appear, And the bottom how deep, His torments projecting, And sadly reflecting That a lover forsaken A new love may get, But a neck when once broken Can never be set ; And that he could die Whenever he would, But that he could live But as long as he could, How grievous soever His torments might grow, He scorned to endeavor To finish it so ; But, bold, unconcerned At the thoughts of the pain, He calmly returned To his cottage again. AXONYMOOS. THE BARRING O' THE DOOR. IT fell about the Martinmas time, And a gay time it was than, When our gndewife got puddings to make, And she boiled them in the pan. THE BARRING O> THE DOOR. 615 The wind sae cauld blew east and north, It blew into the floor : Quoth our gudeman to our gudewife, " Gae out and bar the door ! " " My hand is in my huswifs kap, Gudeman, as ye may see ; An' it should nae be barred this hundred year, It 's no be barred for me." They made a paction 'tween them twa, They made it firm and sure, That the first word whae'er should speak Should rise and bar the door. Then by there came twa gentlemen At twelve o'clock at night ; And they could neither see house nor hall, Nor coal nor candle-light. And first they ate the white puddings, And then they ate the black ; Though muckle thought the gudewife to hersel', Yet ne'er a word she spak'. Then said the one unto the other, " Here, man, tak' ye my knife ! Do ye tak' aff the auld man's beard, And I '11 kiss the gudewife." " But there 's nae water in the house, And what shall we do than ? " " What ails ye at the puddin' broo That boils into the pan ? " 616 THE STRATAGEM. Oh, up then started our gudeman, And an angry man was he : " Will ye kiss my wife before my een, And scaud me wi' puddin' bree ? " Then up and. started our gudewife, Gied three skips on the floor : " Gudeman, ye Ve spoken the foremost word, Get up and bar the door ! " ANONYMOUS. A favorite of S. F. THE STRATAGEM. No martial project to surprise, Can ever be attempted twice : Nor cast design serve afterwards, As gamesters tear their losing cards. Besides our bangs of men and beast Are fit for nothing now but rest, And for a while will not be able To rally and prove serviceable : And therefore I with reason chose This stratagem, t' amuse our foes, To make an honorable retreat, And wave a total sure defeat : For those that fly may fight again, Which he can never do that 's slain. Hence timely running's no mean part Of conduct in the martial art. SAMUEL BUTLER, Hudibras. PORTIA'S CHARGE TO THE JEW, 617 WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN ? WHEN shall we all meet again ? When shall we all meet again ? Oft shall glowing hope expire, Oft shall wearied love retire, Oft shall death and sorrow reign, Ere we all shall meet again. Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky ; Though the deep between us rolls, Friendship shall unite our souls. Still in fancy's rich domain Oft shall we all meet again. When the dreams of life are fled, When its wasted lamps are dead ; When in cold oblivion's shade Beauty, power, and fame are laid ; Where immortal spirits reign, There shall we all meet again. ANONYMOUS. POKTIA'S CHAEGE TO THE JEW. THE quality of mercy is not strained ; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice blest ; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : T is mightiest in the mightiest ; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown : His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, 618 THE VISIT. The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings ; But mercy is above this sceptred sway : It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, ' It is an attribute to God himself ; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That, in the course of justice, none of us Should see salvation : we do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much, To mitigate the justice of thy plea ; Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. SHAKSPEARE, Merchant of Venice. THE VISIT. ASKEST, " How long thou shalt stay ? Devastator of. the day ! Know, each substance and relation, Thorough nature's operation, Hath its unit, bound, and metre ; And every new compound Is some product and repeater, Product of the earlier found. But the unit of the visit, The encounter of the wise, Say, what other metre is it Than the meeting of the eyes ? Nature poureth into nature Through the channels of that feature TO ALTHEA. 619 Riding on the ray of sight, Fleeter far than whirlwinds go, Or for service, or delight, Hearts to hearts their meaning show, Sum their long experience, And import intelligence. Single look has drained the breast ; Single moment years confessed. The duration of a glance Is the term of convenance, And, though thy rede be church or state,* / Frugal multiples of that. Speeding Saturn cannot halt ; Linger, thou shalt rue the fault : If Love his moment overstay, Hatred's swift repulsions play. EMERSON. TO ALTHEA. WHEN love with unconfined wings Hovers within my gates, And my divine Althea brings To whisper at my grates ; When I lie tangled in her hair, And fettered to her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage ; Minds innocent and quiet take That for a hermitage : 620 THE LAND O' THE LEAL. If I have freedom in my love, And in my soul am free, Angels alone that soar above Enjoy such liberty. SIB RICHARD LOVELACE. THE LAND O' THE LEAL. I 'M wearin' awa', Jean, Like snaw in a thaw, Jean ; I 'm wearin' awa' To the Land o' the Leal. There 's nae sorrow there, Jean, There 's neither cauld nor care, Jean ; The day is ever 'fair In the Land o' the Leal. You 've been leal and true, Jean, Your task is ended noo, Jean, And I '11 welcome you To the Land o' the Leal. Then dry that tearf u' ee, Jean ; My soul langs to be free, Jean ; And angels wait on me To the Land o' the Leal. Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean ; She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair To the Land o' the Leal ! But sorrow's self wears past, Jean, And joy 's a comin' fast, Jean, The joy that 's aye to last In the Land o' the Leal. WHOM I LOVE. 621 A our friends are gane, Jean ; We Ve lang been left alane, Jean ; But we '11 a' meet again In the Land o' the Leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean ! This world's care is vain, Jean ! We '11 meet, and aye be fain In the Land o' the Leal. LADY CAROLINE NAIRN. WHOM I LOVE. SHALL I tell you whom I love ? Hearken then awhile to me ; And if such a woman move As I now shall versify, Be assured, 't is she, or none, That I love, and love alone. Nature did her so much right, As she scorns the help of art, In as many virtues dight As e'er yet embraced a heart. So much good so truly tried, Some for less were deified. Wit she hath, without desire To make known how much she hath And her anger flames no higher Than may fitly sweeten wrath. Full of pity as may be, Though perhaps not so to me. 622 A WOMAN'S IDEAL. Reason masters every sense, And her virtues grace her birth : Lovely as all excellence, , Modest in her most of mirth : Likelihood enough to prove Only worth could kindle love. Such she is ; and if you know Such a one as I have sung, Be she brown, or fair, or so, That she be but somewhile young, Be assured, 't is she, or none, That I love, and love alone. WILLIAM BROWNE. A WOMAN'S IDEAL. A PAKODY. WHOE'ER he be, That not Impossible He, To be hereafter lord of me, Though he now lie Where mortal naked eye Cannot his shape descry, I do believe that he, Most verily, In flesh and blood doth wait for me. I wishjiim beauty, That owes not all its duty To arts of dress, pins, rings, or blue tie ; A WOMAN'S IDEAL. 623 Something more than Hats or blacking can, Which make the fop, and not the man ; An eye that 's bright With youth's own eagle light, And needs no " glass " for sight ; A stately form and tall, Highest in field and hall, As was of old King Saul ; Standing among men, proud, With a free step, uncowed, With a high head, unbowed ; Tender to woman's tears, Pity for maiden's fears, Kind words for children's ears ; A true heart and clear head, Yet not all Euclid-bred, Or on stale classics fed ; One who can ride to hounds, And loveth sylvan sounds, But is not " horsy " without bounds ; One who can steer and scull, A " biceps " that can pull Up-stream a whole boat-full ; Yet with a soul and parts For finer, gentler arts, That live in noble hearts ; 624 HOW SHALL I WOO f One who can rise and sing, When maidens wake the string, And softest cadence fling ; A fair, good name, Perhaps no renown or fame, At least no taint of shame ; A manly grace, That looks you in the face And owns to no disgrace. Now, if Time knows This Him, for whose high brows There waits my wreath of vows, He that dares be What these lines wish to see, I seek no further, it is he ! ANONYMOUS. HOW SHALL I WOO? IF I speak to thee in friendship's name, Thou think' st I speak too coldly ; If I mention love's devoted flame, Thou say'st I speak too boldly. Between these two unequal fires, Why doom me thus to hover ? I 'm a friend, if such thy heart requires ; If more thou seek'st, a lover. Which shall it be ? How shall I woo ? Fair one, choose between the two. HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. 625 Though the wings of Love will brightly play, When first he comes to woo thee, There 's a chance that he may fly away As fast as he flies to thee. While Friendship, though on foot she come, No flights of fancy trying, Will therefore oft be found at home, When Love abroad is flying. ,. Which shall it be ? How shall I woo ? Dear one, choose between the two. If neither feeling suits thy heart, Let 's see, to please thee, whether We may not learn some precious art To mix their charms together. One feeling, still more sweet, to form From two so sweet already, A friendship that like love is warm, A love like friendship steady. Thus let it be, thus let me woo ; Dearest, thus we '11 join the two. MOORE. HE THAT LOVES A ROSY CHEEK. HE that loves a rosy cheek, Or a coral lip admires, Or from starlike eyes doth seek Fuel to maintain his fires ; As old Time makes these decay, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and steadfast mind, Gentle thoughts, and calm desires, 40 626 THE APOLOGY. Hearts with equal love combined, Kindle never-dying fires ; Where these are not, I despise Lovely cheeks or lips or eyes. THOMAS CAREW. THE APOLOGY. THINK me not unkind and rude, That I walk alone in grove and glen : I go to the god of the wood To fetch his word to men. Tax