UC-NRLF C E bflM bTl vV?-> r )'■ \.„ ■"r^^ .<^ % vl ..c>^ ^-A-^^^ ^]$im? *' ' k jCj/ / >^ fc:. •#f;Y''^l?Tl W >• t^. n '<^ ■"i-'r •!*•'■ wfld^ilill!!::.ll^ilKi»'^'::'iig^Takffliij^a^'■Jl!!:.Jli ii ... . . ^ TImB ilijil » Iplll n i H M |p ft fi Wll -n. r: .^ *_ "»'''«iP W'ililMiJli'iaiiZllikSi'Sil! THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSETY OF CALIFORNIA GIFT OF George C« Linton ypi 'M/4. ■^ *3R' 5??^ > y r .l''iB^3«^ 5|fi> t'i» i* A' r -^ , s t**!/*^ w: V"^' 7 r y y r^ -^ 0. 1 .^ y/ytyiyU^ -%- s ^ ) - 1^ a rk Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/crownjewelsorgemOOnoYtrich T!E ^ A ^ ROWN JEWELS ill GEMS OF LITERATURE m ART AND MUSIC BEING CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS AND MUSICAL PRODUCTIONS OF THE MOST CELEBRATED AUTHORS, FROM THE EARLIEST TIMES : COMPRISING GEMS FOR THE HOME CIRCLE; NARRATIVES, BALLADS, SONGS; POEMS OF FRIEND- SHIP AND LOVE; BRILLIANT DESCRIPTIONS OF THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE AND RURAL LIFE ; LYRICS OF HEROISM, ADVENTURE AND PATRIOTISM ; JEWELS OF SENTIMENT; CHOICE SELECTIONS FROM RELIGIOUS LITERATURE, SORROW AND ADVERSITY, CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH; DESCRIPTIONS OF PERSONS, PLACES AND HISTORIC EVENTS; MASTERPIECES OF DRAMATIC LITERATURE; POETICAL ROMANCE; WIT, HUMOR, ETC. INCLUDING A BIOGRAPHY OF THE AUTHORS. THE WHOLE FORMING COMPILED BY HENRY DAVENPORT NORTHROP, D. D.. AUTHOR OF MARVELOUS WONDERS OF THE WHOLE WORLD," " EARTH, SEA AND SKY," Etc., Etc. EMBELLISHED WITH NUMEROUS SUPERB STEEL-PLATE ENGRAVINGS. MINNEAPOLIS, MINN.: NORTHWESTERN PUBLISHING CO., 400 THIRD STREET, SOUTH. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1887, by J. K. JONES. In the OflSce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, by J. R. JONES, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C. 11^ i INTRODUCTION. "Crown Jewels" has been pronounced the most captivating title ever given to any book, and this title is in keeping with the Jewels of Thought, Feeling and Sen- timent, which sparkle on every page. This very attractive and valuable work em- braces all that is of the greatest interest in Poetry, Prose, Art and Song. It covers the whole field of literature in all languages from the earliest times. Those Gems which have fascinated the world with their beauty are here gath- ered into one magnificent cluster. The most brilliant Authors of every age, in every department of literature, shine resplendent in one marvelous galaxy. The book is a popular educator, a vast treasur)-- of the noblest thoughts and sentiments, and its Jewels should sparkle in every home throughout the land. As Crown Jewels is pre-eminently a home book, it is appropriate that its first department should be entitled the Home Circle. Here, gathered into one rich and beautiful bouquet, are fascinating descriptions of the pleasures of home life. "The Cotter's Saturday Night," by Robert Burns; Daniel Webster's description of the "Old Log Cabin ; " the song of the "Merry Christmas Time," by Sir Wal- ter Scott, and the "Old Familiar Faces," by Charles Lamb, are but specimens of the captivating productions which embellish this part of the book. The next department is Narratives and Ballads. There are songs that have touched the hearts of whole nations. Every phase of human life has been pictured in words and rhythms that entrance the reader. This part of the work may be described as stories told in verse — such as "The Village Blacksmith," by Long- fellow; "Bingen on the Rhine," by Mrs. Norton; and the "Sands of Dee," by Charles Kingsley. The narrative portion of the work contains everything of special interest stored in ancient or modern literature. Under the title of Love and Friendship is a vast collection of heart-poems. It is impossible, for want of space, to mention even the names of these beautiful gems. Here are the finest things written by Moore, Byron, Goldsmith, Shake- speare, Wordsworth, Ingelow, Tennyson, and a host of others. The great love passion — its joys, its pathos, its hopes, its disappointments, its all-controlling power — throbs in every line. We come next to the Beauties of Nature — which is the native field of poetry. The reader, looking with the eyes of the poet, is spell-bound amidst the beauties of creation. He beholds landscapes of marvelous loveliness; and gazes up at the midnight heavens "where blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels." With Thomson he beholds the magnificent panorama of the seasons ; with o 09 Lowell he breathes the sweet air of leafy June, when "heaven tries the earth if it be in tune." Birds and fountains sing to him, and the universe is clothed with new life. The next part, entided Heroism and Adventure, is remarkably spirited and attractive. Narratives in both prose and poetry, excite to the highest pitch the reader's admiration for the heroic and give this part of Crown Jewels an absorbing interest. "The Heart of the Bruce," "The Draw-Bridge Keeper," "The Fate of Vir- ginia," by Lord Macaulay, "Jim Bludso," and many other heroic adventures, make die most daring creations of romance seem tame and powerless in comparison. Sea Pictures comprise the most vivid descriptions of the sea ever gathered into one volume. The jolly tar who braves the dangers of the great deep, the treasures of coral and pearl hidden beneath the waves, the light-house that guides the weary mariner, the awful grandeur of the ocean — these and many other themes, treated by the most brilliant authors, render Sea Pictures peculiarly fascinating. Under the title of Patriotism and Freedom the patriotic songs and epics which have aroused nations and helped to gain victories are collected. Following these stirring appeals to the patriotic emotions is an unrivaled col- lection sf the world's best thoughts, classified under Sentiment and Reflection. Here are the famous "Elegy" of Gray; Longfellow's "Psalm of Life"; "Evening Bells," by Moore ; "The Last Leaf," by Holmes; the song of the "Irish Famine;" the "Wants of Man," by John Quincy Adams; Poe's mystic "Raven," etc., etc. Ballads of Labor and Reform present a fine collection of songs and poems peculiarly appropriate to the times. Here labor is dignified, and its magnificent achievements celebrated. Hood's "Song of the Shirt," and Charles Mackay's "Good Time Coming," are specimens of the numerous beautiful and touching productions. The next part of Crown Jewels treats of Rural Life. Here are exquisite pic- tures of life in the country, such as the "Harvest Song," by Eliza Cook ; "The Farmer's Wife," by Paul Hayne; "The Horseback Ride," by Grace Greenwood; "On the Banks of the Tennessee," by W. D. Gallagher;" the reader follows the "Ploughman," and "Mowers;" he rambles away with the "Angler" and "Bare- foot Boy," and returns to enjoy the hospitality of the " Busy Housewife." A number of exquisite productions are classified under the title of Sorrow and Adversity. Here Dickens describes the " Last Hours of Little Paul Dom- bey ; " Charles Lewis tells " Bijah's Story;" Mrs. Stowe contributes a beautiful selection entitled " Only a Year ; " Tom Hood with his " Bridge of Sighs " makes the breast heave and the lip quiver. The next department comprises Persons and Places. The great authors, ex- plorers, heroes, statesmen, orators, patriots, and painters of ancient and modern times are immortalized. Classic Athens ; sacred Jerusalem ; the golden Orient ; sunny Italy ; Thebes, with her hundred gates ; Naples, whose every adjacent cliff "flings on the clear wave some image of delight;" the Isles of Greece, "where burning Sappho loved and sung ; " Russia's village scenes and Scotland's High- lands and old abbeys, are all commemorated in a manner that entrances the reader. Then follow selections relating to Religious Life. In this department alone are nearly one hundred gems, each with its own peculiar beauty and attraction, by Pope, Cowper, Mrs. Sigourney, the Cary sisters, Newman, Ella Wheeler, and scores of others. The songs which have been sung clear round the globe, which have cheered the desponding, and brought peace to the troubled, are here set in attractive array. Under the title of Childhood and Youth is an admirable collection of pieces interesting to young persons. Children and young people will read something, and only the best reading matter should be placed in their hands. In Dramatic Selections are the masterpieces of the world's great dramatists. The sublime creations of Shakespeare, Coleridge, Knowles, Addison, Joanna Bai- lie, and others, and the sparkling effusions of Sheridan, Jerrold, and their compeers, are here presented for the instruction and delight of every reader. Poetical Curiosities and Humorous Readings make up an extensive collection of quaint, curious and witty productions which are greatly relished by all readers. Irish wit, Scotch wat, German wit, Yankee wit, -and every other kind of wit are given a place, and the great humorists, who have made the world healthier and better by making it laugh, here indulge in their favorite pastime. By no possible arrangement could a greater variety of thoughts and topics be presented, while the Gems, both those that are new and those that are old favorites, are the finest, and most captivating in the literature of all ages. In addition to the myriad of attractive features already named, the work is a Treasury of the Choicest Music. A great variety of songs and popular pieces by authors whose fame fills the earth, affords a source of entertainment for the home. These have been selected with great care, and charm all lovers of music. The aim has been to insert only the finest melodies, the sweetest songs that musical genius has produced. ^^ This valuable work is elegantly embellished with a Galaxy of the most Beautiful Steel Plate Engravings, by artists of world-wide renown. The most entrancing scenes are reproduced in these charming pages, forming a magnificent picture gallery. Crown Jewels is a work of Art, and each of its many superb illustrations is a beauty and a delight. The book contains a Biographical Dictionary, giving in concise form those facts concerning the most renowned authors which the reading public desire to know. This is a very valuble feature of the book. 3 PtLblisher's Announcement. 'HIS magnificent work, which comprises many books in one volume, is a vast treasury of the Choicest Gems of English Literature, in prose and poetry. It contains those resplendent jewels of thought, feeling and sentiment which fascinate, instruct and entertain the reader. The following are only a few of the many reasons why Crown Jewels is more complete than any other work : First. The elegant appearance of the work recommends it. It is indeed a beautiful book. Second. The selections possess the very highest merit, and are the best in every department of literature. They are admirably suited to every home and to every class of readers. Third. No work so comprehensive and with such great variety of selections was ever before published. It contains more than looo gems from 500 of the world's most famous authors. Fourth. The great masterpieces and favorite productions, which all persons desire to possess, are gathered into this superb volume. Fifth. It contains the latest and most fascinating pieces of the popular writers of the day. Sixth. The arrangement is admirable. There are eighteen departments, thus affording a whole library of the choicest literature in one volume. Seventh. There is something charming, instructive and entertaining for old and young alike. Eighth. The book is a treasury of the most captivating music, containing a large collection of the finest melodies and sweetest songs. Ninth. The work is furnished with a Biographical Dictionary of the authors. Tenth. It is embellished with a galaxy of magnificent Steel-Plate Engravings, which are alone worth the whole cost of the book. It is a superb work of art. Eleventh. The Prospectus is very attractive, and shows at a glance the great superiority of this book over other similar works that are illustrated with cheap wood-cuts. Twelfth. The price for such a rare- volume is very low, and brings it within the reach of all. POETICSL CONTENTS. THE HOME CIRCLE. Page. Love of Home James Montgomery 17 Sweet Home John Howard Payne 17 Heaven on Earth Thomas Hood 17 If Thou Wert by My Side, My Love Reginald Heber 17 Associations of Home Walter Conder 18 The Cotter's Saturday Night Robert Burns 18 The Happiest Spot Oliver Goldsmith 19 Friendliness of a Fire Mary Howitt 19 Love Lightens Labor 20 Rock Me to Sleep Elizabeth Akers Allen 20 Nobody's Child Phila A. Case 20 Kisses Elizabeth Akers Allen 21 The Old House Louise Chandler Moulton 21 The Dearest Spot of Earth is Home W. T. Wrighlon 21 Which Shall It Be.. 22 Learning to Pray Mary E. Dodge 22 The House in the Meadow Louise Chandler Moulton 23 Conduct at Home Hannah More 23 My Old Kentucky Yionx^... Stephen Collins Foster 24 The Worn Wedding Ring... William Cox Bennett 24 Filial Love Lord Byron 24 John Anderson, My Jo Robert Burns 25 O, Lay Thy Hand in Mine, Ti^zs... Gerald Massey 25 Th e Absent Ones Charles M. Dickinson 25 A Picture Charles Gamage Easttnan 26 The Poet's Song to His Wife Bryan Waller Procter [Barry Cornwall) 26 Ode to Solitude Alexander Pope 26 My Wife's a Winsome, Wee Thing. ..Robert Burns 26 The Reconciliation Alfred Tennyson 26 I Knew by the Smoke That So Gracefully Curled Thomas Moore 27 Adam to Eve .John Milton 27 A Wish Saynuel Rogers 27 The Happy Man .James Thompson 28 My Mother's Picture William Cowper 28 Christmas Time Sir Walter Scott 28 The Old Hearthstone Sarah J. Hale 29 The Old Folks at Home.. ..Stephen Collins Foster 29 Homeward Bound Nathaniel P. Willis 29 I Remember, I Remember Thomas Hood 30 The Patter of Little Feet 30 The Fireside Nathaniel Cotton 30 The Happy Marriage Edward Moore 31 Be Kind 31 The Old Familiar Faces Charles Lamb 31 Page. The Wife Elizabeth Oakes Smith 32 Household Treasures Thomas Greet 32 A Home in the Heart Eliza Cook 32 Farmer Gray's Photograph 32 The Graves of a Household Felicia Dorothea Hemans 33 The Old Arm-Chair Eliza Cook 33 The Stream of Life 34 Wife, Children, and Friends William Robert Spencer 34 Home Voices ..„ 34 My Little Wife ^ 35 Good Bye, Old House Millie C. Potneroy 35 A Mother's Influence Arthur Henry Hallam 35 The Wife to Her Husband 36 Thanksgiving Day Thomas Berry Smith 36 The Three Dearest Words Mary J. Muckle 36 NARRATIVES AND BALLADS Vision of Belshazzar Lord Byron 37 The Village Blacksmith ITenry Wadsworth I^ongfellow V] Young Lochinvar Sir Walter Scott 38 The Light of Other Days Thomas Moore 38 Auld Lang Syne Robert Burns 39 The Nantucket Skipper .Jam.es Thomas Fields 39 On the Funeral of Charles I. . IVilliam Lisle Bowles 39 The Painter Who Pleased Nobody and Every- body .John Gay 40 Little Nell's Funeral Charles Dickens 40 Comin' Through the Rye 41 The Vagabonds.... .John T. Trowbridge 41 Over the Hill to the Poor house. Will M. Carleton 42 Song Thomas Hood 42 In the Summer Twilight Harriet Prescott Spofford 43 Lord Ullin's Daughter Thomas Campbell 44 The Field of Waterloo Lord Byron 44 The Pebble and the Acorn Hannah F. Gould 45 The Shepherd Boy Letitia E. Landon 45 Maud Muller .John G. U'Tiitlier 46 Bingen on the Rhine... Caroline Elizabeth Norton 47 The Sands of Dee Charles ICingsiey 48 A Name in the Sand Hannah F. Gould 48 Over the Hills from the Poor-house May Mignonette 48 Mona's Waters 49 The Wreck of the Hesperus Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 50 After Blenheim Robert Southey 51 6 CONTENTS. Page. Alonzo the Brave and the Fair Imogene Mattheiv Gregory Lewis 52 Old Grimes Albert G. Greene 53 The Sleeping Sentinel. ..Fra«m De Hces Janvier 53 The Pied Piper of Hamehn Robert Browning 55 How They Brought the Good News From Ghent to Aix Robert Browtiing 55 Curfew Must Not Ring To-night Rose Hartwick Thorpe 58 The Miser Who Lost His Treasure 59 The Death of Napoleon Isaac McLellan 59 Faithless Nelly Gray Thomas Hood 60 The Miser's Will George Birdseye 60 The Tale of a Tramp 61 Little Golden-Hair Will M. Carleton 61 The Wonderful "One Hoss Shay" 62 Oliver Wendell Holmes. 62 The Drummer-Boy's Burial 63 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Thou'rt All the World to Me Gerald Massey 65 The Queen William Cox Beitneit 65 The Vale of Avoca Thomas Moore 65 Annabel Lee Edgar Allen Poe 66 To Mary in Heaven Robert Burns 66 The Sailor's Farewell Edgar Thompson 66 Apostrophe to Love Robert Pollok 67 The Sailor's Return Edward Thompson 67 Yes or No Elizabeth Barrett B owning 67 The Heart's Devotion Edward Bulwer Lytton 67 Not Ours the Vows Bernard Barton 67 Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed Richard Brinsley Sheridan 68 The Minstrel's Song in Ella... Thomas Chattcrton 68 The Hare-Bell Charles Swain 68 Forsaken Robert Browning' 69 The Lover's Departure Sir Walter Scott 60 The Smack in School W. P. Palmer 70 Fly to the Desert, Fly with Me Thomas Moore 70 The Quiver Philip James Bailey 70 Othello's Defence William Shakespeare 70 Friendship Robert Blair 71 Euphrosyne Matthew Arnold 71 They Sin Who Tell Us Love Can Die " Robert Southey 72 To His Wife Thomas Haynes Bayley 72 Lament of the trish Emigrant Helen Selina Sheridan 72 The Fickleness of Phyllis William Shensto7ie 73 Love's Young Dream Thomas Moore 73 Maid of Athens Lord Byron 73 First Love's Recollections ,...John Clare 73 Love and Friendship William Leggett 74 The Heavenly Flame Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 74 Bill Mason's Bride F. Bret Harte 74 Bedouin Song Bayard Taylor 74 'Tis the Last Rose of Summer Thotnas Moore 75 Page. Gentlest Girl Dean Alford 75 The Parting Kiss Robert Dodsley 75 No Heart Without its Mate Maria Brooks 75 On an Old Wedding-Ring George Washington Doane 76 Edwin and Angelina Oliver Goldsmith 76 All for Love Lord Byron 78 Love Will Find out the Way 78 We Have Been Friends Together Caroline Elizabeth Norton 78 Sally in Our Alley Henry Carey 78 Amynta .SiV Gilbert Elliott 79 Ben Bolt Thomas Dunn English 79 Lucy William Wordsworth 79 Pearly Tears Richard Henry Stoddard 79 The Time of Roses Thomas Hood 80 Love's Philosophy Percy Bysshe Shelley 80 No Jewelled Beauty Is My Love 80 The Low-Backed Car Samuel Lover 81 If I Had Known 81 When Sparrows Build Jean Ingelow 81 Severed Friendship Samuel Taylor Coleridge 82 Rory O'More Samuel Lover 82 The Pledge of Love 82 A Milkmaid's Song Sydney Dobell 83 Fetching Water from the Well 83 Kitty of Coleraine 84 Sweet Meeting of Desires CoveJitry Palmare 84 The Lover's Coming Jean Ingelow 8; Summer Days 84 Meeting Robert Browning 85 Forget Thee? John Moultrie 85 Genevieve Samuel Taylor Coleridge 86 The Courtin' Jatnes Russell Lowell 87 Constancy Allan Ramsay 87 Gone Before ....Phoebe Gary 88 Happy Matches Isaac Watts 88 The Dead Friend Alfred Tennyson 89 A Benediction .John Greenlief Wliittier 89 To a friend Ralph Wuldo Emerson 89 Parted Friends James Montgomery 90 Anne Hathaway 90 The Widow's Wooer Emma C. Embury 90 On the Death of a Friend Fitz Greene Halleck 91 The Memory of the Heart Daniel Webster 91 Robin Adair Lady Caroline Keppel 91 The Maid's Remonstrance Thomas Campbell 91 No Time Like the Old Time 92 The Maiden Sat at Her Busy Wheel Emma C. Embury 92 Afton Water Robert Bums 92 The Wakeful Heart Dennar Stewart 93 Minnie Adair Lyman Goodman 93 Smile and Never Heed Me Charles Swain 93 The Lass of Richmond Hill .James Upton 93 United Lives Thomas Bailey Aldrich 93 Oh, Tell Me notof Lofty Fate... £';«;«a C. Embury 94 Somebody ~ 94 CON i ENTS. Page. Though Lest to Sight to Memory Dear Thomas Moore 94 Evening Song Sidney Lanier 94 A Maiden's Ideal of a Husband Henry Carey 94 New Loveliness Edward Pollock 95 Sweet and Low Alfred Tennyson 95 To a Sister Edward Everett 95 The Ring's Motto 95 To Althea from Prison Richard Lovelace 96 .The Day is Fixed Henry Davenport 96 The Shepherd's Lament William Hamilton 96 Lady Barbara Alexander Smith 97 Atalanta's Race William Morris 97 Place Your Hand in Mine, Wife Frederick Langbridge 99 The Little Milliner Robert Buchanan 99 -The Exchange Samuel Taylor Coleridge loi The Miller's Daughter Alfred Tentiy^ati 101 A Love Knot Nora Perry 102 A Spinster's Stint Alice Cary 102 O, Do Not Wanton with Those Eyes..^^« Jonson 102 A Nymph's Reply Sir Walter Raleigh 102 Blest as the Immortal Gods Ambrose Phillips 103 The Whistle Robert Story 103 A Maiden wilh a Milking-Pail Jean Ingelow 103 The Eve of St. Agnes John Keats 104 Farewell to His Wife Lord Byron 107 Black-Eyed Susan John Ga^ 108 The Bloom was on the Alder, and the Tassel on the Corn Don Piatt 109 Lament Sir Walter Scott 109 We parted in Silence Julia Crawford 109 Love and Time .Denis Florence MacCarthy no Hero toLeander Alfred Tennyson iii Farewell ! but Whenever Thomas Moore in BEAUTIES OF NATURE. The Greenwood Williatn Lisle Bowles 1 1 2 Thanatopsis Williatn Cullen Bryant 112 Ode on the Spring Thomas Gray 113 The Late Spring Louise Chandler Moulton 113 God's First Temples William Cullen Bryant 113 In June Nora Perry 114 May Eve. Or Kate of Aberdeen John Cunningham 1 14 March William Cullen Bryant 114 They Come ! The Merry Summer Months William Motherwell 115 April Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 115 The Vernal Season Anna L. Barbauld 116 The Water ! The Water !... William Motherwell 1 16 May James G. Percival 116 The Summer Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 117 The Midnight Wind William Motherwell 117 Wild Flowers Robert Nicoll 117 To the Dandelion James Russell Lowell 117 The Ivy Green Charles Dickens 118 To a Daisy James Montgomery 118 Page. The Changing World Charles of Orleans 118 On a Sprig of Heath Marian Grant 119 Willow Song Felicia Dorothea Hemans 119 The Wandering V^'m6...Felicia Dorothea Hemans 119 The Rose Isaac Watts 119 Chorus of Flowers Leigh Hunt 119 May Day John Wolcot 120 To the Bramble Flower Ebenezer Elliott 120 A Day in June James Russell Lowell 120 The Primeval Forest Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 120 To an Eaily Primrose ..Henry Kirke White 121 The Lily Mary Tighe 121 The Brave Old Oak... /j'(?«;^' Fothcrgill Chorlcy 121 The Cloud Percy Bysshe Shelley 122 Come to These Scenes of Peace William, Lisle Bowles 122 Song of the Summer Winds George Darley 122 Daffodils ...William Wordsworth 123 Hymn to the Flowers Horace Smith 123 American Skies William Cullen Bryant 123 Flowers — The Gems of Nature. Thomas Campbell 124 Recollections of English Scenery.. Charlotte Smith 1 24 The Grape- Vine Swing.. William Gilmore Simms 124 My Heart Leaps Up William Wordsworth 124 The Close of Spring Charlotte Smith 125 The Wood-Nymph 125 Nature's Chain «. Alexander Pope 125 The Little Beach Bird Richard Henry Dana 125 The Swallow Charlotte Smith 125 Robert of Lincoln William Cullen Bryant 126 May to April Philip Frenau 126 Song of Wood-Nymphs Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 126 Answer to a Child's Question Samuel Taylor Coleridge 121 The BoboHnk Thomas Hill 127 The Katydid Oliver Wendell Holmes 127 The Departure of the Nightingale Charlotte Smith 127 Address to the Butterfly Samuel Rogers 127 The Redbreast John Bampfylde 127 The Skylark .James Hogg 128 The Cuckoo William, Wordsworth 128 Night Birds Alonzo Lewis 128 The Mocking Bird Calling Her Mate ^^ Walt Whitman /128 The Stormy Petrel Ssj The Thrush's Nest .John Clare 129 To a Waterfowl William Cullen Bryant 129 The Barn Owl Samuel Butler 129 The Squirrel William Cowper 129 To the Cuckoo .John I^ogan 130 The Belfry Pigeon Nathaniel Parker Willis 130 The Eagle .James G. Percival 130 The Lion's Ride Ferdinand Freiligrath 131 Lambs at Play Robert Bloomfield 131 A Song in the Grove .James Thompson 132 CONTENTS. Page. Summer Longings Denis Florence MacCarthy 132 On a Goldfinch William Cowper 132 The Robin Harrison Weir 132 The Blood Horse Bryan Mealier Procter {Barry Cornwall) 133 September Rain Thomas Mc Keller 133 No Thomas Hood 133 Autumn Thomas Hood 134 Woods in Winter. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 134 September George Arnold 134 Winter \ Friedrich W. Krummacher 134 The Little Beach Bird ..Richard Henry Dana 135 The Death of the Flowers.. William Cullen Bryant 135 November. Hartley Coleridge 135 What the Winds Bring ' Edmund Clarence Stedman 135 The Snowdrop Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 136 The Snow Storm Ralph Waldo Emerson 136 It Snows Sarah Josepha Hale 136 The Crickets Harriet McEwen Kimball 137 Snow-Flakes Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 137 The Sleigh Ride Edmund Clarence Stedman 138 Christmas in the Woods Harrison Weir 138 Morning .John Cunninghatn 138 A Calm Eve George Croly 138 Celestial Light .John Milton 139 The Two April Mornings... William Wordsworth 139 Day is Dying Marian Evans Lewes Cross { George Eliot) 139 Advancing Morn .John Bampfylde 140 A Winter Landscape .James Thotnpson 140 A Hymn to the Seasons .James Thompson 140 The Advent of Evening Alfred B. Street 141 Moonrise Ernest Jones 141 Dover Cliff. William. Shakespeare 141 A Lowering Eve Geoige Croly 142 The Tempestuous Evening .John Scott 142 The Moon Was A-Waning .James Hogg 142 Night Edward Young 142 To a Star Lucretia Maria Davidson 143 The Night Flowering Cereus 143 On Re crossing the Rocky Mountains John C. Fremont 143 The Evening Star .John Leyden 144 The Scenes of Boyhood .John Logan 144 The Shepherd-Swain .James Beattie 144 Alpine Heights Friederich W. Krummacher 145 To a Comet .James Hogg 145 The Pumpkin .John Grecnleaf Whittier 145 To Seneca Lake .James Gates Percival 146 The Cataract of Lodore Robert Southey 146 The Rhine Lord Byron 147 Song of the River Charles Kingsley 147 Tweedside IVilliam Crawford 148 Niagara '. Lydia H. Sigoumey 148 The Fountain .James Russell Lowell 148 The Fall of Niagara .John G. C. Brainard 149 Page. Invocation to Rain in Summer William Cox- Bennett 149 The Brook-Side Lord Houghton 149 Ode to Leven Water T. George Smollett 149 The Rainbow William Wordsworth 150 Song of the Brook Alfred Tennyson 150 Little Streams Mary Howitt 150 The Cataract and the Streamlet...^^r«a:rrf Barton 151 Showers in Spring .James Thompson 151 The Angler's Song Isaac McLellan 151 Hymn of Nature William. B. Peabody 152 Signs of Rain Edward Jenner 153 Before the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich 153 After the Rain Thomas Bailey Aldrich 153 The Angler's Wish Izaak Walton 153 Apostrophe to the Ocean Lord Byron 153 Sunset at Norham Castle Sir Walter Scott 154 The Iceberg .J. O. Rockwell 154 Mount Washington ; The Loftiest Peak of the White Mountains Grenville Mellen 155 Palestine Thomas Moore 155 The Northern Lights..-ff(f«;a);«« />-a«^/z« Taylor 155 The Supernatural .Jam.es Thompson 155 Hymn on Solitude .James Thompson 156 To a Wild Deer John Wilson 156 The Sierras .Joaquin Miller 156 The Sea-Breeze and the Scarf. Ella Wheeler ll'ilcox 157 Under the Leaves Albert Lcighton 15? To the Skylark Percy Bysshe Shelley 157 When the Hounds of Spring Algernon Charles Sivinburne 158 Remonstrance with the Snails 159 Almond Blossoms Edwin Arnold 159 The Grasshopper and Cricket .John Keats 160 The Planting of the Apple Tree William. Cullen Bryant 160 The Maize William W. Fosdick 160 Winter Pictures .James Russell Lowell '161 The Midnight Ocean .John Wilson 162 Spring in the South Henry Nimrod 163 Three Summer Studies .James Warren Hope 163 A Snow Storm Charles Gamage Eastman 163 View from the Euganean Hills, North Italy Percy Bysshe Shelley 164 The Winged Worshippers Charles Sprague 166 O Winter ! Wilt Thou Never Go f.. ...David Gray 166 The Heath Cock .Joanna Baillie 166 Moonlight on the Prairie Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 167 God Everywhere in Nature Carlos Wilcox 167 HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. Lost in the Snow 168 John Maynard Horatio Alger, Jr. 168 The Diverting History of John Gilpin 169 William Cowper 169 Fall of Tecumseh 17a CONTENTS. Page. The Engineer's Story 172 The Main Truck: or, A Leap for Life C C. Colton 173 The Fate of Virginia Lord Macaulay 173 Johnny Bartholomew Thomas Dunn English 175 The French Army Retreating from Moscow George Croly 175 Jim Bludso .John Hay 176 Death of Gaudentis 177 The Battle of Ivry Lord Macaulay 177 The Draw- Bridge Keeper Henry Abbey 178 On Board the Cumberland, March 7, 1862 George H Boker 179 The Great Discovery FredeiHc Schiller j8i Sheridan's Ride Thomas Buchanan Read 181 Nerval .John Home 182 The Ride of Paul Venarez 182 The Relief of Lucknow Robert T. S. Lowell 183 By tlie Alma River , Dinah Maria Mulock Craik 184 The Trooper's Death R. IV. Raymojid 184 Balaklava Alexa^ider Beaufort Meek 185 Cavalry Song Edmund Clarence Stedman 185 The Nobleman and the Pensioner Charles T. Brooks 186 My Wife and Child Henry R. Jackson 186 Monterey Charles Fenno Hoffman 187 The Heart of the Bruce William. Edmundstone Aytoun 187 Hudibras' Sword and Dagger Samuel Butler 189 Flodden Field Sir Walter Scott 190 Naseby Lord Macaulay 192 Bannockburn Robert Bums 193 Battl e of the Baltic Thmnas Campbell 1 94 A Court Lady Elizabeth Barrett Browning 194 Battle of Wyoming and Death of Gertrude Thomas Campbell 195 Cadyow Castle Sir Walter Scott 197 James Fitz-James and Ellen Sir Walter Scott 199 The Sea Cave... Lord Byron 201 Bristowe Tragedy ; or, the Death of Sir Charles Bawdin Thomas Chatterton 201 The Forging of the Anchor Samuel Ferguson 205 The Battle of Alexandria James Montgomery 206 The Ballad of Agincourt Michael Drayton 207 Ye Mariners of Engl md Thomas Campbell 208 The Unreturning Brave Lord Byron 20S A'fred the Harper .John Sterling 209 The Wild Huntsman Sir Walter Scott 210 The Old Sergeant Forceythe Willson 212 Wreck of the "Grace of Sutherland" Jean Lngelow 214 George Nidiver 215 SEA PICTURES. Pace How's My Boy? Sydney Dobell 216 All's Well Thomas Dibdin 216 The Sea-Bird's Song .John G. C. Brainard 216 The Mariner's Dream William Dimond 217 The Treasures of the Deep „ Felicia Dorothea Hemans 217 To Certain Golden Fishes Hartley Coleridge 218 Our Boat to the Waves j.. William Ellery Channing 218 The Sea Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 218 The Light-House Thomas Moore 219 A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea Allan Cunningham 219 The Minute-Gun R. S. Sharpe 219 Twilight at Saa Amelia B. Welby 219 Ocean Robert Follok 219 The Tempest James Thomas Fields 220 The Bay of Biscay Andrew Cherry 220 The Sea-Limits Dante Gabriel Rosetti 220 On the Beach IVilliam Wiiitehead 222 By the Sea WUliam Wordsworth 222 On the Loss of "The Royal George" William Cowper 222 The Shipwreck IVilliam Falconer 233 The Sailor's Consolation William Pitt 223 The Disappointed Lover Algernon Charles Swinburne 223 The Long Voyage Sam Slick, Jr. 224 Dover Beach Mattliew Arnold 224 Address to the Ocean Bryan Waller Procter {Barry Cornwall) 224 The Sea-Shore William Wordsworth 225 The Co-al Grove .James Gates Percival 225 The Inchcape Rock Robert Southey 225 ToSea! Thomas Lovell Beddoes 226 Song of the Emigrants in Bermuda Andrew Marvell 226 Stanzas on thi S^.i Bernard Barton 226 Saa-Weed Cornelius George Fenner 226 The Tar for All Weathers Charles Dibdin 227 The "Atlantic" Benjamin F. Taylor 227 The Shipwrecked Sailors James Montgomery 228 The Beacon Light Julia Pardoe 228 At Sea .John Townseni Trowbridge 229 Rimeof the Ancient Mariner Samuel Taylor Coleridge 229 Poor Jack : Charles Dibdin 235 Napoleon and the British Sailor Thomas Campbell 235 Sunrise atSea Epes Sargent 236 The Storm George Alexander Stevens 236 The Sea in Calm and Storm George Crabbe 237 A Life on the Ocean Wave Epes Sargent 237 Night at Sea ...Letitia Elizabeth London 238 Hilda, Spinning 239 10 CONTENTS. Page. The Chambered Nautilus Oliver Wetidell Holmes 239 The Dying Sailor George Crabbe 240 PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. The American Flag Joseph Rodman Drake 241 The Star-Spangled Banner; Francis S. Key 241 Freedom Irrepressible Sarah Jane Lippincott {Grace Greenwood) 241 Independence Bell, July 4, 1776 - 242 Love of Country Sir Walter Scott 243 Hail, Columbia .Joseph Hopkinson 243 General Warren's Address .Joh7i Pierpont 244 The People's Song of Peace Joaquin Miller 244 On Laying the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill Monument John Pierpont 244 The Woods of Tennessee 244 Barbara Frietchie John Greenleaf Whittier 245 The Marseillaise Rougetde Lisle 245 An Incident of the French Camp Robert Browning 246 Rule Britannia James Thomson 246 TheBlueand the Gray F. M. Finch 247 Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers Felicia Dorothea Heinans 248 Battle Hymn of the Republic... y«/w Ward Howe 249 The Drummer Boy 249 Scotland John Ley den 250 Arnold Winkelried James Montgomery 250 Die Wacht Am Rhein (The Watch on the Rhine) 250 The Patriot's Bride Sir CharlesGavan Duffy 251 The Pilgrims Lydia Huntley Sigourney 251 The Picket Guard Ethelin Elioi Beers 252 The Bivouac of the Dead Theodore O' Hara 252 SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. The Creole Lover's Song 254 Elegy Written in a Country Church- Yard Thomas Gray 254 Expectation Gerald Massey 255 APsalmof Life... //(?«ry Wadsworth Longfellow 256 Those Evening Bells Thotnas Moore 256 The Magical Isle 256 True Nobility Alfred Tennyson 256 A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever... yoy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet. An' each for other's welfare kindly spiers : The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet ; Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears ; The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years, Anticipation forward points the view. The mother, wi' her needle and her shears. Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new ; The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. Their master's an' their mistress's command, The younkers a' are warned to obey ; And mind their labors wi' an eydent hand. And ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : "And, oh ! be sure to fear tlie Lord alway. And mind your duty, duly, mom and night ! Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray, Implore his counsel and assisting might : They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright !' ' But, hark I a rap comes gently to the door ; Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor, To do some errands, and convoy her hame. The wily mother sees the conscious flame Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek ; Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his name, While Jenny hafiiins is afraid to speak ; Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild worthless rake. Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben ; A strappan youth ; he takes the mother's eye ; BIythe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy, But, blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave ; The woman, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy W^hat makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave ; Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave. O happy love ! where love like this is found ! O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! I've paced much this weary, mortal round. And sage experience bids me this declare — "If Heav'n a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare, One cordial in this melancholy vale, 'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. Beneath the milk-white thorn tliat scents the ev'ning gale ! " But now the supper crowns their simple board. The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : The soupe their only hawkie does afford, That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood ; The dame brings forth in complimental mood. To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell, And aft he's prest, and aft he calls it gude ; The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell. The cheerful supper done, wi' serious face. They, round the ingle, form a circle wide ; The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace, The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside, His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare ; Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. He wales a portion with judicious care ; And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. They chant their artless notes in simple guise ; They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim ; Perhaps " Dundee's " wild warbling measures rise. Or plaintive " Martyrs," worthy of the name ; Or noble " Elgin " beats the heav'nward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame ; The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. THE HOME CIRCLE. 19 Tlie priest-like father reads the sacred page, How Abram was the friend of God on high ; Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage With Amalek's ungracious progeny ; Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire : Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry ; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme, How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed ; How He, who bore in Heaven the second name, Had not on earth whereon to lay his head : How his first followers and servants sped ; The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : Plow He, who lone in Patmos banished, Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand ; And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command. Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays : Hope ''springs exulting on triumphant wing," That thus they all shall meet in future days : There ever bask in uncreated rays. No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, Together hymning their Creator's praise, In such society, yet still more dear ; While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere. Compar'd with this, how poor religion's pride, In all the pomp of method, and of art, When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert. The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole ; But haply, in some cottage far apart. May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul ; And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; The youngling cottagers retire to rest : The parent-pair their secret homage pay. And proffer up to Heaven the warm request. That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best. For them and for their little ones provide ; But chiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside. From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad ; Princes and lords are but the breath of kings ; "An honest man's the noblest work of God : " And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, The cottage leaves the palace far behind ; What is a lordling's pomp ? a cumbrous load, Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, A virtuous populace may rise the while, And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd isle. O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart ; Who dar'd to nobly stem tyrannic pride, Or nobly die, the second glorious part, (The patriot's God, peculiarly Thou art, His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) O never, never Scotia's realm desert ; But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! Robert Burns. THE HAPPIEST SPOT. I UT where to find that happiest spot below. Who can direct, when all pretend to know ? The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own ; Extols the treasures of his stormy seas. And his long nights of revelry and ease : The naked negro, panting at the line. Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine. Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his gods for all the good they gave. Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best countrj', ever is at home. And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare, And estimate the blessings which they share. Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find An equal portion dealt to all mankind ; As different good, by art or nature given. To different nations makes their blessings even. Oliver Goldsmith. (3 FRIENDLINESS OF A FIRE. FIRE'S a good companionable friend, A comfortable friend, who meets your face With welcome glad, and makes the poorest shed As pleasant as a palace. Are you cold ? He warms you — weary? he refreshes you — Hungr}'? he doth prepare your food for you — Are you in darkness? he gives light to you — In a strange land? he wears a face that is Familiar from your childhood. Are you poor ? What matters it to him. He knows no difference Between an emperor and the poorest beggar ! Where is the friend, that bears the name of man. Will do as much for you ? Mary Howitt. 20 CROWN JEWELS. LOVE LIGHTENS LABOR, a GOOD wife rose from her bed one mom, And thought with a nervous dread Of the piles of clothes to be washed, and more Than a dozen mouths to be fed. There's the meals to get for the men in the field, And the children to fix away To school, and the milk to be skimmed and churned ; And all to be done this day. It had rained in the night, and all the wood Was wet as it could be ; There were puddings and pies to bake, besides A loaf of cake for tea. And the day was hot, and her aching head Throbbed wearily as she said, " If maidens but knew what good wives know, They would not be in haste to wed ! ' ' "Jennie, what do you think I told Ben Drowai? " Called the farmer from the well ; And a flush crept up to his bronztd brow, And his eyes half bashfully fell ; "It was this," he said, and coming near He smiled, and stooping down, Kissed her cheek — " 'twas this, that you were the best And the dearest wife in town ! " The farmer went back to the field, and the wife In a smiling, absent way Sang snatches of tender little songs She'd not sung for many a day. And the pain in her head was gone, and the clothes Were white as the foam of the sea ; Her bread was light, and her butter was sweet. And as golden as it could be. "Just think," the children all called in a breath, "Tom Wood has run off to sea ! "He wouldn't, I know, if he'd only had As happy a home as we." The night came down, and the good wife smiled To herself, as she softly said : " 'Tis so sweet to labor for those we love, — It's not strange that maids will wed ! " ROCK ME TO SLEEP. (ACKWARD, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for to-night ! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore ; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years ! I am so wearj" of toil and of tears, — Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, — Take them, and give me my childhood again ? I have grown weary of dust and decay, — Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away ; Weary of sowing for others to reap ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue. Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you 1 Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossom'd and faded, our faces between : Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I to-night for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Over my heart in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone ; No other worship abides and endures, — Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours : None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep ; — • Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; Let it drop over my forehead to-night, Shading my faint eyes away from the light ; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listen'd your lullaby song : Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood's years have been only a dream. Clasp'd to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; — Rock me to sleep, mother, — rock me to sleep ! Elizabeth Akers Allen. a I NOBODY'S CHILD. LONE in the dreary, pitiless street, With my torn old dress and bare cold feet, All day I've wandered to and fro, Hungry and shivering and nowhere to go ; The night's coming on in darkness and dread, And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head ; Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? Is it because I'm nobody's child ? Just over the way there's a flood of light. And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; Beautiful children, in robes so fair. Are caroling songs in rapture there. I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, Would pity a poor little beggar like me. THE HOME CIRCLE. 21 Wandering alone in the merciless street, Naked and shivering and nothing to eat. Oh ! what shall I do when the night comes down In its terrible blackness all over the town? Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky, On the cold hard pavements alone to die ? When the beautiful children their prayers have said, A.nd mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed. No dear mother ever upon me smiled — Why is it, I wonder, that I'm nobody's child ! No father, no mother, no sister, not one In all the world loves me ; e'en the little dogs run When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see. How everything shrinks irom a beggar like me 1 Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but, sometimes, when I lie Gazing far up in tlie dark blue sky, Watching for hours some large bright star, I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar. And a host of white-robed, nameless things, Come fluttering o'er me in gilded wings ; A hand that is strangely soft and fair Caresses gently my tangled hair, And a voice like the carol of some wild bird The sweetest voice that was ever heard — Calls me many a dear pet name, Till my heart and spirits are all aflame ; And tells me of such unbounded love, And bids me come up to their home above, And then, with such pitiful, sad surprise, They look at me with their sweet blue eyes, And it seems to me out of the dreary night, I am going up to the world of light. And away from the hunger and storms so wild — I am sure I shall then be somebody's child. Phila a. Case. THE OLD HOUSE. ' M standing by the window-sill. Where we have stood of yore ; The sycamore is waving still Its branches near the door ; And near me creeps the wild rose-vine On which our wreaths were hung, — Still round the porch its tendrils twine, As when we both were young. The little path that used to lead Down by the river shore Is overgrown with brier and weed — Not level as before. But there's no change upon the hill, From whence our' voices rung — The violets deck the summit still, As when we both were young. And yonder is the old oak-tree, Beneath whose spreading shade, When our young hearts were light and free, In innocence we played ; And over there the meadow gate On which our playmates swung, Still standing in its rustic state. As when we both were young. Louise Chandler Mollton. KISSES. 'HE kiss of friendship, kind and calm, May fall upon the brow l.ike balm; A deeper tenderness may speak In precious pledges on the cheek ; Thrice dear may be, when young lips meet. Love's dewy pressure, close and sweet; — But more than all the rest I prize The faithful lips that kiss my eyes. Smile, lady, smile, when courtly lips Touch reverently your finger-tips; Blush, happy maiden, when you feel The lips which press love's glowing seal; But as the slow years darklier roll. Grown wiser, the e.xperienced soul Will own as dearer far than they The lips which kiss the tears away ! Elizabeth Akers Allen. THE DEAREST SPOT OF EARTH 'S HOME. HE dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home ! The fairy land I long to see Is home, sweet home ! There, how charmed the sense of hearing ! There, where lov&^is so endearing I All the world is not so cheering As home, sweet home 1 The dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home ! The fairy land I long to see Is home, sweet home ! I've taught my heart the way to prize My home, sweet home ! I've learned to look with lovers' eyes On home, sweet home 1 There, where vows are truly plighted ! There, where hearts are so united ! All the world besides I've slighted For home, sweet home 1 • The dearest spot of earth to me Is home, sweet home I The fairy land I long to see Is home, sweet home I W. T. Wrighto: 22 CROWN JEWELS. WHICH SHALL IT BE? The following poem is founded upon an incident where a ricli neighbor oflered to make a poor family comfortable, and provide for the child, if one of the seven were given to him. a w 'HIGH shall it be ? which shall it be ? " I looked at John, — John looked at me. (Dear, patient John, who loves me yet As well as though my locks were jet) And when I found that I must speak, My voice seemed strangely low and weak ; " Tell me again what Robert said ; " And then I listening bent my head. "This is his letter : ' I will give A house and land while you shall live. If, in return, from out your seven, One child to me for aye is given.' " I looked at John's old garments woni, I thouglit of all that John had bome Of poverty, and work, and care, Wiich I, though willing, could not share ; Of seven hungry mouths to feed, Of seven little children's need, And then of this. " Come, John," said I "We'll choose among them as they lie Asleep ;" so walking hand in hand, Dear John and I surveyed our band. First to the cradle lightly stepped, Where Lilian, tlie baby slept ; Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, A glory 'gainst the pillow white ; Softly her fatlier stoojied to lay His rough hand down in loving way, Wlien dream or whisper made her stir. And huskily he said, " Not /in-." We stooped beside the trundle-bed, And one long ray of lamp-light shed Athw-art the boyish faces tliere. In sleep so pitiful and fair. I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek A tear undried ; ere John could speak, " lie's but a baby too," said I, And Icissed him as we hurried by. Pale, patient Robby's angel face Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace ; " No, for a thousand crowns, not <4/w;," He whispered, while our eyes were dim. Poor Dick ! sad Dick ! our wayward son, Turbulent, reckless, idle one, — Could /le be spared ? " Nay, he who gave Bids us befriend him to the grave ; Only a mother's heart can be Patient enough for such as he ; And so," said John, " I would not dare To send him from her bedside prayer." Then stole we softly up above. And knelt by Mary, child of love ; " Perhaps for /ler 'twould better be," I said to John. Quite silently He lifted up a curl, that lay Across her cheek in wilful way, And shook his head : " Nay, love, not thee ;" The while my heart beat audibly. Only one more, our eldest lad. Trusty and truthful, good and glad,— So like his father : " No, John, no ; I cannot, will not, let Mm go ! " And so we wrote, in courteous way, We could not give one child away ; And afterward toil lighter seemed, Thinking of that of which we dreamed ; Happy, in truth, that not one face We missed from its accustomed place ; Thankful to work for a// i/ie seven, Trusting then to one in heaven. LEARNING TO PRAY, T/5) KEELING, fair in the twilight gray, ^\ A beautiful child was trying to pray ; -*- ^ His cheek on his mother's knee, His bare little feet half hidden, His smile still coming unbidden, And his heart brimful of glee. " I want to laugh. Is it naughty ? Say, mamma ! I've had such fun to-day 1 hardly can say my prayers. I don't feel just like praying ; I want to be out-doors playing. And run, all undressed, down stairs. "I can see the flowers in the garden-bed, Shining so pretty, and sweet, and red ; And Sammy is swinging, I guess. Oh 1 everything is so fine out there, I want to put it all in the prayer, — Do you mean I can do it by ' Yes ?' "When I say, 'Now I lay me— word for word, It seems to me as if nobody heard. Would 'Thank you, dear God,' be right? He gave me my mamma. And papa, and Sammy — O mamma ! you nodded I might." Clasping his hands and hiding his face, Unconsciously yearning for help and grace. The little one now began ; His mother's nod and sanction sweet Had led him close to the dear Lord's feet, And his words like music ran : "Thank you for making this home so nice, The flowers, and my two white mice, — THE HOME CIRCLE. 23 I wish I could keep right on ; I thank you, too, for every day — Only I'm most too glad to pray, Dear God, I think I'm done. "Now, mamma, rock me — ju^t a minute — And sing the hymn with 'darling' in it. I wish I could say my prayers ! When I get big, I know I can. Oh ! won't it be nice to be a man And stay all night down stairs !" The mother, singing, clasped him tight, Kissing and cooing her fond "Good-night," And treasured his every word. For well she knew that the artless joy And love of her precious, innocent boy, Were a prayer that her Lord had heard. Mary E. Dodge. THE HOUSE IN THE MEADOW ' T stands in a sunny meadow. The house so mossy and brown. With its cumbrous old stone chimneys, And the gray roof sloping down. The trees fold their green arms around it, — The trees a century old ; And the winds go chanting through them. And the sunbeams drop their gold. The cowslips spring in the marshes. The roses bloom on the hill. And beside the brook in the pasture The herds go feeding at will. Within, in the wide old kitchen. The old folks sit in the sun, That creeps through the sheltering woodbine. Till the day is almost done. Their children have gone and left them t They sit in the sun alone ! And the old wife's ears are failing As she harks to the well-known tone That won her heart in her girlhood. That has soothed her in many a care. And praises her now for the brightness Her old face used to wear. She tliinks again of her bridal, — How, dressed in her robe of white, She stood by her gay young lover In the morning's rosy light. O, the morning is rosy as ever, But the rose from her cheek is fled ; And the sunshine still is golden, But it falls on a silvered head. And the girlhood dreams, once vanished. Come back in her winter-time, Till her feeble pulses tremble With the thrill of spring-time's prime. And looking forth from the window, She tliinks how the trees have grown Since, clad in her bridal whiteness, She crossed the old door-stone. Though dimmed her eyes' bright azure. And dimmed her hair's young gold, The love in her girlhood plighted Has never grown dim or old. They sat in peace in the sunshine Till the day was almost done. And then, at its close, an angel Stole over the threshold stone. He folded their hands together, — He touched their eyelids with balm, And their last breath floated outward, Like the close of a solemn psalm ! Like a bridal pair they traversed The unseen, mystical road That leads to the Beautiful City, Whose builder and maker is God. Perhaps in that miracle country They will give her lost youth back. And the flowers of the vanished spring-time Will bloom in the spirit's track. One draught from the living waters Shall call back his manhood's prime And eternal years shall measure The love that outlasted time. But the shapes that they left behind them. The wrinkles and silver hair, — Made holy to us by the kisses The angel had printed there, — We will hide away 'neath the willows, When the day is low in the west. Where the sunbeams cannot find them. Nor the winds disturb their rest. And we'll suffer no telltale tombstone, With its age and date, to rise O'er the two who are old no longer, In the Father's house in the skies. Louise Chandler Moulton. CONDUCT AT HOME. HE angry word suppressed, the taunting thought ; Subduing and subdued, the petty strife, Which clouds the color of domestic life; The sober comfort, all the peace which springs From the large aggregate of little things ; On these small cares of daughter, wife, or friend. The almost sacred joys of home depend. Hannah More. 24 CROWN JEWELS. MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME ^^ • HE sun shines bright in our old Kentucky ^\ home ; VJi^ 'T is summer, the darkeys are gay ; 'f' The corn top's ripe and tiie meadow's in the bloom, While the birds make music all the day ; The young folks roll on the little cabin floor, AH merry, all happy, all bright ; By'mby hard times comes a knockin' at the door, — Then, my old Kentucky home, good night I Weep no more, my lady ; O, weep no more to-day ! We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home, For our old Kentucky home far away. They hunt no more for the possum and the coon, On the meadow, the hill, and the shore ; They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon. On the bench by the old cabin door ; The day goes by, like the shadow o'er the heart. With sorrow where all was delight ; The time has come, when the darkeys have to part, Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! The head must bow, and the back will have to bend, Wherever the darkey may go ; A few more days, and the troubles all will end, In the field where the sugar-cane grow ; A few more days to tote the weary load, No matter, it will never be light ; A few more days till we totter on the road. Then, my old Kentucky home, good night ! Stephen Collins Foster. THE WORN WEDDING-RING. ■ OUR wedding-ring wears thin, dear wife ; ah, summers not a few. Since I put it on your finger first, have passed o'er me and you ; And, love, what changes we have seen, — what cares and pleasures, too, — Since you became my own dear wife, when this old ring was new 1 O, blessings on that happy day, the happiest of my life, When, thanks to God, your low, sweet "Yes" made you my loving wif.:; ! Your heart will say the same, I know ; that day's as dear to you, — That day that made me yours, dear wife, when this old ring was new. How well do I remember now your young sweet face that day I How f;iir you were, how dear you were, my tongue could hardly say ; Nor how I doated on you ; O, how proud I was of you ! But did I love you more than now, when this old ring was new ? No— no ! no fairer were you then than at this hour to nii; ; And, dear as life to me this day, how could you dearer be? As sweet your face might be that day as now it is, 'tis true ; But did I know your heart as well when this old ring was new ? Years bring fresh links to bind us, wife, — young voices that are here ; Young faces round our fire that make their mother's yet more dear ; Young loving hearts your care each day makes yet more like to you. More like the loving heart made mine when this old ring was new. The past is dear, its sweetness still our memories treas- ure yet ; The griefs we've borne, together borne, we would not now forget. Whatever, wife, the future brings, heart unto heart stili true. We'll share as we have shared all else since this old ring was new. And if God spares us 'mongst our sons and daughters to grow old, We know His goodness will not let your heart or mine grow cold. Your aged eyes will see in mine all they've still shown to you, And mine in yours all they have seen since this old ring was new. And O, when death shall come at last to bid me to me- rest. May I die looking in those eyes, and resting on that breast ; O, may my parting gaze be blessed with the dear siglU of you. Of those fond eyes, — fond as they were when this old ring was new ! William Cox Bennett. FILIAL LOVE. HERE is a dungeon in whose dim drear light What do I gaze on ? Nothing : look again ! Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight, — *!* Two insulated phantoms of the brain : It is not so ; I see them full and plain, — An old man and a female young and fair, Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein The blood is nectar : but what dotli she there. With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare ? Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life, Where on the heart Rud/rotn the heart we took Our first and sweetest nurture, when the wife, EALT[K ^^ ^' ■" ^^EAl'TY. THE HOME CIRCLE. 25 Blest into mother, in the innocent look, Or even the piping cry of lips that brook ' No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives Man knows not, when from out its cradled nook Siie S3es her little bud jxit forth its leaves — What may the fruit be yet? I know not — Cain was Eve's. But here youth offers to old age the food. The milk of his own gift ; it is her sire To whom she renders back the debt of blood Born with her birth. No ! he shall not expire While in those warm and lovely veins the fire Of health and holy feeling can provide Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher Than Egypt's river ; — from that gentle side Drink, drink and live, old man ! Heaven's realm holds no such tide. The starry fable of the milky-way Has not thy story's purity ; it is A constellation of a sweeter ray. And sacred Nature triumphs more in this Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss Where sparkle distant worids : — O, holiest nurse ! No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss To thy sire's heart, replenishing its source With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. Lord Bvron. birth and power ; the poor man's attachment to the tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to-morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of silver, gold, or precious stones ; he has no property but in the affections of his own heart ; and when they endear bare floors and walls, despiteof toil and scanty meals, that man has his love of home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place. Charles Dickens. X JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 'OHN ANDERSON, my jo, John, When we were first accjuent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent ; But now your brow is held, John, Your locks are like the snaw ; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither ; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither. Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go : And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. Robert Burns. AFFECTIONS OF HOME. 'I* F ever household affections and loves are grace- •&• ful things, they are graceful in the poor. The X ties that bind the wealthy and the proud to I home, may be forged on earth, but those which link the poor man to his humble hearth, are of the true metal, and bear the stamp of heaven. The man of high descent may love the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as trophies of his LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR! LAY thy hand in mine, dear ! We're growing old ; But Time hath brought no sign, dear. That hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love Made life divine ; But age enricheth true love. Like noble wine. And lay thy cheek to mine, dear, And take thy rest ; Mine arms around thee twine, dear, And make thy nest. A many cares are pressing On this dear head ; But Sorrow's hands in blessing Are surely laid. O, lean thy life on mine, dear ! 'T will shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear, On my young tree : And so, till boughs are leafless. And songbirds flown. We'll twine, then lay us, griefless. Together down. Gerald Massky. THE ABSENT ONES. SHALL leave the old house in the autumn. To traverse its threshold no more ; Ah ! how shall I sigh for the dear ones That meet me each morn at the door ! I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, And the gush of their innocent glee. The group on its green, and the flowers That are brought every morning to me. I shall miss them at morn and at even. Their song in the school and the street ; I shall miss the low hum of their voices, And the tread of their delicate feet. When the lessons of life are all ended. And death says, " The school is dismissed !"' May the little ones gather around me, To bid me good night and be kissed ! Charles M. Dickinson. 26 CROWN JEWELS. A PICTURE. 'HE former sat in his easy-chair, Smoking his pipe of ciay, While his hale old. wife, wiih busy care, 'f' Was clearing the dinner away ; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, On her grandfather's knee was catching flies. The old man laid his hand on her head, With a tear on his wrinkled face ; He thought how often her mother, dead. Had sat in the self-same place. As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, " Don't smoke 1" said the child ; " how it makes you cry 1" The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor, Where the shade after noon used to steal ; The busy old wife, by the open door, W^as turning the spinning-wheel ; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair, While close to his heaving breast The moistened brow and the cheek so fair Of his sweet grandchild were pressed ; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay : Fast asleep were they both, that summer day ! Charles Gamage Eastman. THE POET'S SONG TO HIS WIFE. ' OW many summers, love. Have I been thine ? How many days, thou dove. Hast thou been mine ? Time, like the winged wind When 't bends the flowers. Hath left no mark behind. To count the hours ! Some weight of thought, though loath. On thee he leaves ; Some lines of care round both Perhaps he weaves ; Some fears, — a soft regret ^ For joys scarce known ; Sweet looks we half forget ; — All else is flown ! Ah ! — ^With what thankless heart I mourn and sing ! Look, where our children start, • Like sudden spring ! With tongues all sweet and low Like a pleasant rhyme, They tell how much I owe To thee and time ! Bryan Waller Procter {Darry Cornwall.) HOMES\CK. eOME to me, O my Mother ! come to ?ne. Thine own son slowly dying far away ! Through the moist ways of the wide ocean, blown By great invisible winds, come stately ships To this calm bay for quiet anchorage ; They come, they rest awhile, they go away. But, O my Mother, never comest thou ! The snow is round thy dwelling, the white snow. That cold soft revelation pure as light. And the pine-spire is mystically fringed. Why am I from thee, Mother, far from thee ? Far from the frost enchantment, and the woods Jewelled from bough to bough ? O home, my home \ O river in the valley of my home, With mazy-winding motion intricate. Twisting thy deathless music underneath The polished ice-work — must I nevermore Behold thee with familiar eyes, and watch Thy beauty changing wilh the changeful day. Thy beauty constant to the constant change? David Gray. MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. HE is a winsome wee thing, Slie is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine. She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing. She is a bonnie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine. The warld's wTack we share o't. The warstle and the care o't : Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine. Robert Burns. THE RECONCILIATION. S through the land at eve we went. And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, — Oh, we fell out, I know not why,* And kiss'd again with tears. For when we came where lies the child We lost in other years. There above the little grave. Oh, there above the little grave, We kiss'd again wilh tears. Alfred Tennyson. THE HOME CIRCLE. 27 I KNEW BY THE SMOKE THAT SO GRACE- FULLY CURLED. 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 ! " Thomas Moore. ADAM TO EVE. FAIREST of creation, last and best Of all God's works, creature in whom ex- celled ^ Whatever can to sight or thought be formed, ,Holy, divine, good, amiable, or sweet ! .How art thou lost, how on a sudden lost, Defaced, deflowered, and now to death devote ! Rather, how hast thou yielded to transgress The strict forbiddance, how to violate The sacred fruit forbidden ! Some cursed fraud Of enemy hath beguiled thee, yet unknown. And me with thee hath ruined, for with thee Certain my resolution is to die. How can I live without thee, how forego Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined. To live again in these wild woods forlorn ? Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart ; no, no, I feel The link of nature draw me : flesh of flesh. Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe. However, I with thee have fixed my lot. Certain to undergo like doom ; if death Consort with thee, death is to me as life ; So forcible within my heart I feel The bond of nature draw me to my own. My own in thee, for what thou ait is mine ; Our state cannot be severed, we are one, One flesh ; to lose thee were to lose mystlf. John Milton. IB A WISH. INE be a cot beside the hill ; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear ; A willowy brook that turns the mill, With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shalt twitter from her clay-built nest ; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew, And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village-church among the trees, When first our marriage-vows were given. With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to heaven. Samuel Rogers. THE OLD LOG CABIN. T is only shallow-minded pretenders who either make distinguished origin a matter of personal merit, or obscure origin a matter of personal re- proach. Taunt and scoffing at the humble con- dition of early life aflfect nobody in America but those who are foolish enough to indulge in them ; and they are generally sufficiently punished by public rebuke. A man who is not ashamed of himself need not be ashamed of his early condition. It did not happen to me to be born in a log cabin ; but my elder brothers and sisters were bom in a log cabin, raised among the snow-drifts of New Hampshire, at a period so early, that when the smoke first rose from its rude chimney and curled over the frozen hills, there was no similar evidence of a white man's habitation between it and the settlements on the rivers of Canada. Its remains still exist. I make to it an annual visit. I carr>' my children to it, to teach them the hardships endured by the generations which have gone before them. I love to dwell on the tender recollections, the kindred ties, tlie early affections, and the touching nar- ratives and incidents which mingle with all I know of this primitive family abode. I weep to think that none of those who inhabited it are now among the living ; and if ever I am ashamed of it, or if ever I fail in affec- tionate veneration for him who reared it, and defended it against savage violence and destruction, cherished all the domestic virtues beneath its roof, and, through the fire and blood of a seven years' revolutionary war, shrunk from no danger, no toil, no sacrifice, to serve his country, and to raise his children to a condition better than his own, may my name, and the name of my posterity, be blotted forever from the memory of mankind ! Daniel Webster. 28 CROWN JEWELS. THE HAPPY MAN. 'E'S not the Happy Man to whom is given A plenteous fortune by indulgent Heaven ; Whose gilded roofs on shining columns rise, And painted walls enchant the gazer's eyes ; Whose table flows with hospitable cheer, And all the various bounty of the year ; Whose valleys smile, whose gardens breathe the spring. Whose carved mountains bleat, and forests sing ; For whom the cooling shade in Summer twines. While his full cellars give their generous wines ; From whose wide fields unbounded Autumn pour A golden tide into his swelling stores ; Whose winter laughs ; for whom the liberal gales Stretch the big sheet, and toiling commerce sails ; When yielding crowds attend, and pleasure serves ; While youth, and health, and vigor string his nerves. Ev'n not all these, in one rich lot combined. Can make the Happy Man, without the mind; When Judgment sits clear-sighted, and surveys The chain of Reason with unerring gaze ; Where Fancy lives, and to the brightening eyes, His fairer scenes and bolder figures rise ; Where social Love exerts her soft command. And plays the passions with a tender hand, Whence every virtue flows, in rival strife, And all the moral harmony of life. James Thompson. m' MY MOTHERS PICTURE. Y mother, when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, was thou conscious of the tears I shed ? Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son — Wretch even then, life's journey just begun ? I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day ; I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away ; And, turning from my nursery-window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown ; May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more. Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return ; What ardently I wished, I long believed. And, disappointed still, was still deceived — By expectation every day beguiled. Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent, I learned at last submission to my lot ; But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more ; Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way — Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, — Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers — The violet, the pink, the jessamine — I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the while — Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile,) Could those few pleasant days again appear. Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here .' But no ! What here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. William Cowper. CHRISTMAS TIME. *EAP on more wood !— the wind is chill ; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still Each age has deemed the new-born year The fittest time for festal cheer : And well our Christian sires of old Loved when the year its course had rolled, And brought blithe Christmas back again, With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious rite Gave honor to the holy night : On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; On Christmas eve the mass was sung ; That only night, in all the year. Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donned her kirtle sheen ; The hall was dressed with holly green ; Forth to the wood did merry-men go. To gather in the mistletoe. Then opened wide the baron's hall To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; Power laid his rod of rule aside, And Ceremony doffed his pride. The heir, with roses in his shoes. That night might village partner choose ; The lord, underogating, share The vulgar game of "post and pair.'' All hailed, with uncontrolled delight And general voice, the happy night That to the cottage, as the crown, Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire, with well-dried logs supplied. Went roaring up the chimney wide ; The huge hall-table's oaken face, Scrubbed till it shone the day to grace, Bore then upon its massive board No mark to part the squire and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn. By old blue-coated serving-man ; THE HOME CIRCLE. 29 Then the grim boar's head frowned on high, Crested with bays and rosemary. Weil can the green-garbed ranger tell How, when and where the monster fell ; What dogs before his death he tore, And all the baiting of the boar. The wassail round, in good brown bowls, Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reeked ; hard by Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ; Nor failed old Scotland to produce, At such high-tide, her savory goose. Then came the merry maskers in. And carols roared with blithesome din ; If unmelodious was the song, It was a hearty note, and strong. Who lists may in their mumming see Traces of ancient mystery ; White skirts supplied the masquerade, And smutted cheeks the visors made : But, O, what maskers richly dight Can boast of bosoms half so light ! England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'T was Christmas broached the mightie.st ale ; 'T was Christmas told the merriest tale ; A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year. Sir Walter Scott. m THE OLD HEARTHSTONE. Y son, thou wilt dream the world is fair, And thy spirit will sigh to roam, And thou must go ; but never, when there, Forget the light of home ! llJ Though pleasure may smile with a ray more bright, It dazzles to lead astray ; Like the meteor's flash, 'twill deepen the night When treading thy lonely way: — But the hearth of home has a constant flame, And pure as vestal fire — 'Twill bum, 'twill burn forever tlie same. For nature feeds the pyre. The sea of ambition is tempest-toss'd. And thy hopes may vanish like foam — When sails are shiver'd and compass lost. Then look to the light of home ! And there, like a star tlirough midnight cloud, Thou'lt see the beacon bright ; For never, till shining on thy shroud. Can be quench'd its holy light. The sun of fame may guild the name. But the heart ne'er felt its ray ; And fashion's smiles, that rich ones claim, Are beams of a wintry day : How cold and dim those beams would be. Should life's poor wanderer come [ — My son, when the world is dark to thee. Then turn to the light of home. Sarah J. Hale. THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME. AY down upon de Swanee Ribber, 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 home. All de world am sad and dreary, Eb'rj'where 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 song^ 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 ! One little hut among de bushes — One dat I love — Still sadly to my memory 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 ? Stephen Collins Foster. HOMEWARD BOUND. ^ RIGHT flag at yonder tapering mast. Fling out your field of azure blue ; Let star and stripe be westward cast, And point as Freedom's eagle flew ! Strain home ! O lithe and quivering spars ! Point home my country's flag of stars ' My mother, in thy prayer to-night There come new words and warmer tears ; On long, long darkness breaks the light, Comes home the loved, the lost for years. Sleep safe, O wave-worn mariner ! Fear not to-night, or storm or sea : The ear of Heaven bends low to her ! He comes to shore who sails with me. The wind-tossed spider needs no token How stands the tree when lightnings blaze ; And, by a thread from heaven unbroken, I know my mother lives and prays. Nathaniel P. Willis. 30 CROWN JEWELS. I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. REMEMBER, I remember Tlie house where I was bom, 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. It was a childish ignorance. But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood. (A THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET. P with the sun in the morning, Away to the garden he hies, To see if the sleeping blossoms Have begun to open their eyes. Running a race with the wind, With a step as light and fleet. Under my window I hear The patter of little feet. Now to the brook he wanders. In swift and noiseless flight, Splashing the sparkling ripples Like a fairy water-sprite. No sand under fabled river Has gleams like his golden hair, No pearly sea-shell is fairer Than his slender ankles bare. From a broad window my neighbor, Looks down on our little cot. And watches the " poor man's blessing"- I cannot envy his lot He has pictures, books, and music, Bright fountains, and noble trees. Rare store of blossoming roses, Birds from beyond the seas. But never does childish laughter His homeward footsteps greet ; His stately halls ne'er echo To the tread of innocent feet. This child is our " sparkling picture," A birdling that chatters and sings, Sometimes a sleeping cherub, (Our other one has wings.) When the glory of sunset opens The highway by angles trod. And seems to unbar the city Whose builder and maker is God — Close to the crystal portal, I see by the gates of pearl, The eyes of our other angel — A twin-born little girl. And I ask to be taught and directed To guide his footsteps aright ; So to live that I may be ready To walk in sandals of light — And hear, amid songs of welcome, From messengers trusty and fleet, On the starry floor of heaven, The patter of little feet. THE FIRESIDE. F solid happiness we prize. Within our breast this jewel lies ; And they are fools who roam : The world has nothing to bestow ; From our own selves our joys must flow. And that dear place — our home. Our portion is not large, indeed ; But then how little do we need ! For nature's calls are few : In this the art of living lies. To want no more than may suffice, And make that little do. We'll therefore relish with content Whate'er kind Providence has sent, Nor aim beyond our power ; For, if our stock be very small, *Tis prudence to enjoy it all. Nor lose the present hour. THE HOME CIRCLE. 31 To be resigned when ills betide, Patient when favors are denied, And pleased with favors given ; Dear Chloe, this is wisdom's part ; This is that incense of the heart, Whose fragrance smells to heaven. Thus, hand in hand, through life we'll go ; Its chequered paths of joy and wo With cautious steps we'll tread ; Quit its vain scenes without a tear, Without a trouble or a fear, And mingle with the dead : While conscience, like a faithful friend, Shall through the gloomy vale attend. And cheer our dying breath ; Shall, when all other comforts cease, Like a kind angel, whisper peace, And smooth the bed of death. Nathaniel Cotton. THE HAPPY MARRIAGE. 'OW blest has my time been ! what joys have I known. Since wedlock's soft bondage made Jessy my own! So joyful my heart is, so easy my chain. That freedom is tasteless, and roving a pain. Through walks grown with woodbines, as often we stray, Around us our boys and girls frolic and play : How pleasing their sport is ! the wanton ones see. And borrow their looks from my Jessy and me. To try her sweet temper, ofttimes am I seen, In revels all day with the nymphs on the green ; Though painful my absence, my doubts she beguiles, And meets me at night with complacence and smiles. What though on her cheeks the rose loses its hue. Her wit and good humor bloom all the year through ; Time still, as he flies, adds increase to her truth. And gives to her mind what he steals from her youth. Ye shepherds so gay, who make love to ensnare. And cheat, with false vows, the too credulous fair ; In search of true pleasure, how vainly you roam ! To hold it for life, you must find it at home. Edward Moore. BE KIND. His footsteps are feeble, once fearless and bold ; Thy father is passmg away. Be kind to thy mother, for, lo ! on her brow May traces of sorrow be seen : Oh, well may'st you cherish and comfort her now. For loving and kind hath she been. Remember thy mother, for thee will she pray As long as God giveth her breath ; With accents of kindness then cheer her lone way, E'en to the dark valley of death. Be kind to thy brother, his heart will have dearth, If the smile of thy love be withdrawn ; The flowers of feeling will fade at their birth, If the dew of afiection be gone. Be kind to thy brother, wherever you are, The love of a brother shall be An ornament, purer and richer by far. Than pearls from the depths of the sea Be kind to thy sister, not many may know The depth of true sisterly love ; The wealth of the ocean lies fathoms below The surface that sparkles above. Thy kindness shall bring to thee many sweet hours, And blessings thy pathway to crown. Affection shall weave thee a garland of flowers, More precious than wealth or renown. THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES. HAVE had playmates, I have had companions. In my days of childhood, in my joyful school- days ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women ; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; Like an ingrate I left my friend abruptly ; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse. Seeking to find the old familiar faces. E kind to thy father, for when thou wast young, Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother. Who loved thee as fondly as he ? ' Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling? He caught the first accents that fell from thy ' So might we talk of the old familiar faces- tongue, j Andjoined in thine innocent glee. , How some they have died, and some they have left me, ' And some are taken from me ; all are departed ; Be kind to thy father, for now he is old. All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. His locks intermingled with gray, j Charles Lamb. 32 CROWN JEWELS. THE WIFE. QLL day, like some sweet bird, content to sing In its small cage, she moveth to and fro — And ever and anon will upward spring To her sweet lips, fresh from the fount below, The murmur'd melody of pleasant thought, Unconscious utter' d, gentle-toned and low. Light household duties, evermore inwrought With placid fancies of one trusting heart That lives but in her smile, and turns From life's cold seeming and the busy mart, With tenderness, that heavenward ever yearns To be refresh'd where one pure altar burns. Shut out from hence the mockery of life, Thus liveth she content, the meek, fond, trusting wife. Elizabeth Oakes Smith. HOUSEHOLD TREASURES. 'OUSEHOLD treasures, household treasures, Gems of worth, say, what are they ? Walls of jasper, doors of cedar. Arras of superb array? Caskets of the costliest jewels. Cabinets of ancient store, Shrines where Art her incense offers, Volumes of profoundest lore? Household treasures, home's true jewels. Deem I better far than those : Prattling children, blithe and ruddy As the dew-bespangled rose. Tempt me not with gold of Ophir, Wreathe not gems to deck my head ; Winsome hearthlings, home's fond angels. Are the things I crave instead. Household treasures, household treasures, Gems of worth, say, what are they ? All that wealth or grandeur proffer, Soon, alas ! must know decay ; But, 'midst amaranths unfading, With the rose-stain'd cherubim, Happy children, gone before us, Swell the everlasting hymn. Thomas Greet. A HOME IN THE HEART. H ? ask not a home in the mansions ot pride. Where marble shines out in the pillars and walls ; Though the roof be of gold, it is brilliantly cold, And joy may not be found in its torch-lighted halls. Cut seek for a bosom all honest and true. Where love, once awaken'd, will never depart : Turn, turn to that breast like the dove to its nest, And you'll find there's no home like a home in the heart. Oh ! link but one spirit that's warmly sincere, That will heighten your pleasure and solace your care ; Find a soul you may trust as the kind and the just, And be sure the wide world holds no treasure so rare. Then the frowns of Misfortune may shadow our lot, The cheek, searing tear-drops of Sorrow may start ; But a star never dim sheds a halo for him Who can turn for repose to a home in the heart. Eliza Cook. FARMER GRAY'S PHOTOGRAPH. WANT you to take a picter o' me and my old woman here. Jest as we be, if you please, sir— wrinkles, gray hairs and all ; We never was vain at our best, and we're going on eighty year. But we've got some boys to be proud of, straight an' handsome and tall ; They are coming home this summer, the nineteenth day of July, Tom wrote me, (Tom's a lawyer in Boston since forty-eight) ; So we're going to try and surprise 'em, my old wife and I — Tom, Harry, Zay and Elisha, and the two girls, Jen- nie and Kate. I guess you've beam of Elisha— he preaches in Middle- town, I'm a Methody myself, but he's 'Piscopal, he says ; Don't s'pose it makes much difference, only he wears a gown ; An' I couldn't abide (bein' old and set) what / call them Popish ways. But he's good, for / brought him up, and the others- Harry 'n' Zay, They're merchants down to the city, an' don't forget mother 'n' me ; They'd give us the fat of the land if we'd only come that way. And Jennie and Kate are hearty off, for they married rich, you see. Well, lud, that's a cur'us fix, sir. Do you screw it into the head ? I've beam of this photography, an' I reckon it's scary work. Do you take the picters by lightnin' ? La, yes ; so the neighbors said ; It's the sun that does it, old woman ; 'n' he never was known to shirk. Wall, yes, I'll be readin' the Bible ; old woman, what'll you do ? L(0)®[i^[lMC^ OS^T® TIE Fi'TL'^I. THE HOME CIRCLE. 33 Jest sit on the other side o' me, 'n' I'll take hold o' your hand. That's the way we courted, mister, if it's all the same to you ; And that's the way we're a-goin', please God, to the light o' the better land. I never could look that thing in the face, if my eyes was as good as gold. 'Tain't over ? Do say ! What, the work is done ! Old woman, that beats the Dutch. Jest think 1 we've got our picters took, and we nigh eighty year old ; There ain't many couples in our town of our age that can say as much. You see on the nineteenth of next July our golden wed- ding comes on — For fifty year in the sun and rain we've pulled at the same old cart ; We've never had any trouble to speak of, only our poor son John Went wrong, an' I drove him off, 'n' it about broke the old woman's heart — There's a drop of bitter in every sweet. And my old woman and me Will think of John when the rest come home. Would I forgive him, young sir? He was only a boy, and I was a fool for bein' so hard, you see ; If I could jist git him atween these arms, I'd stick to him like a Durr. And what's to pay for the sunshine that's painted my gray old phiz ? Nothin' ? That's cur'us ! You don't work for the pleasure of working, hey.-* Old woman, look here ! there's Tom in that face — I'm blest if the chin isn't his ! Good God ! she knows him — it's our son John, the boy that we drove away ! THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD. 'HEY grew in beauty, side by side, They fill'd one home with glee ; ^^ Their graves are sever'd, far and wide, f By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow ; She had each folded flower in sight — Where are those dreamers now ? One, 'midst the forest of the west, By a dark stream is laid — The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one. He lies where pearls lie deep ; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. 3 One sleeps where southern vines are dress'd Above the noble slain : He wrapt his colors round his breast, On a blood-red field of Spain. And one — o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd ; She faded 'midst Italian flowers — The last of that bright band. And parted thus they rest, who play'd- Beneath tiie same green tree ; Whose voices mingled as they pray'd Around one parent knee ! They that with smiles lit up the hall. And cheer'd with song the hearth — , Alas ! for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond on earth ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. LOVE it, I love it ; and who shall dare To chide me for lovmg that old arm-chair ; I've treasured it long as a sainted prize ; I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd it with sighs. "^ 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my hearth ; Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell ? — a mother sat there ; And a saercd thing is that old arm chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallow'd seat with listening ear ; And gentle words that mother would give ; To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide ? She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer ; As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watch'd her many a day. When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ; And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child. Years roU'd on ; but the last one sped — My idol was shatter'd ; my earth-star fled : I learnt how much the heart can bear. When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 'T is past, 't is past, but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow ; 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died : And memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly ; and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek ; But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. Eliz.\ Cook. 34 CROWN JKWKLS. THE STREAM OF LIFE. STREAM descending to the sea, Thy mossy banks between, The flow'rets blow the grasses grow The leafy trees are green. In garden plots tl>e children play, The fields the laborers till, The houses stand on either hand, And thou descendest still, O life descending into death, Our waking eyes behold. Parent and friend thy lapse attend. Companions young and old. Strong purposes our minds possess. Our hearts afTeclions f;ll. We toil and earn, we seek and learn, And thou descendest still. O end to which our currents tend, Inevitable sea. To which we flow, what do we know. What shall we guess of thee ? A roar we hear upon thy shore. As we our course fulfil ; Scarce we divine a sun shall shine And be above us still. WIFE. CHILDREN, AND FRIENDS. 'HEN the black-lettered list to the gods was presented, (The list of what Fate for each mortal in- tends), At the long string of ills a kind goddess relented, And slipped in three blessings — wife, children and friends. In vain surly Pluto maintained he was cheated, For justice divine could not compass its ends; The schema of man's penance he swore was defeated, For earth becomes heaven with — wife, children and friends. If the stock of our bliss is in stranger hands vested, The fund, ill secured, oft in bankruptcy ends ; But the heart issues bills which are never protested. When drawn on the firm of— wife, children and friends. Though valor still glows in his life's dying embers, The death-wounded tar, who his colors defends, Drops a tear of regret as he dying remembers How blessed was his home with — wife, children and friends. The soldier, whose deeds live immortal in story, Whom duty to far distant latitudes sends, With transport would barter whole ages of glory For one happy day with — wife, children, and friends. Though spice-breathing gales on his caravan hover, Though for hi:n all Ara'oia's fragrance ascends. The merchant still thinlcs of the woodbines that cover The bower where he sat with — wife, children and friends. Tlie dayspring of youtn, still unclouded by sorrow, Alone on itself for enjoyment depends ; But drear is the twilight of age, if it borrow No warmth from the smile of — wife, children and , friends. Let the breath of renown ever freshen and nourish The laurel which o'er the dead favorite bends ; O'er me wave the willow, and long may it flourish, Bedewed w'ith the tears of— wife, children and friends. Let us drink, for my song, growing graver and graver. To subjects too solemn insensibly tends ; Let us drink, pledge me high, love and virtue shall flavor The glass which I fill to — wife, children and friends. William Robert Spencer. HOME VOICES. AM so home-sick in this summer weather ! Where is my home upon this weary earth ? The maple trees are bursting into freshness Around the pleasant place that gave me birth. But dearer far, a grave for me is waiting. Far up among the pine trees' greener shade ; The willow boughs the hand of love has planted, Wave o'er the hillock where my dead are laid. Why go without me — oh, ye loved and loving? What has earth left of happiness or peace ? Let me come to you, where the heart grows calmer ; Let me lie down where life's wild strugglings cease. Earth has no home for hearts so worn and weary; Life has no second spring for such a year ; Oh ! for the day that bids me come to meet you ! And, life in gladness, in that summer hear ! HOME OF THE WORKINGMAN. ESOLVE— and tell your wife of your good reso lution. She will aid it all she can. Her step will be lighter and her hand will be busier all day, expecting the comfortable evening at home when you return. Household affairs will have been well attended to. A place for everything, and everything in i ts place, will, like some good genius, have made even an humble home the scene of neatness^, arrangement and taste. The table will be ready at . the fireside. The loaf will be one of that order which says, by its appearance. You may cut and come again. The cups and saucers will be waiting for supplies. The kettle will be singing ; and the children, happy with fresh air and exercise, will be smiling in their glad anticipation of that evening meal wlien father is at home, and of the pleasant reading afterwards. THE IIOMK CIRCI.K 35 MY LITTLE WIFE. UR table is spread for two» to-night — No guests our bounty share ; The damask cloth is snowy white, The services elegant and bright, Our china quaint and rare ; My little wife presides, And perfect love abides. The bread is sponge, the butter gold, The muffins nice and hot. What though the winds without blow cold ? The walls a little world infold, And the storm is soon forgot ; In the fire-light's cheerful glow, Beams a paradise below. A fairer picture who has seen ? Soft lights and shadows blend ; The central figure of the scene, She sits, my wife, my queen — Her head a little bent ; And in her eyes of blue I read my bliss anew. I watch her as she pours the tea, With quiet, gentle grace ; With fingers deft, and movements free, She mixes in the cream for me, A bright smile on her face ; And, as she sends it up, I pledge her in my cup. Was ever man before so blest ? I secretly reflect. The passing thou2;ht she must have guessed, For now dear lips on mine are pressed, An arm is round my neck. Dear treasure of my life — God bless her — little wife. GOOD BYE, OLD HOUSE. OOD bye, old house ! the hurry and the bustle Smothered till now all thought of leaving you; But the last load has gone, and I've a mo- ment. All by myself, to say a last adieu. Good bye, old house ! I shall not soon forget you, The witness of so much eventful time — And walls have ears they say, I beg you cherish Each secret that you may have heard of mine. Strange faces will come in and gaze upon you, Irreverent and careless of each spot That held in sacred keeping household treasures, Ah, well, you need not mind — it matters not. They'll wonder why that nail was driven yonder In reach of Freddy's hand, at Christmas time, That he might hang, himself, his little stocking. That notch marked Willie's height when he was nine. These marks that I have not the heart to trouble, Johnny put there before he went away. Wishing, meanwhile, that he might make them double ; They meant the days he had at home to stay Dear child ! it was that corner held his coffin When trouble, toil and pain for him were done ; And in that corner, too, I have knelt daily, Striving to find the way that he has won. 'Twas in that corner Margaret was married. And that white spot upon the smoky wall Is where her picture hung, — those three nails yon- der Were driven to hold her sack, and scarf, and shawl. And so, old house, you have for every blemish A strange, peculiar story of your own ; As our poor bodies do when we have left them, And powerless alike to make it known. Good bye, good bye, old house ! the night is fall- ing, They'll think I've wandered from, the path, I guess. One more walk through the rooms, ah ! how the)' echo ! How strange and lonely is their emptiness ! Millie C. Pomeroy. A MOTHER'S INFLUENCE. HEN barren doubt like a late-coming snow Made an unkind December of my spring, That all the pretty flowers did droop for woe, And the sweet birds their love no more would sing ; Then the remembrance of thy gentle faith. Mother beloved, would steal upon my heart ; Fond feeling saved me from that utter scathe. And from thy hope I could not live apart. Now that my mind hath passed from wintry gloom, And on the calmed waters once again Ascendant faith circles with silver plume. That casts a charmed shade, not now in pain, Thou child of Christ, in joy I think of thee, And mingle prayers for what we both may be. Arthur Henry Hallam. 36 CROWN JEWELS. THE WIFE TO HER HUSBAND. ^T^ INGER not long. Home is not home without ^^ Its dearest tokens do but make me mourn. O, let its memory, like a chain about tliee, Gently comf>el and hasten thy return ! Linger not long. Though crowds should woo thy stay- ing, Bethink thee, can the mirth of friends, though dear. Compensate for the grief thy long delaying Costs the fond heart that sighs to have thee here ? Linger not long. How shall I watch thy coming. As evening shadows stretch o'er moor and dell , When the wild bee hath ceased her busy humming, And silence hangs on all things like a spell ! How shall I watch for thee, when fears grow stronger, As night grows dark and darker on the hill ! How shall I weep, when I can watch no longer! Ah ! art thou absent, art thou absent still ? Yet I should grieve not, though the eye that seeth me Gazeth through tears that make its splendor dull ; For O, I sometimes fear when thou art wit*h me My cup of happiness is all too full. Haste, haste thee home unto thy mountain dwelling. Haste, as a bird unto its peaceful nest ! Haste, as a skiff, through tempests wide and swelling, Flies to its haven of securest rest ! THANKSGIVING DAY. 'HE white moon peeps thro' my window-blind As I'm sitting alone to-night, Thinking of days I've left behind "f" In the years that have taken flight. My heart is full of a nameless thrill That my life has been so sweet, And I fain would hurry to Zion's hill And bow at the Giver's feet. The year just going has brought me boon As rich as the years gone by ; The skies were clear as the harvest moon When the golden crops were dry ; The grain was garnered abundantly then, For the wintry days ahead. And I tliank the Giver of good to men For supplies of daily bread. No fell disease with ghastly shrouds Has come in grim disguise ; No war has spread its baleful clouds Athwart my azure skies ; But the dove of peace — the white- winged dove — Has built in my own roof-tree. And the breezes have floated the banner of love O'er all my land and sea. So now I sing as best I can My glad Thanksgiving song, To Him who holds me by the hand, And leads me safe along ; I am not worthy his smallest gift, But He giveth large and free, And so a song of praise I lift For His goodness unto me. Thomas Berry Smith. THE THREE DEAREST WORDS. 'HERE are three words that sweetly blend, That on the heart are graven ; A precious, soothing balm they lend — Y They're mother, home and heaven ! They twine a wreath of beauteous flowers, Which, placed on memory's urn. Will e'en the longest, gloomiest hours # To golden sunlight turn ! They form a chain whose every link Is free from base alloy ; A stream where whosoever drinks Will find refreshing joy ! They build an altar where each day Love's offering is renewed ; And peace illumes with genial ray Life's darkened solitude ! If from our side the first has fled. And home be but a name. Let's strive the narrow path to tread, That we the last may gain ! Mary J. Mucklk. NSRRilTlYES AND BULMDS. VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. HE 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, In 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 ; AH 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." 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 ! " Lord Byron. U THE VH_UGE BLACKSMITH. NDER a spreading chestnut-tree The village smithy stands ; The smith, a mighty man is he. With large and sinewy hands ; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp and black and long ; His face is like the tan ; His brow is wet with honest sweat, — He earns whate'er he can, ^ And looks the whole world in the face. For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night. You can hear his bellows blow ; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell. When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school, Look in at the open door ; Tiiey love to see the flaming forge, And hear the bellows roar. And catch the burning sparks that t\y Like chaff from the threshing floor. He goes on Sunday to the church, And sits among his boys ; He hears the parson pray and preach ; He hears his daughter's voice, Singing in the village choir. And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother's voice, Singing in Paradise ! He needs must think of her once more, How in the grave she lies ; And with his hard rough hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes. Toiling, rejoicing, sorrowing. Onward through life he goes ; Each morning sees some task begin, Each evening sees it close ; Something attempted, something done. Has earned a night's repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend. For the lesson thou hast taught ! Thus at the flaming forge of life Our fortunes must be wrought ; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped Each burning deed and thought ! He.vry Wadsworth Longfellow. (37) 38 CROWN JEWELS. YOUNG LOCHINVAR. YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the West, Through all tlie 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 ! He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Esk 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, Wais to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, 'Mong 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, — " O, 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 1 There be 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 tlirew 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 tredd 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, " 'T were better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochin- var!" One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear. When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near, So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung. " She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow ! " quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran ; There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? Sir Walter Scott. THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS. FT in the stilly night. Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me ; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken ; The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone. The cheerful hearts now broken ! Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so linked together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather, I feel like one Who treads alone Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled. Whose garlands dead. And all but he departed ! Thus in the stilly night, Ere Slumber's chain has bound me. Sad Memory brings the light Of other days around me. Thomas Moork. AULD LANG SYNE HOULD auld acquaintance be forgot. And never brought to min' ? Should auld acquaintance be forgot. And days o' lang syne ? For auld lang syne, my dear. For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! We twa hae run about the braes. And pu't the gowans fine ; But we've wandered mony a weary foot. Sin' auld lang syne, For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet. For auld lang syne ! We twa hae paidl't i' the bum, Frae mornin' sun till dine ; But seas between us braid hae roared, Sin' auld lang syne. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 39 For auld langf syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! And here's a hand, my trusty fiere, And gie's a hand o' thine , And we'll tak a right guid wiliie-waught, For auld lang syne. For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne, We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, As sure as I'll be mine ; And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne, For auld lang syne, my dear, For auld lang syne. We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, For auld lang syne ! Robert Burns. m THE NANTUCKET SKIPPER. ANY a long, long year ago, Nantucket skippers had a plan Of finding out, though "lying low," How near New York their schooners ran. They greased the lead before it fell. And then by sounding, through the night, Knowing the soil that stuck so well, They always guessed their reckoning right. A skipper gray, whose eyes were dim, Could tell, by tasting, just the spot, And so below he'd "douse the glim," — After of course, his "something hot." Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock, This ancient skipper might be found ; No matter how his craft would rock. He slept, — for skippers' naps are sound. The watch on deck would now and then Run down and wake him, with the lead; He'd up, and taste, and tell the men How many miles they went ahead. One night 'twas Jotham Marden's watch. A curious wag, — the pedlar's son ; And so he mused, (the wanton wretch !) "To-night I'll have a grain of * We're all a set of stupid fools, To think the skipper knows, by tasting, What ground he's on ; Nantucket schools Don't teach such stuff, with all their basting ! And so he took the well-greased lead. And rubbed it o'er a box of earth That stood on deck, — a parsnip bed, And then he sought the skipper's berth. " Where are we now, sir? Please to taste " The skipper yawned, put out his tongue. And opened his eyes in wondrous haste. And then upon the floor he sprung ! The skipper stormed, and tore his hair, Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden, " Nantucket's sunk, and here we are Right over old Marm Hackett's garden !" James Thomas Fields. ON THE FUNERAL OF CHARLES L AT NIGHT IN ST. GEORGE'S CHAPEL, WINDSOR. 'HE castle clock had toll'd midnight, With mattock and with spade — And silent, by the torches' light — "f His corpse in earth we laid. The coffin bore his name ; that thase Of other years might know. When earth its secret should disclose, Whose bones were laid below. " Peace to the dead ! " no children sung, Slow pacing up the nave ; No prayers were read, no knell was rung. As deep we dug his grave. We only heard the winter's wind, In many a sullen gust, As o'er the open grave inclined, We murmured, " Dust to dust ! " A moonbeam from the arch's height, Stream'd, as we placed the stone, The long aisles started into light And all the windows shone. We thought we saw the banners than That shook along the walls, Whilst the sad shades of mailed men Were gazing on the stalls. 'T is gone ! — Again on tombs defaced Sits darkness more profound ; And only by the torch we traced The shadows on the ground. And now the chilling, freezing air Without blew long and loud ; Upon our knees we breathed one prayer. Where he slept in his shroud. We laid the broken marble floor, — No name, no trace appears 1 And when we closed the sounding door. We thought of him with tears. William Lisle Bowles. 40 CROWN JEWELS. THE PAINTER WHO PLEASED NOBODY AND EVERYBODY. I EST men suspect your tale untrue, Keep probability in view. The traveler, leaping o'er those bounds, The credit of his book confounds. Who with his tongue hath armies routed Makes even his real courage doubted : But flattery never seems absurd ; The flattered always takes your word : Impossibilities seem just ; They take the strongest praise on trust. Hyperboles, though ne'er so great, Will still come short of self-conceit. So very like a painter drew, That every eye the picture knew ; He hit complexion, feature, air, So just, the life itself was there. No flattery witli his colors laid, To bloom restored the faded maid ; He gave each muscle all its strength. The mouth, the chin, the nose's length. His honest pencil touched with truth, And marked the date of age and youth. He lost his friends, his practice failed ; Truth should not always be revealed ; In dusty piles his pictures lay. For no one sent the second pay. Two bustos, fraught with eyery grace, A Venus' and Apollo's face. He placed in view ; resolved to please, Whoever sat, he drew from these, From these corrected every feature. And spirited each awkward creature. All things were set ; the hour was come, His pallet ready o'er his thumb. My lord appeared ; and seated right In proper attitude and light, The painter looked, he sketched the piece. Then dipped his pencil, talked of Greece, Of Titian's tints, of Guido's air ; "Those eyes, my lord, the spirit there Might well a Raphael's hand require, To give them all their native fire ; The features fraught with sense and wit. You'll grant are very hard to hit ; But yet with patience you shall view As much as paint and art can do. Observe the work." My lord replied : " Till now I thought my mouth was wide ; Besides, my nose is somewhat long ; Dear sir, for me, 't is far too young." "Oh I pardon me," the artist cried, " In this the painters must decide. The piece even common eyes must strike, I warrant it extremely like." My lord examined it anew ; No looking-glass seemed half so true. A lady came ; with borrowed grace He from his Venus formed her face. Her lover praised the painter's art ; So like the picture in his heart ! To every age some charm he lent ; Even beauties were almost content. Through all the town his art they praised ; His custom grew, his price was raised. Had he the real likeness shown, Would any man the picture own ? But when thus happily he wrought, Each found the likeness in his thought. John Gay. LITTLE NELL'S FUNERAL •ND now the bell— the bell She had so often heard by night and day. And listened to with solemn pleasure, E'en as a living voice — Rung its remorseless toll for her. So young, so beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, And blooming youth, and helpless infancy. Poured forth — on crutches, in the pride of strength And health, in the full blush Of promise, the mere dawn of life- To gather round her tomb. Old men were there, Whose eyes were dim And senses failing — Grandames, who might have died ten years ago, And still been old^the deaf, the blind, the lame. The palsied, The living dead in many shapes and forms, To see the closing of this early grave. What was the death it would shut in, To that which still could crawl and keep above it I Along the crowded path they bore her now ; Pure as the new fallen snow That covered it ; whose day on earth Had been as fleeting. Under that porch, where she had sat when Heaven In mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, She passed again, and the old church Received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook, Where she had many and many a time sat musing, And laid their burden softly on the pavement. The light streamed on it through The colored window — a window where the boughs Of trees were ever rustling In the summer, and where the birds Sang sweetly all day long. Charles Dickens. T E^l IK®' THE i Y E NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 41 COMIN' THROUGH THE RYE. , IN a body meet a body Comin' through the rye, Gin a body kiss a body, Need a body cry ? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. Amang the train there is a swain I dearly lo'e niysel' ; But whaur his hame, or what his name, I dinna care to tell. Gin a body meet a body Comin' frae the town, Gin a body greet a body, Need a body frown ? Every lassie has her laddie — Ne'er a ane hae I ; Yet a' the lads they smile at me When comin' through the rye. llJ THE VAGABONDS. 'E are two travelers, Roger and I. Roger 's my dog : — come here, you scamp ! Jump for the gentlemen — mind jour eye ! Over the table — look out for the lamp ! — The rogue is growing a little old ; Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold, And ate and drank — and starved together. We've learned what comfort is, I tell you ! A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin, A fire to thaw our thumbs (poor fellow ! The paw he holds up there's been frozen,) Plenty of catgut for my fiddle, (This out-door business is bad for strings,) Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle. And Roger and I set up for kings ! No, thank ye, sir — I never drink ; Roger and I are exceedingly moral — Aren't we, Roger? — see him wink ! — Well, something hot, then — we won't quarrel. He's thirsty, too — see him nod his head ? What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk ! He understands every word that's said — And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk. The truth is, sir, naw I reflect, I've been so sadly given to grog, I wonder I've not lost the respect (Here's to you, sir, !) even of my dog. But he sticks by, through thick and thin ; And this old coat, with its empty pockets, And rags that smell of tobacco and gin. He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets. There isn't another creature living Would do it, and prove, through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving. To such a miserable, thankless master ! No, sir ! — see him wag his tail and grin ! By George ! it makes my old eyes water ! That is, there's something in this gir> That chokes a fellow. But no matter ! We'll have some music, if you're willing, And Roger (hem ! what a plague a cough is, sir !j Shall march a little — Start, you villain ! Stand straight ! 'Bout face ! Salute your officer ! Put up that paw ! Dress ! Take your rifle ! (Some dogs have arms, yQU see !) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle. To aid a poor old patriot soldier ! March ! Halt ! Now show how the rebel shakes When he stands up to hear his sentence. Now tell us how many drams it takes To honor a jolly new acquaintance. Five yelps— that's five ; he's mighty knowing ' The night's before us, fill the glasses ! — Quick, sir ! I'm ill — my brain is going ! Some brandy ! — thank you ' — there ! — it passes ! Why not reform ? That's easily said ; But I've gone througlisuch wretched treatment. Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread, And scarce remembering what meat meant. That my poor stomach's past reform ; And there are times when, mad with thinking, I'd sell out heaven for something warm To prop a horrible inward sinking. Is there a way to forget to think ? At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends, A dear girl's love — but I took to drink ; — The same old story ; you know how it ends. If you could have seen these classic features — You needn't laugh, sir ; they were not then Such a burning libel on God's creatures ; I was one of your handsome men. If you had seen her, so fair and young, Whose head was happy on this breast ! If you could have heard the songs I sung When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guessed That ever I, sir, should be straying From door to door, with fiddle and dog, Ragged and penniless, and playing To you to-night for a glass of grog ! She's married since — a parson's wife : 'Twas better for her that we should part- Better the soberest, prosiest life Than a blasted home and a broken heart 42 CROWN JEWELS. I have seen her ? Once : I was weak and spent, On the dusty road, a carriage stopped : But little she dreamed, as on she went, Who kissed the coin that her fingers dropped ! You've set me talking, sir ; I'm sorry ; It makes me wild to think of the change ! What do you care for a beggar's story ! Is it amusing? you find it strange? I had a mother so proud of me ! 'Twas well she died before — Do you know If the happy spirits in heaven can see The ruin and wretchedness here below ? Another glass, and strong, to deaden This pain ; then Roger and I will start. I wonder, has he such a lumpish, leaden. Aching thing, in place of a heart? He is sad sometimes, and would weep, if he could, No doubt remembering things that were — A virtuous kennel, with plenty of food, And himself a sober, respectable cur. I'm better now ; that glass was warming, — You rascal ! limber your lazy feet ! We must be fiddling and performing For supper and bed, or starve in the street. — Not a very gay life to lead, you think ? But soon we shall go where lodgings are free. And the sleepers need neither victuals nor drink ; — The sooner, the better for Roger and me ! John T. Trowbridge. OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. VER the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way — I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray— I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told. As many another woman, that's only half as old. Over the hill to the poor-house — I can't make it quite clear ! Over the hill to the poor-house — it seems so horrid queer ! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro. But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? Am I lazy or crazy ? am I blind or lame ? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout. But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without. I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day, To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way; For I can earn my victuals, an' more to, I'll be bound. If any body only is willin' to have me round. Once I was young and han'some — I was, upon my soul — Once my cheeks were roses, my eyes as black as coal ; And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' peo- ple say. For any kind of reason, that I was in their way. 'Taint no useof boastin', or talkin' over free. But many a house an' home was open then to me ; Many a han'some offer I had from likely men. And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then. And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart, But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part; For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong. And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along. And so we worked together : and life was hard but gay, With now an' then a baby, for to cheer us on our way; Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed lean an' neat. An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat. So we worked for the child'r'n, and raised 'em every one ; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done. Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks condemn, But every couple's child'rn's a heap the besttothem. Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones ! — I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons ; And God He made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray, I've noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way. Strange, another thing; when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone ; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be. The Lord of Hosts he came one day an' took him away from me. Still I was bound to struggle; an' never to cringe or fall- Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all; And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or frown, Till at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from town. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 43 She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile — She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style : But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know ; But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go. She had an edication, an' that was good for her ; But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' things too fur: An' told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick), That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rith- metic So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done — They was a family of themselves, and I another one; And a very little cottage for one family will do. But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two. An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye, An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try ; But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow, When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go. I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small, And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all ; And what with her husband's sister, and what with child'rn three, Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room forme. An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got, For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot; But all the child'rn was on me— I couldn't stand their sauce — And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss. An' then I wrote to Rebecca — my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from her — some twenty miles at best ; And one of 'em said twas too warm there, for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold. So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about — So they have well nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out ; But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down, Till Charley went to the poor master, an' put me on the town. Over the hJll to the poor-house — my child'rn dear, good-bye ! Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh; And God 'II judge between us ; but I will al'ays pray That you shall never suflTer the half I do to-day. . Will M. Carleton. SONG. LADY, leave thy silken thread And flowery tapestry — There 's living roses on the bush, And blossoms on the tree. Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand Some random bud will meet ; Thou canst not tread but thou wilt find The daisy at thy feet. 'T is like the birthday of the world, When earth was born in bloom ; The light is made of many dyes. The air is all perfume ; There 's crimson buds, and white and blue— The very rainbow showers Have turned to blossoms where they fell. And sown the earth with flowers. There 's fairy tulips in the east — The garden of the sun ; The very streams reflect the hues, And blossom as they run ; While morn opes like a crimson rose. Still wet with pearly showers ; Then, lady, leave the silken thread Thou twinest into flowers. Thomas Hood. IN THE SUMMER TWILIGHT. N the summer twilight, While yet the dew was hoar, I went plucking purple pansies Till my love should come to shore. The fishing-lights their dances Were keeping out at sea, And, "Come," I sang, "my true love. Come hasten home to me !" But the sea it fell a-moaning, And the white gulls rocked thereon, And the young moon dropped from heaven. And the lights hid, one by one. All silently their glances Slipped down the cruel sea, And, "Wait," cried the night and wind and storm — " Wait till I come to thee." Harriet Prescott Spofford. 44 CROWN JEWELS. a LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry." " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?" " O, 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?" Out spoke the hardy Highland wight : " I'll 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'll 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 arm^d men — Their trampling sounded nearer. " O, haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, "Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies. But not an angry father." The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her — When, O, too strong for human hand. The tempest gathered o'er her ! And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullan reached that fatal shore ; His wrath was changed to wailing. 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 I'll 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. Thomas Campbell. THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. TOP ! for thy tread is on an empire's dust ; An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below ; Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ? Nor column trophied for triumphal show? None ; but the moral's truth tells simpler so. As the ground was before, thus let it be. How that red rain hath made the harvest grow And this all the world has gained by thee. Thou first and last of fields, king-making victory ? 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 ; 'twas 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 ! — 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 Sat Brunswick's fated chieftian ; he did hear That sound the first amid tiie festival. And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear : Ajid 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 ; NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 45 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 !" Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve m Beauty's circle proudly gay, The midnight brought the signal sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms — the day Battle's magnificently stem array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent, Rider and horse — friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! Lord Byron. u THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. AM a pebble ! and yield to none !" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone ;- "Nor time nor seasons can alter me ; I am abiding, while ages flee. The pelting hail and the drizzling rain Have tried to soften me, long, in vain ; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or touch rny heart ; but it was not felt. , There's none can tell about my birth, For I'm old as the big, round earth. The children of men arise, and pass Out of the world, like the blades of grass ; And many a foot on me has trod, That's gone from sight, and under the sod. I am a Pebble I but who art thou. Rattling along from the restless bough !" The Acorn was shock'd at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abash' d and mute ; She never before had been so near This gravelly ball, the mundane sphere ; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort. At length she said, in a gentle tone, ■'Since it has happen' d that I am thrown From the lighter element where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, And beside a personage so august, Abased, I will cover my bead with dust. And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel, Has ever subdued, or made to feel !" And soon in the earth she sank away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an infant oak ! And, as it arose, and its branches spread. The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said, "A modest Acorn — never to tell What was enclosed in its simple shell ! That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup ! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth. Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! And, oh ! how many will tread on me. To come and admire the beautiful tree. Whose head is towering toward the sky. Above such a worthless thing as I ! Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year. But never from this shall a vaunting word From the humbled Pebble again be heard, Till something without me or within Shall show the purpose for which I've been?" The Pebble its vow could not forget, And it lies there wrapt in silence yet. Hannah F. Gould. A HUNTING WE WILL GO. . HE dusky night rides down the sky, And ushers in the morn : The hounds all join in glorious cry, The huntsman winds his horn, And a hunting we will go. The wife around her husband throws Her arms to make him stay ; ' My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows ; You cannot hunt to-day." Yet a hunting we will go. Away they fly to 'scape the rout. Their steeds they soundly switch ; Some are thrown in, and some thrown out. And some thrown in the ditch. Yet a hunting we will go. Sly Reynard now like lightning flies. And sweeps across the vale ; And when the hounds too near he spies, He drops his bushy tail. Then a hunting we will go. At last his strength to faintness worn. Poor Reynard ceases flight ; Then hungry, homeward we return, To feast away the night. When a hunting we did go. Ye jovial hunters, in the mom Prepare then for the chase ; Rise at the sounding of the horn And health with sport embrace, When a hunting we do go. Henry Fielding. 46 CROWN JEWELS. MAUD MULLER. AUD Muller, on a summer's day, Raked the meadow sweet with hay. Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth Of simple beauty and rustic health. Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee The mock-bird echoed from his tree. But, when she glanced to the far-off town. White from its hill-slope looking down, The sweet song died, and a vague unrest And a nameless longing filled her breast — A wish, that she hardly dared to own, For something better than she had known. The Judge rode slowly down the lane, Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane. He drew his bridle in the shade Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid, And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road. She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up. And filled for him her small tin-cup, And blushed as she gave it, looking down On her feet so bare and her tattered gown, "Thanks !" said the Judge, " a sweeter draught iJ'rom a fairer hand was never quaffed." He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees, Of the singing birds and the humming bees ; Then talked of the haying and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather. And Maud forgot her briar-torn gown. And her graceful ankles bare and brown ; And listened, while a pleased surprise Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes. At last, like one who for delay Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away, Maud Muller looked and sighed : "Ah, me ! That I the Judge's bride might be ! " He would dress me up in silks so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine. " My father should wear a broadcloth coat ; My brother should sail a painted boat. "I'd dress my mother so grand and gay. And the baby should have a new toy each day. "And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door." The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still. "A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet. " And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair. "Would she were mine, and I to-daj'. Like her, a harvester of hay : " No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues, " But low of cattle, and song of birds, And health, and quiet, and loving words." But he thought of his sisters, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold. So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone. But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune ; And the j^oung girl mused beside the well. Till the rain on the unraked clover fell. He wedded a wife of richest dower, Who lived for fashion, as he for power. Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow, He watched a picture come and go : And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes Looked out in their innocent surprise. Oft when the wine in his glass was red, He longed for the wayside well instead ; And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms. And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain, "Ah, that I were free again ! Free as when I rode that day, Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay." She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain. Left their traces on heart and brain. And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot. And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall, In the shade of the apple-tree again She saw a rider draw his rein, And, gazing down with timid grace. She felt his pleased eyes read her face. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 47 Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls Stretched away into stately halls ; The weary wheel to a spinnet turned, The tallow candle an astral burned ; And for him who sat by the chimney lug, Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug, A manly form at her side she saw, And joy was duty and love was law. Then she took up her burden of life again. Saying only, " It might have been.'' Alas for maiden, alas forjudge, For rich repiner and household drudge ! God pity them both, and pity us all, Who vainly the dreams of youth recall ; For all sad words of tongue or pen. The saddest are these : " It might have been ! " Ah, well ! for us all some sweet hope lies Deeply buried from human eyes ; And, in the hereafter, ansrels may Roll the stone from its grave away ! John G. Whittier. BINGEN ON THE RHINE. SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears ; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away. And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, and he took that com- rade's hand. And he faid, "I nevermore shall see my own, my na tive land ; Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine. For I was born at Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. ''Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done. Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the set- ting sun ; And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars — The death-wounds on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars ; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline — And one had come from Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. " Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age ; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage, For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild ; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword ; And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine. On the cottage wall at Bingen — calm Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head. When troops come marching home again with glad and gallant tread, But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye. For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die ; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place ( my father's sword and mine t, For the honor of old Bingen — dear Bingen on the Rhine. "There's another — not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that spark- led in her eye ; Too innocent for coquetry — too fond for idle scorn- mg— friend \ I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning ! Tell her the last night of my life ( for, ere the moon be risen. My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison ) 1 dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun- light shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen— fair Bingen on the Rhine. "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along; I heard, or seemed to hear. The German songs we used to sing, in chorus sweet and clear ; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, 48 CROWN JEWELS. The echoing chorus sounded, through the evening calm and still ; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well remem- bered walk ! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, — But we'll meet no more at Bingen — loved Bingen on the Rhine." His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak — His eyes put on a dying look — he sighed, and ceased to speak ; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled— The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land is dead ! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strewn ; Yes, calmly on the dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, AS it shown on distant Bingen — fair Bingen on the Rhine. Caroline Elizabeth Norton. THE SANDS OF DEE. MARY, go and call the cattle home. And call the cattle home, And call the cattle home, Across the sands of Dee ;" The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam, And all alone went she. The western tide crept up along the sand, And o'er and o'er the sand. And round and round the sand. As far as eye could see. The rolling mist came down and hid the land,— And never home came she. '' O, is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — A tress o' golden hair, A drowned maiden's hair Above the nets at sea ? Was never salmon yet that shone so fair Among the stakes on Dee." They rowed her in across the rolling foam, The cruel crawling foam. The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea ; But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands of Dee ! Charles Ktngsley. A NAME IN THE SAND. LONE I walk'd the ocean strand ; A pearly shell was in my hand : I stoop'd and wrote upon the sand My name — the year — the day. As onward from the spot I pass'd. One lingering look behind I cast: A wave came rolling high and fast, And wash'd my lines away. And so, methought, 'twill shortly be With every mark on earth from me : A wave of dark oblivion's sea Will sweep across the place Where I have trod the sandy shore Of Time, and been to be no more. Of me — my day — the name I bore. To leave nor track nor trace. And yet, with Him who counts the sands And holds the waters in his hands, I know a lasting record stands, Inscribed against my name. Of all this mortal part has wrought ; Of all this thinking soul has thought : And from these fleeting moments caught For glory or for shame. Hannah F. Gould. OVER THE HILLS FROM THE POOR-HOUSE. [Sequel to " Over the Hill to the Poor-House." ] VER the hills tothe poor-house sad paths have been made to-day. For sorrow is near, such as maketh the heads "^ of the young turn gray, Causing the heart of the careless to throb with a fevered breath — The sorrow that leads to the chamber whose light has gone out in death. To Susan, Rebecca and Isaac, to Thomas and Charley, word sped That mother was ill and fast failing, perhaps when they heard, might be dead ; But e'en while they wrote she was praying that some of her children might come To hear from her lips their last blessing before she should start for her home. To Susan, poor Susan ! how bitter the agony brought by the call. For deep in her heart for her mother wide rooms had been left after all ; And now, that she thought, by her fireside one place had been vacant for years — And while "o'er the hills she was speeding her path might be traced by her tears, NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 49 Rebecca ? she heard not the tidings, but those who bent over her knew That led by the Angel of Death, near the waves of the river she drew ; Delirious, ever she told them her mother was cooling her head, While, weeping, they thought that ere morning both mother and child might be dead. And, kneeling beside her, stern Isaac was quiv'ring in aspen-like grief, While waves of sad mem'ry surged o'er him like bil- lows of wind o'er the leaf; "Too late," were the words that had humbled his cold, haughty pride to the dust, And Peace, with her olive-boughs laden, crowned loving forgiveness with trust. Bowed over his letters and papers, sat Thomas, his brow lined by thought, But little he heeded the markets or news of his gains that they brought ; His lips grew as pale as his cheek, but new purpose seemed born in his eye, And Thomas went "over the hills," to the mother that shortly must die. To Charley, her youngest, her pride, came the mother's message that morn, And he was away "o'er the hills" ere the sunlight blushed over the corn ; And, strangest of all, by his side, was the wife he had "brought from the town," And silently wept, while her tears strung with diamonds her plain mourning gown. For each had been thinking, of late, how they missed the old mother's sweet smile. And wond'ring how they could have been so blind and unjust all that while ; They thought of their harsh, cruel words, and longed to atone for the past. When swift o'er the heart of vain dreams swept the presence of death's chilling blast. So into the chamber of death, one by one, these sad children had crept. As they, in their childhooa, had done, when mother was tired and slept— And peace, rich as then, came to each, as they drank in her blessing, so deep. That, breathing into her life, she fell back in her last blessed sleep. And when "o'er the hills from the poor-house," that mother is tenderly borne, The life of her life, her loved children, tread softly, and silently mourn. For theirs is no rivulet sorrow, but deep as the ocean is deep. And into our lives, with sweet healing, the balm of their bruising m^ creep. For swift come the flashings of temper, and torrents of words come as swift. Till out 'mong the tide-waves of anger, how often we thoughtlessly drift! And heads that are gray with life's ashes, and feet that walk down 'mong the dead. We send "o'er tlie hills to the poor-house " for love, and, it may be, for bread. Oh ! when shall we value the living while yet the keen sickle is stayed, Nor slight the wild flower in its blooming, till all its sweet life is decayed ? Yet often the fragrance is richest, when poured from the bruised blossom's soul. And '■ over the hills from the poor-house " the rarest of melodies roll. May Mignonette. MONA'S WATERS. H ' Mona's waters are blue and bright When the sun shines out like a gay young lover ; But Mona's waves are dark as night When the face of heaven is clouded over. The wild wind drives the crested foam Far up the steep and rocky mountain. And booming echoes drown the voice. The silvery voice, of Mona's fountain. Wild, wild against 'that mountain's side "■ The wrathful waves were up and beating, When stern Glenvarloch's chieftain came ; With anxious brow and hurried greeting He bade the widowed mother send (While loud the tempest's voice was raging) Her fair young son across the flood. Where winds and waves their strife were waging. And still that fearful mother prayed, " Oh ! yet delay, delay till morning. For weak the hand that glides our bark. Though brave his heart, all danger scorning.' Little did stern Glenvarloch heed ; "The safety of my fortress tower Depends on tidings he must bring From Fairlee bank, within the hour. 'See'st thou, across the sullen wave, A blood-red banner wildly streaming ? That flag a message brings to me Of which my foes are little dreaming. The boy must put his boat across, (Gold shall repay his hour of danger,) And bring me back, with care and speed. Three letters from the light-browed stranger." The orphan boy leaped lightly in ; Bold was his eye and brow of beauty. And bright his smile as thus he spoke . " I do but pay a vassal's duty ; 50 CROWN JEWELS. Fear not for me, O mother dear ! See how the boat the tide is spurning ; The storm will cease, the sky will clear, And thou wilt watch me safe returning." His bark shot on — now up, now down, Over the waves — the snowy-crested ; Now like a dart it sped along, Now like a white-winged sea-bird rested ; And ever when the wind sank low, Smote on the ear that woman's wailing. As long she watched, with streaming eyes. That fragile bark's uncertain sailing. He reached the shore — the letters claimed ; Triumphant, heard the stranger's wonder That one so young should brave alone The heaving lake, the rolling thunder. And once again his snowy sail Was seen by her — that mourning mother ; And once she heard his shouting voice — That voice the waves were soon to smother. Wild burst the wind, wide flapped the sail, A crashing peal of thunder followed ; The gust swept o'er the water's face, And caverns in the deep lake hollowed. The gust swept past, the waves grew calm. The thunder died along the mountain ; But where was he who used to play, ^ On sunny days, by Mona's fountain ? His cold corpse floated to the shore, Where knelt his lone and shrieking mother ; And bitterly she wept for him. The widow's son, who «had no brother ! She raised his arm — the hand was closed ; With pain his stiffened fingers parted, And on the sand three letters dropped ! — His last dim thought — the faithful-hearted. Glenvarloch gazed, and on his brow Remorse with pain and grief seemed blending ; A purse of gold he flung beside That mother, o'er her dead child bending. Oh ! wildly laughed that woman then, " Glenvarloch ! would ye dare to measure The holy life that God has given Against a heap of golden treasure ? " Ye spurned my prayer, for we were poor ; But know, proud man, that God hath power To smite the king on Scotland's throne, The chieftain in his fortress tower. Frown on ! frown on ! I fear ye not ; We've -done the last of chieftain's bidding, And cold he lies, for whose young sake I used to bear your wrathful chiding. " Will gold bring back his cheerful voice. That used to win mj- heart from sorrow ? Will silver warm the frozen blood, Or make my heart less lone to-morrow ? Go back and seek your mountain home. And when ye kiss your fair-haired daughter, Remember him who died to-night Beneath the waves of Mona's water." Old years rolled on, and new ones came — Foes dare not brave Glenvarloch's tower ; But naught could bar the sickness out That stole within fair Annie's bower. The o'erblown floweret in the sun Sinks languid down, and withers daily, And so she sank — her voice grew faint, Her laugh no longer sounded gaily. Her step fell on the old oak floor As noiseless as the snow-shower's drifting ; And from her sweet and serious eyes They seldom saw the dark lid lifting. " Bring aid ! Bring aid !" the father cries ; " Bring aid !" each vassal's voice is crying ; " The fair-haired beauty of the isles. Her pulse is faint — her life is flying !" He called in vain ; her dim eyes turned And met his own with parting sorrow, For well she knew, that fading girl. That he must weep and wail the morrow. Her faint breath ceased ; the father bent And gazed upon his fair-haired daughter. What thought he on .? The widow's son. And the stormy night by Mona's water. THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. T was the schooner Hesperus, That sail'd the wintry sea ; And the skipper had taken his little daughter, To bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day ; And her bosom white as the l^wthom buds, That ope in the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, With his pipe in his mouth, And watched how the veering flaw did blow The smoke, now west, now south. Then up, and spake an old sailor. Had sail'd the Spanish Main — I pray thee, put into yonder port. For I fear a hurricane. Last night the moon had a golden ring. And to-night no moon we see," The skipper he blew a whiff from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laugh'd he. Colder and louder blew the wind, A gale from the northeast ; The snow fell hissing in the brine. And the billows froth'd like yeast. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 61 Down came the storm, and smote amain The vessel in its strength ; She shudder'd, and paused, like a frighted steed, Then leap'd her cable's length. Cohie hither, come hither, mv little daughter, And do not tremble so ; For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow." He wrapp'd her warm in his seaman's coat, Against the stinging blast ; He cut a rope from a broken spar. And bound her to the mast. " O father, I hear the church-bells ring ! O say, what may it be ?" " 'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast," And he steer'd for the open sea. " O father, I hear the sound of g^ns ! ^ O say, what may it be ?" "Some ship in distress, that cannot live In such an angry sea 1" " O father, I see a gleaming light ! O say, what may it be ?" But the father answer' d never a word — A frozen corpse was he ! Lash'dto the helm all stiff and stark. With his face to the skies, The lantern gleam'd thro' the gleaming snow On his fix'd and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clasp'd her hands and prayed, That sav^d she might be ; And she thought of Christ, who still'd the waves, On the lake of Galilee. And fast through the midnight dark and drear, . Through the whistling sleet and snow. Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept. Towards the reef of Norman's Woe. And ever, the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land ; It was the sound of the trampling surf On the rocks, and the hard sea-sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck. And a whooping billow swept the crew. Like icicles, from her deck. She struck, where the white and fleecy waves ^ook'd soft as carded wool ; But the cruel rocks they gored her side Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheath'd in ice, Wfth the masts, went by the board ; Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank — Ho ! ho ! the breakers roar'd. At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair Lash'd close to a drifting mast. The salt sea was frozen on her breast, The salt tears in her eyes ; And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight, and the snow ; Christ save us all from a death like this, On the reef of Norman's Woe ; Henry Wadsvvorth Longfellow, AFTER BLENHEIM. T was a summer evening. Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun ; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine. She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found ; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large and smooth and round. Old Kaspar took it from the boy. Who stood expectant by ; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, " 'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, " Who fell in the great victory. "I find them in the garden. For there s many hereabout ; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out, For many thousand men," said he, " Were slain in that great victory." " Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries ; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes ; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for." "It was the English," Kaspar cried, " Who put the French to rout ; But what they fought each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, " That 'twas a famous victory. 52 CROWN JEWELS. " My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by ; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly ; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head, "With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then And newborn baby died ; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory. "They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won ; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. " Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why 'twas a very wicked thing !" Said little Wilhelmine. " Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, " It was a famous victory. "And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." " But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. " Why, that I cannot tell," said he, " But 'twas a famous victory." Robert Southey. ALONZO THE BRAVE AND THE FAIR IMOGINE. (3 WARRIOR so bold, and a virgin so bright. Conversed as they sat on the green ; They gazed on each other with tender delight : Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight — The maiden's, the Fair Imogine, "And, oh !" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go To fight in a far distant land, Your tears for my absence soon ceasing to flow. Some other will court you, and you will bestow On a wealthier suitor your hand !" " Oh ! hush these suspicions," Fair Imogine said, " Offensive to love and to me ; For, if you be living, or if you be dead, I swear by the Virgin that none in your stead Shall husband of Imogine be. " If e'er I, by lust or by wealth led aside. Forget my Alonzo the Brave, God grant that, to punish my falsehood and pride. Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side, May tax me witli peijury, claim me as bride, And bear me away to the grave !" To Palestine hasten'd the hero so bold, His love she lamented him sore ; But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when, behold ! A baron, all cover'd with jewels and gold. Arrived at Fair Imog^ne's door. His treasures, his presents, his spacious domain, Soon made her untrue to her vows ; He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her brain ; He caught her affections, so light and so vain, And carried her home as his spouse. And now had the marriage been blest by the priest ; The revelry now was begun ; The tables they groan'd with the weight of the feast, Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased, When the bell at the castle toU'd — one. Then first with amazement Fair Imogine found, A stranger was placed by her side : His air was terrific ; he utter' d no sound — He spake not, he moved not, he look'd not around — But earnestly gazed on the bride. His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height, His armor was sable to view ; All pleasure and laughter were hush'd at his sight ; The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright ; The lights in tlie chamber burn'd blue ! His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay ; The guests sat in silence and fear ; At length spake the bride — while she trembled — " I pray Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay, And deign to partake of our cheer." The lady is silent ; the stranger complies — His vizor he slowly unclosed ; Oh, God ! what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes ! What words can express her dismay and surprise When a skeleton's head was exposed ! All present then utter'd a terrified shout, All tum'd with disgust from the scene ; The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out. And sported his eyes and his temples about, While the spectre address'd Imogine : ' Behold me, thou false one, behold me !" he cried, " Remember Alonzo the Brave ! God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride. My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side ; Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride. And bear thee away to the grave !" Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound, While loudly she shriek'd in dismay ; Then sunk with his prey through the wide-yawning ground, Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found Or the spectre that bore her away. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 63 Not long lived the baron ; and none, since that time, To inhabit the castle presume ; For chronicles tell that, by order sublime. There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime, And mourns her deplorable doom. At midnight, four times in each year does her sprite. When mortals in slumber are bound, Array'd in her bridal apparel of white, . Appear in the hall with the skeleton knight, And shriek as he whirls her around ! While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave, Dancing round them the spectres are seen ; Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave They howl : " To the health of Alonzo the Brave, And his consort, the Fair Imogine !" Matthew Gregory Lewis. OLD GRIMES. LD Grimes is dead, that good old man — We ne'er shall see him more ; He used to wear a long black coat. All buttoned down before. His heart was open as the day, His feelings all were true ; His hair was some inclined to gray — He wore it in a queue. Whene'er he heard the voice of pain, His breast with pity burned ; The large round head upon his cane From ivory was turned. Kind words he ever had for all ; He knew no base design ; His eyes were dark and rather small. His nose was aquiline. He lived at peace with all mankind. In friendship he was true ; His coat had pocket-holes behind, His pantaloons were blue. Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes He passed securely o'er, And never wore a pair o' boots For thirty years or more. But good Old Grimes is now at rest, Nor fears misfortune's frown ; He wore a double-breasted vest — The stripes ran up and down. He modest merit sought to find. And pay it its desert ; He had no malice in his mind. No ruffles on his shirt. His neighbors he did not abuse — Was sociable and gay ; He wore large buckles on his shoes, And changed them every day. His knowledge, hid from public gaze, He did not bring to view. Nor make a noise town-meeting days. As many people do. His worldly goods he never threw In trust to fortune's chances, But lived (as all his brothers do) In easy circumstances. Thus undisturbed by anxious cares His peaceful moments ran ; And everybody said he was A fine old gentleman. Albert G. Greene. THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. The incidents liere woven into verse relate to William Scott, a young soldier from the Slate of Vermont, who, while on duty as a seniinel at night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the President. They form a brief record of his humble life at home and in the field, and of his glorious death. f Vj "WAS in the sultry summer-time, as war's red records show, When patriot armies rose to meet a fratri- '^ cidal foe — When, from the North and East and West, like the up- heaving sea, Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veiled decay — In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay; Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish breath. He waited but the appointed hour to die a culprit's death. Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care, He roamed at will, and freely drew his native moun- tain air — Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a woodland font, And waving elms, and g^rassy slopes, give beauty to Vermont Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the soil — Encircled by a mother's love, he sliared a father's toil- Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering coun- try's cry Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die ; 64 CROWN JEWELS. Then left he all : a few fond tears, by firmness half con- cealed, A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field - The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war's hot breath, Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose hus- bandman is death ! Without a murmur, he endured a service new and hard; But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on guard, He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning found His prostrate form — a sentinel asleep upon the ground. So in the silence of the night, aweary, on the sod. Sank the disciples, watching near the suffenng Son of God; Yet, Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes, And though betray'd to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise. But God is love — and finite minds can faintly com- prehend How gentle mercy, in His rule, may with stern justice blend ; And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify, While war's inexhorable law decreed that he must die. 'Twas night. — In a secluded room, with measured tread, and slow, A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro ; Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent ; On brothers armed in deadly strife : — it was the Presi- dent. The woes of thirty millions filled his burdened heart with grief. Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief ; And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry Of that poor soldier, as he lay in prison, doomed to die. 'Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the heated haze, Flashed back, from lines of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent blaze ; While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge. And in the midst, with faltering steps, and pale and anxious face, In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place, A youth— led out to die ;— and yet, it was not death, but shame That smote his gallant heart with dread, and .shook his manly Irame. Still on, before the marshall'd ranks, the train pursued its way Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay— His coffin; and with reeling brain, despainng — deso- late- He togk his station by its side, abandoned to his fate. Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air ; He saw his distant mountain home ; he saw his mother there; He saw his father bowed in grief, thro' fast-dechnmg years; He saw a nameless grave ; and then, the vision closed — in tears. Yet once again. In double file advancing, then, he saw Twelve comrades sternly set apart to execute the law — But saw no more ; his senses swam — deep darkness settled round — And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound. Then suddenly was heard the noise of steed and wheels approach. And, rolling through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. On, past the guards, and through the field, its rapid course was bent. Till, halting, 'mid the lines was .seen the nation's Presi- dent. He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair ; And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air ; The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubi- lee. And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him free. 'Twas spring — within a verdant vale, where War- wick's crystal tide Reflected, o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side^ Where birds and flowers combined to cheer a sylvan solitude — Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defi- ance stood. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 55 Two threatening armies ' One invoked by injured Liberty — Which bore above its patriot ranlcs the Symbol of the Free ; And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaunting flag of bars, A fragment, torn by traitorous hands, from Freedom's Stripes and Stars. A sudden shock which shook the earth, 'mid vapor dense and dun, Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun ; And shot and shell, athwart the stream with fiendish fury sped. To strew among the living lines the dying and the dead. Then, louder than the roaring storm, pealed forth the stern command, " Charge I soldiers, charge!" and, at the word, with shouts, a fearless band. Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the flood. And upward o'er the rising ground, they marked their way in blood. The smitten foe before them fled, in terror, from his post — While, unsustained, two hundred stood, to battle with a host ' Then turning as the rallymg ranks, with murd'rous fire replied. They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide. The fallen ! And the first who fell in that unequal strife. Was he whom mercy sped to save when j ustice claimed his life— The pardon'd soldier ' And while yet the conflict raged around, While yet his life-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound — While yet his voice grew tremulous, and death be- dimmed his eye — He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die ; And in his last expiring breath, a prayer to heaven was sent. That God. with His unfailing grace, would bless our President. Francis De Haes Janvier. THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELlN. AMELIN Town's in Brunswick. By famous Hanover City ; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southeni side , A pleasanter spot you never spied. But when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity. Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in tlie cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles. Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats. By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking : " 'Tis clear," cried they, " our Mayor's a noddy ; And as for our Corporation — shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to nd us of our vermin !" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sate in council — At length the Mayor broke silence : " For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell ; I wish I were a mile hence ! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain — I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain. for a trap, a trap, a trap !" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? " Bless us," cried the Mayor, " what's that?" " Come in !" — ^the Mayor cried, looking bigger ; And in did come the strangest figure \ He advanced to the council-table ; And, " Please your honor," said he, "I'm able. By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run. After me so as you never saw ' Yet," said he, " poor piper as I am. In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swann of gnats ; 1 eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampire-bats ; And as for what your brain bewilders — If I can rid your town of rats. Will you give me a thousand guilders ?" " One? fifty thousand !" was the exclamation Oi the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 56 CROWN JEWELS. Into the street the piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew \vh::t magic slept In his quiet pipe the while ; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled. And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle flame wliere salt is sprinkled ; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered. You heard as if an army muttered ; And the muttering grew to a grumbling ; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling ; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers ; Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — Followed the piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser, Wherein all plunged and perished Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary. Which was : "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe. And putting apples, wondrous ripe. Into a cider-press's gripe — And a moving away of pickle-tub boards, And a leaving ajar of conser\'e-cupboards. And a drawing the corks of train-oil flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks ; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, " O rats, rejoice ! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon. Already staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, )ust as methought it said, ' Come, bore me ! '— I found the Weser rolling o'er me." You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple ; " Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles ! Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats !" — when suddenly, up the face Of the piper perked in the market place, Witli a "First if you please, my thousand guilders !" A thousand guilders ! the Mayor looked blue ; So did the Corporation too. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! < " Beside," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, " Our business was done at the river's brink ; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke ; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well .know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty ; ■ A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty I" The piper's face fell, and he cried, " No trifling 1 I can't wait ! beside, I've promised to visit by dinner time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in. For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor — With him I proved no bargain-driver ; With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver ! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion." " How?" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a cook ? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst I" Once more he stept into the street ; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth, straight cane ; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet, Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling ; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering ; And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering. Out came the children running : All the little boys and girls. With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls. Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by. And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack. And the wretched Council's bosoms beat NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 67 As the piper turned from the High street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed ; Great was the joy in every breast. " He never can cross that mighty top ! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop !" When lo, as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed ; And the piper advanced and the children followed ; And when all were in, to the very last. The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all ? No ! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way ; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, " It's dull in our town since my playmates left, I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the piper also promised me ; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue. And everything was strange and new ; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stmgs. And horses were born with eagles' wings , And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still. And found myself outside the Hill, Left alone against my will. To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more !" Robert Browning. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 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. Re-buckled the check-strap, chained slacker the bit ; Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas 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, 'twas 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, Roland, 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; 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-fliakes, which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned, and cried Joris, "Stay spur ' Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her. We'll 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 'n sight I " " How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment h's 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-sockets 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 I>eer ; 68 CROWN JEWELS. 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, ■, ■ And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As I poured down his throat our last measures of wine, Which, (the burgesses voted by common consent,) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. Robert Browning. CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. ■ LOWLY England's sun was settmg o'er the hill- tops far away, Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day. And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair — He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny floating hair ; He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips all cold and white. Struggling 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, with its 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 breathed the husky whisper • — " Curiew must not ring to-night." *' Bessie, ' ' calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young heart Like the piercing of an arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart— "Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy, shadowed 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 falter — Curfew, it must ring to-night." Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow, As within her secret bosom 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 breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright ; In an undertone she murmured : — "Curfew must not ring to-night," With quick step she bounded forward, sprung within the old church door. Left the old man threading slowly paths so oft he'd trod before ; Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro. As she climbed the dusty ladder on which fell no ray ©flight, Up and up— her white lips saying : — " Curfew must 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 Lo, the ponderous tongue is swinging— 'tis the hour of Curfew now. And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow. Shall she let it ring ? No, never I flash her eyes with sudden light. As she springs, and grasps it firmly — "Curfew shall not ring to-night I " 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, Sadly thought, "That twilight Curfew rang young Basil's uneral knell." Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips so white. Said to hush her heart's wild throbbing :— "Curfew shall not ring to night" It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once more Firmly on the dark old ladder where for hundred years before , Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done Should be told long ages after, as the rays of setting sun Cnmson all the sky with beauty; aged sires, with heads of white, Tell the eager, listening children. "Curfew did not ring that night " NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 59 O'er the distant hills came Cromwell ; Bessie sees him, and her brow, Lately white with fear and anguish, has no anxious traces now. At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn ; And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with sorrow pale and worn, Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light : "Go ! your lover lives," said Cromwell, "Curfew shall not ring to-night.' Wide they flung the massive portal ; led the prisoner forth to die — All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the dark- ening English sky Bessie comes with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with love-light sweet : Kneeling on the turf beside him, lays his pardon at his feet, In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white, Whispered, " Darling, you have saved me — Curfew will not ring to-night ! " Rose Hartwick Thorpe. THE MISER WHO LOST HIS TREASURE. 'T'S use that constitutes possession wholly ; I ask those people who've a passion For heaping gold on gold, and saving solely, How they excel the poorest man in any fashion? Diogenes is quite as rich as they. True misers live like beggars, people say ; The man with hidden treasure -(Esop drew Is an example of the thing I mean. In the next life he might be happy, true ; But very little joy in this he knew ; By gold the miser was so little blessed. Not its possessor, but by it possessed ; He buried it a fathom underground ; His heart was with it; his delight To ruminate upon it day and night ; A victim to the altar ever bound. He seemed so poor, yet not one hour forgot The golden grave, the concentrated spot ; Whether he goes or comes, or eats or drinks. Of gold, and gold alone, the miser thinks. At last a ditcher marks his frequent walks, And muttering talks. Scents out the place, and clears the whole. Unseen by any spies. On one fine day the miser came, his soul Glowing with joy ; he found the empty nest ; Burst into tears, and sobs, and cries, He frets, and tears his thin gray hair ; He's lost what he had loved the best A startled peasant passing there Inquires the reason of his sighs. '' My gold ! ftiy gold ! they've stolen all." " Your treasure ? what was it, and where ?" " Why, buried underneath this stone." (A moan 1) , "Why, man, is this a time of war? Why should you bring your gold so far? Had you not better much have let The wealth lie in a cabinet, Where you could find it any hour In your own power ?" "What ! every hour ? a wise man knows Gold comes, but slowly, quickly goes ; I never touched it." " Gracious me 1". Replied the other, " why, then, be So wretched ? for if you say true, You never touched it, plain the case ; Put back that stone upon the place, 'Twill be the very same to you." THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. The fifth of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon's passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements around. The words " tele d'armee," (head of the array,) the last which escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a heavy fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired. ILD was the night, yet a wilder night Hung round the soldier's pillow ; In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight Than the fight on the wrathful billow. A few fond mourners were kneeling by, The few th.it his stern heart cherished ; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye, That life had nearly perished. They knew by his awful and kingly look. By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shook, And the nations' hosts were broken. / He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew. And triumphed the Frenchman's "eagle ;" And the struggling Austrian fled anew, Like the hare before the beagle. The bearded Russian he scourged again, The Prussian's camp was routed. And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, His mighty armies shouted. Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows. At the pyramids, at the mountain, Where the wave of the lordly Danube flows. And by the Italian fountain, On the snowy cliffs, where mountain-streamw Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, He led again, in his dying dreams, His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 60 CROWN JEWELS. Again Marengo's field was won, And Jena's bloody battle ; Again the world was overrun, Made pale at his cannons' rattle. He died at the close of that darksome day, A day that shall live in story ; In the rocky land they placed his clay, "And "eft him alone with his glory.'' Isaac McLkllan. FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. EN BATTLE was a soldier bold, And used to war's alarms ; But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms 1 Now as they bore him off the field, Said he, " Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg, And the Forty-second Foot !" The army-surgeons made him limbs : Said he — " They're only pegs ; But there's as wooden members quite As represent my legs !" Now Ben he loved a pretty maid, Her name was Nelly Gray ! So he went to pay her his devours When he'd devoured his pay. But when he called on Nelly Gray, She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs. Began to take them off ! "O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat. Should be more uniform !" Said she, " I loved a soldier once, For he was blithe and brave ; But I will never have a man With both legs in the grave ! " Before you had those timber toes. Your love I did allow, But then you know, you stand upon Another footing now !" " O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray ! For all your cheering speeches, At duty's call I left my legs In Badajos's breaches T^ "Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes Upon your feats of arms !" " O, false and fickle Nelly Gray ; I know why you refuse : — Though I've no feet — some other man Is standing in my shoes ! ' I wish I n'er had seen your face ; But, now, a long farewell ! For you will be my death : — alas ! You will not be my Nell P^ Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got — And life was such a burthen grown. It made him take a knot ! So round his melancholy neck A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life. Enlisted in the Line 1 One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs, And, as his legs were off— of course. He soon was off his legs ! And there he hung till he was dead As any nail in town — For though distress had cut him up. It could not cut him down ! A dozen men sat on his corpse, To find out why he died — And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside ! Thomas Hood THE MISER'S WILL HIS tale is true, for s^ the records Fhow; 'Twas in Germany, not many years ago : Your>g Erfurth loved. But ere the wedding day His dearest friend stole with his bride away, The woman false that he had deemed so true, The friend he trusted but an ingrate, too ; What wonder that, his love to hatred grown. His heart should seem to all mankind a stone? All kindred ties he broke, himself be banned. And sought a solitude in stranger land. Grief finds relief in something found to do, The mind must find some object to pursue ; And so, ere long, his being was controlled By sole, debasing, longing greed for gold. How soon his little multiplied to much ! His hand seemed gifted with a Midas touch ; Yet still he kept himself unto himself, None seeing but for increase of his pelf. NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 61 Death came at last ; discovering ere he died, His heart had yet one spot unpetrified ; For, on his bed, his hand upon it still, There, open, lay the poor old miser's will. The will was read ; there to his brothers three He left to each a thousand marks ; and he, The friend who caused him all his grief and shame, Was, with his free forgiveness, left the same ; But none of these, to whom such wealth he gave Should follow his remains unto the grave On pain of forfeit. 