not my sloth that I Fold my arms beside the brook ; Each cloud that floated in the sky Writes a. letter in my book. Chide me not, laborious band, For the idle flowers I brought ; Every aster in my hand Goes home loaded with a thought. There was never mystery But 't is figured in the flowers ; Was never secret history But birds tell it in the bowers. One harvest from thy field Homeward brought the oxen strong ; A second crop thy acres yield, Which I gather in a song. EMERSON. LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 627 THINE EYES STILL SHONE. THINE eyes still shone for me, though far I lonely roved the land or sea ; As I behold yon evening star, Which yet beholds not me. This morn I climbed the misty hill, And roamed the pastures through ; How danced thy form before my path Amidst the deep-eyed dew ! When the redbird spread his sable wing, And showed his side of flame, When the rosebud ripened to the rose, In both I read thy name. EMERSON. LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. LOOK not thou on beauty's charming, Sit thou still when kings are arming ; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, Speak not when the people listens ; Stop thine ear against the singer, From the red gold keep thy finger : Vacant heart and hand and eye, Easy live and quiet die. SCOTT, Bride of Lammermoor. 628 GIVE ALL TO LOVE. THE SIKENS' SONG. STEER hither, steer your winged pines, All beaten mariners : Here lie undiscovered mines, A prey to passengers ; Perfumes far sweeter than the best That make the phoenix urn and nest. Fear not your ships, Nor any to oppose you save our lips ; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till love has gotten more. For swelling waves our panting breasts, Where never storms arise, Exchange, and be awhile our guests ; For stars, gaze on our eyes. The compass love shall hourly sing ; And as he goes about the ring, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. WILLIAM BROWNE. GIVE ALL TO LOVE. GIVE all to love ; Obey thy heart ; Friends, kindred, days, Estate, good-fame, Plans, credit, and the Muse, Nothing refuse. GIVE ALL TO LOVE. 629 'T is a brave master ; Let it have scope : Follow it utterly, Hope beyond hope : High and more high It dives into noon, With wing unspent, Untold intent ; But it is a god, Knows its own path, And the outlets of the sky. It was not for the mean ; It requireth courage stout. Souls above doubt, Valor unbending, Such 't will reward, They shall return More than they were, And ever ascending. Leave all for love ; Yet, hear me, yet, One word more thy heart behoved, One pulse more of firm endeavor, Keep thee to-day, To-morrow, forever, Free as an Arab Of thy beloved. Cling with life to the maid; But when the surprise, First vague shadow of surmise, Flits across her bosom young, 630 " KEARSARGE: Of a joy apart from thee, Free be she, fancy-free ; Nor thou detain her vesture's hem, Nor the palest rose she flung From her summer diadem. Though thou loved her as thyself, As a self of purer clay, Though her parting dims the day, Stealing grace from all alive ; Heartily know, When half gods go, The gods arrive. EMEUSON. " KEARSARGE." On Sunday morning, June 19, 1864, the noise of the cannons during the fight between the " Kearsarge " and the " Alabama " was heard in English churches near the Channel. SUNDAY in Old England : In gray churches everywhere The calm of low responses, The sacred hush of prayer. Sunday in Old England ; And summer winds that went O'er the pleasant fields of Sussex, The garden lands of Kent, Stole into dim church windows, And passed the oaken door, And fluttered open prayer-books With the cannon's awful roar. THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD. 631 Sunday in New England : Upon a mountain gray The wind-bent pines are swaying Like giants at their play; Across the barren lowlands, Where men find scanty food, The north-wind brings its vigor To homesteads plain and rude. Ho, land of pine and granite ! Ho, hardy northland breeze ! Well have you trained the manhood That shook the Channel seas, When o'er those storied waters The iron war-bolts flew, And through Old England's churches The summer breezes blew ; While in our other England Stirred one gaunt rocky steep, When rode her sons as victors, Lords of the lonely deep. S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D. Author's favorite. THE QUAKEE GKAVEYABI). FOUR straight brick walls, severely plain, A quiet city square surround ; A level space of nan;eless graves, The Quakers' burial-ground. 632 EPITAPH ON MRS. MASON. If gown of gray, or coat of drab, They trod the common ways of life, With passions held in sternest leash, And hearts that knew not strife. To yon grim meeting-house they fared, With thoughts as sober as their speech, To voiceless prayer, to songless praise, To hear their elders preach. Through quiet lengths of days they came, With scarce a change to this repose ; Of all life's loveliness they took The thorn without the rose. But in the porch and o'er the graves Glad rings the southward robin's glee, And sparrows fill the autumn air With merry mutiny ; While on the graves of drab and gray The red and gold of autumn lie, And wilful Nature decks the sod In gentlest mockery. S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D. EPITAPH ON MES. MASON IN THE CATHEDPtAL OF BEISTOL. TAKE, holy earth, all that my soul holds dear ; Take that best gift which heaven so lately gave : To Bristol's font I bore with trembling care Her faded form ; she bowed to taste the wave, And died ! Does youth, does beauty, read the line ? Does sympathetic fear their breasts alarm ? THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 633 Speak, dead Maria ! breathe a strain divine ; Even from the grave thou shalt have power to charm. Bid them be chaste, be innocent, like thee : Bid them in duty's sphere as meekly move ; And if so fair, from vanity as free, As firm in friendship, and as fond in love, Tell them, though 't is an awful thing to die ('T was even to thee), yet, the dread path once trod, Heaven lifts its everlasting portals high, And bids " the pure in heart behold their God." WILLIAM MASON. THE DESEKTED VILLAGE. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way, With blossomed furze unprofitably gay, There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was, and stern to view I knew him well, and every truant knew ; Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face ; Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he : Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned ; Yet he was kind or, if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew : 'T was certain he could write and cipher too ; Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e'en the story ran that he could gauge. 634 THE BIBLE. In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill, For, e'en though vanquished, he could argue still ; While words of learned length and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around ; And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame ; the very spot, Where many a time he triumphed, is forgot. GOLDSMITH. FROM ALL THAT DWELL BELOW THE SKIES. FROM all that dwell below the skies Let the Creator's praise arise ; Let the Redeemer's name be sung Through every land, by every tongue. Eternal are thy mercies, Lord ; Eternal truth attends thy word : Thy praise shall sound from shore to shore, Till suns shall set and rise no more. WATTS. THE BIBLE. WITHIN this awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries ; Happiest those of human race, To whom God has granted grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch and force the way ; And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. SCOTT, Tlie Monastery. CALM ON THE LISTENING EAR OF NIGHT. 635 CALM ON THE LISTENING EAE OF NIGHT. CALM on the listening ear of night Come Heaven's 'melodious strains, Where wild Judaea stretches far Her silver-mantled plains ! Celestial choirs, from courts above, Shed sacred glories there ; And angels, with their sparkling lyres, Make music on the air. The answering hills of Palestine Send back the glad reply ; And greet, from all their holy heights, The dayspring from on high. On the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm, And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, Her silent groves of palm. " Glory to God ! " the sounding skies Loud with their anthems ring ; Peace to. the earth, good-will to men, From Heaven's Eternal King ! Light on thy hills, Jerusalem ! The Saviour now is born ! And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains Breaks the first Christmas morn. E. H. SEARS. 636 THE IVY GREEN. COME, YE DISCONSOLATE. , ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish ; Come, at the mercy-seat fervently kneel. Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish ; Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. Joy of the desolate, light of the straying, Hope of the penitent, fadeless and pure, Here speaks the Comforter, tenderly saying, Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure. Here see the bread of life ; see waters flowing Forth from the throne of God, pure from above. Come to the feast of love ; come ever knowing Earth has no sorrow but Heaven can remove. MOORE. Head of the river, autumn of 1833. 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. A FOREST HYMN. 637 Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he ! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak-tree ! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations scattered been ; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past ; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the Ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy green. DICKENS. A FOREST HYMN. THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them, ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems, in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences 638 REPROACH. Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once ' All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn, thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear. BRYANT. EEPEOACH. FIERCE the sea is, and fickle if fair, So they say of it, so let it be ; But did ever the landsman's languor check The sailor's pride in his dancing deck ? Or did ever the helmsman, whose home is there, In place of his own true hand and eye, Trust the ploughman's skill when the sea ran high, And submit to a landsman's usurpature ? No ! for the seaman loveth the sea, And knoweth its nature. Perils there are on the mountain peak, When headlong tumble the turbulent rills ; But did ever the lowland shepherd's fear Daunt the heart of the mountaineer ? REPROACH. 