'Neath his pillow pressed Was found a letter, sealed ; and thus addressed : "To my dear native city of Berlin." The brothers heard, and thought it was no sin To stay away ; besides, his absence long Had quenched the love not ever over-strong. Wliat did the faithless friend ? He knelt in tears, Looked back in anguish o'er the vanished years, Saw once again their happy boyhood's time. Their manhood's friendship, his repented crime. "Oh, my wronged Erfurth, now in death so cold, I've your forgiveness, care I for your gold?" And, at the funeral, striving to atone. The single mourner there, he walked alone. The letter, opened at the Mayor's will, Was found to hold the miser's codicil. Wherein he gave his hoarded gold and lands To him that disobeyed the will's commands. Should such there be — whose heart knew love ( pity— Or, failing, all went to his native city. And so the friend who stole his bride away ; Who turned to night his joyous morn of day. Humbly repentant, when his victim died. Received his pardon and his wealth beside. George Birdskye. Q THE TALE OF A TRAMP. ET me sit down a moment ; A stone's got into my shoe. Don't you commence your cussin' — I ain't done nothin' to you. Yes, I'm a tramp — what of it? Folks say we ain't no good — Tramps have got to live, I reckon. Though people don't think we should. Once I was young and handsome ; Had plenty of cash and clothes — That was before I got to tipplin'. And gin got in my nose. Way down in the Lehigh Valley Me and my people grew ; I was a blacksmith, Captain, Yes, and a good one, too. Me and my wife, and Nellie — Nellie was just sixteen. And she was the pootiest cretur The Valley had ever seen. Beaux ! Why she had a dozen, Had 'em from near and fur ; But they was mostly farmers — None of them suited her. But there was a city chap. Handsome, young and tall — Ah ! curse liim ! I wish I had him To strangle against yonder wall 1 He was the man for Nellie — She didn't know no ill ; Mother, she tried to stop it, But you know young girls' will. Well, it's the same old story — Common enough, you say — But he was a soft-tongued devil. And got her to run away. More than a month, or later. We heard from the poor young thing — He had run away and left her Without any weddin'-ring 1 Back to her home we brought her, Back to her mother's side ; Filled with a ragin' fever, She fell at my feet and died ! Frantic with shame and sorrow. Her mother began to sink. And died in less than a fortnight ; That's when I took to drink. Come, give me a glass now. Colonel, And I'll be on my way. And 111 tramp till I catch that scoundrel. If it takes till the judgment day. LITTLE GOLDEN-HAIR. •^ ITTLE Golden-hair was watching, in the wm- '% T ^°^ broad and high, M^ For the coming of her father, who had gone the foe to fight ; He had left her in the morning, and had told hernot to cry. But to have a kiss all ready when he came to her at night. She had wandered, all the day, In her simple childish way, And had asked, as time went on. Where her father could have gone. She had heard the muskets firing, she had counted every one. Till the number grew so many that it was too gjreat a load ; / 62 CROWN JEWELS. Then the evening fell upon her, clear of sound of shot or gun, And she gazed with wistful waiting down the dusty Concord road. Little Golden-hair had listened, not a single week be- - fore, While the heavy sand was falling on her mother's coffin-lid ; And she loved her father better for the loss that then she bore, And thought of him and yearned for him, whatever else she did. So she wondered all the day What could make her father stay, And she cried a little too, As he told her not to do. And the sun sunk slowly downward and went grand- ly out of sight, And she had the kiss all ready on his lips to be be- stowed ; But the shadows made one shadow, and the twilight grew to night, And she looked, and looked, and listened, down the dusty Concord road. Then the night grew light and lighter, and the moon rose full and round, In the little sad face peering, looking piteously and mild ; Still upon the walks of gravel there was heard no welcome sound. And no father came there, eager for the kisses of his child. Long and sadly did she wait, Listening at the cottage-gate ; Then she felt a quick alarm, Lest he might have come to harm. With no bonnet but her tresses, no companion but her fears, And no guide except the moonbeams that the path- way dimly showed. With a little sob of sorrow, quick she threw away her tears, And alone she bravely started down the dustv Con- cord road. And for many a mile she struggled, full of weanness and pain. Calling loudly for her father, that her voice he might not miss ; Till at last, among a number of the wounded and the slain. Was the white face of the soldier, waiting for his daughter's kiss. Softly to his lips she crept, Not to wake him as he slept ; Then, with her young heart at rest, Laid her head upon his breast. And upon the dead face smiling, with the living one near by, All the night a golden streamlet of the moonbeams gently flowed ! One to live a lor^ply orphan, one beneath the sod to lie— They found them in the morning on the dusty Con- cord road. Will M. Carleton. THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY." 'AVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it — Ah, but stay, I'll tell you what happened, without delay — Scaring the parson into fits. Frightening people out of their wits — Have you ever heard of that, I say ? Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, Georgius Secundus was then alive — Snuffy old drone from the German hive. Tliat was the year when Lisbon town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible earthquake-day That the deacon finished the one-hoss shay. Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what. There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill. In panel or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace — lurking still. Find it somewhere you must and will — Above or below, or within or without — And that's the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise breaks down, but does'nt wear out. But the deacon swore — (as deacons do. With an "I dew vum " or an "I tell yeou,") — He would build one shay to beat the taown 'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun' ; It should be so, built that it couldn' break daown : — " Fur," said the deacon, " 't's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain. Is only jest To make that place uz strong uz the rest."' So the deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak. That could n't be split, nor bent, nor broke — NARRATIVES AND BALLADS. 63 That was for spokes, and floor, and ^ills ; He sent for lancewood, to make the thills ; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees ; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs from log^s from the " Settler's ellum," Last of its timber — they couldn't sell 'em — Never an ax had seen their chips. And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw. Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide. Found in the pit where the tanner died. That was the way he " put her through." " There ! " said the deacon, " naow she'll dew ! " Do ! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less ! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, • Deacon and deaconess dropped away. Children and grandchildren — where were they ? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay, As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day ! Eighteen hundred — it came, and found The deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred, increased by ten — " Hahnsum kerridge " they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came — Running as usual — much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive ; And then came fifty — and fifty-five. Little of all we value here Wakes on the mom of its hundreth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth. So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large : Take it. — You're welcome. — No extra charge.) First of November — the earthquake day. — There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay — But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be — for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there wasn't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills. And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,^ And spring, and axle, and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out ! First of November, 'Fifty-five ! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way ! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay, Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. " Huddup ! " said the parson.— Ofi" went they. The parson was working his Sunday text — Had got to "fifthly," and stoppt;d perplexed At what the — Moses — was coming next. All at once the horse stood still. Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. — First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill — And the parson was sitting upon a rock. At half-past nine by the meet'n'-house clock — Just the hour of the earthquake shock ! What do you think the parson found. When he got up and stared around ! The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground ! You see, of course, if you're not a dunce. How it went to pieces all at once — All at once, and nothing first — Just as bubbles do when they burst. — End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say. Oliver Wendell Hol.mes. THE DRUMMER-BOY'S BURIAL LL day long the storm of battle through the startled valley swept ; All night long the stars in heaven o'er the slain sad vigils kept. O, the ghastly upturned faces gleaming whitely through the night ! O, the heaps of mangled corses in that dim sepulchral light ! One by one the pale stars faded, and at length the morning broke. But not one of all the sleepers on that field of death awoke. Slowly passed the golden hours of that long bright summer day. And upon that field of carnage still the dead unburied lay. Lay there stark and cold, but pleading with a dumb, unceasing prayer, For a little dust to hide them from the staring sun and air. But the foeman held possession of the hard-won battle- plain, In unholy wrath denying even burial to our slain. 64 CROWN JEWELS. Once again the night dropped round them— night so holy and so calm That the moonbeams hushed the spirit, like the sound of prayer or psalm. On a couch of trampled grasses, just apart from all the rest, Lay a fair young boy, with small hands meekly folded on his breast Death had touched him very gently, and he lay as if in sleep ; E'en his mother scarce had shuddered at that slumber calm and deep. For a smile of wondrous sweetness lent a radiance to the face, And the hand of cunning sculptor could have added naught of grace To the marble limbs so perfect in their passionless re- pose. Robbed of all save matchless purity by hard, unpitying foes. And the broken drum beside him all his life's short story told : How he did his duty bravely till the death-tide o'er him rolled. Midnight came with ebon garments and a diadem of stars. While right upward in the zenith hung the fiery planet Mars. Hark ! a sound of stealthy footsteps and of voices whispering low. Was it nothing but the young leaves, or the brooklet's murmuring flow ? Clinging closely to each other, striving never to look round. As they passed with silent shudder the pale corses on the ground, Came two little maidens — sisters — with a light and hasty tread. And a look upon their faces, half of sorrow, half of dread. And they did not pause nor falter till, with throbbing hearts, they stood Where the drummer boy was lying in that partial soli- tude. They had brought some simple garments from their wardrobe's scanty store. And two heavy iron shovels in their slender hands they bore. Then they quickly knelt beside him, crushing back the pitying tears, For they had no time for weeping, nor for any girlish fears. And they robed the icy body, while no glow of maiden shame Changed the pallor of their foreheads to a flush of lam- bent flame. For their saintly hearts yearned o'er it in that hour of sorest need. And they felt that Death was holy, and it sanctified the deed. But they smiled and kissed each other when their new strange task was o'er. And the form that lay before them its unwonted gar- ments wore. Then with slow and weary labor a small grave they hollowed out, And they lined it with the withered grass and leaves that lay about. But the day was slowly breaking ere their holy work was done, And in crimson pomp the morning heralded again the sun. Gently then those little maidens — they were children of our foes — Laid the body oT our drummer-boy to undisturbed re pose. LOVE SND FRIENDSHIP. THOU'RT ALL THE WORLD TO ME. EAVEN hath its crown of stars, the earth Her glory- robe of flowers — The sea its gems — the grand old woods Their songs and greening showers : The birds have homes, where leaves and blooms In beauty wreathe above; High yearning hearts, their rainbow-dream — And we, sweet ! we have love. W^e walk not with the jewell'd gjeat, Where love's dear name is sold ; Yet have we wealth we would not give For all their world of gold 1 We revel not in corn and wine, Yet have we from above Masna divine, and we'll not pine, While we may live and love. Chenibim, with clasping wings, Ever about us be, And, happiest of God's happy things. There's love for you and me ! Thy lips, that kiss to death, have turn'd Life's water into wine ; The sweet life melting through thy looks, H^th made my life divine. All love's dear promise hath been kept. Since thou to me wert given ; A ladder for my soul to climb, And summer high in heaven. I know, dear heart ! that in our lot May mingle tears and sorrow : But, love's rich rainbow's built from tears To-day, with smiles to-morrow. The sunshine from our sky may die. The greenness from life's tree, But ever, 'mid the warring storm. Thy nest shall shelter'd be. The world may never know, dear heart ! What I have found in thee ; But, though naught to the world, dear heart ! Thou'rt all the world to me. Gerald Massky. 5 THE QUEEN. ES, wife, I'd be a throned king, That you might share my royal seat, That titled beauty I might bring, And princes' homage to your feet. How quickly, then, would nobles see Your courtly grace, your regal mien ; Even duchesses all blind should be To flaw or speck in you, their queen. Poor wish ! O, wife, a queen you are. To those feet many a subject brings A truer homage, nobler far Than bends before the thrones of kings. You rule a realm, wife, in this heart, Where not one rebel fancy's seen, Where hopes and smiles, how joyous ! start To own the sway of you, their queen. How loyal are my thoughts by day ! How faithful is each dream of night ! Not one but lives but to obey Your rule — to serve you, its delight ; My hours — each instant — every breath Are, wife, as all have ever been. Your slaves, to serve you unto death; O wife, you are indeed a queen ! William Cox EEKNHrrT THE VALE OF AVOCA. HERE is not in this wide world a valley so sweet As that vale, in whose bosom the bright I waters meet ; O, the last ray 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 ; 'Twas not the soft magic of streamlet or hill — O, no 1 it was something more exquisite still. Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near. Who made ev'ry 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 w^orld should cease, And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. Thomas Moore. (65) «6 CROWN JEWELS. ANNABEL LEE. ' T was many and many a year ago, In a kingdom Ly the sea, That a maiden there lived, whom you may know By the name of Annabel Lee ; And tin's maiden she lived With no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me. I was a child, and she was a child, In this kingdom by the sea ; But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Annabel Lee — With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven Coveted her and me. And this was the reason that, long ago. In this kingdom by the sea, A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee ; So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me, ' To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea. The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me. Yes ! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea) That tlie wind came out of the cloud by night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we, Of many far wiser than we ; And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea. Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee ; And so all the night-time, I lie down by the side Of my darling— my darling— my life and my bride In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea. Edgar Allen Poe. TO MARY IN HEAVEN. Composed by Burns on the anniversary of the day on which he heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell. HOU lingering star, with lessening ray, That lov'st to greet the early morn, Again thou usher'st in the day T My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary ! dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? That sacred hour can I forget — Can I forget the hallowed grove, ' Where by the winding Ayr we met To live one day of parting love? Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green ; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twined amorous round the raptured scene ; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest. The birds sang love on every spray — Till soon, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day. Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary I dear departed shade 1 Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? Robert Burns. THE SAILOR'S FAREWELL HE topsails shiver in the wind. The ship she casts to sea ; But yet my soul, my heart, my mind, J Are, Mary, moor'd by thee : For though thy sailor's bound afar ; Still love shall be his leading star. Should landmen flatter when we're sailed, O doubt their artful tales ; No gallant sailor eved fail'd, ' If Cupid fill'd his sails: Thou art the compass of my soul. Which steers my heart from pole to pole. Sirens in ev'ry port we meet, More fell than rocks and waves ; But sailors of the British fleet Are lovers, and not slaves : No foes our courage shall subdue. Although we've left our hearts with you. These are our cares ; but if you're kind, We'll scorn the dashing main, The rocks, the billows, and the wind. The powers of France and Spain. Now Britain's glory, rests with you, Our sails are full — sweet girls, adieu ! Edward Thompson. YES PR W®? i LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 67 APOSTROPHE TO LOVE. 'AIL, holy love, thou word that sums all bliss, Gives and receives all bliss, fullest when most Thougivest! spring-head of all felicity, Deepest when most is drawn ! emblem of God ! Mysterious, infinite, exhaustless love ! On earth mysterious, and mj-sterious still In Heaven ! sweet chord that harmonizes all The harps of Paradise ! Hail, love ! first love, thou word that sums all bliss ! The sparkling cream of all time's blessedness ; The silken down of happiness complete ! Discemer of the ripest grapes of joy. She gathereth, and selecteth with her hand. All finest relishes, all fairest sights, All rarest odors, all divinest sounds. All thoughts, all feelings dearest to the soul ; And brings the holy mixture home, and fills The heart with all superlatives cf bliss, Robert Pollok. fi THE SAILOR'S RETURN, OOSE every sail to the breeze, The course of my vessel improve ; I've done with the toils of the seas, Ve sailors, I'm bound to my love. Since Emma is true as she's fair. My griefs I fling all to the wind ; 'Tis a pleasing return for my care. My mistress is constant and kind. My sails are all fill'd to my dear ; What tropic bird swifter can move ? Who, cruel shall hold his career That returns to the nest of his love ? Hoist every sail to the breeze. Come, shipmates, and join in the song; Let's drink, while the ship cuts the seas, To the gale that may drive her along. Edward Thompson. 6( ^ YES OR NO. ES," I answered you last night ; "No," this morning, sir, I saj'. Colors seen by candle-light Will not look the same by day. When the viols played their best. Lamps above, and laughs below, " Love me " sounded like a jest. Fit for " yes " or fit for " no." Call me false or call me free. Vow, whatever light may shine, No man on your face shall see Any grie( for change on mme. Yet the sin is on us both ; Time to dance is not to woo ; Wooing light makes fickle troth. Scorn of me recoils on you. Learn to win a lady's faith Nobly, as the thing is high, Rrnvely, as for life and death. With a loyal gravity. Lead her from the festive boards, Point her to the starry skies, Guard her, by your truthful words, Pure from courtship's flatteries. By your truth she shall be true, Ever true, as wives of yore ; And her "yes," once said to you, Shall be yes forevermore. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. THE HEART'S DEVOTION. *ELL him, for years I never nursed a thought That was not his ; — that on his wandering wp.y Daily and nightlj% poured a mourner's prayers. Tell him ev'n now that I would rather share His lowliest lot — walk by his side, an outcast — Work for him, beg with him — live upon the light Of one kind smile from him, than wear the crown The Bourbon lost Edward Bulwer Lvtton. NOTOURS THE VOWS. OT ours the vows of such as plight Their troth in sunny weather. While leaves are green, and skies are bright, To walk on flowers together. But we have loved as those who tread The thorny path of sorrow, With clouds above, and cause to dread Yet deeper gloom to-morrow. That thorny path, those stormy skies. Have drawn our spirits nearer ; And rendered us, by sorrow's ties, Each to the other deartr. Love, born in hours of joy and mirth. With mirth and joy may peri.^h ; That to which darker hours gave birth Still more and more we cherish. It looks beyond the clouds of time, And through death's shadow portal ; Made by adversity sublime, By faith and hope immortal, Bernard Barton. 68 CROWN JEV/ELS. HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD FRAMED. AD I a heart for falseliood framed, I ne'er could injure you ; For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true : To you no soul shall bear deceit, No stranger offer wron;j ; But friends in all the aged you'll meet, And lovers in the young. For when they learn that you have blest Another with your heart, They'll bid aspiring passion rest, And act a brother's part. Then, lady, dread not here deceit. Nor fear to suffer wrong ; For friends in allthe aged you'll meet, And brothers in the young. Richard Brinsley Sheridan. THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. SING unto my roundelay ! O, drop the briny tear with me ! J Dance no more at holiday. Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night. White his neck as the summer snow. Ruddy his face as the morning light ; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he ; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout ; O, he lies by the willow-tree ! My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Hark ! the raven flaps his wing In the briered dell below ; Hark ! the death-owl loud doth sing To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See ! the white moon shines on high ; Whiter is my true-love's shroud, Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid. Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn. Drain my heart's blood all away ; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed. All under the willow-tree. Thomas Chatterton. THE HARE-BELL. I Y sylvan waves that westward flow A hare-bell bent its beauty low. With slender waist and modest brow, Amidst the shades descending. A star look'd from the paler sky — The hare-bell gazed, and with a sigh Forgot that love may look too high, And sorrow without ending. By casement hid, the flowers among, A maiden lean'd and listen' d long ; It was the hour of love and song, And early night-birds calling : A barque across the river drew — The rose was glowing through and through The maiden's cheek of trembling hue, Amidst the twilight falling. She saw no star, she saw no flower — Her heart expanded to the hour ; She reck'd not of her lowly dower Amidst the shades descending. With love thus fix'd upon a height, That seem'd so beauteous to the sight, How could she think of wrong and blight, And sorrow without ending. The hare-bell droop'd beneath the dew, And closed its eye of tender blue ; No sun could e'er its life renew. Nor star, in music calling. The autumn leaves were early shed ; But earlier on her cottage bed The maiden's loving heart lay dead, Amidst the twilight falling ! Charles Swain. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 69 FORSAKEN. EVER any more, While I live, Need I hope to see his face As before. Once his love grown chill, Mine may strive — Bitterly we reembrace, Single still. Was it something said, Something done, Vexed him? was it touch of hand, Turn of head ? Strange ! that very way Love begun. I as little understand Love's decay. When I sewed or drew, I recall How he looked as if I sang — Sweetly too. If I spoke a word. First of all Up his cheek the color sprang, Then he heard. Sitting by my side. At my feet, So he breathed the air I breathed, Satisfied ! I, too, at love's brim Touched the sweet. I would die if death bequeathed Sweet to him. ■" Speak— I love thee best ! " He e.Kclaimed — " Let thy love my own foretell." I confessed : •' Clasp my heart on thine Now unblamed, Since upon thy soul as well Hangeth mine!" Was it wrong to own, Being truth? Why should all the giving prove His alone? I had wealth and ease, Beauty, youth — Smce my lover gave me love, I gave these. That was all I meant, —To be just, And the passion I had raised To content. Since he chose to change Gold for dust. If I gave him what he praised, Was it strange? Would he lov'd me yet. On and on, While I found some way undreamed — Paid my debt ! Gave more life and more, Till, all gone. He should smile— "She never seemed Mine before. "What— she felt the while,, ' Must I think? Love's so different with us men." He should smile. " Dying for my sake — W^hite and pink ! Can't we touch these bubbles then, But they break?" Dear, the pang is brief. Do thy part. Have thy pleasure. How perplext Grows belief! Well, this cold clay clod W^as man's heart. Crumble it— and what comes next ? Is it God? Robert Browning. © ABSENT STILL. AY, in melting purple dying ; Blossoms, all around me sighing ; Fragrance, from the lilies straying ; Zephyr, with my ringlets playing ; Ye but waken my distress ; I am sick of loneliness ! Thou, to whom I love to hearken. Come, ere night around me darken ; Though thy softness but deceive me, • Say thou'rt true, and I'll believe thee; Veil, if ill, thy soul's intent, Let me think it innocent ! Save thy toiling, spare thy treasure ; All I ask is friendship's pleasure ; Let the shining ore lie darkling — Bring no gem in lustre sparkling ; Gifts and gold are naught to me. I would only look on thee ! Absent still ! Ah ! come and bless me . Let these eyes again caress thee. Once in caution, I could fly thee ; Now, I nothing could deny thee. In a look if death there be. Come, and I will gaze on thee ! Maria Gowen Brooks. 70 CROWN JEWELS. (3 THE SMACK IN SCHOOL DISTRICT school, not far away 'Mid Berkshire hills, one winter's day. Was humming witli its wonted noise Of three-score mingled girls and boys, Some few upon their tasks intent, But more on furtive mischief bent. The while the master's downward look Was fastened on a copy-book ; When suddenly, behind his back, Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack ! As 'twere a battery of bliss Let off in one tremendous kiss ! " What's that?" the startled master cries ; "That, thir," a little imp replies, " Wath William Willith, if you pleathe — I thaw him kith Thuthanna Peathe !" With frown to make a statue thrill, The master thundered, "Hither, Will!" Like wretch o'ertaken in his track, With stolen chattels on his back. Will hung his head in fear and shame. And to the awful presence came — A great, green, bashful simpleton. The butt of all good-natured fun. With smile suppressed, and birch upraised, The threatener faltered — " I'm amazed That you, my biggest pupil, should Be gruilty of an act so rude ! Before the whole set school to boot — What evil genius put you to't.?" " 'Twas she herself, sir," sobbed the lad, " I did not mean to be so bad ; But when Susannah shook her curls, And whispered I was 'fraid of girls. And dursn't kiss a baby's doll, I couldn't stand it, sir, at all, But up and kissed her on the spot ! I know — boo-hoo — I ought to not, But, somehow, from her looks — boo-hoo — I thought she kind o' wished me to ! " W. P. Palmer. FLY TO THE DESERT, FLY WITH ME. LY to the desert, fly with me, Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; But oh ! the choice vi^hat 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. Oh ! there are looks and tones that dart An instant sunshine through the heart. As if the soul that minute caught Some treasure it though life had sought ; As if the very lips and eyes Predestined to have all our sighs, And never be forgot again, Sparkled and spoke before as then. So came thy very glance and tone, When first on me they breathed and shone ; New, as if brought from other spheres. Yet welcome as if loved for years. Thomas Mpore. THE QUIVER. ESTUS. Lady ! I will not forget my trust. [Apart) The breeze which curls the lakes's bright lip but lifts A purer, deeper, water to the light : The ruffling of the wild bird's wing but wakes A warmer beauty and a downier depth. That startled shrink, that faintest blossom-blush Of constancy alarmed ! — Love ! if thou hast One weapon in shining armory, The qi>iver on thy shoulder, where thou keep'st Each arrowy eye-beam feathered with a sigh ; — If from that bow, shaped so like Beauty's lip, Strung with its string of pearls, thou wilt twang forth But one dart, fair into the mark I mean — Do it, and I will worship thee for ever : Yea, I will give thee glory and a name Known, sunlike in all nations. Heart be still ! Philip James Bailey.- m OTHELLO'S DEFENCE. OST potent, grave, and reverend signiors. My very noble and approved good masters. That I have ta'en away this old man's daugh- ^ ter, It is most true ; true, I have married her ; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little bless'd with the set phrase of peace. For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field : And little of this great world can I speak. More than pertains to feats of broil and battle ; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience. I will a round unvarnished tale deliver LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 71 Of my whole course of love ; what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic, (For such proceeding I am charged withal,) I won his daughter with. Her father loved me, oft invited me ; Still questioned me the story of my life. From year to year ; the battles, sieges, fortunes. That I have passed. I ran it through, even fropi my boyish days. To the very moment that he bade me tell it ; Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents, by flood and field ; Of hairbreadth 'scapes in the imminent deadly breach ; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery ; of my redemption thence, And portance in my travel's history : Wherein of antres vast, and deserts idle. Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven. It was my hint to speak, such was the process : And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline : But still the house affairs would draw her thence ; Which ever as she could with haste despatch. She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse : which, I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart, That I would all my pilgrimage dilate. Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively : I did consent ; And often did beguile her of her tears. When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done. She gave me for my pains a world of sighs : She swore — in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange, 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful : — She wished she had not heard it ; yet she wished That heaven had made her such a man ; she thank'd me ; And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint, I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used : Here comes the lady, let her witness it. William Shakspeare. FRIENDSHIP. NVIDIOCS grave ! — how -iost thou rend in sunder Whom love has knit, and sympathy made one ! A tie more stubborn far than nature's band. Friendship ! mysterious cement of the soul ; Sweetener of life, and solder of society, I owe thee much. Thou hast deserved from me Far, far beyond what I can ever pay. Oft have I proved the labors of thy love, And the warm efforts of the gentle heart. Anxious to please. — Oh ! when my friend and I In some thick wood have wander' d heedless on. Hid from the vulgar eye^ and sat us down Upon the sloping cowslip-cover' d bank, Where the pure limpid stream has slid along In grateful errors through the underwood. Sweet murmuring : methought the shrill-tongued thrush Mended his song of love ; the sooty blackbird Mellow'd his pipe, and soften'd every note : The eglantine smell'd sweeter, and the rose Assumed a dye more deep ; whilst every flower Vied with its fellow plant in luxury Of dress Oh ! then, the longest summer's day Seem'd too, too much in haste ; still the full heart Had not imparted half: 'twas happiness Too exquisite to last. Of joys departed, Not to return, how painful the remembrance ! Robert Blair. EUPHROSYNE. MUST not say that thou wert true. Yet let me say that thou wert fair. And they that lovely face who view, They will not ask if truth be there. Truth — what is truth ! Two bleeding hearts Wounded by men, by fortune tried, Outwearied with their lonely parts, Vow to beat henceforth side by side. The world to them was stern and drear : Their lot was but to weep and moan. Ah, let them keep their faith sincere, For neither could subsist alone ! But souls whom some benignant breath Has charm'd at birth from bloom and care. These ask no love — these plight no faith, For they are happy as they are. The world to them may homage make. And garlands for their forehead weave , And what the world can give, they take — But they bring more than they receive. They smile upon the world ; their ears To one demand alone are coy. They will not give us love and tears — They bring us light, and warmth, and joy. On one she smiled and he was blest ! She smiles elsewhere — we make a din ! But 'twas not love that heaved his breast. Fair child ! it was the bliss within. Matthew Arnold. 72 CROWN JEWELS. THEY SIN WHO TELL US LOVE CAN DIE. HEY sin who tell us love can die With life all other passions fly — All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell : Earthly, these passions of the earth, They perish where they had their birth ; But love is indestructible. Its holy flame for ever bumeth ; From heaven it came, to heaven returneth. Too oft on earth a troubled guest, At times deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified, Then hath in heaven its perfect rest. It soweth here with toil and care, But the harvest-time of love is there. Robert Southev. TO HIS WIFE. H ! hadst thou never shared my fate, More dark that fate would prove. My heart were truly desolate Without thy soothing love. But thou hast suffer'd for my sake, Whilst this relief I found, Like fearless lips that strive to take The poison from a wound. My fond affection thou hast seen, Then judge of my regret, To think more happy thou hadst been If we had never met. And has that thought been shared by thee ? Ah, no ! that smiling cheek Proves more unchanging love for me Than labor' d words could speak. But there are true hearts which the sight Of sorrow summons forth ; Though known in days of past delight, We know not half their worth. How unlike some who have profess'd So much in friendship's name, Yet calmly pause to think how best They may evade her claim. But ah ! from them to thee I turn, They'd make me loathe mankind, Far better lessons I may learn From thy more holy mind. The love that gives a charm to home, I feel they cannot take ; We'll pray for happier years to come, For one-another's sake. Thomas Havnes Bavlv. LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT. 'M sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side On a bright May morning, long ago. When first you were my bride ; The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high ; And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love-light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day as bright as then ; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again ; But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath warm on my cheek ; And I still keep listening for the words You never more will speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, ' And the little church stands near — The church where we were wed, Mary ; I see the spire from here. But the graveyard lies between them, Mary, And my step might break your rest — For I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends : But, oh ! they love the better still The few our Father sends ! And you were all I had, Mary — My blessing and my pride ; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died. Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on, When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm's young strength was gone ; There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow — I bless you, Mary, for that same, Tho' you cannot hear me now. I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break — When the hunger pain was gnawing there, And you did it for my sake ; I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore — Oh ! I'm thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can't reach you more ! I'm bidding you a long farewell, My Mary — kind and true ! But I'll not forget you darling. In the land I'm going to ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 73 They say there's bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there — But I'll not forget old Ireland, Were it filty times as fair. And often in those grand old woods I'll sit and shut my eyes, And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies ; And 111 think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side, And the springing corn, and the bright May morn When first you were my bride. Helen Selina Sheridan. #), THE FICKLENESS OF PHYLLIS. E shepherds, give ear to my lay. And take no more heed of my sheep ; They have nothing to do but to stray ; I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my foUy reprove ; She was fair — and my passion begun ; She smiled — and I could not but love ; She is faithless — and I am undone. Perhaps I was void of all thought : Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought, By a swain more engaging than me. Ah ! love every hope can inspire ; It banishes wisdom the while ; And the lip of the nymph we admire Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile. She is faithless, and I am undone ; Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain Amid nymphs of a higher degree : It is not for me to explain How fair, and how fickle they be. Alas ! from the day that we met, What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain : The flower, and the shrub, and the tree. Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain. In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose. The sound of a murmuring stream. The peace which from solitude flows, Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight. But we are not to find them our own ; Fate never bestow'd such delight, As I with my Phyllis had known. ye woods, spread your branches apace ; To your deepest recesses I fly ; 1 would hide with the beasts of the chase ; I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove With the same sad complaint it begun ; How she smiled — and I could not but love ; Was faithless — and I am undone ! William Shenstone. LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM. 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. Thomas Moore. ¥ m MAID OF ATHENS. AID of Athens, ere we part, Give, O, give me back my heart ! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest ! Hear my vow before I go. By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each ^gean wind ; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge ; By those wild eyes like the roe ; By that lip I long to taste ; By that zone-encircled waist ; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well ; By love's alternate joy and woe. Maid of Athens ! I am gone. Think of me, sweet, when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul. Can I cease to love thee ? No ! Lord Byron. FIRST LOVE'S~RECOLLECTIONS. IRST-LOVE will with the heart remain When its hopes are all gone by ; As frail rose blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die : And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With the shades 'mid which they sprung. As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring's blossoms hung. John Clare. 74 CROWN JEWELS. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. HE birds, when winter shades the sky, Fly o'er the seas away. Where laughing isles in sunshine lie, And summer breezes play ; And thus the friends that flutter near While fortune's sun is warm Are startled if a cloud appear, And fly before the storm. But when from winter's howling plains Each other warbler's past, The little snow bird still remains, And chirrups midst the blast. Love, like that bird, when friendship's throng With fortune's sun depart, Still lingers with its cheerful song. And nestles on the heart. William Leggett. -THE HEAVENLY FLAME. ifT^ OVE is the root of creation ; God's essence. •^* r Worlds without number ■*"^ Lie in his bosom like children: He made them for His purpose only- Only to love and to be loved again. He breathed forth His spirit Into the slumbering dust, and upright standing, it laid its Hand on its heart, and felt it was warm with a flame out of heaven ; Quench, O quench not that flame ! it is the breath of your being. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BILL MASON'S BRIDE. 'ALF an hour till train time, sir, An' a fearful dark time, too ; Take a look at the switch lights, Tom, Fetch in a stick when you're through. " On time ?" well, yes, I guess so — Left the last station all right — She'll come round the curve a flyin' ; Bill Mason comes up to-night. You know Bill ? No ! He's engineer, Been on the road all his life — I'll never forget the mornin' He married his chuck of a wife. 'Twas the summer the mill hands struck — Just ofT work, every one ; They kicked up a row in the village And killed old Donevan's son. Bill hadn't been married mor'n an hour, Up comes a message from Kress, Orderin' Bill to go up there, And bring down the night express. He left his gal in a hurry. And went up on Number One, Thinking of nothing but Mary, And the train he had to run. And Mary sat down by the window To wait for the night e.xpress ; And, sir, if she hadn't a' done so, She'd been a widow, I guess. For it must a' been nigh midnight When the mill hands left the Ridge — They come down — the drunken devils ! Tore up a rail from the bridge. But Mary heard 'em a workin' And guessed there was somethin' wrong — And in less than fifteen minutes. Bill's train it would be along. She couldn't come here to tell us. A mile — it wouldn't a' done — So she just grabbed up a lantern. And made for the bridge alone. Then down came the night express, sir. And Bill was makin' her climb ! But Mary held the lantern, A-swingin' it all the time. Well ! by Jove ! Bill saw the signal, And he stopped the night express, And he found his Mary cryin', On the track, in her wedding dress ; Cryin' an' laughin' for joy, sir, An' holdin' on to the light — Hello ! here's the train — good-bye, sir, Bill Mason's on time to-night. F. Bret Harte. BEDOUIN SONG. ROM the desert I come to thee On a stallion shod with fire ; And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. Under thy window I stand, And the midnight hears my cry : I love thee, I love but thee. With a love that shall not die / Till the sun grows cold. And the stars are old. And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain ; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. Let the night-winds touch thy brow With the heat of my burning sigh. And melt thee to hear the vow LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 75 Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold. And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Mjf steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed The word that shall give me rest. Open the door of thy heart, And open thy chamber door. And my kisses shall teach thy lips The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old. And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold ! Bayard Taylor. 'TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. IS the last rose of summer Left blooming alone ; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone ; No flower of her kindred, No rosebud is nigh. To reflect back her blushes, Or give sigh for sigh ! I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, To pine on the stem ; Since the lovely are sleeping. Go, sleep thou with them. Thus kindly I scatter Thy leaves o'er the bed Where thy mates of the garden Lie scentless and dead. So soon may I follow, When friendships decay. And from love's shining circle The gems drop away ! When true hearts lie wither'd. And fond ones are flown, Oh ! who would inhabit This bleak world alone ? Thomas Moore. GENTLEST GIRL. .ENTLESTgirl, Thou wert a bright creation of my thought, In earliest childhood — and my seeking soul Wander' d ill-satisfied, till one blest day Thine image pass'd athwart it — thou wert then A young and happy child, sprightly as life ; Yet not so bright or beautiful as that Mine inward vision ; —but a whispering voice Said softly — ^This is she whom thou didst choose ; And thenceforth ever, through the mom of life, Thou wert my playmate — thou my only joy, Thou my chief sorrow when I saw thee not. — And when my daily consciousness of life / Was bom and died — thy name the last went up, Thy name the first, before our Heavenly Guide, For favor and protection. All the flowers Whose buds I cherish'd, and in summer heats Fed with mock showers, and proudly show'd their bloom. For thee I rear'd, because all beautiful And gentle things reminded me of thee : Yea, and the morning, and the rise of sun, And the fall of evening, and the starry host, If aught I loved, I loved because thy name Sounded about me when I look'd on them. Dean Alford. THE PARTING KISS. NE kind wish before we part, Drop a tear and bid adieu : Though we sever, my fond heart, Till we meet, shall pant for you. Yet, yet weep not so, my love, Let me kiss that falling tear ; Though my body must remove, All my soul will still be here. All my soul, and all my heart, And every wish shall pant for you ; One kind kiss, then, ere we part, Drop a tear, and bid adieu. Robert Dodsley. NO HEART WITHOUT ITS MATE. 'HE bard has sung, God never form'd a soul Without its own peculiar mate, to meet Its wandering half^ when ripe to crown the "^ whole Bright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete ! Bui thousand evil things there are that hate To look on happiness : these hurt, impede, And, leagued with time, space, circumstance and fate, Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine, and pant, and bleed. And as the dove to far Palmyra flying From where her native founts of Antioch beam. Weary, exhausted, longing, panting, sighing, Lights sadly at the desert's bitter stream ; So many a soul, o'er life's dreary desert faring, Love's pure congenial spring unfound, unquaflf'd. Suffers, recoils, then, thirsty, and despairing Of what it would, descends and sips the nearest draught. Maria Brooks. 76 CROWN JEWELS. ON AN OLD WEDDING-RING. The Device.— Two hearts united. The Motto.— Dear love of mine, my heart is thine. LIKE that ring — that ancient ring, Of massive form, and virgin gold, As firm, as free from base alloy As were the sterling hearts of old. I like it— for it wafts me back, Far, far along the stream of time, To other men, and other days. The men and days of deeds sublime. But most I like it, as it tells The tale of well-requited love ; How youthful fondness persevered. And youthful faith disdain' d to rove — How warmly he his suit preferr'd. Though she, unpitying, long denied, Till, soften'd and subdued at last. He won his "fair and blooming bride." — How, till the appointed day arrived, They blamed the lazy-footed hours — How, then, the white-robed maiden train Strew'd their glad way with freshest flowers— And how, before the holy man. They stood, in all their youthful pride. And spoke those words, and vow'd those vows. Which bind the husband to his bride : All this it tells ; the plighted troth— The gift of every earthly thing— The hand in hand— the heart in heart- For this I like that ancient ring. I like its old and quaint device ; "Two blended hearts "—though time may wear them, No mortal change, no mortal chance, "Till death," shall e'er in sunder tear them. Year after year, 'neath sun and storm. Their hope in heaven, their trust in God, In changeless, heartfelt, holy, love. These two the world's rough pathway trod. Age might impair their youthful fires. Their strength might fail, 'mid life's bleak weather. Still, hand in hand, they travell'd on- Kind souls ! they slumber now together. I like its simple poesy, too, " Mine own dear love, this heart is thine !" Thine, when the dark storm howls along. As when the cloudless sunbeams shine, "This heart is thine, mine own dear love !" Thine, and thine only, and forever : Thine, till the springs of life shall fail ; Thine, till the cords of life shall sever. Remnant of days departed long. Emblem of plighted troth unbroken, Pledge of devoted faithfulness. Of heartfelt, holy love, the token : What varied feelings round it cling !— For these, I like that ancient ring. George Washington Doank. u EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 'URN, gentle hermit of the dale, And guide my lonely way To where yon taper cheers the vale "f' With hospitable ray. For here forlorn and lost I tread. With fainting steps and slow ; Where wilds immeasurably spread, Seem lengthening as I go." " Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, " To tempt the dangerous gloom ; For yonder phantom only flies To lure thee to thy doom. Here, to the houseless child of want. My door is open still ; And though my portion is but scant, I give it with good will. Then turn to-night, and freely share Whate'er my cell bestows ; My rushy couch and frugal fare, My blessing and repose. No flocks that range the valley free. To slaughter I condemn ; Taught by that power that pities me, I learn to pity ^hem. But from the mountain's grassy side, A guiltless feast I bring ; A scrip, with herbs and fruits supplied. And water from the spring. Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego ; All earth-born cares are wrong : Man wants but little here below. Nor wants that little long." Soft, as the dew from heaven descends. His gentle accents fell ; The modest stranger lowly bends. And follows to the cell. Far in a wilderness obscure. The lonely mansion lay ; A refuge to the neighboring poor. And strangers led astray. Around, in sympathetic mirth. Its tricks the kitten tries ; The cricket cherubs in the hearth. The crackling faggot flies. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 77 But nothing could a charm impart, To soothe the stranger's woe ; For grief was heavy at his heart, And tears began to flow. His rising cares the hermit spied, With answering care opprest : " And whence, imhappyyouth," he cried, "The sorrows of thy breast? From better habitations spum'd, Reluctant dost thou rove ? . Or grieve for friendship unretum'd, Or unregarded love ? Alas ! the joys that fortune brings Are trifling and decay ; And those who prize the paltry things More trifling still than they. And what is friendship but a name : A charm that lulls to sleep ! A shade that follows wealth or fame. And leaves the wretch to weep. And love is still an emptier sound. The modern fair-one's jest. On earth unseen, or only found To warm the turtle's nest. For shame, fond youth, thy sorrows hush. And spurn the sex," he said : But while he spoke, a rising blush His love-lorn guest betray'd. Surprised, he sees new beauties rise, Swift mantling to the view. Like colors o'er the morning skies, As bright, as transient too. The bashful look, the rising breast. Alternate spread alarms ; The lovely stranger stands confess'd A maid in all her charms. " And ah ! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried, "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heaven and you reside. But let a maid thy pity share. Whom love has taught to stray : Who seeks for rest, but finds despair Companion of her way. My father lived beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he ; And all his wealth was mark'd as mine ; He had but only me. To win me from his tender arms, Unnumber'd suitors came ; Who praised me for imputed charms, And felt, or feign'd, a flame. Each hour a mercenary crowd With richest profiers strove ; Amongst the rest young Edwin bow'd, But never talk'd of love. In humblest, simplest habit clad. No wealth nor power had he : Wisdom nnd worth were all he had ; But these were all to me. The blossom opening to the day. The dews of heaven refined, Could naught of purity display, To emulate his mind. The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine ; Their charms were his ; but woe to me, Their constancy was mine. For still I tried each fickle art. Importunate and vain ; And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain. Till quite dejected with my scorn. He left me to my pride ; And sought a solitude forlorn. In secret, where he died ! But mine the sorrow, mine the fault. And well my life shall pay : I'll seek the solitude he sought, And stretch me where he lay. And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, I'll lay me down and die : 'Twas so for me that Edwin did. And so for him will I." "Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast : The wondering fair one turn'd to chide : 'Twas Edwin's self that prest ! "Turn, Angelina, ever dear. My charmer, turn to see Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin heret Restored to love and thee. Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And every care resign ; And shall we never, never part. My life — my all that's mine ? No, never from this hour to part. We'll live and love so true ; The sigh that rends thy constant heart, Shall break thy Edwin s too." Oliver Goldsmith. CROWN* JEWELS. ALL FOR LOVE. TALK not to me of a name great in story ; The days of our youth are the days of our glory ; And the myrtle and ivy • of sweet two-and- twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled ? 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled : Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory ? Fame ! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee ; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee ; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 1 knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. Lord Byron. LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. VER the mountains, And under the waves, Over the fountains. And under the graves. Under floods which are deepest, Which Neptune obey. Over rocks which are steepest, Love will find out the way. Where there is no place For the glow-worm to lie, Where there is no place For the receipt of a fly, Where the gnat dares not venture, Lest herself fast she lay. If Love come he will enter, And fi'nd out the way. If that he were hidden, And all men that are. Were strictly forbidden That place to declare : Winds that have no abidings, Pitying their delay, Would come and bring him tidings, And direct him the way. If the earth should part him, He would gallop it o'er ; If the seas should o'erthwart him, He would swim to the shore. Should his love become a swallow. Through the air to stray. Love will lend wings to follow, And will find out the way. There is no striving To cross his intent. There is no contriving His plots to prevent ; The letter his heart's vows stating, No closed gates delay From the hand that is waiting ; Love will find out the way. WE HAVE BEEN FRIENDS TOGETHER. W E have been friends together, In sunshine and in shade ; Since first beneath the chestnut trees In infancy we play'd. But coldness dwells within thy heart — A cloud is on thy brow ; We have been friends together — Shall a light word part us now ? We have been gay together ; We have laugh'd at little jests ; For the fount of hope was gushing, Warm and joyous, in our breasts. But laughter now hath fled thy lip, And sullen glooms thy brow ; We have been gay together — Shall a light word part us now ? We have been sad together — We have wept, with bitter tears, O'er the grass-grown graves, where slumber'd The hopes of early years. The voices which are silent there Would bid thee clear thy brow ; We have been sad together — O ! what shall part us now ? Caroline Elizabeth Norton. SALLY IN OUR ALLEY. F all the girls that are so smart. There's none like pretty Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. There is no lady in the land, Is half so sweet as Sally : She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Her father he makes cabbage'nets. And through the streets does cry 'em, Her mother she sells laces long, To such as please to buy 'em : But sure such folks could ne'er beget So sweet a girl as Sally ! She is the darling of my heart. And she lives in our alley. Of all the days that's in the week, I dearly love but one day ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 79 And that's the day that comes betwixt A Saturday and Monday ; For then I'm dress'd all in my best, To walk abroad with Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. My master carries me to church, And ofter am I blamed. Because I leave him in the lurch, As soon as te.xt is named : I leave the church in sermon time, And slink away to Sally ; She is the darling of my heart, And she lives in our alley. Henry Carey, m AMYNTA Y sheep I neglected, I broke my sheep-hook, And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook; No more for Amynta fresh garland I wove ; For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love. Oh, what had my youth with ambition to do ? Why left I Amynta ? Why broke I my vow ? Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheef)-hook re store. And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more, Through regions remote in vain do I rove. And bid the \Vide ocean secure me from love ! Oh, fool ! to imagine that aught could subdue A love so well-founded, a passion so true ! Alas ! 'tis too late at thy feet to repme ; Poor shepherd, Amynta can never be thine : Thy tears are all fruitless, thy wishes are vain, The moments neglected return not again. Sir Gilbert Elliot. © BEN BOLT. ^ON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt? Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown. Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, And trembled with fear at your frown ? In the old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone. They have fitted a slab of the granite so grey. And Alice lies under the stone. Under the hickory tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill. Together we've lain in the noonday shade. And listen'd to Appleton's mill : The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, The rafters have tumbled in. And a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze, Has foUow'd the olden din. Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, Wiiich nigh by the door-step stood ? The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt, The tree you would seek in vain ; And where once the lords of the forest waved, Grows grass and the golden grain. And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, With the master so cruel and grim. And the shaded nook in the running brook. Where the children went to swim ? Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, The spring of the brook is dry. And of all the boys who were schoolmates then, There are only you and I. There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new ; But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth. There never was change in you. Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, Since first we were friends — yet I hail Thy presence a blessing, thy friendship a truth, Ben Bolt, of the salt-sea gale. Thomas Dunn English. LUCY. HE dwelt among the untrodden way's. Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to pruise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone, Half hidden from the eye ; Fair as a star when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be ; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me ! William Wordsworth. n PEARLY TEARS. OT what the chemists say they be. Are pearls — they never grew ; They come not from the hollow sea. They come from heaven in dew. Down in the Indian Sea it slips. Through green and briny whirls, Where great shells catch it in their lips, And kiss it into pearis. If dew can be so beauteous made, Oh, why not tears, my girl ? Why not your tears ? Be not afraid — I do but kiss a pearl. Richard Henry Stoddard 80 CROWN je:wels. THE TIME OF ROSES. ' T was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast ; It was the time of roses — We plucked them as we passed ! That churlish season never frowned On early lovers yet ; Oh no ! — the world was newly crowned With flowers when first we met. 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, But still you held me fast ; It was the time of roses — We plucked them as we passed \ What else could peer my glowing cheek, ' That tears began to stud ? And when I asked the like of love, You snatched a damask bud — And oped it to the dainty core. Still blowing to the last ; It was the time of roses — We plucked them as we passed ! Thomas Hood. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. 