639 Or did ever the hill-born hunter seek, When the snowdrift sweeping the mountain side Flew fast and fierce, for a lowland guide To track the path of a mountain creature ? No ! for the hunter loveth the hills And knoweth their nature. Then to whom shall the sailor for counsel go Through the violent waters his bark to steer ? And what through the ice and the falling snow May guide the foot of the mountaineer ? Hath the hunter heed to the pastoral trills Which the shepherd pipes to his flock on the lea ? Or the sailor faith in the fear that fills The landsman's babbling prate ? Not he ! ' For the heights and the depths have their ways and wills, Which they must know who their lords would be ; And the highlander studies and trusts the hills, As the mariner studies and trusts the sea. But, my love ! I am thine in vain, If thou trustest me not ; and, oh, why hast thou ta'en Counsel not with my nature, nor' thine, How a woman should deal with this heart of mine ? The sailor the sea doth trust, And the hunter the hills but thou ! Thou, who hast known me, dost Trust those that I scorn to know, For the knowledge of me, who have been thine own In vain, if by thee I be still unknown. ANONYMOUS. Eeceived from R. L. 640 WALDEINSAMKEIT. WALDEINSAMKEIT. I DO not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea ; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me. In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound hi by streams which give and take Their colors from the sky ; Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, Oh, what have I to do with time ? For this the day was made. Cities of mortals woe-begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides. Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad ; But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad. There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain. Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns ; Through times that wear, and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns. THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 641 The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines. Down in yon watery nook, , Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide. Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song ; Oh, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong ! / See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books ; Leave author's eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks. Oblivion here thy wisdom is ; Thy thrift, the sleep of cares : For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs. EMERSON. Mr. EMERSON wrote this with his own hand in the " Island Book " : perhaps it was suggested by the surroundings. ' THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. IN Eastern lands they talk in flowers, And they tell in a garland their loves and cares ; Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers On its leaves a mystic language bears. 41 642 A HEALTH TO THE OUTWARD BOUND. The rose is the sign of joy and love, Young, blushing love in its earliest dawn ; And the mildness that suits the gentle dove From the .myrtle's snowy flower is drawn. Innocence shines in the lily's bell, Pure as a heart in its native heaven ; Fame's bright star, and glory's swell, By the glossy leaf of the bay are given. The silent, soft, and humble heart In the violet's hidden sweetness breathes ; And the tender soul that cannot part, A twine of evergreen fondly wreathes. The cypress, that darkly shades the grave, Is sorrow, that mourns her bitter lot ; And faith, that a thousand ills can brave, Speaks in thy blue leaves, forget-me-not. Then gather a wreath from the garden bowers, And tell the wish of thy heart in flowers. PERCIVAL. A HEALTH TO THE OUTWAED BOUND. FILL, fill the sparkling brimmer ! Fill ! for the moments fly ; The stars' weary light grows dimmer, And the moon fades away from the sky. Fill ! for the signal-flag is up, And the wind is veering round ; In haste let us pledge our parting cup To the health of the outward bound ! Fill high ! this hour to-morrow Nor toast nor jest shall be ; MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP. 643 But a few shall meet in sorrow, While the many plough the sea. Then, while we 're all together, Give the toast, let it circle round : Full sails and prosperous weather, And a health to the outward bound ! Let no adieu be spoken, To weep is a woman's part ; Nor give we a farewell token, But a health from our inmost heart ! Oft, when the wind blows free, And the rough waves roll around, The health shall come back to their memory That we drank to the outward bound ! CAROLINE NORTON. Sung by J. A. and W. M. H. MAIDEN SPEECH OF THE AEOLIAN HARP. SOFT and softlier hold me, friends ! Thanks if your genial care Unbind and give me to the air. Keep your lips or finger-tips For flute or spinnet's dancing chips ; I await a tenderer touch, I ask more or not so much. Give me to the atmosphere, Where is the wind, my brother, where ? Lift the sash, lay me within, Lend me your ears, and I begin. For gentle harp to gentle hearts The secret of the world imparts ; 644 THE LAST LOOK. And not to-day and not to-morrow Can drain its wealth of hope and sorrow, But day by day, to loving ear, Unlocks new sense and loftier cheer. I 've come to live with you, sweet friends ; This home my minstrel journeying ends. Many and subtle are my lays, The latest better than the first ; For I can mend the happiest days, And charm the anguish of the worst. EMERSON. Written on presenting an Jiolian harp to Mr. and Mrs. W. H. F. THE LAST LOOK. W. W. SWAIN. BEHOLD not him we knew : This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender and brave and true. His voice no more is heard ; And his dead name that dear familiar word Lies on our lips unstirred. He spake with poet's tongue ; Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung : He shall not die unsung. Grief tried his love, and pain ; And the long bondage of his martyr-chain Vexed his sweet soul in vain ! THE LAST LOOK. . 645 i It felt life's surges break, As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, Smiling while tempests wake. How can we sorrow more ? Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden shore ! Lo ! through its leafy screen A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, Untrodden, half unseen ! Here let his body rest, Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast. Smooth his uncurtained bed ; And if some natural tears are softly shed, It is not for the dead. ; Fold the green turf aright For the long hours before the morning's light, And say the last Good Night ! \ And plant a clear white stone Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own, Lonely, but not alone ! Here let him sleeping lie, Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky, And Death himself shall die ! HOLMES. NAXTSHON, Sept. 22. 1858. 646 ON THE DEATH OF E. P. TO E. W. EMEESON, ON HIS SEVENTIETH BIETHDAY. BLEST of the highest gods are they who die Ere youth is fled; for them their mother Fate, Clasping from happy earth to happier sky, Frees life and joy and love from dread of date. But thee, revered of men, the gods have blessed With fruitful years ; and yet for thee, in sooth, Of all their gifts, they have reserved the hest, And thou, though full of days, shalt die in youth. CHARLES E. NORTON. May 25, 1873. ON THE DEATH OF E. P. IF the pilgrim did not falter, Though his weary limbs were sore, Till he lay down on the altar The offering that he bore, Then, all his wanderings over, shall we weep That wearied out he lieth in sweet sleep ? If the soldier asked no furlough Till the mortal fray was done, But battled with the bravest Till the victory was won, Then, when he reposeth after conflict sore, Weep we that the war-cry awakens him no more ? If the watchman doth not linger By the fireside bright and warm, TO S. S. F. 647 But unclasps the arms that fold him, And braves the sleet and storm, Mourn we that he resteth ? the long night o'er And the day come, he breasteth the storm no more ? And when the good man di^th, His faithful service done, When over death a holy faith The victory hath won, What still and solemn peace our hearts should feel, That on such life such death should set its seal ! MARIA W. GORDON. 1857. TO S. S. F. WRITTEN IN THE FLY-LEAF OF WORDSWORTH'S POEMS x> WHEN melancholy, born of sin, Clings close about me ; When all is cold and dark within^ And drear without me ; When memories of my wasted years, Misacted part, Brim up my eyes with bitter tears, And choke my heart, Then to these volumes can I turn, And deem them sent From Heaven ; for faith and hope I learn, And strong content. And though, my cousin, unto thee Few griefs may come ; Though as a paradise may be 648 TO GOVERNOR SWAIN. Thy cottage-home ; Though envy never can cloud o'er Thy generous sight, Nor jealousy stand up before Thy simple might, Yet do I know that thy pure mind, In Wordsworth's line, A kindred excellence will find ; For sense, truth, joy, are here combined With love, and all are thine ! J. II. PERKINS. BROOKLINE, July, 1835. TO GOVERNOR SWAIN. DEAR Governor, if my skill might brave The winds that lift the ocean wave, The mountain stream -that loops and swerves Through my broad meadow's channelled curves Should waft me on from bound to bound To where the River weds the Sound, The Sound should give me to the sea, That to the Bay, the Bay to thee. It may not be ; too long the track To follow down or struggle back. The sun has set on fair Naushon Long ere my western blaze is gone ; The ocean disk is rolling dark In shadows round your swinging bark, While yet the yellow sunset fills The stream that scarfs my spruce-clad hills ; The day-star wakes your island deer Long ere my barnyard chanticleer ; TO GOVERNOR SWAIN. 649 Your mists are soaring in the blue, While mine are sparks of glittering dew. It may not be : oh, would it might ! Could I live o'er that glowing night, What golden hours would come to life, What goodly feats of peaceful strife ! Such jests, that, drained of every joke, The very bank of language broke ; Such deeds, that Laughter nearly died With stitches in his belted side ; While Time, caught fast in pleasure's chain, His double goblet snapped in twain, And stood with half in either hand, Both brimming full but not of sand ! It may not be ; I strive in vain To break my slender household chain, Three pairs of little clasping hands, One voice, that whispers, not commands. Even while my spirit flies away, My gentle jailers murmur nay. All shapes of elemental wrath They raise along my threatened path ; The storm grows black, the waters rise, The mountains mingle with the skies, The mad tornado scoops the ground, The midnight robber prowls around, Thus, kissing every limb they tie, They draw a knot and heave a sigh, Till, fairly netted in the toil, My feet are rooted to the soil. Only the soaring wish is free, And that, dear Governor, flies to thee ! HOLMES. PlTTSFIELD, 1851. 650 A FRAGMENT. WILT THOU TEMPT THE WAVES WITH ME? WILT thou tempt the waves with me, When the moon is high and bright, And the ocean seems to be A pillow for her light ? Stars will shine above us cheerily, As we glide along, Whilst the rippling waters echo merrily To the mariner's song. Wilt thou wander through the dells, Where our bower of beauty stands, And the little silver bells Are rung by fairy hands ? Stars will shine, &c. ANONYMOUS. Miss HELEN DAVIS'S song. A FKAGMENT. COME take the harp, my gentle one, And let its notes be soft and low; Such as may breathe, in every tone, The soul of long ago. . Then take the harp, and let it wile All thoughts of care and grief away ; While thou art by with harp and smile, I will not weep to-day. ANONYMOUS. Sung by J. A. and W. M. H. KEEN AN' S CHARGE. 651 KEENAN'S CHARGE. CHANCELLOKSVILLE, MAY, 1863. I. THE sun had set; The leaves with dew were wet ; Down fell a bloody dusk On the woods, that second of May, Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey, Tore through, with angry tusk. " They Ve trapped us, boys ! " Rose from our flank a voice. With a rush of steel and smoke On came the Rebels straight, Eager as love and wild as hate ; And our line reeled and broke. There 's one hope, still Those batteries parked on the hill ! " Battery, wheel ! " ('mid the roar) " Pass pieces ; fix prolonge to fire Retiring. Trot ! " In the panic dire A bugle rings " Trot " and no more. " To wait is crime ; God, for ten minutes' time ! " The general looked around. There Keen an sat, like a stone, With his three hundred horse alone Less shaken than the ground. 652 KEENAN'S CHARGE. " Major, ypur men ? " "Are soldiers, General." "Then, Charge, Major ! Do your best : Hold the enemy back, at all cost, Till my guns are placed ; else the army is lost. You die to save the rest ! " II. " Cavalry, charge ! " Not a man of them shrank. Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank, Eose joyously, with a willing breath, Eose like a greeting hail to death. Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed ; Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed ; Eode well the men, each brave as his fellow, In their faded coats of the blue and yellow ; And above in the air, with an instinct true, Like a bird of war their pennon flew. With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds, And blades that shine like sunlit reeds, And strong- brown faces bravely pale For fear their proud attempt shall fail, Three hundred Pennsylvanians close On twice ten thousand gallant foes. Line after line the troopers came To the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame ; Eode in and sabred and shot and fell ; Nor came one back his wounds to tell. And full in the midst rose Keenan, tall In the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall, While the circle-stroke of his sabre, swung Eound his head, like a halo there, luminous hung. THE LITTLE PET PLANT. 653 Line after line ; ay, whole platoons, Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoons By the maddened horses were onward borne And into the vortex flung,' trampled, and torn, As Keenan fought with his men, side by side. So they rode, till there were no more to ride. But over them, lying there, shattered and mute, What deep echo rolls ? 'T is a death-salute From the cannon in place ; for, heroes, you braved Your fate not in vain : the army was saved ! G. P. LATHROP, The Century. THE LITTLE PET PLANT. A FLOEIST a sweet little blossom espied, That grew, like its ancestors, by the roadside. Its perfume was simple, its colors were few, Yet this flower looked fair in the spot where it grew. The florist espied it, and said, " I '11 enchant The botanical world with a sight of this plant ; Its leaves shall be sheltered and carefully nursed, All the world shall be charmed, though I met with it first Under a hedge." But when this little plant first shook off the dirt Of its own native hedge, it began to grow pert, And tossed its proud head, on seeing that none But exotics were round, it thought itself one. As a wild flower, all would have owned it was fair, And praised it, though handsomer flowers were there ; 654 A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. But when it assumes hot-house airs, we see through The false tint of its leaves, and suspect that it grew Under a hedge. MORAL. In the byways of life, oh, how many there are, Who, being born under some fortunate star, Assisted by beauty or talents, grow rich, And bloom in a hot-house instead of a ditch : And when they despise not their own simple stem, The honors they grasp may gain honors for them ; But when, like this little plant, they begin to grow pert, We soon trace them to their original dirt Under a hedge. ANONYMOUS. Kindly furnished by D. L. S., Swan Island Club, Nov. 25, 1883. A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet Breathes soft the Alpine Rose, So, through life's desert springing sweet, The flower of friendship grows ; And as, where'er the roses grow, Some rain or dew descends, 'T is nature's law that wine should flow To wet the lips of friends. Then once again before we part, My empty glass shall ring ; And he that has the warmest heart Shall loudest laugh and sing. A SONG OF OTHER DAYS. 655 / They say we were not born to eat ; But gray-haired sages think It means, Be moderate in your meat, And partly live to drink ; For baser tribes the rivers flow That know not wine or song ; Man wants but little drink below, But wants that little strong. Then once again, &c. / If one bright drop is like the gem That decks a monarch's crown, One goblet holds a diadem Of rubies melted down ! A fig for Csesar's blazing brow, But, like the Egyptian queen, Bid each dissolving jewel glow My thirsty lips between. Then once again, &c. The Grecian's mound, the Eoman's urn, Are silent when we call, Yet still the purple grapes return To cluster on the wall ; It was a bright Immortal's head They circled with the vine, And o'er their best and ,bra vest dead They poured the dark-red wine. Then once again, &c. Methinks o'er every sparkling glass Young Eros waves his wings, And echoes o'er its dimples pass From dead Anacreon's strings ; 656 THE GOLDEN WEDDING. And, tossing round its beaded brim Their locks of floating gold, With bacchant dance and choral hymn Eeturn the nymphs of old. Then once again, &c. A welcome then to joy and mirth, From hearts as fresh as ours, To scatter o'er the dust of earth Their sweetly mingled flowers ; 'T is Wisdom's self the cup that fills In spite of Folly's frown, And Nature, from her vine-clad hills, That rains her life-blood down ! Then once again, &c. HOLMES. A great favorite at old NAUSHON hunts. THE GOLDEN WEDDING. Is the hope bright ? It should be so, Brighter than fifty years ago ; A calmer, purer, holier light, Than shone upon the marriage rite. For though the morn should cloudless rise, Shadows may veil the noonday skies ; But near the close the parting ray In lines of beauty fades away. So shines on earth a well-spent life, The daughter, sister, mother, wife, Whose all-embracing kindness flows In sympathy with others' woes ; THE ARCHER. 657 The generous heart and open hand, A sister of the meek-eyed band, Whose bounty smooths the brow of care And bids the smile displace the tear. While friends are thronging round your home, Alas for me ! I cannot come ; But when that rare and costly gem, That sparkles in the diadem That crowns for aye the earthly rite, Beams radiant with celestial light, No longer lame, may I not come And greet you in that happier home ? W. W. S. October, 1857. THE AECHER INSATIATE Archer ! could not one suffice ? Thy shaft flew thrice, and thrice my peace was slain ; And thrice, ere thrice yon moon had filled her horn. EDWARD YOUNG. Applied to Dr. SAMUEL CABOT on the occasion of his shooting three bucks with three shots, NAUSHOX, Oct. 11, 1883. 42 658 TO FROM "THE DREAM." IT was not that her radiant eyes Were like the stars of Eastern skies ; It was not that her brow was fair, That nature's softest touch was there ; It was not that the hand of love The texture of her cheeks had wove : It was the spirit's harmony, The mind's unbroken melody, Breathing its sweetness through the whole; It was the glance that spoke a soul All fearless in its purity ; It was the sunny smile that drew, Where'er it fell on this world's tears, Bright colors out, whose rainbow hue ' Gave promise of less troubled years. MRS. CONYGHAM, New Monthly Magazine. Lat. 2 N.," Logan," May 16, 1834 ; " a glazed sea beneath a brazen sky." Omitted from its proper place among the ' ' Scrap Book " poems. FEBRUARY 23, 1883. Now, dear old friend of many years, Brave heart so true and tender, Draw closer up, here 's festive cheer, This is our little " bender." We 've turned our backs on household things, Our worser halves deserted ; And, spreading our " swamp angel " wings, Away to you have flirted. TO - . 659 Poor lonesome , in our stead, Fries our domestic fishes ; While puts the chicks to bed, And washes up the dishes ! Let 's give our carking cares a rest : Our thoughts shall only treasure Most loving wishes for our guest, And in a heaping measure. We know the emblems time hangs out, To catch the eye unwary, Gray hairs, a feebler gait no doubt, And other ills to vary. But does he ken the spirit's age, Of which the signs are plenty ? He labels " seventy " on the cage ; We know the inmate 's twenty. Dear comrade, wear these flowers for us : May their sweet breath enchant thee ! Now let us take the omnibus, And go to " lolanthe." By our Poet Laureate, W. LLOYD GARRISON, JR. University Press: John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. IIP m 000 674 355 3 I 1 .;'.. ;.o I "