'HE fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix forever With a sweet emotion ; , , Nothing in the world is single. All things by a law divine In one another 's being mjngle — Why not I with thine ? See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the waves clasp one another ; No sister-flower would be forgiven If it disdained its brother : And the sunlight clasps the earth, And the moonbeams kiss the sea — What are all these kissings worth, If thou kiss not me ? Percy Bvsshe Shelley. NO JEWELLED BEAUTY IS MY LOVE. n O jewelled beauty is my love. Yet in her earnest face There's such a world of tenderness, She needs no other grace. Her smiles and voice around my life In light and music twine. And dear, oh ! very dear to me Is this sweet love of mine. Oh joy ! to know there's one fond heart Beats ever true to me ; It sets mine leaping like a lyre, In sweetest melody ; My soul up-springs, a deity ! To hear Iier voice divine ; And dear, oh ! very dear to me Is this sweet love of mine. If ever I have sighed for wealth, 'Twas all for her, I trow ; And if I win fame's victor-wreath, I'll twine it on her brow. There may be forms more beautiful, And souls of sunnier shine. But none, oh ! none so dear to me As this sweet love of mine. Gerald Masse y. llJ THE LOW-BACKED CAR. HEN first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market day : A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay ; But when that hay was blooming grass, And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing. As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll. But just rubbed his owldpoll, And looked after the low-backed car. In battle's wild commotion. The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his tithes Of death in warlike cars ; While Peggy, peaceful goddess, Has darts in her bright eye, That knock men down in the market town As right and left they fly ; While she sits in her low-backed car, Than battle more dangerous far — For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is hit from that low-backed car. Sweet Peggry round her car, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these ; While she among her poultry sits. Just like a turtle-dove. Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming god of love ! While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far. And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin'. As she sits in her low-backed car. T ^ K FORJE) AE)OE LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 81 O, I'd rather own that car, sir, With Peggy by my side, Than a coach and four, and gold galore, And a lady for my bride ; For the lady would sit forninst me, On a cushion made with taste — While Peggy would sit beside me, With my arm around her waist, While we drove in the low-backed car. To be married by Father Mahar ; O, my heart would beat high At her glance and her sigh — Though it beat in a low-backed car ! Samuel Lover. IF I HAD KNOWN. ' F I had known, oh, loyal heart. When, hand to hand, we said farewell. How for all time our paths would part. What shadow o'er our friendship fell, I should have clasped your hands so close In the warm pressure of my own, That memory still would keep its grasp — If I had known. If I had known, when far and wide We loitered through the summer land, What Presence wandered by our side. And o'er you stretched its awful hand, I should have hushed my careless speech. To listen, dear, to every tone That from your lips fell low and sweet — If I had known. If I had known, when your kind eyes Met mine in parting, true and sad — Eyes gravely tender, gently wise. And earnest, rather, more than glad — How soon the lids would lie above, As cold and white as sculptured stone, I should have treasured every glance — If I had known. If I had known how, from the strife , Of fears, hopes, j)assions, here below. Unto a purer, higher life That you were called, oh ! friend, to go, I should have stayed my foolish tears. And hushed each idle sigh and moan. To bid you last a long godspeed — If I had known. If I had known to what strange place. What mystic, distant, silent shore, You calmly turned your steadfast face, What time your footsteps left my door, I should have forged a golden link To bind the hearts so constant grown, And kept it constant ever there — If I had known. (6) If I had known that until Death Shall with his finger touch my brow, And still the quickening of the breath That stirs with life's full meaning now, So long my feet must tread the way Of our accustomed paths alone, I should have prized your presence more — If I had known. If I had known how soon for you Drew near the ending of the fight. And on your vision, fair and new. Eternal peace dawned into sight, I should have begged, as love's last gift, That you, before God's great white throne, Would pray for your poor friend on earth — If I had known. IIJ' WHEN SPARROWS BUILD. 'HEN sparrows build and the leaves break forth. My old sorrow wakes and cries. For I know there is dawn in the far, far north, And a scarlet sun doth rise ; Like a scarlet fleece the snow-field spreads. And the icy fount runs free ; And the bergs begin to bow their heads. And plunge and sail in the sea. Oh, my lost love, and my own, own love, And my love that loved me so ! Is there never a chink in the world above Where they listen for words from below ? Nay, I spoke once, and I grieved thee sore ; I remembered all that 1 said ; And thou wilt hear me no more — no more Till the sea gives up her dead. Thou didst set thy foot on the ship, and sail To the ice-fields and tlie snow ; Thou wert sad, for thy love did not avail. And the end I could not know. How could I tell I should love thee to-day. Whom that day I held not dear ? How could I tell I should love thee away When I did not love thee a-near? We shall walk no more through the sodden plain, With the faded bents o'erspread ; We shall stand no more by the seething main While the dark wrack drives o'erhead ; We shall part no more in the wind and rain Where thy last farewell was said ; But perhaps I shall meet thee and know thee again When the sea gives up her dead. J;ean Ingklow. 82 CROWN JEWELS. (3 SEVERED FRIENDSHIP. LAS ! they had been friends in youth ; But whispering tongues can poison truth ; And constancy lives in realms above ; And life is thorny ; and youth is vain , And to be wroth with one we love, Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother : They parted— ne'er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining — They stood aloof, the scars remaining. Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; A dreary sea now flows between ; But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween. The marks of that which once hath been. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. RORY O'MORE; OR, ALL FOR GOOD LUCK. OUNG Rory O'More courted Kathleen bawn — He was bold as a hawk, she as soft as the dawn ; He wished in his heart pretty Ka:thleen to please, And he thought the best way to do that was to tease. " Now, Rory, be aisy ! " sweet Kathleen would cry. Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye — " With your tricks, I don't know, in troth, what I'm about ; Faith ! you've tazed me till I've put on my cloak inside out." "Och ! jewel," says Rory, "That same is the way Ye've thrated my heart for this many a day ; And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure? For 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. " Indeed, then," says Kathleen, "don't think of the like. For I half gave a promise to soothering Mike : The ground that I walk on he loves, I'll be bound — " "Faith!" says Rory, "I'd rather love you than the ground." " Now, Rory, I'll cry if you don't let me go ; Sure I dream every night that I'm hating you so! " "Och ! " says Rory, "that same I'm delighted to hear, For dhrames always go by conthraries, my dear. So, jewel, keep dhraming that same till ye die. And bright morning will give dirty night the black lie ! And 'tis plazed that I am, and why not, to be sure ! Since 'tis all for good luck," says bold Rory O'More. " Arrah, Kathleen, my darlint, you've tazed me enough ; Sure I've thrashed, for your sake, Dinny Grimes and Jim Duff; And I've made myself, drinking your health, quite a baste — So I think, after that, I may talk to the praste." Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck, So soft and so white, without freckle or speck ; And he looked in her eyes, that were beaming with light, And he kissed her sweet lips — don't you think he was right ? "Now, Rory, leave off, sir — you'll hug me no more — That's eight times to day that you've kissed me be- fore." "Then here goes another," says he, " to make sure ! For there's luck in odd numbers," says Rory O More. Samuel Lover. THE PLEDGE OF LOVE. ROMEO — If I profane with my unworthy hand [To Juliet. This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this — My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Juliet — Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much. Which mannerly devotion shows in this ; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Romeo — Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too ? Juliet — Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. Romeo — O then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do ; They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair, Juliet — Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Romeo — Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, myosin is purg'd. {^Kissing her. Juliet — Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Romeo — Sin from my lips ? O trespass sweetly urged 1 Give me my sin again. Juliet — You kiss by the book. Now old desire doth in his death-bed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir ; That fair, which love groan'd for, and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks ; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain. And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks : Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers used to swear ; And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new-beloved any where : But passion lends them pow'r, time means to meet, Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 83 A MILKMAID'S SONG. PULL, pull ! and the pail is full, And milking's done and over. Who would not sit here under the tree ? What a fair, fair thing's a green field to see ! Brim, brim, to the rim, ah me ! I have set my pail on the daisies 1 It seems so light — can the sun be set? The dews must be heavy, my cheeks are wet, I could cry to have hurt the daisies ! Harry is near, Harry is near, My heart's as sick as if he were here. My lips are burning, my cheeks are wet, He hasn't uttered a word as yet, But the air's astir with his praises. My Harry ! The air's astir with your praises. He has scaled the rock by the pixy's stone, He's among the kingcups — he picks me one, I love the grass that I tread upon When I go to my Harry ! He has jumped the brook, he has climbed the knoll, There's never a faster foot I know. But still he seems to tarry. Harry ! O Harry 1 my love, my pride. My heart is leaping, my arms are wide ! Roll up, roll up, you dull hillside, Roll up, and bring my Harry ! They may talk of glory over the sea, But Harry's alive, and Harry s for me. My love, my lad, my Harry ! Come spring, come winter, come sun, come snow. What cares Dolly, whether or no, While I can milk and marry ? Right or wrong, and wrong or right, Quarrel who quarrel, and fight who fight, But I'll bring my pail home every night To love, and home, and Harry ! We'll drink our can, we'll eat our cake. There's beer in the barrel, there's bread in the bake. The world may sleep, the world may wake, But I shall milk and marry. And marry, 1 shall milk and marry. Sydney Dobell. FETCHING WATER FROM THE WELL ARLY on a sunny morning, while the lark was singing sweet, Came, beyond the ancient farm-house, sounds of lightly tripping feet. 'Twas a lowly cottage maiden going — why, let young hearts tell— With her homely pitcher laden, fetcliing water from the well. Shadows lay athwart the pathway, all along the quiet lane. And the breezes of the morning moved them to and fro again. O'er the sunshine, o'er the shadow, passed maiden of the farm. With a charmed heart within her, thinking of no ill nor harm. Pleasant, surely, were her musings, for the noddir.g leaves in vain Sought to press their brightening image on her ever- busy brain. Leaves and joyous birds went by her, like a dim, half- waking dream ; And her soul was only conscious of life's gladdest sum- mer gleam. At the old lane's shady turning lay a well of water bright, Singing, soft, its hallelujah to the gracious moniing light. Fern-leaves, broad and green, bent o'er it where its silvery droplets fell. And the fairies dwelt beside it, in the spotted foxglove bell. Back she bent the shading fern-leaves, dipt the pitcher in the tide — Drew it, with the dripping waters flowing o'er its glazed side. But before her arm could place it on her shiny, wavy hair. By her side a youth was standing ! — Love rejoiced to see the pair ! Tones of tremulous emotion trailed upon the morning breeze, Gentle words of heart-devotion whispered "neath the ancient trees. But the holy, blessed secrets it becomes me not to tell : Life had met another meaning, fetching water from the well! Down the rural lane they sauntered. He the burden- pitcher bore ; She, with dewy eyes down-looking, grew more beau- teous than before I When they neared the silent homestead, up he raised the pitcher light ; Like a fitting crown he placed it on her hair of wave- lets bright : Emblems of the coming burdens that for love of liiin she'd bear. Calling every burden blessed, if his Move but lighted there. * Then, still waving benedictions, further, further off he drew. While his shadow seemed a glory that across the path- way grew. Now about her household duties silently the maiden went. And an ever-radiant halo o'er her daily life was blent. Little knew the aged matron as her feet like music fell. What abundant treasure found she fetching water from the well ! 84 CROWN JEWELS. KITTY OF COLERAINE. 'S beautiful Kitty one morning was tripping With a pitcher of milk, from the fair of Coleraine, When she saw me she stumbled, the pitcher it tumbled, And all the sweet buttemiilk watered the plain. " O, what shall I do now — 't was looking at you now ! Sure, sure, such a pitcher I'll ne'er meet again! 'Twas the pride of my dairy : O Barney M'Cleary ! You're sent as a plague to the girls of Coleraine." I sat down beside her, and gently did chide her, That such a misfortune should give her such pain. A kiss then I gave her ; and ere I did leave her, She vowed for such pleasure she'd break it again. 'Twas hay-making season — I can't tell the reason— Misfortunes will never come single, 't is plain ; For very soon after poor Kitty's disaster Not a buttermilk pitcher was whole in Coleraine. SWEET MEETING OF DESIRES. GREW assured, before I asked, That she'd be mine without reserve, And in her unclaimed graces basked At leisure, till the time should serve — With just enough of dread to thrill The hope, and make it trebly dear : Thus loath to speak the word, to kill Either the hope or happy fear. Till once, through lanes returning late. Her laughing sisters lagged behind ; And ere we reached her fathers gate. We paused virith one presentient mind ; And in the dim and perfumed mist Their coming stayed, who, blithe and free, And very women, loved to assist A lover's opportunity. Twice rose, twice died, my trembling word ; To faint and frail cathedral chimes Spake time in music, and we heard The chafers rustling in the limes. Her dress, that touched me where I stood ; The warmth of her confided arm ; Her bosom's gentle neighborhood ; Her pleasure in her power to charm ; Her look, her love, her form, her touch ! The last seemed most by blissful turn — Blissful but that it pleased too much. And taught the wayward soul to yearn. It was as if a harp with wires Was traversed by the breath I drew ; And O, sweet meeting of desires ! She, answering, owned that she loved too. Coventry Patmore. THE LOVER'S COMING. LEANED out of window, I smelt the white clover. Dark, dark was the burden, I saw not the gate ; "Now, if there be footsteps, he comes, my one lover — Hush, nightingale, hush ! O sweet nightingale, wait Till I listen and hear If a step draweth near, For my love he is late ! " The skies in the darkness stoop nearer and nearer, A cluster of stars hangs like fruit in the tree. The fall of the water comes sweeter, comes clearer : To what art thou listening, and what dost thou see ? Let the star-clusters glow, Let the sweet waters flow, And cross quickly to me. "Your night-moths that hover where honey brims over From sycamore blossoms, or settle or sleep ; You glow-worms, shine out, and the pathway discover To him that comes darkling along the rough steep. Ah, my sailor, make haste, For the time runs to waste, And my love lieth deep — • " Too deep for swift telling ; and yet, my one lover, I've conned thee an answer, it waits thee to-night." By the sycamore passed he, and through the white clover ; Then all the sweet speech I had fashioned took flight ; But I'll love him more, more Than e'er wife loved before, Be the days dark or bright. Jean Ingelow. SUMMER DAYS. *JP N summer, when the days were long, •^* We walked together in the wood : •*» Our heart was light, our step was strong ; ' Sweet flutterings were there in our blood. In summer, when the days were long. We strayed from morn till evening came ; We gathered flowers, and wove us crowns ; We walked mid poppies red as flame, Or sat upon the yellow downs ; And always wished our life the same. In summer, when the days were long, We leaped the hedge-row, crossed the brook ; And still her voice flowed forth in song, Or else she read some graceful book, In summer, when the days were long. And then we sat beneath the trees. With shadows lessening in the noon ; And in the sunlight and the breeze. We feasted, many a gorgeous June, While larks were singing o'er the leas. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 85 In summer, when the days were long, On dainty chicken, snow-white bread, We feasted, with no grace but song ; VV^e plucked wild strawberries, ripe and red, In summer, when the days were long. We loved, and yet we knew it not — For loving seemed like breathing then ; We found a heaven in every spot ; Saw angels, too, in all good men ; And dreamed of God in grove and grot. In summer, when the days are long, Alone I wander, muse alone. I see her not ; but that old song Under the fragrant wind is blown, In summer, when the days are long. Alone I wander in the wood : But one fair spirit hears my sighs ; And half I see, so glad and good, The honest daylight of her eyes, That charmed me under earlier skies. In summer, when the days are long, I love her as we loved of old. My heart is light, my step is strong ; For love brings back those hours of gold, In summer, when the days are long. MEETING. 'HE gray sea, and the long black land ; And the yellow half-moon large and low ; And the startled little waves, that leap '^ In fiery ringlets from their sleep. As I gain the cove with pushing prow, And quench its speed in the slushy sand. Then a mile of warm, sea-scented beach ; Three fields to cross, till a farm appears ; A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch And blue spurt of a lighted match. And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears, Than the two hearts, beating each to each. Robert Browning. WHEN WE TWO PARTED. HEN we two parted In silence and tears. Half broken-hearted, To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss ; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow — It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame ; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear ; A shudder comes o'er me — Why wert thou so dear ? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well. Long, long, shall I rue thee Too deeply to tell. In secret we met — In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget. Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years. How should I greet thee ? — In silence and tears. Lord Bvron. FORGET THEE? (T^ ORGET thee ?"— If to dream by night, and "it muse on thee by day, M. If all the worship, deep and wild, a poet's heart can pay. If prajers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's protecting power, If winged thoughts that flit to thee — a thousand in an hour, If busy fancy blending thee with all my future lot — If this thou call'st " forgetting," thou indeed shall be forgot 1 ♦'Forget thee?" — Bid the forest-birds forget their sweetest tune ; '' Forget thee ? " — Bid the sea forget to swell beneath the moon ; Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re- freshing dew ; Thyself forget thine "own dear land," and its " mountains wild and blue ; ' Forget each old familiar face, each long-remembered spot; — When these things are forgot by thee, then thou shalt be forgot ! Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace, still calm and fancy-free. For God forbid thy gladsome heart should grow less glad for me ; Yet, while that heart is still unwon, O, bid not mine to rove, But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining love ; If these, preserved forpatient years, at last avail me not, Forget me then ; — but ne'er believe that thou canst be forgot ! John Moultrie. 86 CROWN JEWELS (3 GENEVIEVE. LL 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 ! She leaned against the armed man, The statue of the armtld knight; She stood and listened to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. 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 v/hich 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. But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely knight. And that he crossed the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den. And sometimes from tlie darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade. There came and looked him in the face An angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a fiend. This miserable knight ! And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land; And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; And how she tended him in vain ; And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; And that she nursed him in a cave, And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; — 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. She wept with pity and delight, She blushed with love, and virgin shame ; And like a murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved, — she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she 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. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. THECOURTIN'. , OD makes sech nights, all white an' still Fur 'z you can look or listen, Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, All silence an' all gliste Zekel crep' quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru' the winder, LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 87 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side With half a cord o' wood in — There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. Tlie wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her! An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in among 'em rusted The old queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young Fetched back from Concord biusted. The very room, coz she was in, Seemea warm from floor to ceilin' ; An' she looked full ez rosy agin, Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look On such a blessed creetur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. , He was six foot o' man, A i. Clean grit an' human natur' ; None couldnt quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — All is, he couldn't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o'sun Ez a south slope in Ap'il. She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing Ez hisn in the choir; My ! when he made " Ole Hundred " ring. She knowed the Lord was nigher. An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, When her new meetin' bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, A raspin' on the scraper — All-ways to once her feelin's flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. He kin' o' I'itered on the mat, Some doubtfle o' the sekle. His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, But hem went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work, Parin' away like murder. "You want to see my Pa^ I s'pose ? ' "Wall .... no ... . I come designin' — " "To see my Ma.^ She's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals act so or so. Or don't 'ould be presumin' ; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust. Then stood a spell on t'other. An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, " I'd better call agin ;" • Says she " Think likely, Mister ;" That last word pricked him like a pin, An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin' o' smily roun' the lips An' teary roun' the lashes. For she was jes' the quiet kind Whose naturs never vary. Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Too tight for all expressin'. Till mother see how metters stood. And gin 'em both her blessin'. Then her red come back like the tide Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is, they was cried In meetin' come nex' Sunday. James Russell Lowell. &: CONSTANCY T setting day and rising mom, With soul that still shall love thee, '11 ask of Heaven thy safe return, With all that can improve thee. I'll visit aft the birken bush, Where first thou kindly told me Sweet tales of love, and hid thy blush. Whilst round thou didst infold me To all our haunts I will repair. By greenwood shaw or fountain ; Or where the summer day I'd share With thee upon yon mountain ; There will I tell the trees and floweris. From thoughts unfeigned and tender, By vows you're mine, by love is yours A heart which cannot wander. All.\n Ramsay. 88 CROWN JEWELS. GONE BEFORE. ' F still they kept their earthly place, The friends I held in my embrace, And gave to death, alas ! Could I have learned that clear, calm faith That looks beyond the bounds of death. And almost longs to pass? Sometimes I think, the things we see Are shadows of the things to be ; That what we plan we build ; That every hope that hath been crossed, And every dream we thought was lost. In heaven shall be fulfilled ; That even the children of the brain Have not been born and died in vain. Though here unclothed and dumb ! But on some brighter, better shore, They live, embodied evermore, And wait for us to come. And when on that last day we rise, Caught up between the earth and skies, Then shall we hear our Lord Say, Thou hast done with doubt and death. Henceforth, according to thy faith, Shall be thy faith's reward. Phoebe Cary. HAPPY MATCHES. ' AY, mighty Love, and teach my song. To whom thy sweetest joys belong, And who the happy pairs Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands. Find blessings twisted with their bands. To soften all their cares. Not tlie wild herd of nymphs and swains That thoughtless fly into thy chains As custom leads the way : If there be bliss without design, Ivies and oaks may grow and twine. And be as blest as they. Not sordid souls of earthly mould, Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold, To dull embraces move : So two rich mountains of Peru May rush to wealthy marriage too, And make a world of love. Not the mad tribe that hell inspires With wanton flames ; those raging fires The purer bliss destroy ; On ^Etna's top let furies wed. And sheets of lightning dress the bed T' improve the burning joy. Nor the dull pairs whose marble forms None of the melting passions warms, "" Can mingle hearts and hands : Logs of green wood that quench the coals Are married just like Stoic souls. With osiers for their bands. Not minds of melancholy strain, Still silent, or that still complain, Can the dear bondage bless ; As well may heavenly concerts spring From two old lutes with ne'er a string. Or none besides the bass. Nor can the soft enchantments hold Two jarring souls of angry mould, The rugged and the keen : Samson's young foxes might as well In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell. With firebrands tied between. Nor let the cruel fetters bind A gentle to a savage mind ; For love abhors the sight : Loose the fierce tiger from the deer, For native rage and native fear Rise and forbid deliglii. Two kindest souls alone must meet, 'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet. And feeds their mutual loves : Bright Venus on her rolling throne Is drawn by gentlest birds alone, And cupids yoke the doves. Isaac Watts. THE DEAD FRIEND. 'HE path by which we twain did go, Which led by tracts that pleased us well, Through four sweet years arose and fell, ■^ From flower to flower, from snow to snow. But where the path we walked began To slant the fifth autumnal slope. As we descended, following hope. There sat the shadow feared of man ; Who broke our fair companionship. And spread his mantle dark and cold. And wrapped thee formless in the fold. And dulled the murmur on thy lip. When each by turns was guide to each. And fancy light from fancy caught, And thought leapt out to wed with thought Ere thought could wed itself with speech ; And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood ; I know that this was life — the track Whereon with equal feet we fared ; And then, as now, the day prepared The daily burden for the back. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 89 But this it was that made me move As light as carrier-birds in air ; I loved the weight I had to bear Because it needed help of love. Nor could I weary, heart or limb, When mighty love would cleave in twain The lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to him. But I remained, whose hopes were dim, Whose life, whose thoughts were litttle worth, To wander on a darkened earth, Where all things round me breathed of him. O friendship, equal-poised control, O heart, with kindliest motion warm, sacred essence, other form, solemn ghost, O crowned soul ! Yet none could better know than I How much of act at human hands "The sense of human will demands, By which we dare to live or die. Whatever way my days decline, 1 felt and feel, though left alone. His being working in mine own, The footseps of his life in mine. My pulses therefore beat again For other friends 1 hat once I met ; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men. 1 woo your love : I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch ; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had mastered time ; Which masters time, indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears : The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this. days and hours, your work is this, To hold me from my proper place A little while from his embrace, For fuller gain of after bliss. That out of distance might ensue Desire of nearness doubly sweet ; And unto meeting when we meet. Delight a hundred fold accrue. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands ; They melt like mists, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go. But in my spirit will I dwell, And dream my dream, and hold it tn:e ; For though my lips may breathe adieu, 1 cannot think the thing farewell. Alfred Tennyson. A BENEDICTION. ,OD'S love and peace be with thee, where Soe'er this soft autumnal air Lifts the dark tresses of thy hair ! Whether through city casements comes Its kiss to thee, in crowded rooms. Or, out among the woodland blooms. It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face. Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace ! ■#:// Fair nature's book together read, The old wood paths that knew our tread, The maple shadows overhead — The hills we climbed, the river seen By gleams along its deep ravine — AH keep thy memory fresh and green. If, then, a fervent wish for thee The gracious heavens will heed from me. What should, dear heart, its burden be ? The sighing of a shaken reed — What can I more than meekly plead The greatftess of our common need ? God's love — unchanging, pure and true — The Paraclete white-shining through His peace — ^the fall of Hermon's dew ! With such a prayer, on this sweet day. As thou mayst hear and I may say, I greet thee, dearest, far away ! John Greenleaf Whittier. TO A FRIEND. RUDDY drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs ; The world uncertain comes and goes, The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled — And, after many a year. Glowed unexhausted kindliness. Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again ; O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red ; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth ; The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair. Ralph Waldo Emerson- 90 CROWN JEWELS. JEWISH HYMN IN BABYLON. 'ER Judah's land thy thunders broke, O Lord! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian's sword, Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame, Her temples sank amid the smouldering flame, For thou didst ride the tempest cloud of fate. O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad city lift her crownless head, And songs shall wake and dancing footsteps gleam In streets where broods the silence of the dead. The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers To deck at blushing eve their bridal bowers, And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. The bom in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; Thy mercy, Lord, shall lead thy children home ; He that went forth a tender prattling boy Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come ; And Canaan's vines for us their fruit shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honeyed stores prepare, And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer, Where o'er the cherub-seated God full blazed the irradiate dome, « Henry Hart Milman. The emerald mild, the ruby gay ; Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway ! She hath a way, with her bright eye. Their various lustres to defy — The jewels she, and the foil they, So sweet to look Anne hath a way ! She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. m ANNE HATHAWAY. jp^OULD 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, Phoebus 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 rancorous tooth Do 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 know'st, 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 WIDOWS WOOER. E woos me with those honeyed words That women love to hear, Those gentle flatteries that fall So sweet on every ear. He tells me that my face is fair, Too fair for grief to shade : My cheek, he says, was never meant In sorrow's gloom to fade. He stands beside me, when I sing The songs of other days, And whispers, in love's thrilling tones, The words of heartfelt praise ; And often in my eyes he looks, Some answering love to see — In vain ! he there can only read The faith of memory. He little knows what thoughts awake With every gentle word ; How, by his looks and tones, the founts Of tenderness are stirreJ, The visions of my youth return, Joys far too bright to last ; And while he speaks of future bliss, I think but of the past. Like lamps in eastern sepulchres, Amid my heart's deep gloom, Affection sheds its holiest light Upon my husband's tomb. And, as those lamps, if brought once more To upper air, grow dim. So my soul's love is cold and dead, Unless it glow for him. Emma C. Embury. ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND. REEN 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. LOVK AND FRIENDSHIP. 01 When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth. And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thine hand in mine, Who shared the joy and sorrow. Whose weal and wo were thine — It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow ; But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now. While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee. FiTZ Greene Halleck. THE MEMORY OF THE HEART. ' F stores of dry and learned lore we gain, We keep them in the memory of the brain ; Names, things, and facts — whate'er we knowledge call- There is the common ledger for them all ; And images on this cold surface traced Make slight impression, and are soon effaced. But we've a page, more glowing and more bright, On which our friendship and our love to write ; That these may never from tlie soul depart, We trust them to the memory of the heart. There is no dimming, no efTacement there ; Each new pulsation keeps the record clear ; Warm, golden letters all the tablet fill. Nor lose their lustre till the heart stands still. Daniel, Webster. ^ ROBIN ADAIR. HAT'S this dull town to me ? Robin's not near — He whom I wished to see. Wished for to hear ; Where's all the joy and mirth Made life a heaven on earth, O, they're all fled with thee, Robin Adair ! What made the assembly shine ? Robin Adair : What made the ball so fine ? Robin was there : What, when the play was o'er, What made my heart so sore ? O, it was parting with Robin Adair ! But now thou art far from me, Robin Adair ; But now I never see Robin Adair ; Yet him I loved so well Still in my heart shall dwell O, I can ne'er forget Robin Adair ! Welcome on shore again, Robin Adair ! Welcome once more again, Robin Adair ! I feel thy trembling hand ; Tears in thy eyelids stand, To greet thy native land, Robin Adair. Long I ne'er saw thee, love, Robin Adair ; Still I prayed for thee, love, Robin Adair ; When thou wert far at sea, Many made love to me. But still I thought on thee, Robin Adair. Come to my heart again, Robin Adair; Never to part again, Robin Adair; And if thou still art true, I will be constant too. And will wed none but you, Robin Adair! Lady Caroline Keppel. THE MAID'S REMONSTRANCE. EVER wedding, ever wooing. Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing. Wed, or cease to woo. Rivals banished, bosoms plighted Still our days are disunited ; Now the lamp of hope is lighted, Now half quenched appears, Damped and wavering and benighted Midst my sighs and tears. Charms you call your dearest blessing. Lips that thrill at your caressing, Eyes a mutual soul confessing. Soon you'll make them grow Dim, and worthless your possessing, Not with age, but woe ! Thcmas Campbell. 92 CROWN JEWELS. NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. 'HERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the 'f birds of springtime sung ! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first ! There is no place like the old place where you and I were born ! Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn. From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore. Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more ! There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise ; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold, But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride ; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn. And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is gone. There are no times like the old times — they shall never be forgot ! There is no place like the old place— keep green the dear old spot ! There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven prolong their lives ! There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving wives ! THE MAIDEN SAT AT HER BUSY WHEEL. HE maiden sat at her busy wheel, Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth ■^ Her bosom's harmless glee : Her song was in mockery of love, And oft I heard her say, "The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day." I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, And her lip so full and bright, ' And I sighed to think that the traitor love Should conquer a heart so light : But she thought not of the future days of woe, While she carolled in tones so gay — "The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day." A year passed on, and again I stood By the humble cottage door ; The maiden sat at her busy wheel, But her look was blithe no more ; The big tear stood in her downcast eye, And with sighs I heard her say, "The gathered rose and the stolen heart Can charm but for a day." Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye And made her cheek so pale : The maid had forgotten her early song. While she listened to love's soft tale ; She had tasted the sweets of his poisoned cup, It had wasted her life away — And the stolen heart, like the gathered rose, Had charmed but for a day. Emma C. Embury. AFTON WATER. -^-^ LOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green •^Y~ braes ; A Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen. Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear ; I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear-wniding rills ! There daily I wander as noon rises high. My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow ! There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea. The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me. Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides. And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave ! Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes ; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays ; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. Robert Burns. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 93 THE WAKEFUL HEART. 'READ lightly, love, when over my head, Beneath the daisies lying, And tenderly press the grassy bed "f* Where the fallen rose lies dying. Dreamless I sleep in the quiet g:round, Save when, your foot-fall hearing, My heart awakes to the old-loved sound And beats to the step that's nearing. Bright shone the moon, last eve, when you came — Still dust for dust hath feeling — The willow-roots whispered low the name Of him who weeps while kneeling. The lily-cup holds the falling tears, The tears you shed above me ; And I know through all these silent years There's some one still to love me. Oh, softly sigh ; for I hear the sound And grieve me o'er your sorrow : But leave a kiss in the myrtle mound — I'll give it back to-morrow. Whisper me, love, as in moments fled, While I dream your hand mine taketh ; For the stone speaks false that says, " She's dead ;"' "I sleep, but my heart awaketh." • Dennar Stewart. ^. MINNIE ADAIR. I thought her so pretty and called her my own. As the rich sunlight played in and out of ^*^ her curls, As her little white feet 'mid the violets shone, And her clear laughter rippled through rubies and pearls. Through June's golden mazes Of pansies and daisies We wandered and warbled our songs on the air ; O, the birds, a whole tree full. Were never more gleeful Than I and my sweet little Minnie Adair ! They come now and tell me that you're to be wed, That rank has encircled your brow with its rays, But when in your beautiful palace you tread, With many to flatter you, many to praise, Shall June's golden mazes Of pansies and daisies, And the bare-footed playmate who thought you so fair — Who wept at your sadness, And shared in your gladness — Be lost in their splendor, O Minnie Adair ? Lyman Goodman. SMILE AND NEVER HEED ME. 'HOUGH, when other maids .stand by, I may deign thee no reply, Tu! n not then away, and sigh — Smile and never heed me ! If our love indeed, be such, As must thrill at every touch. Why should others learn as much ? — Smile, and never heed me ! Even if, with maiden pride, I should bid thee quit my side, Take this lesson for thy guide — Smile, and never heed me ! But when stars and twilight meet, And the dew is falling sweet. And thou hear'st my coming feet — Then — thou then — mayst heed me ! Charles Swain. THE LASS OF RICHMOND HILL N Richmond Hill there lives a lass More bright than May-day morn. Whose charms all other maids surpass — A rose without a thorn. This lass so neat, with smiles so sweet. Has won my right good-will ; I'd crowns resign to call her mine. Sweet lass of Richmond Hill. Ye zephyrs gay, that fan the air, And wanton through the grove, O, whisper to my charming fair, I die for her I love. How happy will the shepherd be Who calls this nymph his own ? O, may her choice be fixed on me ! Mine's fixed on her alone. James Upton. UNITED LIVES. SAD are they who know not love. But, far from passion's tears and smiles, • Drift down a moonless sea, and pass The silver coasts of fairy isles. And sadder they whose longing lips Kiss empty air, and never touch The dear warm mouth of those they love, Waiting, wasting, suffering much ! But clear as amber, sweet as musk, Is life to those whose lives unite ; They walk in Allah's smile by day. And nestle in his heart by night. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. 94 CROWN JEWELS. OH ! TELL ME NOT OF LOFTY FATE. H ! tell me not of lofty fate, Of glory's deathless name ; The bosom love leaves desolate Has naught to do with fame. Vainly philosophy would soar — Love's height it may not reach; The heart soon learns a sweeter lore Than ever sage could teach. Man's sterner nature turns away To seek ambition's goal ! Wealth's glittering gifts, and pleasure's ray, May charm his weary soul ; But woman knows one only dream — That broken, all is o'er; For on life's dark and sluggish stream Hope's sunbeam rests no more. Emma C. Embury. SOMEBODY. OMEBODY'S courting somebody. Somewhere or other to night ; Somebody's whispering to somebody, Somebody's listening to somebody, Under this clear moonlight. Near the bright river's flow, Running so still and slow. Talking so soft and low, She sits with somebody. Pacing the ocean's shore. Edged by the foaming roar. Words never used before Sound sweet to somebody. Under the maple tree. Deep though the shadow be, Plain enough they can see, Bright eyes has somebody. No one sits up to wait, Though she is out so late. All know she's at the gate, Talking with somebody. Tiptoe to parlor door ; ' Two shadows on the floor ! Moonlight, reveal no more — Susy and somebody. Two, sitting side by side, Float with the ebbing tide, "Thus, dearest, may we glide Through life," says somebody. Somewhere, somebody Makes love to somebody, To-night. THOUGH LOST TO SIGHT TO MEMORY DEAR. ' WEETHEART, good bye ! That flut'ring sail Is spread to waft me far from thee ; And soon, before the farth'ring gale My ship shall bound upon the sea. Perchance, all des'late and forlorn, These eyes shall miss thee many a year ; But unforgotten every charm — Though lost to sight, to memory dear. Sweetheart, good bye ! one last embrace ! Oh, cruel fate, two souls to sever ! Yet in this heart's most sacred place Thou, thou alone, shalt dwell forever ; And still shall recollection trace, In fancy's mirror, ever near. Each smile, each tear, that form, that face — Though lost to sight, to memory dear. Thomas Moore. EVENING SONG. OOK off, dear Love, across the sallow sands. And mark yon meeting of the sun and sea ; How long they kiss in sight of all the lands — Ah ! longer, longer we. Now in the sea's red vintage melts the sun, As Egypt's pearl dissolved in rosy wine, And Cleopatra night drinks all. 'Tis done. Love, lay thine hand in mine. Come forth, sweet stars, and comfort heaven's heart ; Glimmer, ye waves, round else unlighted sands ; O night ! divorce our sun and sky apart — Never our lips, our hands. Sidney Lanier. ^ A MAIDEN'S IDEAL OF A HUSBAND. , ENTEEL in personage. Conduct and equipage, Noble by heritage, Generous and free : Brave, not romantic ; Learned, not pedantic ; Frolic, not frantic ; This must he be. Honor maintaining, Meanness disdaining. Still entertaining. Engaging and new. Neat, but not finical ; Sage, but not cynical ; Never tyrannical, But ever true. Henry Carky. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 95 NEW LOVELINESS. E stars that look at me to-night, How beautiful you seem ! For I have found my spirit's light, The seraph of my dream. Oh ! never half so bright before Have I beheld you shine, For heaven itself looks lovelier, To lover's eyes like mine ! Alas ! I fear when midnight waits To catch my voice, in vain The list'ners at your golden gates Will hear some other twain, Whose hearts like ours, in melody. Will sadly throb and sigh, To see how calmly you behold E'en lovers kiss, and — die ! Edward Pollock. SWEET AND LOW. WEET and low, sweet and low. Wind of the western sea. Low, low, breathe and blow. Wind of the western sea I Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon and blow, Blow him again to me ; While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest. Father will come to thee soon : Rest, rest on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon ; Father will come to his babe m the nest, Silver sails all out of the west, Under the silver moon ; Sleep, my little one, sleep my pretty one, sleep. Alfred Tennyson. Remember me — but, loveliest, ne'er When, in his orbit fair and high. The morning's glowing charioteer Rides proudly up the blushing sky ; But when the waning moonbeam sleeps At moonlight on that lonely lea. And nature's pensive spirit weeps In all her dews, remember me. Remember me — but choose not, dear, - The hour when, on the gentle lake. The sportive wavelets, blue and clear. Soft rippling, to the margin break ; But when the deaf 'ning billows foam In madness o'er the pathless sea. Then let thy pilgrim fancy roam Across them, and remember me. Remember me — but not to join If haply some thy friends should praise ; 'Tis far too dear, that voice of thine To echo what the stranger says. They know us not — but shouldst thou meet Some faithful friend of me and thee, Softly, sometimes, to him repeat My name, and then remember me. Remember me — not, I entreat. In scenes of festal week-day joy, For then it were not kind or meet. Thy thought thy pleasure should alloy. But on the sacred, solemn day. And, dearest, on thy bended knee. When thou for those thou lovs't dost pray. Sweet spirit, then remember me. Edward Everett. TO A SISTER. ES. dear one, to the envied train Of those around thy homage pay ; But wilt thou never kindly deign To think of him that's far away? Thy form, thine eye, thine angel smile, For many years I may not see ; But wilt thou not sometimes the while, My sister dear, remember me ? But not in fashion's brilliant hall. Surrounded by the gay and fair. And thou the fairest of them all — O, think not, think not of me there. But when the thoughtless crowd is gone. And hushed the voice of senseless glee, And all is silent, still and lone. And thou art sad, remember me. (3 THE RING'S MOTTO. LOVER gave the wedding-ring Into a goldsmith's hand. "Grave me," he said, "a tender thought Within the golden band." The goldsmith graved With careful art — "Till death us part." The wedding-bells rang gladly out. The husband said, " O wife, Together we shall share the grief. The happiness of life. I give to thee My hand, and heart. Till death us part." *Twas she that lifted now his hand, (O love, that this should be !) Then on it placed the golden band, And whispered tenderly ; "Till death us join, Lo, thou art mine And I am thine ! 96 CROWN JEWELS. "And when death joins we never more Shall know an aching heart, The bridal of that better love Death has no power to part; That troth will be For thee and me Eternity," So up the hill and down the hill Through fifty changing years, They shared each other's happiness, They dried each other's tears. Alas ! Alas I That death's cold dart Such love can part ! But one sad day — she stood alone Beside his narrow bed ; She drew the ring from off her hand, And to the goldsmith said : " Oh, man who graved With careful art, 'Till death us part,' *' Now grave four other words for me — ' Till death us join.' " He took The precious golden band once more, With solemn, wistful look. And wrought with care. For love, not coin, "Till death us join." ^ TO ALTHEA FROM PRISON. HEN 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 with her eye, The birds that wanton in the air Know no such liberty. When flowing cups pass swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames ; When thirsty grief in wine we steep. When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, linnet-like confined, With shriller throat shall sing The mercy, sweetness, majesty And glories of my King ; When I shall voice aloud how good He is, how great should be, The enlarged winds that curl the flood. 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 : If I have freedom in my love. And in my soul am free, Angels alone, that soar above. Enjoy such liberty. Richard Lovelace. THE DAY IS FIXED. T last the happy day is named. For hearts to be united. And on that day will be fulfilled The vows that have been plighted ; The letter comes with eager haste, To give the information. And underneath the broken seal Is found an invitation. Three maidens fair the message scan — Its lines with meaning freighted — And, more than outward looks suggest. Their breasts are agitated ; Each hoped to win that promised hand. And change her single station, And each who sought receives at last, Receives — the invitation ! Henry Davenport. THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT. H, the poor shepherd's mornful fate. When doomed to love and doomed to lan- guish, To bear the scornful fair one's hate. Nor dare disclose his anguish ! Yet eager looks and dying sighs My secret soul discover, While rapture, trembling through mine eyes. Reveals how much I love her. The tender glance, the reddening cheek, O'erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For, oh ! that form so heavenly fair. Those lanquid eyes so sweetly smiling. That artless blush and modest air. So fatally beguiling ; Thy every look, and every grace. So charm, whene'er I view thee. Till death o'ertake me in the chase. Still will my hopes pursue thee. Then, when my tedious hours are past. Be this last blessing given. Low at thy feet to breathe my last. And die in sight of heaven. William Hamilton. TKE ]jR3^'"ijTATii©»^ LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 97 LADY BARBARA. ARL G A WAIN wooed the Lady Barbara, High-thoughted Barbara, so white and cold ! 'Mong broad-branched beeches in the summer shaw, In soft green light his passion he has told. When rain-beat winds did shriek across the wold, The Earl to take her fair reluctant ear Framed passion-trembled ditties manifold ; Silent she sat his amorous breath to hear. With calm and steadj' ej'^es ; her heart was otherwhere. He sighed for her through the summer weeks ; Sitting beneath a tree whose fruitful boughs Bore glofious apples with smooth, shining cheeks. Earl Gawain cam.e and whispered, " Lady, rouse ! Thou art no vestal held in holy vowb ; Out with our falcons to the pleasant heath." Her father's blood leapt up into her brows — He who, exulting on the trumpet's breath, Came charging like a star across the lists of death. Trembled, and passed before her high rebuke : And then she sat, he/ hands clasped round her knee : Like one far-thoughted was the lady's look, For in a morning cold as misery She saw a lone ship sailing on the sea ; Before the north 't was driven like a cloud ; High on the poop a man sat mournfully : The wind was whistling through mast and shroud, And to the whistling wind thus did he sing aloud : — " Didst look last night upon my native vales, Thou Sun ! tliat from the drenching sea hast clomb ? Ye demon winds ! that glut my gaping sails, Upon the salt sea must I ever roam, Wander forever on the barren foam ? O, happy are ye, resting mariners ! Death, that thou wouldst come and take me home ! A hand unseen this vessel onward steers. And onward I must float through slow, moon-measured years. " Ye winds ! when like a curse j'e drove us on. Frothing the waters, and along our way. Nor cape nor headland through red mornings shone, One wept aloud, one shuddered down to pray, One howled, ' Upon tlie deep we are astray.' On our wild hearts his words fell like a blight, In one short hour my hair was stricken gray, For all the crew sank ghastly in my sight, And we went driving on through tlie cold, starry night. "Madness fell on me in my loneliness, The sea foamed curses, and the reeling sky Became a dreadful face which did oppress Me with the weight of its unwinking eye. It fled, when I burst forth into a cr>' — A shoal of fiends came on me from the deep ; 1 hid, but in all comers they did pry, (J) And dragged me forth, and round did dance and leap ; They mouthed on me in dream, and tore me from sweet sleep. "Strange constellations burned above my head, Strange birds around the vessel shrieked and flew. Strange shapes, like shadov.-s, through the clear sea fled, As our lone ship, wide-winged, came rippling through, Angering to foam the smooth and sleeping blue." The lady sighed, ' ' Far, far upon the sea. My own Sir Arthur, could I die with you ! The wind blows shrill between my love and me." Fond heart ! the space between was but the apple-tree. There was a cry of joy ; with seeking hands She fled to him, like worn bird to her nest ; Like washing water on the figured sands. His being came and went in sweet unrest, As from the mighty shelter of his breast The Lady Barbara her head uprears With a wan smile, "Methinks I'm but half blest: Now when I've found thee, after weary years, I cannot see thee, love ! so blind I am with tears." Alexander S.mith. ATALANTA'S RACE. (3 ATALANTA VICTORIOUS. ND there two runners did the sign abide Foot set to foot — a young man slim and fair, Crisp-haired, well knit, with firm limbs oftiii tried In places where no man his strength may spare ; Dainty his thin coat was, and on his hair A golden circlet of renown he wore, And in his hand an olive garland bore. But on tills day with whom shall he contend ? A maid stood by him like Diana clad When in the woods she lists her bow to bend. Too fair for one to look on and be glad. Who scarcely yet has thirty summers had, If he must still behold her from afar ; Too fair to let the v/orld live free from war. She seemed all earthly matters to forget ; Of all tormenting lines her face was clear, Her wide gray eyes upon the goal were set, Calm and unmoved as though no soul were near : But her foe trembled as a man in fear, Nor from her loveliness one moment turned His anxious face with fierce desire that burned. Now through the hush there broke the trumpet's clang. Just as the setting sun made eventide. Then from light feet a spurt of dust there sprang, And swiftly were they running side by side ; But silent did the thronging folk abide Until the turning-post was reached at last. And round about it still abreast they passed. 98 CROWN JEWELS. But when the people saw how close they ran, When half-way to tlie starting-point they were, A cry of joy broke forth, whereat the man Headed the white-foot runner, and drew near Unto the very end of all his fear ; And scarce his straining feet the ground could feel. And bliss unhoped for o'er his heart did steal. But midst the loud victorious shouts he heard Her footsteps drawing nearer, and the sound Of fluttering raiment, and thereat afeard His flushed and eager face he turned around, And even then he felt her past him bound. Fleet as the wind, but scarcely saw her there Till on the goal she laid her fingers fair. There stood she breathing like a little child Amid some warlike clamor laid asleep. For no victorious joy her red lips smiled, Her cheek its wonted freshness did but keep ; No glance lit up her clear gray eyes and deep. Though some divine thought softened all her face As once more rang the trumpet through the place. But her late foe stopped short amidst his course, One moment gazed upon herpiteously, Then with a groan his lingering feet did force To leave the spot whence he her eyes could see ; And, changed like one who knows his time must be But short and bitter, without any word He knelt before the bearer of the sword ; Then high rose up the gleaming deadly blade. Bared of its flowers, and through the crowded place Was silence now, and midst of it the maid Went by the poor wretch at a gentle pace, And he to hers upturned his sad white face ; Nor did his eyes behold another sight Ere on his soul there fell eternal night. ATALANTA CONQUERED. Now has the lingering month at last gone by, Again are all folk round the running place, Nor other seems t'le dismal pageantry Than heretofore, but that another face Looks o'er the smooth course ready for the race ; For now, beheld of all, Milanion Stands on the spot he twice has looked upon. But yet — what change is this that holds the maid ? Does she indeed see in his glittering eye Rlore than disdain of the sharp shearing blade. Some happy hope of help and victory? The others seemed to say, "We come to die, Look down upon us for a little while. That dead, we may bethink us of thy smile." But he — what look of mastery was this He cast on her ? why were his lips so red ? Why was his face so flushed with happiness? So looks not one who deems himself but dead, E'en if to death he bows a willing head ; So rather looks a god well pleased to find Some earthly damsel fashioned to his mind. Why must she drop her lids before his gaze. And even as she casts adown her eyes Redden to note his eager glance of praise. And wish that she were dad in other guise? Why must the memory to her heart arise Of things unnoticed when they first were heard. Some lover's song, some answering maiden's word ? What makes these longings, vague, without a name, And this vain pity never felt before, This sudden languor, this contempt of fame, This tender sorrow for the time past o'er. These doubts that grow each minute more and more? Why does she tremble as the time grows near. And weak defeat and woful victory fear ? But while she seemed to hear her beating heart. Above their heads the trumpet blast rang out. And forth they sprang ; and she must play her part ; Then flew her white feet, knowing not a doubt. Though slackening once, she turned her head about, But then she cried aloud and faster fled Than e'er before, and all men deemed him dead. But with no sound he raised aloft his hand, And thence what seemed a ray of light there flew And past the maid rolled on along the sand ; Then trembling she her feet together drew. And in her heart a strong desire there grew To have the toy ; some god she thought had given That gift to her, to make of earth a heaven. Then from the course with eager steps she ran. And in her colorless bosom laid the gold. But when she turned again the great-limbed man Now well ahead she failed not to behold. And mindful of her glory waxing cold. Sprang up and followed him in hot pursuit. Though with one hand she touched the golden fruit. Note, too, the bow that she was wont to bear, She laid aside to grasp the glittering prize. And o'er her shoulder from the quiver fair. Three arrows fell and lay before her eyes Unnoticed, as amidst the people's cries She sprang to head the strong Milanion, Who now the turning-post had well nigh won. Just as he sets his mighty hand on it. White fingers underneath his own w^-te laid. And white limbs from his dazzled eyes did flit. Then he the second fruit cast by the maid ; But she ran on awhile, then as afraid Wavered and stopped, and turned and made no stay Until the globe with its bright fellow lay. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 99 Then, as a troubled glance she cast around, Now far ahead the Argive could she see, And in her garment's hem one hand she wound To keep the double prize, and strenuously Sped o'er the course, and little doubt had she To win the day, though now but scanty space Was left betwixt him and the winning place. Short was the way unto such winged feet, Quickly she gained upon him till at last He turned about her eager eyes to meet. And from his hand the third fair apple cast. She wavered not, but turned and ran so fast After the prize that should her bli.-s fulfil. That in her hand it lay ere it was still. Nor did she rest, but turned about to win Once more, an unblest, woful victory — And yet — and yet — why does her breath begin To fail her, and her feet drag heavily ? Why fails she now to see if far or nigh The goal is ? Why do her gray eyes grow dim ? Why do these tremors run through every limb ? She spreads her arms abroad some stay to find, Else must she fall, indeed, and findeth this, A strong man's arms about her body twined. Nor may she shudder now to feel his kiss. So wrapped she is in new, unbroken bliss : Made happy that the foe the prize hath won. She weeps glad tears for all her glory done. William Morris. PLACE YOUR HAND IN MINE. WIFE. 'IS five-and-twenty years to-day. Since we were man and wife — And that's a tidy slice, I say, ^ From anybody's life. And if we want, in looking back. To feel how time has flown. There's Jack, you see, our baby Jack, With whiskers of his own. Place your hand in mine, wife — We've loved each odier true ; And still, in shade or shine, wife, There's love to help us through. It's not been all smooth sailing, wife — Not always laughing May ; Sometimes it's been a weary strife To keep the wolf away. We've haa our little tiffs, my dear ; We've often grieved and sighed ; One lad has cost us many a tear ; Our little baby died. But, wife, your love along the road Has cheered the roughest spell ; You've borne your half of every load, And often mine as well. I've rued full many a foolish thing Ere well the step was ta'en ; But, oh ! I'd haste to buy the ring And wed you o'er again. 'Twas you who made me own the Hand That's working all along, In ways we cannot understand. Still bringing right from wrong. You've kept me brave, and kept me true ; You've made me trust and pray ; My gentle evening star were you. That blessed the close of day. Place your hand in mine, wife — We've loved each other true ; And still, in shade or shine, wife. There's love to help us through. Frederick Langbridge. m THE LITTLE MILLINER. y girl hath violet eyes and yellow hair, A soft hand, like a lady's, small and fair, A sweet face pouting in a white straw bon- net, A tiny foot, and little boot upon it ; And all her finery to charm beholders Is the gray shawl drawn tight around her shoulders. The plain stuff-gown and collar white as snow, And sweet red petticoat that peeps below. But gladly in the busy town goes she. Summer and winter, fearing nobody; She pats the pavement with her fairy feet. With fearless eyes she charms the crowded street ; And in her pocket lie, in lieu of gold, A lucky sixpence and a thimble old. We lodged in the same house a year ago : She on the topmost floor, I just below — She, a poor milliner, content and wise, I, a poor city clerk, with hopes to rise ; And, long ere we were friends, I learnt to love The little angel on the floor above. For, every morn, ere from my bed I stirred, Her chamber door would open, and I heard — And listening, blushing, to her coming down, And palpitated with her rustling gown. And tingled while her foot went downward slow. Creaked like a cricket, passed, and died below ; Then peeping from the window, pleased and sly, I saw the pretty shining face go by. Healthy and rosy, fresh from slumber sweet — A sunbeam in the quiet morning street. And every night when in from work she tript, Red to the ears I from my chamber slipt, That I might hear upon the narrow stair Her low " Good evening," as she passed me there. And when her door was closed, below sat I, And hearkened stilly as she stirred on high — 100 CROWN JEWELS. Watched the red firelight shadows in the room, Fashioned her face before me in the gloom, And heard her close the window, lock the door. Moving about more lightly than before, And thought, " She is undressing now !" and, oh ! My clieeks were hot, my heart was in a glow ! And I made pictures of her — standing bright Before the looking-glass in bed-gown white, Unbinding in a knot her yellow hair. Then kneeling timidly to say a prayer ; Till, last, the floor creaked softly overhead, 'Neath bare feet tripping to the little bed — And all was hushed. Yet still I hearkened on, Till the faint sounds about the streets were gone ; And saw her slumbering with lips apart, One little hand upon her little heart. The other pillowing a face that smiled In slumber like the slumber of a child, The bright hair shining round the small white ear, The soft breath stealing visible and clear, And mixing with the moon's, whose frosty gleam Made round her rest a vaporous light of dream. How free she wandered in the wicked place, Protected only by her gentle face ! She saw bad things — how could she choose but see ? — She heard of wantonness and misery ; The city closed around her night and day, But lightly, happily, she went her way. Nothing of evil that she saw or heard Could touch a h^art so innocently stirred — By simple hopes that cheered it through the storm. And little flutterings that kept it warm. No power had she to reason out her needs, To give the whence and wherefore of her deeds ; But she was good and pure amid the strife By virtue of the joy that was her life. Here, where a thousand spirits daily fall, Where heart and soul and senses turn to gall," She floated, pure as innocent could be, Like a small sea-bird on a stormy sea, Which breasts the billows, wafted to and fro, Fearless, uninjured, while the strong winds blow. While the clouds gather, and the waters roar. And mighty ships are broken on the shore. A'l winter long, witless who peeped the while. She sweetened the chill mornings with her smile ; When the soft snow was falling dimly white. Shining among it with a child's delight, Bri^^ht as a rose, though nipping winds might blow, And leaving fairy footprints in the snow ! 'Twas when the spring was coming, when the snow Had melted, and fresh winds began to blow, And girls were selling violets in the town, That suddenly a fever struck me down. The world was changed, the sense of life was pained, And nothing but a shadow-land remained ; Death came in a dark mist and looked at me, I felt his breathing, though I could not see, But heavily I lay and did not stir, And had strange images and dreams of her. Then came a vacancy ; with feeble breath, I shivered under the cold touch of death, And swooned among strange visions of the dead. When a voice called from heaven, and he fled ; And suddenly I wakened, as it seemed, From a deep sleep wherein I had not dreamed. And it was night, and I could see and hear, And I was in the room I held so dear. And unaware, stretched out upon my bed. I hearkened for a footstep overhead. But all was hushed. I looked around the room, And slowly made out shapes amid the gloom. The wall was reddened by a rosy light, A faint fire flickered, and I knew 't was night, Because below there was a sound of feet Dying away along the quiet street — When, turning my pale face and sighing low, I saw a vision in the quiet glow : A little figure in a cotton gown, Looking upon the fire and stooping down, Her side to me, her face illumed, she eyed Two chestnuts burning slowly, side by side — Her lips apart, her clear eyes strained to see. Her little hands clasped tight around her knee, The firelight gleaming on her golden head. And tinting her white neck to rosy red. Her features bright, and beautiful, and pure. With childish fear and yearning half demure. O sweet, sweet dream I I thought and strained mine eyes, Fearing to break the spell with words and sighs. Softly she stooped, her dear face sweetly fair. And sweeter since a light like love was there, Brightening, watching, more and more elate, As the nuts glowed together in the grate.' Crackling with little jets of fiery light. Till side by side they turned to ashes white — Then up she leapt, her face cast oflfits fear For rapture that itself was radiance clear, And would have clapped her little han'ds in glee, . But, pausing, bit her lips and peeped at mc, And met the face that yearned on her so. whitcly. And gave a cry and trembled, blushing brightly, While, raised on elbow, as she turned to flee, " Polly !" I cried— and grew as red as she 1 It was no dream! for soon my ".thoughts were clear. And she could tell me all, and I could hear : How in my sickness friendless I had lainj How the hard people pitied not my pain ; How, in despite of what bad people said. She left her labors, stopped beside my bed, And nursed me, thinking sadly I would die; How, in the end, the danger passed me by ; LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 101 How she had sought to steal away before The sickness passed, and I was strong once more. By fits she told the story in mine ear, And troubled at the telling with a fear Lest by my cold man's heart she should be chid. Lest I should think her bold in what she did ; But, lying on my bed, I dared to say. How I had watched and loved her many a day. How dear she was to me, and dearer still For that strange kindness done while I was ill. And how I could but think that Heaven above Had done it all to bind our lives in love. And Polly cried, turning her face away, And seemed afraid, and answered "yea "nor" nay;' Then stealing close, with little pants and sighs, Looked on my pale thin face and earnest eyes. And seemed in act to fling her arms about My neck; then, blushing, paused, in fluttering doubt ; Last, sprang upon my heart, sighing and sobbing — That I might feel how gladly hers was throbbing. Ah ! ne'er shall I forget until I die, How happily the dreamy days went by. While I grew well, and lay with soft heart-beats. Hearkening the pleasant murmur from the streets. And Polly by me like a sunny beam. And life all changed, and love a drosy dream ! 'Twas happiness enough to lie and see The little golden head bent droopingly Over its sewing, while the still time flew, And my fond eyes were dim with happy dew ! And then, when I was nearly well and strong. And she went back to labor all day long, How sweet to lie alone with half-shut eyes. And hear the distant murmurs and the cries, And think how pure she was from pain and sin — And how the summer days were coming in ! Then, as the sunset faded from the room. To listen for her footstep in the gloom. To pant as it came stealing up the stair. To feel my whole life brighten unaware When the soft tap came to the door, and when The door was open for her smile again ! Best, the long evenings ! — when, till late at night. She sat beside me in the quiet light. And happy things were said and kisses won, And serious gladness found its vent in fun. Sometimes I would draw close her shining head. And pour her bright hair out upon the bed. And she would laugh, and blush, and trj' to scold. While "here," I cried, " I count my wealth in gold !" Once, like a little sinner for transgression, She blushed upon my breast, and made confession : How, when that night I woke and looked around, I found her busy with a charm profound — One chestriut was herself, my girl confessed. The other was the person she loved best. And if they burned together side by side. He loved her, and she would become his bride ; And bum indeed they did, to her delight — And had the pretty charm not proven right? Thus much, and more, with timorous joy, she said. While her confjssor, too, grew rosy red — And close togetlicr pressed two blissful faces. As I absolved tJio sinner, with embraces. And here is winter come again, winds blow. The houses and the streets are white with snow ; And in the long and pleasant eventide, Why, what is Polly making at my side ? What but a silk gown, beautiful and grand. We bought together lately in the Strand ! What but a dress to go to ciiurch in soon, And wear right queenly 'neath a honeymoon ! And who shall match her with her new straw bonnet, Her tiny foot and little boot upon it ; Embroidered petticoat and silk gown new, And shawl she wears as f^w fine ladies do? And she will keep, to charm away all ill. The lucky sixpence in her pocket still ; And we will turn, come fi^ir or cloudy weather, To ashes, like the chestnuts, close together ! Robert Buchanan. #: THE EXCHANGE. pledged our hearts, my love and I — I in my arms the maiden clasping ; could not tell the reason why. But, O, I trembled like an aspen ! Her father's love she bade me gain ; I went, and shook like any reed ! I strove to act the man — in vain ! We had exchanged our hearts indeed. Samuel Tavlor Coleridge. THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER. 'T T is the miller's daughter, •©• And she is grown so dear, so dear, •!» That I would be the jewel ' That trembles at her ear : For, hid in ringlets day and night, I'd touch her neck so wann and white. And I would be the girdle About her dainty, dainty waist. And her heart would beat against me In sorrow and in rest : And I should know if it beat right, I'd clasp it round so close and tight. And I would be the necklace, And all day long to fall and rise Upon her balmy bosom. With her laughter or her sighs : And I would lie so light, so light, I scarce should be unclasped at night. Alfred Tennyson. i02 CROWN JEWELS. • THE LOVE-KNOT. 'YING her bonnet under her chin. She tied her raven ringlets in. But not alone in the silken snare Did she catch her lovely floating hair, For, tying her bonnet under her chin. She tied a young man's heart within. They were strolling together up the hill. Where the wind came blowing merry and chill; And it blew the curls a frolicsome race, All over the happy peach-colored face. Till scolding and laughing, she tied tliem in. Under her beautiful, dimpled chin. And it blew a color, bright as the bloom Of the pinkest fuchsia's tossing plume. All over the cheeks of the prettiest girl That ever imprisoned a romping curl, Or, in tying her bonnet under her chin. Tied a young man's heart within. Steeper and steeper grew the hill. Madder, merrier, chiller still, The western wind blew down, and played The wildest tricks with the little maid. As, tying her bonnet under her chin, She tied a young man's heart within. O western wind, do you think it was fair To play such tricks with her floating hair? To gladly, gleefully, do your best To blow her against the young man's breast, Where he has gladly folded her in. And kissed her mouth and dimpled chin ? O Ellery Vane, you little thought. An hour ago, when you besought This country lass to walk with you. After the sun had dried the dew. What terrible danger you'd be in. As she tied her bonnet under her chin. Nora Perry. A SPINSTER'S STINT. ' IX skeins and three, six skeins and three ! Good mother, so you stinted me. And here they be — ay, six and three ! Stop, busy wheel ! stop, noisy wheel ! Long shadows down my chamber steal. And warn me to make haste and reel. 'T is done — the spinning work complete, heart of mine, what makes you beat So fast and sweet, so fast and sweet ? 1 must have wheat and pinks, to stick My hat from brim to ribbon, thick — Slow hands of mine, be quick, be quick ! One, two, three stars along t!«*^ wfc.it:S Begin to wink their golden ey-.6 — I'll leave my threads all knots and ties. O moon, so red ! O moon, so red ! Sweetheart of night, go straight to bed ; Love's light will answer in your stead. A-tiptoe, beckoning me, he stands — Stop trembling, littie foolish hands. And stop the bands, and stop the bands ? Alice Carv. 0, DO NOT WANTON WITH THOSE EYES DO not wanton with tliose eyes. Lest I be sick with seeing ; y Nor cast them down, but let them rise. Lest shame destroy their being. O, be not angry with those fires, For then their threats will kill me ; Nor look too kind on my desires. For then my hopes will spill me. O, do not steep them in thy tears, . For so will sorrow slay me ; Nor spread them as distract with fears ; Mine own enough betray me. Ben Jonson. A NYMPH'S REPLY. F all the world and love were young. And truth in every shepherd's tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee, and be thy love. Time drives the flocks from field to fold. When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ; And Philornel becometh dumb, The rest complain of cares to come. The flowers do fade, and wanton fields To wayward winter reckoning yields ; A honey tongue, a heart of gall, Is fancy's spring, but sorrows fall. Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses. Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies. Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten. In folly ripe, in reason rotten. Thy belt of straw and ivy buds, Thy coral clasps and amber studs ; All these in me no means can move To come to thee and be thy love. But could youth last, and love still breed. Had joys no date, nor age no need, Then these delights my mind might move To live with thee and be thy love. Sir Walter Raleigh. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 103 ii BLEST AS THE IMMORTAL GODS. I LEST as the immortal gods is he, The youth who fondly sits by thee, And hears and sees thee all the while Softly speak, and sweetly smile. 'T was this deprived my soul of rest, And raised such tumults in my breast : For while I gazed, in transport tost, My breath was gone, my voice was lost. My bosom glowed ; the subtle flame Ran quick through all my vital frame ; O'er my dim eyes a darkness hung ; My ears with hollow murmurs rung ; In dewy damps my limbs were chilled ; My blood with gentle horrors thrilled : My feeble pulse forgot to play — I fainted, sunk, and died away. From the Greek of Sappho, by Ambrose Phillips. THE WHISTLE. OU have heard," said a youth to his sweet- heart, who stood. While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at day- light's decline — " You have heard of the Danish boy's whistle of wood ? I wish that the Danish boy's whistle were mine." "And what would you do with it? — tell me," she said. While an arch smile played over her beautiful face. "I would blow it," he answered ; "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would here take her place." " Is that all you wish it for ? That may be yours Without any magic," the fair maiden cried : "A favor so slight one's good nature secures ;" And she playfully seated herself by his side. "I would blow it again," said the youth, "and the charm Would work so, that not even modesty's check Would be able to keep from my neck your fine arm ;" She smiled — and she laid her fine arm round his neck. " Yet once more would I blow, and the music divine Would bring me the third time an exquisite bliss ; You would lay your fair cheek to this brown one of mine. And your lips, stealing past it, would give me a kiss." The maiden laughed out in her innocent glee, " What a fool of yourself with your whistle you'd make ! For only consider, how silly 't would be To sit there and whistle for — what you m'vgbi. take !" Robert Story. A MAIDEN WITH A MILKING-PAIL lU HAT change has made the pastures sweet And reached the daisies at my feet, And cloud that wears a golden hem ? This lovely world, the hills, the sward — They all look fresh, as if our Lord But yesterday had finished them. And here's the field with light aglow : How fresh its boundary lime-trees show ! And how its wet leaves trembling shine ! Between their trunks come through to me The morning sparkles of the sea. Below the level browsing line. I see the pool more clear by half Than pools where other waters laugh, Up at the breasts of coot and rail. There, as she passed it on her way, I saw reflected yesterday A maiden with a milking-pail. There, neither slowly nor in haste, One hand upon her slender waist, The other lifted to her pail — She, rosy in the morning light. Among the water-daisies white, Like some fair sloop appeared to sail. Against her ankles as she trod The lucky buttercups did nod : I leaned upon the gate to see. The sweet thing looked, but did not sp>eak ; A dimple came in either cheek, And all my heart was gone from me. Then, as I lingered on the gate. And she came up like coming fate, I saw my picture in her eyes — Clear dancing eyes, more black than sloes ! Cheeks like the mountain pink, that grows Among white-headed majesties ! I said, " A tale was made of old That I would fain to thee unfold. Ah ! let me — let me tell the tale." But high she held her comely head : I cannot heed it now," she said, "For carrying of the milking-pail." She laughed. What good to make ado ? I held the gate, and she came through, And took her homeward path anon. 1©4 CROWN JEWELS. From the clear pool her face had fled ; It rested on my heart instead, Reflected when the maid was gone. With happy youth, and work content, So sweet and stately, on she went, Right careless of the untold tale. Each step she took I loved her more. And followed to her dairy door The maiden with the milking-pail. II. For hearts where wakened love doth lurk, How fine, how blest a thing is work ! For work does good when reasons fail — Good ; yet the axe at every stroke The echo of a name awoke — Her name is Mary Martindale. I'm glad that echo was not heard Aright by other men. A bird Knows doubtless what his own notes tell ; And I know not — but I can say I felt as shamefaced all that day As if folks heard her name right well. And when the west began to glow I went —I could not choose but go — To that same dairy on the hill ; And while sweet Mary moved about Within, I came to her without. And leaned upon the window-sili. The garden border where I stood Was sweet with pinks and southernwood. I spoke — her answer seemed to fail. I smelt the pinks — I could not see. The dusk came down and sheltered me, And in the dusk she heard my tale. And what is left that I should tell ? I begged a kiss — I pleaded well : The rosebud lips did long decline ; But yet, I think— I think 't is true- That, leaned at last into the dew. One little instant they were mine ! O life ! how dear thou hast become ! She laughed at dawn, and I was dumb ! But evening counsels best prevail. Fair shine the blue that o'er her spreads, Green be the pastures where she treads, The maiden with the milking-pail ! Jean Ingelow. THE EVE OF ST. AGNES. ' T. AGNES' EVE— ah, bitter chill it was ! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold ; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass. And silent was the flock in woolly fold : Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told His rosary, and while his frosted breath, Like pious incense from a censer old. Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, Along the chapel isle by slow degrees ; The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze, Emprisoned in black, purgatorial rails ; Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, He passeth by ; and his weak spirit fails To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue Flattered to tears this aged man and poor ; But no — already had his death-bell rung ; The joys of all his life were said and sung: His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve : Another way he went, and soon among Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve. That ancient beadsman heard the prelude soft ; And so it chanced, for many a door was wide, From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, The silver, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide ; The level chambers, ready with their pride, Were glowing to receive a thousand guests : The carved angels, ever eager eyed, Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, With hair blown back, and wings put crosswise on their breasts. At length burst in the argent revelry, With plume, tiara, and all rich array, Numerous as shadows haunting fairily The brain, new-stuffed, in youth, with triumphs gay Of old romance. These let us wish away ; And turn, sole-thoughted, to one lady there, Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, On love, and winged St. Agnes' saintly care. As she had heard old dames full many times declare. They told her how, upon St. Agnes' eve. Young virgins might have visions of delight, And soft adorings from their loves receive Upon the honeyed middle of the night, If ceremonies due they did aright ; As, supperless to bed they must retire. And couch supine their beauties, lily white; Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require Of heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline ; The music, yearning like a god in pain, She scarcely heard ; her maiden eyes divine. Fixed on the floor, saw many a sweeping train LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 105 Pass by — she heeded not at all ; in vain Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, And back relired, not cooled by high disdain. But she saw not ; her heart was otherwhere ; She sighed for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. She danced along with vague, regardless eyes, Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short ; The hallowed hour was near at hand ; she sighs Amid the timbrels, and the thronged resort Of whisperers in anger, or in sport ; Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn. Hoodwinked with fairy fancy; all amort Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn. And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. So, purposing each moment to retire, She lingered still. Meantime, across the moors, Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, Buttressed from moonlight, stands he, and implores All saints to give him sight of Madeline, But for one moment in the tedious hours, That he might gaze and worship all unseen ; Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things have been. He ventures in : let no buzzed whisper tell : All eyes be mufiied, or a hundred swords Will storm his heart, love's feverous citadel ; For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords. Whose very dogs would execrations howl Against his lineage ; not one breast aflfords Him any mercy, in that mansion foul. Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came. Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand. To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame. Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond The sound of merriment and chorus bland. He startled her ; but soon she knew his face, And grasped his fingers in her palsied hand. Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; They are all here to-night, the whole bloodthirsty race ! " Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; He had a fever late, and in the fit He cursM thee and thine, both house and land ; Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit More tame for his gray hairs — alas me ! flit ! Flit like a ghost away ! " "Ah, gossip dear. We're safe enough ; here in this arm-chair sit. And tell me how — " "Good saints! not here, not here ; Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier," He followed through a lowly arched way, Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume ; And as she muttered, " Well-a — well-aday ! " He found him in a little moonlight room, Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. " Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, " O, tell me, Angela, by the holy loom Which none but secret sisterhood may see. When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." "St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- Yet men will murder upon holy days ; Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, And be liege-lord of all the elves and fays. To venture so. It fills me with amaze To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes eve ! God's help ! my lady fair the conjurer plays This vel^' night ; good angels her deceive ! But let me laugh awhile, Pve mickle time to grieve." Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, While Porphyro upon her face doth look. Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone Who keepeth closed a wondrous riddle-book, As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told His lady's purpose ; and he scarce could brook Tears, at tlie thought of those enchantments cold. And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart Made purple riot ; then doth he propose A stratagem, that makes the beldame start : " A cruel man and impious thou art ! Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep and dream Alone with her good angels, far apart From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! I deem Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem. ' ' " I will not harm her, by all saints I swear ! " Quoth Porphyro ; "O, may I ne'er find grace When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer. If one of her soft ringlets I displace. Or look with ruffian passion in her face : Good Angela, believe me by these tears ; Or I will, even in a moment's space. Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, And beard them, though they be more fanged than wolves and bears." "Ah ! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul ? A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing. Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll ; WTiose prayers for thee, each morn and evening. Were never missed." Thus plaining, doth she bring A gentler speech from burning Porphyro ; So woful, and of such deep sorrowing. That Angela gives promise she will do Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy. Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide Him in a closet, of such privacy That he might see her beauty unespied. 106 CROWN JEWELS. And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, While legioned fairies paced the coverlet, And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. Never on such a night have lovers met, Since Merlin paid his demon all the monstrous debt. " It shall be as thou wishest," said the dame ; "All cates and dainties shall be stored there Quickly on this feast-night ; by the tambour frame Her own lute thou wilt see ; no time to spare, For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare On such a catering trust my dizzy head. Wait here, my child, with patience kneel in prayer The while. Ah ! thou must needs the lady wed, Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. The lover's endless minutes slowly passed : The dame returned, and whispered in his ear To follow her ; with aged eyes aghast From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, Through many a dusky gallery, they gain The maiden's chamber, silken, hushed and chaste ; Where Porphyro took covert, pleased amain. His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. Her faltering hand upon the balustrade, Old Angela was feeling for the stair, When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid. Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware ; With silver taper's light, and pious care, She turned, and down the aged gossip led To a safe level matting. Now prepare, Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed ! She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove, frayed and fled. Out went the taper as she hurried in ; Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died ; She closed the door, she panted, all akin To spirits of the air, and visions wide ; No uttered syllable, or, woe betide ! But to her heart, her heart was voluble. Paining with eloquence her balmy side ; As though a tongueless nightingale should swell Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled in her dell. A casement high and triple-arched there was, All garlanded with carven imageries Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, And diamonded with panes of quaint device, Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, As are the tiger-moth's deep-damasked wings ; And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, A shielded 'scutcheon blushed with blood of queens and kings. Full on this casement shone the wintry moon. And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon ; Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, And on her silver cross soft amethyst, And on her hair a glory, like a saint ; She seemed a splendid angel, newly drest, Save wings, for heaven. Porphyro grew faint : She knelt, so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. Anon his heart revives ; her vespers done, Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees : Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one ; Loosens her fragrant bodice ; by degrees Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees ; Half hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest. In sort of wakeful swoon, perplexed she lay, Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppressed Her soothdd limbs, and soul fatigued away ; Flown like a thought, until the morrow-day ; Blissfully havened both from joy and pain ; Clasped like a missal where swart Paynims pray ; Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. Stolen to this paradise, and so entranced, Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, And listened to her breathing, if it chanced To wake into a slumberous tenderness : Which when he heard, that minute did he bless. And breathed himself; then from the closet crept. Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, And over the hushed carpet, silent, stept, And 'tween the curtains peeped, where, lo ! — how fast she slept. Then by the bedside, where the faded moon Made a dim, silver twilight soft he set A table, and, half anguished, threw thereon A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet : — O for some drowsy morphean amulet I The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion. The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, Affray his ears, though but in dying tone : — The hall-door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. And still she slept an azure lidded sleep. In blanched linen, smooth, and lavendered ; While he from forth the closet brought a heap Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd ; With jellies soother than the creamy curd. And lucent syrups, tinct with cinamon ; Manna and dates, in argosy transferred From Fez ; and spiced dainties, every one, From silken Samarcand to cedared Lebanon. These delicates he heaped with glowing hand On golden dishes and in baskets bright Of wreathed silver. Sumptuous they stand In the retired quiet of the night. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 107 Filling the chilly room with perfume light, — " And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite ; Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake. Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream By the dusk curtains : — 'twas a midnight charm Impossible to melt as iced stream : The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam ; Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies ; It seemed he never, never could redeem From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes ; So mused awhile, entoiled in woofed phantasies. Awakening up, he took her hollow lute — Tumultuous — and, in chords that tenderest be. He played an ancient ditty, long since mute, In Provence called " La belle dame sans merci ; " Close to her ear touching the melody ; — Wherewith disturbed, she uttered a soft moan : He ceased ; she panted quick — and suddenly Her blue affrayed ej'es wide open shone : Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. Her eyes were open, but she still beheld. Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep. There was a painful change that nigh expelled The blisses of her dream so pure and deep ; At which fair Madeline began to weep. And moan forth witless words with many a sigh ; While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep ; Who knelt with joined hands and piteous eye, Fearing to move or speuk, she looked so dreamingly. "Ah, Porphyro ! " she said, "but even now Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, Made tunable with every sweetest vow ; And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear ; How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! O, leave me not in this eternal woe. For if thou diest, my love, I know not where to go." Beyond a mortal man impassioned far At these voluptuous accents, he arose. Ethereal, flushed, and like a throbbing star Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose ; Into her dream he melted, as the rose Blendeth its odor with the violet — Solution sweet ; meantime the frost-wind blows Like love's alarm pattering the sharp sleet Against the window panes : St. Agnes' moon hath set. 'Tis dark ; quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet : "This is no dieam, my bride, my Madeline 1 " 'Tis dark ; the ic^d gusts still rave and beat: "No dream? alas ! alas 1 and woe is mine ! Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. Cruel ! what traitor could thee hither bring ? I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine. Though thou forsakest a deceived thing ; — A dove forlorn and lost, with sick, unpruned wing." "My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest After so many hours of toil and quest, A famished pilgrim — saved by miracle. Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest, Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. " Hark ! 't is an elfin storm from faery land. Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed : Arise, arise ! the morning is at hand ; — The bloated wassailers will never heed : Let us away, my love, with happy speed ; There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see — Drowned all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead : Awake, arise, my love, and fearlesS be. For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." She hurried at his words, beset with fears. For there were sleeping dragons all around. At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears ; Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found, In all the house was heard no human sound. A chain-drooped lamp was flickering by each door ; The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound. Fluttered in the besieging wind's uproar ; And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall ! Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide. Where lay the porter, in uneasy sprawl, With a huge empty flagon by his side : The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, But his sagacious eye an inmate owns ; By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide ; The chains lie silent on the footworn stones ; The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans ; And they are gone ! ay, ages long ago These lovers fled into the storm. That night the baron dreamt of many a woe. And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form Of witch, and demon, .and large coffin worm. Were long be nightmared. Angela, the old. Died palsy-twitched, with meagre face deform ; The beadsman, after thousand aves told. For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. John Kkats. FAREWELL TO HIS WIFE. (Cj^^ARE thee well ! and if forever, "^'i'T^ Still forever, fare thee well ; -*• Even though unforgiving, never 'Gainst thee shall my heart rebel. 108 CROWN JEWELS. Would that breast were bared before thee Where thy head so oft hath hiin, While the placid sleep came o'er thee Which thou ne'er canst know again: Would that breast, by thee glanced over, Every inmost thought could show ! Then thou wouldst at last discover 'T was not well to spurn it so. Though the world for this commend thee — Though it smile upon the blow, Even its praises must offend thee, Founded on another's woe : Though my many faults defaced me, Could no other arm be found Than the one which once embraced me. To inflict a cureless wound ? Yet, O, yet thyself deceive not ; Love may sink by slow decay ; But by sudden wrench, believe not Hearts can thus be torn away : Still thine own its life retaineth — Still must mine, though bleeding beat ; And the undying thought which paineth Is — that we no more may meet. These are words of deeper sorrow Than the wail above the dead ; Both shall live, but every morrow Wake us from a widowed bed. And when thou wouldst solace gather, When our child's first accents flow, Wilt thou teach her to say " Father !" Though his care she must forego ! When her little hands shall press thee. When her lip to thine is pressed, Think of him whose prayer shall bless tiiee. Think of him thy love had blessed ! Should her lineaments resemble Those thou nevermore mayst see, Then thy heart will softly tremble With a pulse yet true to me. All my faults perchance thou knowest, All my madness none can know ; All my hopes, whene'er thou goest, Whither, yet with thee they go. Every feeling hath been shaken ; Pride, which not a world could bow, Bows to thee — by thee forsaken, Even my soul forsakes me now ; Cut 't is done ; all words are idle — Words from me are vainer still ; But the thoughts we cannot bridle Force their way without the will. Fare thee well ! — thus disunited, Torn from every nearer tie. Seared in heait and lone, and blighted, More than this I scarce can die. Lord Byron, O' BLACK-EYED SUSAN. LL in the Downs the fleet was moored, The streamers waving in the wmd, When black-eyed Susan came aboard ; '■ O, where shall I my true love find i" Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true If my sweet William sails among the crew.'' William, who high upon the yaM Rocked with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard He sighed, and cast his eyes below : The cord slides swiftly through his glowmg hands. And quick as lightning on the deck he stands. So the sweet lark, high poised in air. Shuts close his pinions to his breast If chance his mate's shrill call he hear, And drops at once into her nest : — The noblest captain in the British fleet Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet. " O Susan, Susan, lovely dear. My vows shall ever true remain ; Let me kiss off" that falling tear ; We only part to meet again. Change as ye list, ye winds ; my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. "Believe not what the landmen say Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind : They'll tell thee, sailors when away, In every port a mistress find : Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so, For Thou art present wheresoe'er I go. " If to fair India's coast we sail. Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale, Thy skm is ivory so white. Thus every beauteous object that I view Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue. "Though battle call me from thy arms. Let not my pretty Susan mourn ; Though cannons roar, yet safe from harms William shall to his dear return. Love turns aside the balls that round me fly, Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye." The boatswain gave the dreadful word, The sails their swelling bosom spread ; No longer must she stay aboard : They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land ; "Adieu ! " she cried ; and waved her lily hand. John Gay. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. 100 THE BLOOM WAS ON THE ALDER AND THE TASSEL ON THE CORN. HEARD the bob-white whistle in the dewy breath of morn ; The bloom was on the alder and the tassel on the corn. I stood with beating heart beside the babbling Mac-o- chee, To See my love come down the glen to keep her tryst with me. I saw her pace, with quiet grace, the shaded path along, And pause to pluck a flower, or hear the thrush's song. Denied by her proud father as a suitor to be seen, She came to me, with loving trust, my gracious little queen. Above my station, heaven knows, that gentle maiden shone, For she was belle and '^•^de beloved, and I a youth unknown. The rich and great about her thronged, and sought on bended knee For love this gracious princess gave, with all her heart, to me. So like a startled fawn before my longing eyes she stood, With all the freshness of a girl in flush of woman- hood. I trembled as I put my arm about her form divine, And stammered, as in awkward speech, I begged her to be mine. Tis sweet to hear the pattering rain, that lulls a dim- lit dream — 'Tis sweet to hear the song of birds, and sweet the rippling stream ; 'Tis sweet amid the mountain pines to hear the south winds sigh, More sweet than these and all beside was the loving, low reply. The little hand I held in mine held all I had of life, To mold its better destiny and soothe to sleep its strife. 'Tis said that angels watch o'er men, commissioned from above ; My angel walked with me en earth, and gave to me her love. Ah ! dearest wife, my heart is stirred, my eyes are dim with tears — I think upon the loving faith of all these bygone years. For now we stand upon this spot, as in that dewy mom, With the bloom upon the alder and the tassel on the com. Don Piatt. LAMENT OF THE YOUNG HIGHLANDER SUMMONED FROM THE SIDE OF HIS BRIDE BY THE " FIERY CROSS " OF RODERICK DHU. 'HE heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head. My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid My couch may be my bloody plaid. My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid! It will not waken me, Mary ! I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary. No fond regret must Norman know ; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bender bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary. A time will come with feeling fraught ! For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. And if returned from conquered foes. How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose. To my young bride and me, Mary ! Sir Walter Scott. llJ WE PARTED IN SILENCE E parted in silence, we parted by night. On the banks of that lonely river ; Where the fragrant limes their boughs unite, We met — and we parted forever ! The night-bird sung, and the stars above Told many a touching story. Of friends long passed to the kingdom of love, Where the soul wears its mantle of glory. We parted in silence — our cheeks were wet With the tears that were past controlling ; We vowed we would never, no, never forget. And those vows at the time were consoling ; But those lips that echoed the sounds of mine Are as cold as that lonely river ; And that eye, that beautiful spirit's shrine. Has shrouded its fires forever. ,• And now on the midnight sky I look, And my heart grows full of weeping ; Each star is to me a sealed book. Some tale of that loved one keeping. We parted in silence — we parted in tears, On the banks of that lonely river ; But the odor and bloom of those bygone years Shall hang o'er its waters forever. Julia Crawford. 110 CROWN JEWELS. LOVE AND TIME. *WO pilgrims from the distant plain Come quickly o'er the mossy ground. One is a boy, with locks of gold Thick curling round his face so fair ; The other pilgrim, stem and old. Has snowy beard and silver hair. The youth with many a merry trick Goes singing on his careless way ; His old companion walks as quick. But speaks no word by night or day. Where'er the old man treads, the grass Fast fadeth with a certain doom ; But where the beauteous boy doth pass Unnumbered flowers are seen to bloom. And thus before the sage, the boy Trips lightly o'er the blooming lands, And proudly bears a pretty toy — A crystal glass with diamond sands. A smile o'er any brow would pass To see him frolic in the sun — To see him shake the crystal glass, And make the sands more quickly run. And now they leap the streamlet o'er, A silver thread so white and thin, And now they reach the open door. And now they lightly enter in : ' God save all here " — that kind wish flies Still sweeter from his lips so sweet ; ■ God save you kindly," Norah cries, "Sit down, my child, and rest and eat." ' Thanks, gentle Norah, fair and good, We'll rest awhile our weary feet ; But though this old man needeth food. There's nothing here that he can eat. His taste is strange, he eats afone. Beneath some ruined cloister's cope, Or on some tottering turret's stone, While I can only live on — hope ! A week ago, ere you were wed — It was the very night before — Upon so many sweets I fed While passing by your mother's door — It was that dear, delicious hour When Owen here the nosegay brought, And found you in the woodbine bower — Since then, indeed, I've needed naught" A blush steals over Norah's face, A smile comes over Owen's brow, A tranquil joy illumes the place, As if the moon were shining now ; The boy beholds the pleasing pain, The sweet confusion he has done. And shakes the crystal glass again. And makes the sands more quickly run. " Dear Norah, we are pilgrims, bound Upon an endless path sublime ; We pace the green earth round and round, And mortals call us love and time ; He seeks the many, I the few ; I dwell with peasants, he with kings. We seldom meet ; but when we do. I take his glass, and he my wings. " And thus together on we go, Where'er I chance or wish to lead ; And time, whose lonely steps are slow. Now sweeps along with lightning speed. Now on our bright predestined way We must to other regions pass ; But take this gift, and night and day Look well upon its truthful glass. " How quick or slow the bright sands fall Is hid from lovers' eyes alone. If you can see them move at all. Be sure your heart has colder grown. 'Tis coldness makes the glass grow dry. The icy hand, the freezing brow ; But warm the heart and breathe the sigh, And then they'll pass you know not how." She took the glass where love's warm hands A bright impervious vapor cast. She looks, but cannot see the sands. Although she feels they're falling fast But cold hours came, and then, alas ! She saw them falling frozen through, Till love's warm light suffused the glass. And hid the loosening sands from view ! Denis Florence MacCarthv. HERO TO LEANDER. GO not yet my love. The night is dark and vast ; y The white moon is hid in her heaven above And the waves climb high and fast. O, kiss me, kiss me, once again, Lest thy kiss should be the last. O, kiss me ere we part ; Grow closer to my heart. My heart is warmer surely than the bosom of the main. O joy ! O bliss of blisses ! My heart of hearts art thou. Come, bathe me with thy kisses, My eyelids and my brow. Hark how the wild rain hisses, And the loud sea roars below. Thy heart beats through thy rosy limbs, So gladly doth it stir; Thy eye in drops of gladness swims. I have bathed thee with the pleasant myrrh ; Thy locks are dripping balm ; Thou shalt not wander hence to-night. LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP. Ill I'll stay thee with my kisses. To-night the roaring brine Will rend thy golden tresses; The ocean with the morrow light Will be both blue and calm ; And the billow will embrace thee with a kiss as soft as mine. No western odors wander On the black and moaning sea, And when thou art dead, Leander, My soul must follow thee ! O, go not yet, my love. Thy voice is sweet and low ; The deep salt wave breaks in above Those marble steps below. The turret-stairs are wet That lead into the sea. Leander ! go not yet. The pleasant stars have set : O, go not, go not yet. Or I will follow thee. Alfred Tennyson. FAREWELL! BUT WHENEVER. (J^'AREWELL ! but whenever you welcome the "Y^ hour A That awakens the night-song of mirth in your bower, Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too, And forgot his own griefs, to be happy with you. His griefs may return — not a hope may remain Of the few that have brightened his pathway of pain — But he ne'er can forget the short vision that threw Its enchantment around him while lingering with you ! And still on that evening when pleasure fills up To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup, Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, My soul, happy friends, will be with you that night ; Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles. And return to me, beaming all o'er with your smiles — Too blest if it tell me that, mid the gay cheer. Some kind voice has murmured, " I wish he were here !" Let fate do her worst, there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, which she cannot de- stroy ; Which come, in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features which joy used to wear. Long, long be my heart with such memories filled 1 Like the vase in which roses have once been dis- tilled— You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still. Thomas Moore. BESUTIES OF NATURE. THE GREENWOOD. WHEN 'tis summer weather, And the yellow bee.with fairy sound, The waters clear is humming round, And the cuckoo sings unseen, And the leaves are waving green — O, then 't is sweet, In some retreat, To hear the murmuring dove, With those whom on earth alone we love, And to wind through thegreen- wood together. But when 't is winter weather. And crosses grieve, And friends deceive, And rain and sleet The lattice beat — O, then 't is sweet To sit and sing Of the friends with whom, in the days of spring, We roamed through the greenwood together. William Lisle Bowles. THANATOPSIS. 'O him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language : for his gayer hours "f* She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty ; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And gentle sympathy, that steals away Their shaipness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house. Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart. Go forth under the open sky, and list To nature's teachings, while from all around — Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice — yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground. Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears. Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, tnat nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again ; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with tiie elements ; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone— nor coulds't thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world— with kings. The powerful of tlie earth — the wise, the good. Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun ; the vales Stretcliing in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods ; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green ; and, poured round all. Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man ! The golden sun. The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands. Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dasliings — yet the dead are there ! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep— the dead reign there alone ! So shalt thou rest ; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom ; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men — The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, The bowed with age, the infant in the smiles And beauty of its innocent age cut off — Shall one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them. So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take (112) ©ATM EIF^i W© WILD FL®WE5^S. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 113 His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night. Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. William Cullen Bryant. ODE ON THE SPRING. I O ! where the rosy-bosomed hours. Fair Venus' train appear. Disclose the long-expecting flowers, And wake the purple year ! The attic warbler pours her throat, Responsive to the cuckoo's note, The untaught harmony of spring : While, whispering pleasure as they fly. Cool zephyrs through the clear blue sky, Their gathered fragrance fling. Where'er the oak's thick branches stretch A broader, browner shade ; Where'er the rude and moss-grown beach O'er-canopies the glade. Beside some water's rushy brink With me the Muse shall sit, and think (At ease reclined in rustic state) How vain the ardor of the crowd. How low, how little are the proud, How indigent the great ! Still is the toiling hand of care : The panting herds repose : Yet hark, how through the peopled air The busy murmur glows ! The insect youth are on the wing. Eager to taste the honeyed spring, And float amid the liquid noon : Some lightly o'er the current skim. Some show their gayly-gilded trim Quick glancing to the sun. To contemplation's sober eye Such is the race of man : And they that creep, and they that fly. Shall end where they began. Alike the busy and the gay But flutter through life's little day. In fortune's varying colors drest ; Brushed by the hand of rough mischance ; Or chilled by age, their airy dance They leave in dust to rest. Methinks I hear in accents low The sportive kind reply ; " Poor moralist ! and what art thou ? A solitary fly ! Thy joys no glittering female meets, (8) No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets. No painted plumage to display : On hasty wings thy youth is flown : Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone — We frolic while 't is May." Thomas Gray. THE UTE SPRING. HE stood alone amidst the April fields — Brown, sodden fields, all desolate and bare. " The spring is late," she said, "the faithless spring. That should have come to make the meadows fair. "Their sweet South left too soon, among the trees The birds, bewildered, flutter to and fro ; For them no green boughs wait — their memories Of last year's April had deceived them so." She watched the hoaaeless birds, the slow, sad spring, The barren fields, and shivering, naked trees. " Thus God has dealt with me, his child," she said : " I wait my spring-time, and am cold like these. " To them will come the fulness of their time ; Their spring, though late, will make the meadows fair ; Shall I, who wait like them, like them be blessed ? I am His own — doth not my Father care ?" Louise Chandler Moulton. GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES. HE 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, Amidst the cool and silence, he knek down And offered to the Mightiest, solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, 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. William Cullen Bryant. 114 CROWN JEWELS. IN JUNE. ' O sweet, so sweet the roses in their blowing, So sweet the daffodils, so fair to see ; So blithe and gay the humming-bird agoing From flower to flower, a hunting with the bee. So sweet, so sweet the calling of the thrushes, The calling, cooing, wooing, everywhere ; So sweet the water's song through reeds and rushes, The plover's piping note, now here, now there. So Sweet, so sweet from off the fields of clover. The west-wind blowing, blowing up the hill ; So sweet, so sweet with news of some one's lover, Fleet footsteps, ringing nearer, nearer still. So near, so near, now listen, listen, thrushes ; Now plover, blackbird, cease, and let me hear ; And, water, hush your song through reeds and rushes. That I may know whose lover cometh near. So loud, so loud the thrushes kept their calling, Plover or blackbird ntver heeding me ; So loud the mill-stream too kept fretting, falling, O'er bar and bank, in brawling, boii.terous glee. So loud, so loud ; yet blackbird, thrush, nor plover, Nor noisy mill-stream, in its fret and fall. Could drown the voice, the low voice of my lover. My lover calling through the thrushes' call. " Come down, come down ! " he called, and straight the thrushes From mate to mate sang all at once, " Come down !' ' And while the water laughed through reeds and rushes, The blackbird chirped, the plover piped, "Come down !" Then down and off, and through the fields of clover, I followed, followed, at my lover's call ; Listening no more to blackbird, thrush, or plover, The water's laugh, the mill-stream's fret and fall. Nora Perry. MAY-EVE. OR KATE OF ABERDEEN 'HE silver moon's enamoured beam Steals softly through the night. To wanton with the winding stream, And kiss reflected light. To beds of state go, balmy sleep ('Tis where you've seldom been). May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen. Upon the green the virgins wait. In rosy chaplets gay, Till morn unbars her golden gate, And gives the promised May. Methinks I hear the maids declare. The promised May, when seen. Not Iialf so fragrant, half so fair, As Kate of Aberdeen. Strike up the tabor's boldest notes. We 11 rouse the nodding grove ; The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid 1 love. And see — the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green : Fond bird ! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now lightsome o'er the level mead. Where midnight fairies rove, Like them the )ocund dance we'll lead, Or tune the reed to love : For see, the rosy May draws nigh ; She claims a virgin queen ; And hark ! the happy shepherds cry, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. John Cunningham. MARCH 'HE stormy March is come at last, With wind, and cloud, and changing skies I hear the rushing of the blast "^ That through the snowy valley flies. Ah ! passing few are they who speak, Wild, stormy month, in praise of thee : Yet, though thy winds are loud and bleak. Thou art a welcome month to me. For thou to northern lands again. The glad and glorious sun dost bring. And thou hast joined the gentle train, And wear'st the gentle name of Spring. And, in thy reign of blast and storm, Smiles many a long, bright, sunny day. When the changed winds are soft and warm. And heaven puts on the blue of May. Then sing aloud the g^ushing rills And the full springs, from frost set free. That, brightly leaping down the hilb. Are just set out to meet the sea. The years departing beauty hides Of wintry storms the sullen threat : But in thy sternest frown abides A look of kindly promise yet. Thou bring'st the hope of those calm skies And that soft time of sunny showers. When the wide bloom, on earth that lies, Seems of a brighter world than ours. William Cullen BRVAffT. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 115 THEY COME ! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS. 'HEY come ! the merry summer months of beauty, song and flowers ; They come ! the gladsome months that bring ■^ thick Itrafiness to bowers. Up, up, my heart ! and walk abroad ; fling cark and care aside ; Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide ; Or, underneath the shadows vast of patriarchal tree. Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tran- quility. The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand ; And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courte- ously ; It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and wel- come thee : And mark how with thine own thin locks — they now are silvery gray — That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, " Be gay !" There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky But hath its own wing'd mariners to give it melody : Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold ; And hark ! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold. God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth. Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth. Good Lord ! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me. To smell again these summer flowers beneath this sum- mer tree ! To sack once more in every breath their little souls away. And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day, '^^en, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy "Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! I'm sadder now — I have had cause ; but O ! I'm proud to think That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to drink ; — Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm, un- clouded sky, Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by. When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse— a heart that bath waxed old ! William Motherwell. llJ APRIL HEN the warm sun, that brings Seed-time and harvest, has returned again, 'Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well. When forest glades are teeming with bright forms. Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-in of storms. From the earth's loosened mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives : Thougli stricken to the heart with winter's cold. The drooping tree revives. The softly-warbled song Comes through the pleasant woods, and colored wiags Are glancing in the golden sun, along The forest openings. And when bright sunset fills The silvery woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills. And wide the upland glows. And when the day is gone, In the blue lake, the sky, o'erreaching far. Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side. And see themselves below. Sweet April, many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed ; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought. Life's golden fruit is shed. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. n THE VERNAL SEASON. OW let me sit beneath the whitening thorn. And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ; And watch with patient eye Thy fair unfolding charms. O nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate sun With bashful forehead, through tlie cool moLst air 116 CROWN JEWELS. Throws his young maiden beams, And with chaste kisses woos The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil Of lucid clouds, with kind and frequent shade, Protects thy modest blooms From his severer blaze. Sweet is thy reign, but short : the red dog-star Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower" s scythe Thy greens, thy flowerets all. Remorseless shall destroy. Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ; For O ! not all that autumn's lap contains, Nor summer's ruddiest fruits, Can aught for thee atone. Fair spring ! whose simplest promise more delights Then all their largest wealth, and through the heart Each joy and new-born hope With softest influence breathes. Anna L. Barbauld. THE WATER! THE WATER! ' HE water ! the water ! The joyous brook for me, That tuneth through the quiet night Its ever-living glee. The water ! the water ! That sleepless, merry* heart, Which gurgles on unstintedly, And loveth to impart To all around it, some small measure Of its own most perfect pleasure. The water ! the water ! The gentle stream for me, That gushes from the old gray stone Beside the alder-tree. The water ! the water ! That ever-bubbling spring I loved and looked on while a child, In deepest wondering — And asked it whence it came and went. And when its treasures would be spent. The water ! the water ! Where I have shed salt tears, In loneliness and friendliness, A thing of tender years. The water ! the water ! Where I have happy been, And showered upon its bosom flowers Culled from each meadow green ; And idly hoped my life would be So crowned by love's idolatry. The water ! the water ! My heart yet burns to think How cool thy fountain sparkled forth. For parched lip to drink. The water ! the water ! Of mine own native glen — The gladsome tongue I oft have heard, But ne'er shall hear again, Though fancy fills my ear for aye With sounds that live so far away ! The water ! the water ! The mild and glassy wave, Upon whose broomy banks I've longed To find my silent grave. The water ! the water ! O, blest to me thou art ! Thus sounding in life's solitude The music of my heart. And filling it, despite of sadness. With dreamings of departed gladness. The water ! the water ! The mournful, pensive tone That whispered to my heart how soon This weary life was done. The water ! the water ! That rolled so bright and free. And bade me mark how beautiful Was its soul's purity ; And how it glanced to heaven its wave, As wandering on, it sought its grave. William Motherwell. MAY. FEEL a newer life in every gale •, The winds that fan the flowers. And with their welcome breathings fill the sail, Tell of serener hours — Of hours that glide unfelt away Beneath the sky of May. The spirit of the gentle south-wind calls From his blue throne of air, And where his whispering voice in music falls. Beauty is budding there ; The bright ones of the valley break Their slumbers, and awake. The waving verdure rolls along the plain, And the wide forest weaves. To welcome back its playful mates again, A canopy of leaves , And from its darkening shadows floats A gush of trembling notes. Fairer and brighter spreads the reign of May ; The tresses of the woods, With the light dallying of the west-wind play ; And the full-brimming floods. As gladly to their goal they run, Hail the returning sun. James G. Percival. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 117 THE SUMMER. ' N all places, then, and in all seasons, Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings. Teaching us, by the most persuasive reasons, How akin they are to human things. And with childHke, credulous affection, We behold their tender buds expand. Emblems of our own great resurrection. Emblems of the bright and better land. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE MIDNIGHT WIND. OURNFULLY! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet, plaintive melody Of ages long gone by ! It speaks a tale of other years. Of hopes that bloomed to die. Of sunny smiles that set in tears, And loves that mouldering lie ! Mournfully ! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth moan ! It stirs some chord of memory In each dull, heavy tone ; The voices of the much-loved dead Seem floating thereupon — All, all my fond heart cherished Ere death had made it lone. Mournfully ! O, mournfully This midnight wind doth swell With its quaint, pensive minstrelsy — Hope's passionate farewell To the dreamy joys of early years. Ere yet griefs canker fell On the heart's bloom — ay ! well may tears Start at that parting knell ! William Motherwell. WILD FLOWERS. I EAUTIFUL flowers ! to me ye fresher seem From the Almighty hand that fashioned all, Than those that flourish by a garden-wall ; And I can image you as in a dream, Fair, modest maidens, nursed in hamlets small : — I love ye all ! Beautiful gems ! that on the brow of earth Are fixed, as in a queenly diadem ; Though lowly ye, and most without a name. Young hearts rejoice to see your buds come forth. As light erewhile into the world came : — I love ye all ! Beautiful things ye are, where'er ye grow I The wild red rose — the speedwell's peeping eyes — Our own bluebell — the daisy, that doth rise Wherever sunbeams fall or winds do blow ; And thousands more, of blessed forms and dyes : — I love ye all ', Beautiful nurslings of the early dew! Fanned in your loveliness, by every breeze. And shaded o'er by green and arching trees ; I often wish that I were one of you. Dwelling afar upon the grassy leas : — I love ye all 1 Beautiful watchers ! day and night ye wake ! The evening star grows dim and fades away, And morning comes and goes, and then the day Within the arms of night its rest doth take ; But ye are watchful wheresoe'er we stray : — I love ye all ! Beautiful objects of the wild-bee's love ! The wild-bird joys your opening bloom to see, And in your native woods and wilds to be. All hearts, to nature true, ye strangely move ; Ye are so passing fair — so passing free : — I love ye all ! Beautiful children of the glen and dell — The dingle deep — the moorland stretching wide, And of the mossy mountain's sedgy side ! Ye o'er my heart have thrown a lovesome spell ; And, though the worldling, scorning, may deride ; I love ye all ! Robert Nicoll. with TO THE DANDELION. EAR common flower, that grow'st beside the way. Fringing the dusty road with harmless gold, First pledge of blithesome May, My childhood's earliest thoughts are linked thee; The sight of thee calls back the robin's song Who, from the dark old tree Beside the door, sang clearly all day long. And I, secure in childish piety. Listened as if I heard an angel sing With news from heaven, which he did bring Fresh every day to my untainted ears, When birds and flowers and I were happy peers. How like a prodigal doth nature seem. When thou, for all thy gold, so common art ! Thou teachest me to deem More sacredly of every human heart. Since each reflects in joy its scanty gleam Of heaven, and could some wondrous secret show, Did we but pay the love we owe, And with a child's undoubting wisdom look On all these living pages of God's book. James Russell Lowell. 118 CROWN JEWELS. THE IVY GREEN. H ! a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old ! On right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mouldering dust that years have made. Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on though he wears no wings. And a staunch old heart has he ; How closely he twineth, how close he clings. To his friend the huge oak tree ! And slily he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves. As he joyously hugs and crawleth round The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where grim death has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been ; But tlie stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten on the past : For the statliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping on where time has been, A rare old plant is the ivy green ! Charles Dickens. TO A DAISY. 'HERE is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, *^ And weathers every sky. The prouder beauties of the field. In gay but quick succession shine ; Race after race their honors yield. They flourish and decline. But this small flower, to nature dear, While moons and stars their courses run, Enwreathes the circle of the year. Companion of the sun. The purple heath and golden broom, On moory mountains catch the gale ; O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume. The violet in the vale. But this bcJd floweret climbs the hill, Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, Plays on the margin of the rill. Peeps round the fox's den. Within the garden's cultured round It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; And blooms on consecrated ground In honor of the dead. The lambkin crops its crimson gem ; The wild bee murmurs on its breast ; The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, Light o'er the skylark's nest. 'Tis Flora's page — in every place, In every season, fresh and fair ; It opens with perennial grace. And blossoms everywhere. On waste and woodland, rock and plain. Its humble buds unheeded rise : The rose has but a summer reign ; The daisy never dies ! James Montgomery. THE CHANGING WORLD. WRITTEN WHILE A PRISONER IN PINGLAND. HE time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill, And dons a rich embroidery Of sunlight poured on lake and hill. No beast or bird in earth or sky, Whose voice doth not with gladness thrill. For time hath laid his mantle by Of wind and rain and icy chill. River and fountain, brook and rill. Bespangled o'er with livery gay Of silver droplets, wind their way. All in their new apparel vie. For time hath laid his mantle by. Charles of Orleans. S|f ON A SPRIG OF HEATH. LOWER of the waste ! the heath fowl shuns For thee the brake and tangled wood — To thy protecting shade she runs. Thy tender buds supply her food ; Her young forsake her downy plumes, To rest upon thy opening blooms. Flower of the desert though thou art ! The deer that range the mountam free. The graceful doe, the stately hart. Their food and shelter seek from thee ; The bee thy earliest blossom greets. And draws from thee her choicest sweets. Gem of the heath ! whose modest bloom Sheds beauty o'er the lonely moor ; Though thou dispense no rich perfume. Nor yet with splendid tints allure. Both valor's crest and beauty's bower Oft has thou decked, a favorite flower. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 119 Flower of the wild ! whose purple glow Adorns the dusky mountain's side, Not the gay hues of Iris' bow, Nor garden's artful varied pride, With all its wealth of sweets could cheer, Like thee, the hardy mountaineer. Flower of his heart ! thy fragrance mild Of peace and freedom seem to breathe ; To pluck thy blossoms in the wild. And deck his bonnet with the wreath, Where dwelt of old his rustic sires, Is all his simple wish requires. Flower of his dear-loved native land ! Alas, when distant far more dear ! When he from some cold foreign strand, Looks homeward through the blinding tear. How must his aching heart deplore. That home and thee he sees no more ! Marian Grant. llJ WILLOW SONG. ILLOW ! in thy breezy moan I can hear a deeper tone ; Through thy leaves come whispering low Faint sweet sounds of long ago — Willow, sighing willow ! Many a mournful tale of old Heart-sick love to thee hath told. Gathering from thy golden bough Leaves to cool his burning brow — Willow, sighing willow ! Many a swan-like song to thee Hath been sung, thou gentle tree ; Many a lute its last lament Down thy moonlight stream hath sent — Willow, sighing willow ! Therefore, wave and murmur on, Sigh for sweet affections gone, And for tuneful voices fled, And for love, whose heart hath bled, Ever, willow, willow ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. THE WANDERING WIND, 'HE wind, the wandering wind Of the golden summer eves — Whence is the thrilling magic Of its tones amongst the leaves ? Oh ! is it from the waters, Or from the long, tall grass ? Or is it from the hollow rocks Through which its breathings pass? Or is it from the voices Of all in one combined. That it wins the tone of mastery ! The wind, the wandering wind ! No, no ! the strange, sweet accents That with it come and go, They are not from the osiers, Nor the fir-trees whispering low. They are not of the waters, Nor of the caverned hill ; 'Tis the human love within us That gives them power to thrill ; They touch the links of memory Around our spirits twined, And we start, and weep, and tremble, To the wind, the wandering wind ! Felicia Dorothea Hemans. THE ROSE. 'OW fair is the rose ! that beautiful flower. The glory of April and May ; But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast. Above all the flowers of the field ; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost. Still how sweet a perfume it will yield ! So frail is the youth and the beauty of men. Though they bloom and look gay like the rose ; But all our fond care to preserve tliem is vain, Time kills them as fast as he goes. Then I'll not be proud of my youth nor my beauty, Since botli of them wither and fade ; But gain a good name by well-doing my duty ; This will scent like a rose when I'm dead. Isaac Watts. llJ CHORUS OF FLOWERS E are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene'er you see us, what beauty saith ;) oiw Utterance mute and bright. Of some unknown delight, We fill the air with pleasure, by our simple breath : All who see us love us — We befit all places ; Unto sorrow we give smiles — and unto graces, graces- Who shall say that flowers Dress not heaven's own bowers ? Who its love without us, can fancy — or sweet floor? Who shall even dare To say we sprang not there — And came not down, the Lord might bring one piece of heaven the more ? O ! pray believe that angels From those blue dominions Brought us in their white laps down, 'twixt their gol- den pinions. Leigh Hunt. 120 CROWN JEWELS. MAY DAY. »HE daisies peep from every field, And violets sweet their odor yield ; And purple blossom paints the thorn, And streams reflect the blush of morn, Then lads and lasses all, be gay, For this is nature's holiday. Let lusty labor drop his flail, Nor woodman's hook a tree assail ; The ox shall cease its neck to bow, And Clodden yield to rest the plough. Behold the lark in ether float. While rapture swells the liquid note ! What warbles he, with merry cheer ? " Let love and pleasure rule the year !" Lo ! Sol looks down with radiant eye. And throws a smile around his sky ; Embracing hill, and vale, and stream. And warming nature with his beam. The insect tribes in myraids pour. And kiss with zephyr every flower ; Shall these our icy hearts reprove. And tell us what are foes to love ? Then lads and lasses all, be gay, For this is nature's holiday. John Wolcot. TO THE BRAMBLE FLOWER. *HY fruit full well the schoolboy knows, Wild bramble of the brake ! So put thou forth thy small white rose ; I love it for his sake. Though woodbines flaunt and roses glow O'er all the fragrant .bowers, Thou need'st not be ashamed to show Thy satin-threaded flowers ; For dull the eye, the heart is dull. That cannot feel how fair, Amid all beauty beautiful, Thy tender blossoms are ! How delicate thy gauzy frill ! How rich thy branchy stem ! How soft thy voice when woods are still. And. thou sing'st hymns to them : When silent showers are falling slow. And 'mid the general hush, A sweet air lifts the little bough. Lone whispering through the bush ! The primrose to the grave is gone ; The hawthorn flower is dead ; The violet by the mossd grey stone Hath laid her weary head ; But thou, wild bramble ! back dost bring, In all their beauteous power. The fresh green days of life's fair spring, And boyhood's blossomy hour. Scorned bramble of the brake 1 once more Thou bidd'st me be a boy. To gad with thee the woodlands o'er. In freedom and in joy. Ebenezer Elliott. (3 A DAY IN JUNE. ND 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 : Wliether 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 light may well be seen Thrilling back over hills and valleys ; 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 flutters and sings ; He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest — In the nice ear of nature, which song is the best? James Russell Lowell. THE PRIMEVAL FOREST. HIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, "^ indistinct in the twilight. Stand like Druids of old, with voices sad and pro- phetic. Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep voiced neigh- boring ocean Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. This is the forest primeval ; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman ? Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 121 f|l TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. ILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire ! Whose modest form, so delicately fine, Was nursed in whirling storms. And cradled in the winds. Thee, when young"spring first questioned winter's sway And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight, Thee on this bank he threw To mark his victory. In this low vale, the promise of the year, Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale, Unnoticed and alone. Thy tender elegance. So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms Of chill adversity ; in some lone walk Of life she rears her head. Obscure and unobserved ; While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, Chastens her spotless purity of breast. And hardens her to bear Serene the ills of life. Harry Kirke White. THE LILY. *OW withered, perished seems the form Of yon obscure unsightly root ! Yet from the blight of wintry storm. It hides secure the precious fruit. The careless eye can find no grace. No beauty in the scaly folds, Nor see within the dark embrace What latent loveliness it holds. Yet in that bulb, those sapless scales, The lily wraps her silver vest, Till vernal suns and vernal gales Shall kiss once more her fragrant breast. Yes, hide beneath the mouldering heap The undelighting slighted thing ; There in the cold earth buried deep, In silence let it wait the spring. Oh ! many a stormy night shall close In gloom upon the barren earth, While still, in undisturbed repose. Uninjured lies the future birth. Sweet smile of hope, delicious tear ! The sun, the shower indeed shall come. The promised verdant shoot appear, And nature bid her blossoms bloom. And thou, O virgin queen of spring ! Shalt, from thy dark and lowly bed, Bursting thy green sheath's s.ilken string, Unveil thy charms and perfume shed ; Unfold thy robes of purest white. Unsullied from their darksome grave, And thy soft petals' silvery light In the mild breeze unfettered wave. So faith shall seek the lowly dust Where humble sorrow loves to lie. And bid her thus her hopes intrust. And watch with patient, cheerful eye ; And bear the long, cold wintry night. And bear her own degraded doom ; And wait till heaven's reviving light. Eternal spring ! shall burst the gloom. Mary Tighe. (3 THE BRAVE OLD OAK. SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, W^ho hath ruled in the greenwood long ; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown. And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out ; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout. Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone ; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone ! In the days of old, when the spring with cold Had brightened his branches gray. Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet. To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains ; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid. But the tree it still remains. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear, When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he ; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tossed on the stormy sea. Henry Fothergill Chorley. THE CLOUD. BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers. From the seas and the streams ; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one. When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. 122 CROWN JEWELS. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under ; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines grown aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers, Lightning, my pilot, sits ; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits ; Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me. Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea ; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream. The spirit he loves, remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit, one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings ; And when sunset may breathe from the lit sea be- neath, Its ardors of rest and of love. And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above. With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest. As still as a brooding dove. That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon. Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear. May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer ; And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees. When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm river, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and thee. I bind the sun's throng with a burning zone, And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow. When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow ; The sphere-fire above, its soft colors wove. While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water. And the nursling of the sky ; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores • I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare. And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams. Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph. And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. Percy Bysshe Shelley. COME TO THESE SCENES OF PEACE. © OME to these scenes of peace. Where, to rivers murmuring. The sweet birds all the summer sing, Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease Stranger, does thy heart deplore Friends whom thou wilt see no more ? Does thy wounded spirit prove Pangs of hopeless severed love? Thee, the stream that gushes clear — Thee, the birds that carol near Shall soothe, as silent thou dost lie And dream of their wild lullaby ; Come to bless these scenes of peace. Where cares, and toil, and sadness cease. William Lisle Bowles. © SONG OF THE SUMMER WINDS. OWN the glen, across the mountain, O'er the yellow heath we roam. Whirling round about the fountain. Till its little breakers foam. Bending down the weeping willows. While our vesper hymn we sigh ; Then unto our rosy pillows On our weary wings we hie. There of idlenesses dreaming, Scarce from waking we refrain. Moments long as ages deeming Till we're at our play again. George Darley. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 123 DAFFODILS, WANDERED lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd — A host of golden daffodils Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the Milky Way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I, at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced, but they Outdid the sparkling waves in glee ; A poet could not but be gay In such a jocund company ; I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought. For oft, when on my couch I lie, In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude ; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth. © HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. AY-STARS ! that ope your eyes with morn to twinkle From rainbow galaxies of earth's creation, And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle As a libation ! Ye matin worshippers ! who bending lowly Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy Incense on high ! 'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that swingeth And tolls its perfume on the passing air, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth A call to prayer. Not to the domes where crumbling arch and column Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, But to that fane, most catholic and solemn, Which God hath planned , To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon supply — Its choir the winds and waves, its organ thunder, Its dome the sky. There — as in solitude and shade I wander Througii the green aisles, or, stretched upon the sod, Awed by the silence, reverently ponder The ways of God — Your voiceless lips, O flowers, are living preachers, E^ch cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers. From loneliest nook. Floral apostles ! that in dewy splendor " Weep without woe, and blush without a crime," O may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender Your lore sublime ! " Thou wert not, Solomon ! in all thy glory, Arrayed," the lilies cry, "m robes like ours ; How vain your grandeur ! ah, how transitory Are human flowers !" In the sweet-scented pictures, heavenly artist ! With which thou paintest nature's wide-spread hall. What a delightful lesson thou impartest Of love to all. Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for pleasure ; Blooming o'er field and wave, by day and night. From every source your sanction bids me treasure Harmless delight. Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary For such a world of thought could furnish scope? Each fading calyx a memento ntori, Yet fount of hope. Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection ! Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Ye are to me a type of resurrection. And second birth. Were I, O God, in churchless lands remaining, Far from all voice of teachers or divines. My soul would find, in flowers of thy ordaining. Priests, sermons, shrines ! Horace Smith. AMERICAN SKIES. 'HE sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies, And lovely, round the Grecian coast, "f* May thy blue pillars rise : — I only know how fair they stand About my own beloved land. And they are fair : a charm is theirs. That earth— the proud, green earth — has not, With all the hues, and forms, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. We gaze upon thy calm, pure sphere, And read of heaven's eternal year. Oh ! when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth. How willingly we turn us then. Away from this cold earth, And look into thy azure breast, For seats of innocence and rest. V William Cullen Bryant. 124 CROWN JEWELS. FLOWERS— THE GEMS OF NATURE. , EMS of the changing autumn, how beautiful ye are ! Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden star ; Peeping through the long grass, smiling on the down, Lighting up the dusky bank, just where the sun goes down ; Yellow flowers of autumn, how beautiful ye are ! Shining from your glossy stems like many a golden. Thomas Campbell. RECOLLECTIONS OF ENGLISH SCENERY. 'AUNTS of my youth! Scenes of fond day-dreams, I behold ye yet ! Where 'twas so pleasant by thy northern slopes, To climb the winding sheep-path, aided oft By scattered thorns, whose spiny branches bore Small woolly tufts, spoils of the vagrant lamb, There seeking shelter from the noon-day sun ; And pleasant, seated on the short soft turf, To look beneath upon the hollow way. While heavily upward moved the laboring wain, And stalking slowly by, the sturdy hind. To ease his panting team, stopped with a stone The grating wheel. Advancing higher still, The prospect widens, and the village church But little o'er the lofty roofs around Rears its gray belfry and its simple vane ; Those lowly roofs of thatch are half concealed By the rude arms of trees, lovely in spring ; When on each bough the rosy tinctured bloom Sits thick, and promises autumnal plenty. For even those orchards round the Norman farms, Which, as their owners marked the promised fruit, Console them, for the vineyards of the South Surpass not these. Where woods of ash and beech, And partial copses fringe the green hill foot, The upland shepherd rears his modest home ; There wanders by a little nameless stream That from the hill wells forth, bright now and clear, Or after rain with chalky mixture gray, But still refreshing in its shallow course The cottage garden ; most for use designed, Yet not of beauty destitute. The vine Mantles the little casement , yet the briar Drops fragrant dew among the July flowers ; And pansies rayed, and freaked, and mottled pinks, Grow among balm and rosemary and rue; There honeysuckles flaunt, and roses blow Almost uncultured ; some with dark green leaves Contrast their flowers of pure unsullied white, Others like velvet robes of regal state Of richest crimson ; while, in thorny moss Enshrined and cradled, the most lovely wear The hues of youthful beauty's glowing cheek. With fond regret I recollect e'en now In spring and summer, what delight I felt Among these cottage gardens, and how much Such artless nosegays, knotted with a rush By village housewife or her ruddy maid. Were welcome to me ; soon and simply pleased. An early worshipper at nature's shrine, I loved her rudest scenes — warrens, and heaths, And yellow commons, and birch-shaded hollows. And hedgerows bordering unfrequented lanes, Bowered with wild roses and the clasping woodbine. Charlotte Smith. THE GRAPE-VINE SWING. yr^ITHE and long as the serpent train, 'm' I* Springing and clinging from tree to tree, Ji^ Now darting upward, now down again. With a twist and a twirl that are strange to see ; Never took serpent a deadlier hold, Never the cougar a wilder spring, Strangling the oak with the boa's fold, Spanning the beach with the condor's wing. Yet no foe that we fear to seek — The boy leaps wild to thy rude embrace ; Thy bulging arms bear as soft a cheek As ever on lover's breast found place; On thy waving train is a playful hold Thou shalt never to lighter grasp persuade ; While a maiden sits in thy drooping fold. And swings and sings in the noonday shade ! giant strange of our southern woods ! I dream of thee still in the well-known spot, Though our vessel strains o'er the ocean floods, And the northern forest beholds thee not ; 1 think of thee still with a sweet regret. As the cordage yields to my playful grasp — Dost thou spring and cling in our woodlands yet? Does the maiden still swing in thy giant clasp ? William Gilmore Simms. MY HEART LEAPS UP. Y heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky . So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The child is father of the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. William Wordsworth. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 125 THE CLOSE OF SPRING. 'HE garlands fade that spring so lately wove ; Each simple flower, which she iiad nursed in dew, "f* Anemonies that spangled every grove, The primrose wan, and harebell mildly blue. No more shall violets linger in the dell. Or purple orchis variegate the plain, Till spring again shall call forth every bell, And dress with humid hands her wreaths again. Ah, poor humanity ! so frail, so fair Are the fond visions of thy early day, Till tyrant passion and corrosive care Bid all thy fairy colors fade away ! Another May new buds and flowers shall bring ; Ah ! why has happiness no second spring ? Should the lone wanderer, fainting on his way, Rest for a moment of the sultry hours. And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay. Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers ; Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree, The sense of sorrow he a while may lose ; So have I sought thy flowers, fair poesy ! So charmed my way with friendship and the muse. But darker now grows life's unhappy day. Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come ; Her pencil sickening fancy throws away, And weary hope reclines upon the tomb. And points my wishes to that tranquil shore. Where the pale spectre care pursues no more ! Charlotte Smith. iIj THE WOOD-NYMPH. 'HY should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen. Lament that here, in this half desert scene. My lot is placed ? At least the poet-winds are bold and loud — At least the sunset glorifies the cloud, And forests old and proud Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste. Nature, though wild her forms, sustains me still ; The founts are musical — the barren hill Glows with strange lights ; Through solemn pine-groves the small rivulets fleet Sparkling, as if a naiad's silvery feet, In quick and coy retreat. Glanced through the star-beams on calm summer nights ; And the great sky, the royal heaven above, Darkens with storms or melts in hues of love ; While far remote. Just where the sunlight smites the woods with fire, Wakens the multitudinous sylvan choir, Their innocent love's desire Poured in a rill of song from each harmonious throat. NATURE'S CHAIN. '^ OOK round our world ; behold the chain of love j* r Combining all below and all above, ™ See plastic nature working to this end, The single atoms each to other tend, Attract, attracted to, the next in place. Formed and impelled its neighbor to embrace. See matter next, with various life endued. Press to one centre still, the general good. See dying vegetables life sustain. See life dissolving vegetate again : All forms that perish other forms supply, (By turns we catch the vital breath, and die) ; Like bubbles on the sea of matter borne. They rise, they break, and to that sea return. Nothing is foreign ; parts relate to whole ; One all-extending, all-preserving soul Connects each being, greatest with the least ; Made beast in aid of man, and man of beast ; ^ All served, all serving ; nothing stands alone ; The chain holds on, and where it ends, unknown. Alexander Pope. THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD. "♦HOU little bird, thou dweller by the sea, Why takest thou its melancholy voice? Why with that boding cry f* O'er the waves dost thou fly ? O, rather, bird, with me Through the fair land rejoice ! Then turn thee, little bird, and take thy flight Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring Thy spirit nevermore. Come, quit with me the shore. For gladness and the light, Where birds of summer sing. Richard Henry Dana. e THE SWALLOW. OME summer visitant, attach To my reed-roof thy nest of clay, And let my ear thy music catch, Low twittering underneath the thatch. At the gray dawn of day. As fables tell, an Indian sage. The Hindustani woods among. Could in his desert hermitage. As if 't were marked in written page, Translate the wild bird's song. I wish I did his power possess, That I might learn, fleet bird, from thee, What our vain systems only guess. And know from what wild wilderness Thou earnest o'er the sea. Charlotte Smith. 126 CROWN JEWELS. Ill ROBERT OF LINCOLN. ERRILY swinging on brier and weed, Near to the nest of his little dame, Over the mountain-side or mead, Robert of Lincoln is telling his name : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Snug and safe is that nest of ours. Hidden among the summer flowers. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln is gayly dressed, Wearing a bright black wedding coat ; White are his shoulders and white his crest, Hear him call in his merry note : Bob o'-Iink, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there never was a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings. Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Brood, kind creature ; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee, chee, chee. Modest and shy as a nun is she, One weak chirp is her only note, Braggart and prince of braggarts is he. Pouring boasts from his little throat : Bob o'-link, bob o'-link, Spink, spank, spink, Never was I afraid of man ; Catch me, cowardly knaves, if you can. Chee, chee, chee. Six white eggs on a bed of hay. Flecked with purple, a pretty sight ! There as the mother sits all day, Robert is singing with all his might : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Nice good wife, that never goes out. Keeping house with a frolic about. Chee, chee, chee. Soon as the little ones chip the shell Six wide mouths are open for food ; Robert of Lincoln bestirs him well, Gathering seed for the hungry brood. Bob o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; This new life is likely to be Hard for a gay young fellow like me. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln at length is made Sober with work, and silent with care; Off is his holiday garment laid, Hal ^forgotten that merry air, Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink : Nobody knows but my mate and I Where our nest and nestlings lie. Chee, chee, chee. Summer wanes ; the children are grown ; Fun and frolic no more he knows ; Robert of Lincoln's a humdrum crone ; Off he flies, and we sing as he goes : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; When you can pipe that merry old strain, Robert of Lincoln, come back again. William Cullen Bryant. lij MAY TO APRIL. ITHOUT your showers I breed no flowers ; Each field a barren waste appears ; If you don't weep. My blossoms sleep, They take such pleasure in your tears. Philip Frenau. SONG OF WOOD-NVMPHS. OME here, come here, and dwell In forest deep ! Come here, come here, and tell Why thou dost weep 1 Is it for love (sweet pain !) That thus thou dar'st complain Unto our pleasant shades, our summer leaves. Where nought else grieves ? Come here, come here, and lie By whispering stream ! Here no one dares to die For love's sweet dream ; But health all seek, and joy. And shun perverse annoy, And race along green paths till close of day, And laugh — alway ! Or else, through half the year, On rushy floor, We lie by waters clear, While sky-larks pour Their songs into the sun ! And when bright day is done. We hide 'neath bells of flowers or nodding corn, And dream — till morn ! Brvan Waller Proctor {Barry Cornwall), BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 127 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. ^O you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, The linnet, and thrush say, " I love, and I love ! " In the winter they're silent, the w^!nd is so strong ; What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song. But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, And singing and loving — all come back together. But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. The green fields below him, the blue sky above, That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he, " I love my love, and my love loves me." Samuel Taylor Coleridge. THE BOBOLINK. , AYEST songster of the spring ! Thy melodies before me bring Visions of some dream -built land, Where, by constant zephyrs fanned, I might walk the livelong day, Embosomed in perpetual May. Nor care nor fear thy bosom knows, For thee a tempest never blows; But when our northern summer's o'er. By Delaware or Schuylkill's shore The wild rice lifts its airy head, And royal feasts for thee are spread. And when the winter threatens there, Thy tireless wings yet own no fear. But bear thee to more southern coasts. Far beyond the reach of frosts. Bobolink! still may thy gladness Take from me all taints of sadness ! Thomas Hill. THE KATYDID. LOVE to hear thine earnest voice. Wherever thou art hid, Thou testy little dogmatist. Thou pretty Katydid ! Thou mindest me of gentlefolks — Old gentlefolks are they — Thou sayest an undisputed thing In such a solemn way. Thou art a female, Katydid ! I know it by the trill That quivers through thy piercing notes, So petulent and shrill. I think there is a knot of you Beneath the hollow tree — A knot of spinster Katydids — Do Katydids drink tea? O, tell me where did Katy live. And what did Katy do ? And was she very fair and young, And yet so wicked too ? Did Katy love a naughty man, Or kiss more cheeks than one ? I warrant Katy did no more Than many a Kate has done. Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE DEPARTURE OF THE NIGHTINGALE. WEET poet of the woods, a long adieu ! Farewell soft minstrel of the early year ! Ah ! 'twill be long ere thou shalt sing anew, And pour thy music on the night's dull ear. Whether on spring thy wandering flights await, Or whether silent in our groves you dwell, The pensive muse shall own thee for her mate. And still protect the song she loves so well. With cautious step the love-lorn youth shall glide Through the lone brake that shades thy mossy nest; And shepherd girls from eyes profane shall hide The gentle bird who sings of pity best : For still thy voice shall soft affections move. And still be dear to sorrow and to love ! Charlotte Smith. ADDRESS TO THE BUTTERFLY. HILD of the sun ! pursue thy rapturous flight. Mingling with her thou lovest in fields of light. And where the flowers of paradise unfold, Quaff fragrant nectar from their cups of gold : There shall thy wings, rich as an evening sky, Expand and shut with silent ecstasy : Yet wert thou once a worm — a thing that crept On the bare earth, then wrought a tomb and slept. And such is man ! — soon from his cell of clay To burst a seraph in the blaze of day. Samuel Rogers. llJ' THE REDBREAST.. HEN that the fields put on their gay attire, Thou silent sittest near brake or river's brim. Whilst the gay thrush sings loud from covert dim ; But when pale winter lights the social fire. And meads with slime are sprent and ways with mire. Thou charmest us with thy soft and solemn hymn, From battlement, or bam, or hay-stack trim ; And now not seldom tunest, as if for hire, Thy thrilling pipe to me, waiting to catch The pittance due to thy well-warbled song : Sweet bird, sing on ! for ofl near lonely hatch. Like thee, myself have pleased the rustic throng, And oft for entrance 'neath the peaceful thatch, Full many a tale have told and ditty long. John Bampfyujk. 128 CROWN J-EWELS. THE SKYLARK. jIRD of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — O to abide in the desert with thee ! Wild is thy lay and loud. Far in the downy cloud, Love gives it energy, love gave it birth ; Where, on thy dewy wing, Where art thou journeying ? Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green. O'er the red streamer that heralds the day, Over the cloudlet dim, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be ! Emblem of happiness, Blest is thy dwelling-place — O to abide in the desert with thee ! James Hogg. THE CUCKOO. BLITHE new-comer ! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice : O cuckoo ! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice ? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear ; From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off and near. Though babbling only to the vale Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the spi Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing A voice, a mystery. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love ; Still longed for, never seen 1 And I can listen to thee yet ; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. William Wardsworth. NIGHT BIRDS. 'IGH overhead the stripe-winged nightkawk soars, With loud responses to his distant love ; And while the air for insects he explores, In frequent swoop descending from above. Startles, with whizzing sound, the fearful wight. Who wanders lonely in the silent night. Around our heads the bat, on leathern wings. In airy circles wheels his sudden flight ; . ^ The whippoorwill, in distant forest, sings Her loud, unvaried song ; and o'er the night The boding owl, upon the evening gale, Sends forth her wild and melancholy wail. The first sweet hour of gentle evening flies. On downy pinions to eternal rest ; Along the vale the balmy breezes rise, Fanning the languid boughs ; while in the west The last faint streaks of daylight die away. And night and silence close the summer day. Alonzo Lewis. THE MOCKING BIRD CALLING HER MATE, throat ! O trembling throat ! Sound clearer through the atmosphere ! Pierce the woods, the earth ; Somewhere listening to catch you, must be the one I want. Shake out, carols ! Solitary here — the night's carols I Carols of lonesome love ! Death's carols ! Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon ! O, under that moon, where she droops almost down into the sea ! O reckless, despairing carols ! But soft ! sink low ; Soft ! let me just murmur ; And do you wait a moment, you husky-noised sea ; For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me. So faint— I must be still, be still to listen ; But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me. Hither, my love ! Here I am ! Here ! With this just-sustained note I announce myself to you ; This gentle call is for you, my love, for you. Do not be decoyed elsewhere ! That is the whistle of the wind — it is not my vcice; That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray ; Those are the shadows of leaves. O darkness ! O in vain 1 O, I am very sick and sorrowful. Walt Whitman. F hin 'HiREA BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 129 THE STORMY PETREL 'HE lark sings for joy in her own loved land, In the furrowed field, by the breezes fanned ; And so revel we In the furrowed sea, As joyous and glad as the lark can be. On the placid breast of the inland lake The wild duck delights her pastime to take ; But the petrel braves The wild ocean waves, His wing in the foaming billow he laves. The halcyon loves in the noontide beam To follow his sport on the tranquil stream ; He fishes at ease In the summer breeze, But we go angling in stormiest seas. No song-note have we but a piping cry, That blends with the storm when the wind is high. When the land-birds wail We sport in the gale, And merrily over the ocean we sail. Ill' THE THRUSH'S NEST. 'ITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy — and oft an unintruding guest, I watched her secret toils from day to day ; How true she wraped the moss to form her nest. And modelled it within with wood and clay. And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue; And there I witnessed, in the summer hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare. llJ TO A WATERFOWL. HITHER, 'midst falling dew. While glow the heavens with the last steps of day. Far, through the rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way. Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong. As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. (9) Seekest thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side ? There is a Power, whose care Teaches the way along that pathless coast- The desert and illimitable air — Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned. At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere ; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land. Though the dark night is near. And soon that toil shall end ; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest And scream among thy fellows ; reeds shall bend Soon o'er thy sheltered nest. Thou'rt gone ; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form ; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given. And shall not soon depart. He, who, from zone to zone. Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight. In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant. THE BARN OWL HILE moonlight, silvering all the walls, Through every opening crevice falls. Tipping with white his powdery plume, As shades or shifts the changing gloom ; The owl that, watching in the barn, Sees the mouse creeping in the corn, Sits still, and shuts his round blue eyes As if he slept — until he spies The little beast within his stretch — Then starts, and seizes on the wretch ! Samuel Butler. ©' THE SQUIRREL RAWN from his refuge in some lonely elm. That age or injury has hollowed deep, Where, on his bed of wool and matted leaves, He has outslept the winter, ventures forth. To frisk a while and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert and full of play ; He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighboring beech, there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce. William Cowper, 130 CROWN JEWELS. TO THE CUCKOO. 'HE schoolboy, wandering through the wood To pull the primrose gay, Starts, the new voice of spring to hear, And imitates the lay. What time the pea puts on the bloom. Thou fliest thy vocal vale, An annual guest in other lands, Another spring to hail. Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear ; Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year ! O could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! We'd make, with joyful wing, Our annual visit o'er the globe, Companions of the spring. John Logan. THE BELFRY PIGEON. N 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, 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 cheerly 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, Filhng 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 to men; And daily, with unwilling feet, I tread, like thee, the crowded street, But, unlike me, 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. I would that in such wings of gold I could my weary heart upfold ; 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' gladness, Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime, And, lapped in quiet, bide my time. Nathaniel Parker Willis. THE EAGLE. |IRD of the broad and sweeping wing, Thy home is high in heaven. Where wide the storms their banners fling, And the tempest clouds are driven. Thy throne is on the mountain top ; Thy fields, the boundless air ; And hoary peaks, that proudly prop The skies, thy dwellings are. Thou sittest like a thing of light. Amid the noontide blaze : The midway sun is clear and bright ; It cannot dim thy gaze. Thy pinions, to the rushing blast, O'er the bursting billow, spread, Where the vessel plunges, hurry past, Like an angel of the dead. Thou art perched aloft on the beetling crag, And the waves are white below. And on, with a haste that cannot lag. They rush in an endless flow. Again thou hast plumed thy wing for flight To lands beyond the sea. And away, like a spirit wreathed in light, Thou hurriest, wild and free. Lord of the boundless realm of air, In thy imperial name, The heart of the bold and ardent dare The dangerous path of fame. Beneath the shade of thy golden wings, The Roman legions bore. From the river of Egypt's cloudy springs, Their pride, to the polar shore. And where was then thy fearless flight ? O'er the dark, mysterious sea. To the lands that caught the setting light, The cradle of liberty. James G. Percival. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 131 THE LION'S RIDE. *HE lion is the desert's king; through his domain so wide Right swiftly and right royally this night he "^ means to ride. By the sedgy brink, where the wild herds drink, close crouches the grim chief; The trembling sycamore above whispers with every leaf. At evemng, on the Table Mount, when ye can see no more The changeful play of signals gay ; when the gloom is speckled o'er With kraal fires ; when the CaflTre wends home through the lone karroo ; When the boshbok in the thicket sleeps, and by the stream the gnu ; Then bend your gaze across the waste — what see ye ? The giraffe, Majestic, stalks towards the lagoon, the turbid IjTnph to quaff; With outstretched neck and tongue adust, he kneels him down to cool His hot thirst with a welcome draught from the foul and brackish pool. A rustling sound, a roar, a bound — the lion sits astride Upon his giant courser's back. Did ever king so ride? Had ever king a steed so rare, caparisons of state To match the dappled skin whereon that rider sits elate ? In the muscles of the neck his teeth are plunged with ravenous greed ; His tawny mane is tossing round the withers of the steed. Up leaping with a hollow yell of anguish and surprise. Away, away, in wild dismay, the cameleopard flies. His feet have wings ; see how he springs across the moonlit plain ! As from their sockets they would burst, his glaring eye- balls strain ; In thick black streams of purling blood, full fast his life is fleeting ; The stillness of the desert hears his heart's tumultuous beating. Like the cloud that, through the wilderness, the path of Israel traced — Like an airy phantom, dull and wan, a spirit of the waste — From the sandy sea uprising, as the water-spout from ocean, A whirling cloud of dust keeps pace with the courser's fiery motion. Croaking companion of their flight, the vulture whirs on high : Below, the terror of the fold, the panther fierce and sly, And hyenas foul, round graves that prowl, join in the horrid race ; By the footprints wet with gore and sweat, their mon- arch's course they trace. They see him on his living throne, and quake with fear, tlie while With claws of steel he tears piecemeal his cushion's painted pile. On ! on ! no pause, no rest, giraffe, while life and strength remain ! The steed by such a rider backed may madly plunge in vain. Reeling upon the desert's verge, he falls, and breathes his last ; The courser, stained with dust and foam, is the rider's fell repast. O'er Madagascar, eastward far, a faint flush is descried : Thus nightly, o'er his broad domain, the king of beasts doth ride. Ferdinand Freiligrath. LAMBS AT PLAY. AY, ye that know, ye who have felt and seen Spring's morning smiles, and soul enlivening green — Say, did you give that thrilling transport way, Did your eye brighten, when young lambs at play Leaped o'er your path wiih animated pride, Or gazed in merry clusters by your side? Ye who can smile — to wisdom no disgrace — At the arch meaning of a kitten's face ; If spotless innocence and infant mirth Excites to praise, or gives reflection birth ; In shades like these pursue your favorite joy, Midst nature's revels, sports that never cloy. A few begin a short but vigorous race. And indolence, abashed, soon flies the place : Thus challenged forth, see thither, one by one, From.every side assembling playmates run ; A thousand wily antics mark their stay, A starting crowd, impatient of delay ; Like the fond dove from fearful prison freed, Each seems to say, " Come, let us try our speed ;*' Away they scour, impetuous, ardent, strong, The green turf trembling as they bound along Adown the slope, then up the hillock climb, Where every mole-hill is a bed of thyme, Then, panting, stop ; yet scarcely can refrain — A bird, a leaf, will set them off again : Or. if a gale with strength unusual blow, Scattering the wild-brier roses into snow, Their little limbs increasing efforts try ; Like the thorn flower, the fair assemblage fly. Ah, fallen roses ! sad emblem of their doom ; Frail as thyself, they perish while they bloom ! Robert Bloomfikud. 132 CROWN JEWELS. A SONG IN THE GROVE. NIGHTINGALE, best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, -^ Blest in the full possession of thy love : lend that strain, sweet nightingale, to me ! 'Tis mine, alas ! to mourn my wretched fate : 1 love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate ; Inhuman fortune keeps her from my arms. You, happy birds ! by nature's simple laws Lead 3'our soft lives, sustained by nature's fare ; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws. And love and song is all your pleasing care : But we, vain slaves of interest and of pride, Dare not be blest lest envious tongues should blame : And hence, in vain I languish for my bride : O mourn with me, sweet bird, my hapless flame. James Thomson. SUMMER LONGINGS. H my heart is weary waiting. Waiting for the May — Waiting for the pleasant rambles Where the fragrant hawthorn-brambles, With the woodbine alternating, Scent the dewy way. Ah ! my heart is weary waiting, Waiting for the May. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May — Longing to escape from study To the young face fair and ruddy, And the thousand charms belonging To the summer's day. Ah ! my heart is sick with longing, Longing for the May. Ah! my heart is sore with sighing, Sighing for the May — Sighing for their sure returning, When the summer beams are burning, Hopes and flowers that, dead or dying, All the winter lay. Ah ! my heart is sore with sighing. Sighing for the May. Ah ! my heart is pained with throbbing, Throbbing for the May- Throbbing for the seaside billows. Or the water wooing willows ; Where, in laughing and in sobbing, Glide the streams away. Ah ! my heart, my heart is throbbing. Throbbing for the May. Waiting sad, dejected, weary. Waiting for the May ; Spring goes by with wasted warnings — Moonlit evenings, sunbright mornings — Summer comes, yet dark and dreary Life still ebbs away ; Man is ever weary, weary. Waiting for the May ! Denis Florence MacCarthy. ON A GOLDFINCH. 'IME was when I was free as air, The thistle's downy seed my fare. My drink the morning dew ; I perched at will on every spray. My form genteel, my plumage gay, My strains forever new. But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain, And form genteel, were all in vain. And of a transient date ; For caught and caged, and starved to death. In dying sighs my little breath Soon passed the wiry grate. Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes. And thanks for this effectual close And cure of every ill ! More cruelty could none express ; And I, if you had shown me less. Had been your prisoner still. William Cowper. THE ROBIN. ' EE yon robin on the spray ; Look ye ! how his tiny form Swells, as when his merry lay Gushes forth amid the storm. Though the snow is falling fast. Specking o'er his coat with white — Though loud roars the chilly blast. And the evening 's lost in night — Yet from out the darkness dreary Cometh still that cheerful note ; Praiseful aye, and never weary, Is that little warbling throat. Thank him for his lesson's sake, Thank God's gentle minstrel there. Who, when storms make others quake. Sings of days that brighter were. JiARRisoN Weir. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 133 THE BLOOD HORSE. , AMARRA is a dainty steed, Strong, black, and of a noble breed, Full of fire, and full of bone, With all his line of fathers known ; Fine his nose, his nostrils thin. But blown abroad by the pride within ! His mane is like a river flowing. And his eyes like embers glowing In the darkness of the night. And his pace as swift as light. Look — how round his straining throat Grace and shifting beauty float ; Sinewy strength is in his reins. And the red blood gallops through his veins : Richer, redder, never ran Through the boasting heart of man. He can trace his lineage higher Than the Bourbon dare aspire — Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, Or O'Brien's blood itself! He, who hath no peer, was bom Here, upon a red March mom. But his famous fathers dead Were Arabs all, and Arab-bred, And the last of that great line Trod like one of a race divine ! And yet — he was but friend to one Who fed him at the set of sun By some lone fountain fringed with green ; With him, a roving Bedouin, He lived (none else would he obey Through all the hot Arabian day), And died untamed upon the sands W^here Balkh amidst the desert stands. Bryan W. Procter {Barry Cornwall). F SEPTEMBER RAIN. ATTER— patter- Listen how the rain-drops clatter. Falling on the shingle roof; How they rattle. Like the rifle's click in battle. Or the charger's iron hoof! Cool and pleasant Is the evening air at present, Gathering freshness from the rain ; Languor chasing, Muscle, thew, and sinew bracing, And enlivening the brain. . Close together Draw the bands of love in weather When the sky is overcast ; Eyeballs glisten — Thankfully we sit and listen To the rain that's coming fast. Dropping — dropping Like dissolving diamonds — popping 'Gainst the crystal window-pane, As il seeking Entrance-welcome, and bespeaking Our affection for tlie rain. Quick, and quicker Come the droppings — thick and thicker. Pour the hasty torrents down : Rushing — rushing — From the leaden spouts a-gushing. Cleansing all the streets in town. Darkness utter Gathers round ; — we close the shutter ; Snugly sheltered let us keep. Still unceasing Falls the rain ; but oh ! 'tis pleasing 'Neath such lullaby to sleep. How I love it I Let the miser money covet — Let the soldier seek the fight ; Give me only. When I lie awake and lonely, Music made by rain at night. Thomas MacKeller. NO! O sun — no moon ! No morn — no noon — No dawn — no dust — no proper time of day- No sky — no earthly view — No distance looking blue — No road — no street — no " t'other side the way" — No end to any row — No indications where the crescents go — No top to any steeple — No recognitions of familiar people — No courtesies for showing 'em — No knowing 'em ! No traveling at all — no locomotion, No inkling of the way — no notion — '• No go" — by land or ocean — No mail — no post — No newsfrom any foreign coast — ■ No park — no ring — no afternoon gentility — No company — no nobility — No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, No comfortable feel in any member — No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds, November ! Thomas Hood. 134 CROWN JEWELS. AUTUMN. ■ HE autumn is old ; The sear leaves are flying ; He hath gathced up gold. And now he is dying : Old age, begin sighing I The vintage is ripe ; The harvest is heaping ; But some that have sowed Have no riches for reaping — Poor wretch, fall a-weeping I The year's in the wane ; There is nothing adorning ; The night has no eve. And the day has no morning ; Cold winter gives warning. The rivers run chill ; The red sun is sinking ; And I am grown old, And life is fast shrinking ; Here's enow for sad thinking I Thomas Hood. But still wild music is abroad, Pale, desert woods, within your crowd ; And gathered winds, in hoarse accord. Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud. Chill airs, and wintry winds, my ear Has grown familiar with your song ; I hear it in the opening year — I listen, and it cheers me long. Henry Wadswgrth Longfellow. llJ WOODS IN WINTER HEN winter winds are piercing chill, And through the white-thorn blows the gale, With solemn feet 1 tread the hill, That over brows the lonely vale. O'er the bare upland, and away Through the long reach of desert woods. The embracing sunbeams chastely play. And gladden these deep solitudes. On the gray maple's crusted bark Its tender shoots the hoar-frost nips ; Whilst in the frozen fountain — hark ! — His piercing beak the bittern dips. Where, twisted round the barren oak. The summer vine in beauty clung, And summer winds the stillness broke — The crystal icicle is hung. Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs Pour out the river's gradual tide. Shrilly the skater's iron rings, And voices fill the woodland side. Alas ! how changed from the fair scene. When birds sang out their mellow lay ; And winds were soft, and woods were green. And the song ceased not with the day ! SEPTEMBER. HE cricket chirps all day, " O fairest summer, stay ! " The squirrel eyes askance the chestnuts browning ; The wild fowl fly afar Above the foamy bar. And hasten southward ere the skies are frowning. Now comes a fragrant breeze Through the dark cedar trees. And round about my temples fondly lingers, In gentle playfulness, Like to the soft caress Bestowed in happier days by loving fingers. Yet, though a sense of grief Comes with the falling leaf, And memory makes the summer doubly pleasant. In all my autumn dreams A future summer gleams, Passing the fairest glories of the present ! George Arnold. WINTER. N all thy trees, on every bough, Thousands of crystals sparkle now. Where'er our eyes alight ; Firm on the spotless robe we tread. Which o'er thy beauteous form is spread, With glittering hoar-frost bright. Our Father kind, who dwells above, For thee this garment pure hath wove ; He watches over thee. Therefore in peace thy slumber take, Our Father will the weary wake, -^ New strength, new light to see. Soon to the breath of spring's soft sighs. Delighted thou again wilt rise, In wondrous life so fair. I feel those sighs breathe o'er the plain. Dear nature, then rise up again With flower-wreaths in thy hair. Friedrich W. Krummachkr. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 135 n MAY MORNING. OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. Hail, beauteous May ! that doth inspire Mirth and youth and warm desire ; Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton. THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 'HE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and mea- "^ dows brown and sere. Heap'd in the hollows of the grove, the wither'd leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay. And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sister- hood? Alas ! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie ; but the cold Novem- ber rain Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago. And the wild-rose and the orchis died amid the sum- mer glow : But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood. Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the plague on men. And the brightness of their smile was gone from up- land, glade and glen. And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will come. To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter homo When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still. And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill. The south wind searches for the flowers whose frag- rance Jate he bore. And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side : In the cold moist earth we laid her when the forest cast the leaf. And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief; Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend oi ours So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers. William Cullen Bryant. NOVEMBER. 'HE mellow year is hasting to its close The little birds have almost sung their last, Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast — "^ That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows ; The patient beauty of the scentless rose. Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed, Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past. And makes a little summer where it grows. In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day The dusky waters shudder as they shine ; The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define ; And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array, . Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy twine. Hartley Coleridge. WHAT THE WINDS BRING. HICH is the wind that brings the cold ? The north-wind, Freddy, and all the snow ; And the sheep will scamper into the fold When the north begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the heat ? The south-wind, Katy ; and corn will grow. And peaches redden for you to eat. When the south begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the rain ? The east-wind, Arty ; and farmers know That cows come shivering up the lane. When the east begins to blow. Which is the wind that brings the flowers? The west-wind, Bessy ; and soft and low The birdies sing in the summer hours When the west begins to blow. Edmund Clarence Stedman. 136 CROWN JEWELS. P THE SNOWDROP. RETTY firstling of the year ! Herald of the host of flowers ! Hast thou left thy cavern drear, In the hope of summer hours? Back unto thy earthen bowers ! Back to thy warm world below, Till the strength of suns and showers Quell the now relentless snow ! Art still here ? — alive and blithe ? Though the stormy night hath fled, And the frost hath passed his scythe O'er thy small, unsheltered head? Ah ! some lie amidst the dead, (Many a giant, stubborn tree — ^lany a plant, its spirit shed), That were better nursed than thee . What hath saved thee? Thou wast not 'Gainst the arrowy winter furred — Armed in scale — but all forgot When the frozen winds were stirred. Nature, who doth clothe the bird, Should have hid thee in the earth. Till the cuckoo's song was heard, And the Spring let loose her mirth. Nature— deep and mystic word ! Mighty mother, still unknown ! Thou didst sure the snowdrop gird With an armor all thine own ! Thou, who sent'st it forth alone To the cold and sullen season, (Like a thought at random thrown), Sent it thus for some grave reason ! If 'twere but to pierce the mind With a single, gentle thought. Who shall deem thee harsh or blind. Who that thou hast vainly wrought ? Hoard the gentle virtue caught From the snowdrop — reader wise ! Good is good, wherever taught, On the ground or in the skies ! Bryan W. Procter, {Barry Cornwall.) THE SNOW STORM. NNOUNCED 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 farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveler stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fire-place, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm. Come see the north-wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore 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 world 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 tho 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. Ralph Waldo Emerson. -"Hurrah!" IT SNOWS. _ T snows ! " cries the schoolboy- * • •©• and his shout Is ringing through the parlor and hall. While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out, And his playmates have answered his call : It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy — Proud wealth has no pleasures, I trow. Like the rapture that throbs in the pulse of the boy, As he gathers his treasures of snow ; Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs. While health and the riches of nature are theirs. •'It snows!" sighs the imbecile — "Ah!" and his breath Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight ; While from the pale aspect of nature in death, He turns to the blaze of his grate : And nearer, and nearer, his soft-cushioned chair Is wheeled tow'rds the life-giving flame — He dreads a chill puff" of the snow-burdened air, Lest it wither his delicate frame : Oh, small is the pleasure existence can give. When the fear we shall die only proves that we live ! "It snows!" cries the traveler — "Ho!" and the word Has quickened his steed's lagging pace ; The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard — Unfelt the sharp drift in his face ; For bright through the tempest his own home ap- peared — Ay, though leagues intervened, he can see ; There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table pre- pared, And his wife with their babes at her knee. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 137 Blest thought ! how it lightens the grief-laden hour, That those we love dearest are safe from its power ! "It snows !' cries the belle — "Dear, how lucky!" and turns From her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek burns, While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : There are visions of conquest, of splendor, and mirth, Floating over each drear winter's day ; But the tintings of hope, on this storm-beaten earth. Will melt, like the snow-flakes, away ; Turn, turn thee to heaven, fair maiden, for bliss ; That world has a fountain ne'er opened in this. " It snows !" cries the widow — "O God! "and her sighs Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; Its burden ye'U read in her tear-swollen eyes. On her cheek, sunk with fasting and care. 'Tis night — and her fatherless ask her for bread — But "He gives the young ravens their food," And she trusts, till her dark heart adds horror to dread, And she lays on her last chip of wood. Poor sufferer ! that sorrow thy God only knows — 'Tis a pitiful lot to be poor when it snows ! Sarah Josepha Hale. P THE CRICKETS. IPE, little minstrels of the waning year, In gentle concert pipe ! Pipe the warm noons ; the mellow harvest near ; The apples dropping ripe ; The tempered sunshine, and the softened shade ; The trill of lonely bird ; The sweet, sad hush on nature's gladness laid ; The sounds through silence heard ! Pipe tenderly the passing of the year ; The summer's brief reprieve ; The dry husk rustling round the yellow ear ; The chill of morn and eve ! Pipe the untroubled trouble of the year ; Pipe low the painless pain ; Pipe your unceasing melancholy cheer ; The year is in the wane. Harriet McEwen Kimball. SNOW-FLAKES. UT of the bosom of the air, Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken. Over the woodlands brown and bare, Over the harvest-fields forsaken, Silent and soft and slow Descends the snow. Even as our cloudy fancies take Suddenly shape in some divine expression, Even as the troubled heart doth make In the white countenance confession, The troubled sky reveals The grief it feels. This is the poem of the air. Slowly in silent syllables recorded ; This is the secret of despair, Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded. Now whispered and revealed To wood and field. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE SLEIGH RIDE. N January, when down the dairy the cream and clabber freeze, When snow-drifts cover the fences over, we farmers take our ease. At night we rig the team, and bring the cutter out ; Then fill it, fill it, fill it, fill it, and heap the furs about. Here friends and cousins dash up by dozens, and sleighs at least a score ; There John and Molly, behind, are jolly — Nell rides with me, before. All down the village street we range us in a row : Nowjingle.jingle, jingle, jingle, and over the crispy snow ! The windows glisten, the old folks listen to hear the sleigh-bells pass ; The fields grow whiter, the stars are brighter, the road as smooth as glass. Our muffled faces bum, the clear north wind blows cold. The girls all nestle, nestle, nestle, each in her lover's hold. Through bridge and gateway we're shooting straight- way, their toll-man was too slow ! He'll listen after our song and laughter as over the hill we go. The girls cry, "Fie! for shame !" their cheeks and lips are red. And so with kisses, kisses, kisses, they take the toll instead. Still follow, follow ! across the hollow the tavern fronts the road. Whoa, now ! all steady ! the host is ready— he knows the country mode ! The irons are in the fire, the hissing flip is got ; So pour and sip it, sip it, sip it, and sip it while 'tis hot. Push back the tables, and from the stables bring Tom, the fiddler, in ; 138 CROWN JEWELS. All take your places, and make your graces, and let the dance begin. The girls are beating time to hear the music sound ; Now foot it, foot it, foot it, foot it, and swing your partners round. Last couple toward the left ! all forward ! cotillion's through, let's wheel : First tune the fiddle, then down the middle in old Vir- ginia reel. Play monkey musk to close, then take the "long chass^," While in to supper, supper, supper, the landlord leads the way. The bells are ringing, the hostlers bringing the cutters up anew ; The beasts are neighing, too long we're staying, the night is halfway through. Wrap close the buffalo robes, we're all aboard once more ; Now jingle, jingle, jingle, jingle, away from the tav- ern door. So follow, follow, by hill and hollow, and swiftly homeward glide. What midnight splendor ! how warm and tender the maiden by your side ! The sleighs drop far apart, her words are soft and low ; Now, if you love her, love her, love her, 'tis safe to tell her so. Edmund Clarence Stedman. CHRISTMAS IN THE WOODS. ROM under the boughs in the snow-clad wood The merle and the mavis are peeping, Alike secure from the wind and the flood, Yet a silent Christmas keeping. Still happy are they. And their looks are gay, And they frisk it from bough to bough ; Since berries bright red Hang over their head, A right goodly feast, I trow. There, under the boughs, in their wintry dress, , Haps many a tender greeting ; Blithe hearts have met, and the soft caress Hath told the delight of meeting. Though winter hath come To his woodland home. There is mirth with old Christmas cheer. For 'neath the light snow Is the fruit-fraught bough, And each to his love is near. Yes ! under the boughs, scarce seen, nestle they. Those children of song together — As blissful by night, as joyous by day, 'Mid the snows and the wintry weather. For they dream of spring, And the songs they'll sing. When the flowers bloom again in the mead ; And mindful are they Of those blossoms gay, Which have brought them to-day Such help in their time of need ! Harrison Weir. MORNING. ' N the bam the tenant cock. Close to partlet perched on high, Briskly crows (the shepherd's clock 1) Jocund that the morning's nigh. Swiftly from the mountain's brow. Shadows, nursed by night, retire : And the peeping sunbeam now. Paints with gold the village spire. Philomel forsakes the thorn, Plaintive where she prates at night, And the lark, to meet the morn, Soars beyond the shepherd's sight. From the balmy sweets, uncloyed, (Restless till her task be done), Now the busy bee's employed Sipping dew before the sun. Trickling through the creviced rock, Where the limpid stream distils. Sweet refreshment waits the flock When 'tis sun-drove from the hills. Colin 's for the promised corn (Ere the harvest hopes are ripe). Anxious ; — whilst the huntsman's horn, Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe. Sweet, O sweet, the warbling throng On the white emblossomed spray ! Nature's universal song Echoes to the rising day. John Cunningham. A CALM EVE. y^ OOK on these waters, with how soft a kiss •®' r They woo the pebbled shore ! then steal away, -ii^ Like wanton lovers — but to come again, And die in music ! There, the bending skies See all their stars — and the beach-loving trees. Osiers and willows, and the watery flowers. That wreathe their pale roots round the ancient stones. Make pictures of themselves 1 George Croly, BEAUTIES OF NATURE. IZO CELESTIAL LIGHT. ' HUS with the year Seasons return, but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose. Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; But cloud, instead, and ever-during dark, Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men. Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of nature's works, to me expunged and rased, •And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out. So much the rather thou, celestial light, Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers Irradiate ; there plant eyes, all mist from thence Purge and disperse, that I may see and tell Of things invisible to mortal sight. John Milton. iIj THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS. E walked along, while bright and red Uprose tlie morning sun ; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said " The will of God be done ! " A village schoolmaster was he. With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday. And on that morning, through the grass And by the steaming rills, We traveled merrily, to pass A day among the hills. "Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought. Beneath so beautiful a sun. So sad a sigh has brought ? " A second time did Matthew stop ; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply : " Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this, which, I have left Full thirty years behind. And just above yon slope of corn Such colors, and no other, Were in the sky that April mom Of this the very brother. With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And coming to the church st(>pped short Beside my daughter's grave. Nine summers had she scarcely seen. The pride of all the vale ; And then she sang : — she would have been A very nightingale. Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; And yet I loved her more — For so it seemed — than till that day I e'er had loved before. And turning from her grave, I met Beside the churchyard yew A blooming girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew. A basket on her head she bare ; Her brow was smooth and white : To see a child so very fair. It was a pure delight ! No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free ; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea. There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine ; I looked at her, and looked again : And did not wish her mine ! " — Matthew is in his grave, yet now Methinks I see him stand, As at that moment, with a bough Of wilding in his hand. William Wordsworth. © DAY IS DYING. AY is dying ! Float, O song, Down the westward river. Requiem chanting to the day — Day, the mighty giver. Pierced by shafts of time he bleeds. Melted rubies sending Through the river and the sky, Earth and heaven blending ; All the long-drawn earthly banks Up to cloud-land lifting : Slow between them drifts the swan, 'Twixt two heavens drifting. Wings half open, like a flower Inly deeper flushing, Neck and breast as virgin's pure — Virgin proudly blushing. Day is dying ! Float, O swan, Down the ruby river ; Follow, song, in requiem To the mighty giver. Marian Evans Lewes Cross ( George Eliof). 140 CROWN JEWELS. (H ADVANCING MORN. 'S when, to one, who long hath watched the morn Advancing, slow forewarns th' approach of day (What time the young and flowery-kirtled May Decks the green hedge, and dewy grass unshorn With cowslips pale, and many a whitening thorn) ; And now the sun comes forth, with level ray Gilding the high-wood top, and mountain gray ; And, as he climbs, the meadows 'gins adorn ; The rivers glisten to the dancing beam, The awakened birds begin their amorous strain, And hill and vale with joy and fragrance teem ; Such is the sight of thee ; thy wished return To eyes, like mine, that long have waked to mourn. That long have watched for light, and wept in vain ! John Bampfylde. A WINTER LANDSCAPE. ' HROUGH the hushed air the whit'ning shower descends, At first thin-wavering, till at last the flakes 'f' Fall broad and wide, and fast, dimming the day With a continual flow. The cherished fields Put on their winter robe of purest white : 'Tis brightness all, save where the new snow melts Along the mazy current. Low the woods Bow their hoar head ; and ere the languid sun. Faint from the west, emits his evening ray, Earth's universal face, deep hid, and chill. Is one white dazzling waste, that buries wide The works of man. Drooping, the laborer-ox Stands covered o'er with snow, and then demands The fruit of all his toil. The fowls of heaven. Tamed by the cruel season, crowd around The winnowing store, and claim the little boon Which Providence assigns them. One alone. The redbreast, sacred to the household gods, Wisely regardful of the embroiling sky. In joyless fields and thorny thickets, leaves His shivering mates, and pays to trusted man His annual visit. Half afraid, he first Against the window beats ; then, brisk, alights On the warm hearth ; then hopping o'er the floor, Eyes all the smiling family askance, And pecks, and starts, and wonders where he is : Till more familiar grown, the table crumbs Attract his slender feet. The foodless wilds Pour forth their brown inhabitants. The hare, Though timorous of heart, and hard beset By death in various forms, dark snares and dogs, And more unpitying men, the garden seeks, Urged on by fearless want. The bleating kine Eye the bleak heaven, and next, the glist'ning earth. With looks of dumb despair ; then, sad dispersed, Dig for the whithered herb through heaps of snow. As thus the snows arise, and foul and fierce All winter drives along the darkened air, In his own loose revolving fields the swain Disastered stands ; sees other hills ascend, Of unknown joyless brow, and other scenes, Of horrid prospect, shag the trackless plain ; Nor finds the river nor the forest, hid Beneath the formless wild ; but wanders on From hill to dale, still more and more astray, Impatient flouncing through the drifted heaps, Stung with the thoughts of home ; the thoughts of home Rush on his nerves, and call their vigor forth In many a vain attempt. How sinks his soul ! What black despair, what horror, fills his heart ! When for the dusky spot which fancy feigned, His tufted cottage rising through the snow. He meets the roughness of the middle waste. Far from the track and blessed abode of man ; While round him night resistless closes fast. And every tempest howling o'er his head Renders the savage wilderness more wild. Then throng the busy shapes into his mind, Of covered pits, unfathomably deep, A dire descent ! beyond the power of frost ; Of faithless bogs ; of precipices huge Smoothed up with snow ; and what is land unknown, What water of the still unfrozen spring. In the loose marsh or solitary lake, Where the fresh fountain from the bottom boils. These check his fearful steps, and down he sinks Beneath the shelter of the shapeless drift. Thinking o'er all the bitterness of death. Mixed with the tender anguish nature shoots Through the wrung bosom of the dying man. His wife, his children, and his friends, unseen. In vain for him the officious wife prepares The fire fair blazing, and the vestment warm : In vain his little children, peeping out Into the mingling storm, demand their sire With tears of artless innocence. Alas ! Nor wife nor children more shall he behold. Nor friends, nor sacred home. On every nerve The deadly winter seizes, shuts up sense. And o'er his inmost vitals creeping cold. Lays him along the snows a stiffened corse. Stretched out, and bleaching in the northern blast. James Thomson. A HYMN TO THE SEASONS. *^— 'HESE, as they change. Almighty Father, these Are but the varied God. The rolling year Is full of thee. Forth in the pleasing spring "f Thy beauty walks, thy tenderness and love. Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; And every sense, and every heart, is joy. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 141 Then comes thy glory in the summer months, With light and heat refulgent. Then thy sun Shoots full perfection through the swelling year : And oft thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve. By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined. And spreads a common feast for all that lives. In winter awful thou ! with clouds and storms Around thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing. Riding sublime, thou bidst the world adore. And humblest nature with thy northern blast. Mysterious round ! what skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear ! a simple train. Yet so delightful mixed, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combined ; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade ; And all so forming an harmonious whole ; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not thee, marks not the mighty Hand, That, ever busy, wheels the silent spheres ; Works in the secret deep ; shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the spring : Flings from the sun direct the flaming day ; Feeds every creature ; hurls the tempests forth ; And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transf>ort touches all the springs of life. James Thomson. THE ADVENT OF EVENING, 'HE fire-flies freckle every spot With fickle light that gleams and dies ; The bat, a wavering, soundless blot, 'f The cat, a pair of prowling eyes. Still the sweet, fragrant dark o'erflows The deepening air and darkening ground ; By its rich scent I trace the rose, The viewless beetle by its sound. The cricket scrapes its rib-like bars ; The tree-toad purrs in whirring tone ; And now the heavens are set with stars, And night and quiet reign alone. Alfred B. Street. MOONRISE. HAT stands upon the highland? What walks across the rise, As though a starry island Were sinking down the skies? What makes the trets so golden ! What decks the mountain side, Like a veil of silver folden Round the white brow of a bride? The magic moon is breaking, Like a conqueror, from the east, The waiting world awaking To a golden fairy feast. She works, with touch ethereal, By changes strange to see, The cypress, so funereal, To a lightsome fairy tree ; Black rocks to marble turning. Like palaces of kings ; On ruin windows burning, A festal glory flings ; The desert halls uplighting. While falling shadows glance. Like courtly crowds uniting For the banquet or the dance ; With ivory wand she numbers The stars along the sky ; And breaks the billows' slumbers With a love-glance of her eye ; Along the cornfields dances. Brings bloom upon the sheaf ; From tree to tree she glances. And touches leaf by leaf; Wakes birds that sleep in shadows ; Through their half-closed eyelids gleams ; With her white torch through the meadows Lights the shy deer to the streams. The magic moon is breaking, Like a conqueror, from the east. And the joyous world partaking Of her golden fairy feast. Ernest Jones. DOVER CLIFF. eOME on, sir ; here's the place : stand still ! How fearful And dizzy 't is, to cast one's eyes so low ! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles : half-way down Hangs one that gathers samphire, — dreadful trade ! - Methinks he seems no bigger than his head : The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice ; and yon tall anchoring bark, Diminished to her cock ; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight : the murmuring surge, That on the unnumbered idle pebbles chafes. Cannot be heard so high. — I'll look no more ; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. William Shakespeare. 142 CROWN JEWELS. A LOWERING EVE. 'HERE is a gloomy grandeur in the sun, That levels his last light along the shore ; The clouds are rolling downwards, stem and "f dun : The long, slow wave is streaked with red, like gore On some vast field of battle ; and the roar Of wave and wind comes like the battle's sound. And now the sun sinks deeper ; and the clouds. In folds of sullen fire, still heavier lower. Till the whole storm the shore and ocean shrouds. George Crolv. THE TEMPESTUOUS EVENING. 'HERE'S grandeur in this sounding storm, That drives the hurrying clouds along, That on each other seem to throng. And mix in many a varied form ; While, bursting now and then between, The moon's dim misty orb is seen. And casts faint glimpses on the green. Beneath the blast the forests bend, And thick the branchy ruin lies, And wide the shower of foliage flies ; The lake's black waves in tumult blend, Revolving o'er and o'er and o'er, And foaming on the rocky shore. Whose caverns echo to their roar. The sight sublime enrapts my thought, And swift along the past it strays. And much of strange event surveys. What history's faithful tongue has taught, Or fancy formed, whose plastic skill The page with fabled change can fill Of ill to good, or good to ill. But can my soul the scene enjoy, That rends another's breast with pain ? O hapless he, who near the main. Now sees its billowy rage destroy ! Beholds the foundering bark descend. Nor knows but that its fate may end The moments of his dearest friend ! John Scott. THE MOON WAS A-WANING. 'HE moon was a-waning, The tempest was over ; Fair was the maiden, And fond was the lover ; But the snow was so deep That his heart it grew weary ; And he sunk down to sleep, In the moorland so dreary. Soft was the bed She had made for her lover. White were the sheets And embroidered the cover ; But his sheets are more white, And his canopy grander ; And sounder he sleeps Where the hill-foxes wander. Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you ! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window ; But long may you wait Ere your arms shall enclose him ; For still, still he lies. With a wreath on his bosom ! How painful the task The sad tidings to tell you ! An orphan you were Ere this misery befel you ; And far in yon wild. Where the dead-tapers hover. So cold, cold and wan. Lies the corpse of your lover ! J.vMEs Hogg. NIGHT. HESE thoughts, O night ! are thine ; From thee they came like lovers' secret sighs, Y While others slept. So Cynthia, poets feign, In shadows veiled, soft, sliding from her sphere, Her shepherd cheered ; of her enamored less Than I of thee, And art thou still unsung. Beneath whose brow, and by whose aid, I sing? Immortal silence ! where shall I begin ? . Were end ? or how steal music from the spheres To soothe their goddess ? O majestic night ! Nature's great ancestor ! day's elder-born ! And fated to survive the transient sun ! By mortals and immortals seen with awe ! A starry crown thy raven brow adorns, An azure zone thy waist ; clouds, in heaven's loom Wrought through varieties of shape and shade. In ample folds of drapery divine, Thy flowing mantle form, and, heaven throughout, Voluminous'y pour thy pompous train ; Thy gloomy grandeurs — nature's most august, Inspiring aspect ! — claim a grateful verse ; And, like a sable curtain starred with gold, Drawn o'er my labors past, shall clothe the scene. WARD Young. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 143 TO A STAR. 'HOU brightly glittering star of even, Thou gem up^n the brow of heaven ! Oh ! were this fluttering spirit free, f* How quick 'twould spread its wings to thee ! How calmly, brightly, dost thou shine, Like the pure lamp in virtue's shrine ! Sure the fair world which thou may'st boast Was never ransomed, never lost. There, beings pure as heaven's own air, Their hopes, their joys, together share ; While hovering angels touch the string. And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. There, cloudless days and brilliant nights, Illumed by heaven's refulgent lights ; There, seasons, years, unnoticed roll. And unregretted by the soul. Thou little sparkling star of even, Thou gem upon an azure heaven ! How swiftly will I soar to thee, When this imprisoned soul is free ! LucRETiA Maria Davidson. THE NIGHT-FLOWERING CEREUS. The night-flowering- cereus is one of our most splendid hot- house plants, and is a native of Jamaica and some other of the West India Islands. Its stem is creeping, and thickly set with spines. The flower is white, and very large, sometimes nearly a foot in diameter. The most remarkable circumstance with regard to the flower, is the short time which it takes to expand, and the rapidity with which it decays. It begins to open late in the even- ing, flourishes for an hour cr two, then begins to droop, and be- fore morning is completely dead. n OW departs day's gairish light — Beauteous flower, lift thy head ! Rise upon the brow of night ! Haste, thy transient lustre shed ! Night has dropped her dusky veil — All vain thoughts be distant far, While, with silent awe, we hail Flora's radiant evening star. See to life her beauties start ; Hail ! thou glorious, matchless flower ! Much thou sayest to the heart, In the solemn, fleeting hour. Ere we have our homage paid, Thou wilt bow thine head and die ; Thus our sweetest pleasures fade. Thus our brightest blessings fly. Sorrow's rugged stem, like thine, Bears a flower thus purely bright ; Thus, when sunny hours decline, Friendship sheds her cheering light. Religion, too, that heavenly flower, That joy of never-fading worth. Waits, like thee, the darkest hour, Then puts all her glories forth. Then thy beauties are surpassed. Splendid flower, that bloom'st to die ; For friendship and religion last, When the morning beams on high. ON RECROSSING THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS y^ ONG years ago I wandered here, •^* [• In the midsummer of the year, — Xi"^ Life's summer too ; A score of horsemen here we rode. The mountain world its glories showed, All fair to view. These scenes in glowing colors drest, Mirrored the life within my breast, Its world of hopes ; The whispering woods and fragrant breeze That stirred the grass in verdant seas On billowy slopes. And glistening crag in sunlit sky. Mid snowy clouds piled mountains high, Were joys to me ; My path was o'er the prairie wide, Or here on grander mountain-side, To choose, all free. The rose that waved in morning air. And spread its dewy fragrance there In careless bloom. Gave to my heart its ruddiest hue. O'er my glad life its color threw And sweet perfume. The buoyant hopes and busy life Have ended all in hateful strife. And thwarted aim. The world's rude contact killed the rose, No more its radiant color shows False roads to fame. Backward, amidst the twilight glow Some lingering spots yet brightly show On hard roads won, Where still some grand peaks mark the way Touched by the light of parting day And memor>''s sun. But here thick clouds the mountains hide, The dim horizon bleak and wide No pathway shows, And rising gusts, and darkening sky, Tell of "the night that cometh," nigh. The brief day's close. John C. Fremont. 144 CROWN JEWELS. THE EVENING STAR. *OW sweet thy modest light to view, Fair star, to love and lovers dear ! While trembling on the falling dew, Like beauty shining through a tear. Or, hanging o'er that mirror-stream. To mark that image trembling there, Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam, To see thy lovely face so fair. Though, blazing o'er the arch of night. The moon thy timid beams outshine, As far as thine each starry light ; — Her rays can never vie with thine. Thine are the soft enchanting hours. When twilight lingers on the plain. And whispers to the closing flowers That soon the sun will rise again. Thine is the breeze that, murmuring bland As music, wafts the lover's sigh, And bids the yielding heart expand In love's delicious ecstasy. Fair star ! though I be doomed to prove That rapture's tears are mixed with pain. Ah, still I feel 'tis sweet to love ! But sweeter to be loved again. John Leyden. THE SCENES OF BOYHOOD. IS past ! no more the summer blooms ! Ascending in the rear, Behold congenial autumn comes, The sabbath of the year ! What time thy holy whispers breathe, The pensive evening shade beneath, And twilight consecrates the floods ; While nature strips her garment gay, And wears the vesture of decay, O let me wander through the sounding woods ! Ah ! well-known streams ! — ah ! wonted groves. Still pictured in my mind ! Oh ! sacred scene of youthful loves, Whose image lives behind ! While sad I ponder on the past. The joys that must no longer last ; The wild-flower strown on summer's bier. The dying music of the grove. And the last elegies of love. Dissolve the soul, and draw the tender tear ! Companions of the youthful scene. Endeared from earliest days ! With whom I sported on the green, Or roved the woodland maze ! Long-exiled from your native clime. Or by the thunder-stroke of time Snatched to the shadows of despair ; I hear your voices in the wind, Your forms in every walk I find ; I stretch my arms : ye vanisli into air ! My steps, when innocent and young, These fairy paths pursued ; And wandering o'er the wild, I sung My fancies to the wood. I mourned the linnet-lover's fate. Or turtle from her murdered mate, Condemned the widowed hours to wail : Or while the mournful vision rose, I sought to weep for imaged woes. And sorrowed o'er the plaintive tragic tale I Yet not unwelcome waves the wood That hides me in its gloom, While lost in melancholy mood I muse upon the tomb. Their chequered leaves the branches shed ; Whirling in eddies o'er my head, They sadly sigh that winter's near : The warning voice I hear behind. That shakes the wood without a wind. And solemn sounds the death-bell of the year. Nor will I court Lethean streams. The sorrowing sense to steep ; Nor drink oblivion of the themes On which I love to weep. Belated oft by fabled rill, While nightly o'er the hallowed hill Aerial music seems to mourn ; I'll listen autumn's closing strain ; Then woo the walks of youth again. And pour my sorrows o'er the untimely urn ! John Logan. THE SHEPHERD-SWAIN. HERE lived in Gothic days, as legends tell, A shepherd-swain a man of low degree. Whose sires, perchance, in fairyland might t dwell, Sicilian groves, or vales of Arcady ; But he, I ween, was of the north countrie ; A nation famed for song, and beauty's charms ; Zealous, yet modest ; innocent, though free ; Patient of toil ; serene amidst alarms ; Inflexible in faith ; invincible in arms. The shepherd-swain, of whom I mention made, On Scotia's mountains fed his little flock ; The sickle, scythe, or plough, he never swayed ; An honest heart was almost all his stock ; His drink the living water from the rock ; The milky dams supplied his board, and lent Their kindly fleece to baffle winters shock ; And he, though oft with dust and sweat besprent. Did guide and guard their wanderings, whereso'er they went. James Beattie. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 145 ALPINE HEIGHTS. N Alpine heights the love of God is shed ; He paints the morning red, The flowerets while and blue, And feeds them with his dew, On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, The loveliest breezes breathe ; So free and pure the air, His breath seems floating there. On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. On Alpine heights, beneath his mild blue eye. Still vales and meadows lie ; The soaring glacier's ice Gleams like a paradise. On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flow ! There the bold chamois go ; On giddy crags they stand. And drink from his own hand. On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow, The sheep and wild goats go ; There, in the solitude. He fills their hearts with food. On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. On Alpine heights the herdsman tends his herd ; His Shepherd is the Lord ; For he who feeds the sheep Will sure his offspring keep. On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells. Frederick W. Krummachkr. TO A COMET. 'OW lovely is this wildered scene, As twilight from her vaults so blue Steals soft o'er Yarrow's mountains green. To sleep embalmed in midnight dew ! All hail, ye hills, whose towering height, Like shadows, scoops the yielding sky ! And thou, mysterious guest of night, Dread traveler of immensity I Stranger of heaven ! I bid thee hail ! Shred from the pall of glory riven, That flashest in celestial gale, Broad pennon of the King of heaven I Art thou the flag of woe and death, From angel's ensign-staff unfurled ? Art thou the standard of his wrath Waved o'er a sordid sinful world ? No, from that pure pellucid beam, That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, (10) No latent evil we can deem. Bright herald of the eternal throne ! Whate'er portends thy front of fire, Thy streaming locks so lovely pale — Or peace to man, or judgments dire, Stranger of heaven, I bid thee hail ! Where hast thou roamed these thousand years ? Why sought these polar paths again. From wilderness of glowing spheres. To fling thy vesture o'er the wain ? And when thou scalest the milky way, And vanishest from human view, A thousand worlds shall hail thy ray Through wilds of yon empyreal blue ! Oh ! on that rapid prow to glide ! To bail the boundless skies with thee. And plow the twinkling stars aside. Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea 1 To brush the embers from the sun, The icicles from off the pole ; Then far to other systems run. Where other moons and planets roll ! Stranger of heaven ! O let thine eye Smile on a rapt enthusiast's dream ; Eccentric as thy course on high, And airy as thine ambient beam I And long, long may thy silver ray Our northern arch at eve adorn ; Then, wheeling to the east away, Light the gray portals of the morn ! James Hogg. THE PUMPKIN. FRUIT loved by boyhood ! tho old days re- calling ; J When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling ! When wild, ugly faces were carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin, our lantern the moon. Telling tales of the fairy who traveled like steam In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team ! Then thanks for thy present ! — none sweeter or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine. Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less. That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below. And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin- vine grow. And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie ! John Greenleae Whixtier. 146 CROWN JEWELS. TO SENECA LAKE. N thy fair bosom, silver laice, The wild swan spreads his snowy sail, And round his breast the ripples break, ^^ As down he bears before the gale. On thy fair bosom, waveless stream, The dipping paddle echoes far, And flashes in the moonlight gleam, And bright reflects the polar star. The waves along thy pebbly shore, As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, And curl around the dashing oar, As late the boatman hies him home. How sweet, at set of sun, to view Thy golden mirror spreading wide, And see the mist of mantling blue Float round the distant mountain's side. At midnight hour, as shines the moon, A sheet of silver spreads below, And swift she cuts, at highest noon. Like clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. On thy fair bosom, silver lake, O, could I ever sweep the oar, When early birds at morning wake, And evening tells us toil is o'er ! James Gates Percival. u THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 'OW does the water Come down at Lodore ! " My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time ; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother. And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar. As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme. For of rhymes I had store ; And 't was in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing ; Because I was laureate To them and the King, From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell ; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills ; Through moss and through brake. It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade. In sun and in shade. And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling ; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in. Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent. It reaches the place Of its steep descent. The cataract strong Then plunges along. Striking and raging As if a war waging Its caverns and rocks among ; Rising and leaping. Sinking and creeping. Swelling and sweeping. Showering and springing. Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking. Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting. Around and around With endless rebound : Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in ; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound. Collecting, projecting. Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping. And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattlmg and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pounng and roaring, And waving and raving. And tossing and crossing. And flowing and going. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 147 And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning. And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling. And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning ; And glittering and frittering. And gathering and feathering. And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering ; Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riding and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling. And clattering and battering and shattering ; Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting. Delaying and straying and playing and spraying. Advancing and prancing and glancmg and dancing. Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming.and beam- ing, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And. curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jump- ing, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing ; And so never ending, but always descending. Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar — And this way the water comes down at Lodore. Robert Soutiiey. THE RHINE. 'HE castled crag of Drachenfels Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine. And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise com and wine. And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine. Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy, wert thou with me. And peasant-girls with deep-blue eyes. And hands which offer early flowers. Walk smiling o'er this paradise ; Above, the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray. And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay. Look o'er tliis vale of vintage-bowers ; But one thing want these banks of Rhine — Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! I send the lilies given to me. Though long before thy hand they touch I know that they must withered be — But yet reject them not as such ; For I have cherished them as dear. Because they yet may meet thine eye, And guide thy soul to mine e'en here. When thou behold'st them drooping nigh. And knowest them gathered by the Rhine, And offered from my heart to thine ! The river nobly foams and flows, The charm of this enchanted ground. And all its thousand turns disclose Some fresher beauty varj'ing round : The haughtiest breast its wish might bound Through life to dwell delighted here ; Nor could on earth a spot be found To nature and to me so dear, Could thy dear eyes in following mine Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine ! Lord Byron. SONG OF THE RIVER LEAR and cool, clear and cool. By laughing shallow and dreaming pool ; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle and foaming weir ; Under the crag where tlie ouzel sings, And the ivied wall where the churcli-bell rings, Undefiled for the undefiled ; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child 1 Dank and foul, dank and foul. By the smoky town in its murky cowl ; Foul and dank, foul and dank, By wharf, and sewer, and slimy bank; Darker and darker the further I go. Baser and baser the richer I grow ; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child ! Strong and free, strong and free, The flood-gates are open, away to the sea : Free and strong, free and strong. Cleansing my streams as I hurry along To the golden sands and the leaping bar. And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. And I lose myself in the infinite main. Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again Undefiled for the undefiled ; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child ! Charles Kingsley. 148 CROWN JEWELS. llJ TWEEDSIDE. HAT beauties does Flora disclose ! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed ! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than thos2, , Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently through those. Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove. The linnet, the lark, and the thrush, The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove, With music enchant every bush. Come, let us go forth to the mead, Let us see how the primroses spring ; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feathered folks sing. How does my love pass the long day ? Does Mary not tend a few sheep ? Do they never carelessly stray. While happily she lies asleep ? Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest ; Kind nature indulging my bliss, To relieve the soft pains of my breast, I'd steal an ambrosial kiss. 'Tis she does the virgins excel. No beauty with her may compare : Love's graces around her do dwell ; She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray. Oh ! tell me at noon where they feed ; Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed ? William Crawford. NIAGARA. (3"^^ LOW on forever, in thy glorious robe -^i*- Of terror and of beauty. Yes, flow on, M. Unfathomed and resistless. God hath set His rainbow on thy forehead, and the cloud Mantled around thy feet. — And he doth give Thy voice of thunder power to speak of him Eternally, — bidding the lip of man Keep silence, and upon thy rocky altar pour Incense of awe-struck praise. The morning stars, When first they sang o'er young creation's birth. Heard thy deep anthem, — and those wrecking fires That wait the archangel's signal to dissolve The solid earth, shall find Jehovah's name Graven, as with a thousand diamond spears. On thme unfathomed page. — Each leafy bough That hfts itself within thy proud domain. Doth gather greenness from thy living spray, And tremble at the baptism. — Lo ! yon birds Do venture boldly near, bathing their wing Amid thy foam and mist. — 'Tis meet for them To touch thy garment's hem — or lightly stir The snowy leaflets of thy vapor wreath — Who sport unharmed upon tlie fleecy cloud. And listen at the echoing gate of heaven. Without reproof. — But as for us — it seems Scarce lawful with our broken tones to speak Familiarly of thee. — Methinks, to tint Thy glorious features with our pencil's point, Or woo thee to a tablet of a song. Were profanation. Thou dost make the soul A wondering witness of thy majesty ; And while it rushes with delirious joy To tread thy vestibule, dost chain its step, And check its rapture with the humbling view Of its own nothingness, bidding it stand In the dread presence of the Invisible, As if to answer to its God through thee. LVDLV H. SiGOURNEY. THE FOUNTAIN. NTO the sunshine. Full of light. Leaping and flashing P'rom morn to night ! Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow ! Into the starlight. Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day ! Ever in motion. Blithesome and cheery. Still climbing heavenward Never a-wear}' ! Glad of all weathers. Still seeming best, Upward or downward Motion thy rest ; Full of a nature Nothing can tame. Changed every moment, Ever the same ; — Ceaseless, aspiring ; Ceaseless, content ; Darkness or sunshine Thy element. Glorious fountain ! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant. Upward, like thee ! James Russell Lowell. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 149 THE FALL OF NIAGARA. 'HE thoughts are strange that crowd into my brain, While I look upward to thee. It would seem "^ As if God poured thee from his hollow hand, And hung his bow upon thine awful front ; And spoke in that loud voice, which seemed to him Who dwelt in Patmos for his Saviour's sake. The sound of many waters ; and had bade Thy flood to chronicle the ages back, And notch His ages in the eternal rocks. Deep calleth unto deep. And what are we, That hear the question of that voice sublime ? O, what are the notes that ever rung From war's vain trumpet, by thy thundering side? Yea, what is all the riot man can make In his short life, to thy unceasing roar? And yet, bold babbler, what art thou to Him Who drowned a world, and heaped the waters far Above its loftiest mountains? — a light wave, That breaks, and whispers of its Maker's might. John G. C. Br.\inard. INVOCATION TO RAIN IN SUMMER. GENTLE, gentle summer rain, Let not the silver lily pine. The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine — To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle summer rain ! In heat the landscape quivering lies ; The cattle pant beneath the tree ; Through parching air and purple skies The earth looks up, in vain, for thee « For thee — for thee, it looks in vain, O gentle, gentle summer rain. Come thou, and brim the meadow streams. And soften all the hills witii mist, O falling dew ! from burning dreams By thee shall herb and flower be kissed. And earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle summer rain. William Cox Bennett. THE BROOK-SIDE. WANDERED by the brook-side, I wandered by the mill; I could not hear the brook flow — The noisy wheel was still ; There was no burr of grasshopper, No chirp of any bird. But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. (s I sat beneath the elm-tree ; I watched the long, long shade, And, as it grew still longer, I did not feel afraid ; For I listened for a footfall, I listened for a word — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. He came not — no, he came not — The night came on alone — The little stars sat one by one, Each on his golden tlirone ; The evening wind passed by my cheek, The leaves above were stirred — But the beating of my own heart Was all the sound I heard. Fast silent tears were flowing. When something stood behind ; A hand was on my shoulder — I knew its touch was kind : It drew me nearer — nearer — We did not speak one word. For the beating of our own hearts Was all the sound we heard. Lord Houghton. ODE TO LEVEN-WATER. N Leven's banks, while free to rove, And tune the rural pipe to love, I envied not the happiest swain That ever trod the Arcadian plain. Pure stream ! in whose transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave ; No torrents stain thy limpid source. No rocks impede thy dimpling course. That sweetly warbles o'er its bed. With white, round, polished pebbles spread ; While, lightly poised, the scaly brood In myriads cleave thy crystal flood ; The springing trout in speckled pride, The salmon, monarch of the tide ; The ruthless pike, intent on war. The silver eel, and mottled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make. By bowers of birch, and groves of pine. And edges flowered with eglantine. Still on thy banks so gaily green, May numerous herds and flocks be seen : And lasses chanting o'er the pail, And shepherds piping in the dale ; And ancient faith that knows no guile. And industry embrowned with toil ; And hearts resolved, and hands prepared, The blessings they enjoy to gfuard ! T. George Smollett. 150 CROWN JEWELS. THE LATTER RAIN. 'HE latter rain — it falls in anxious haste Upon the sun-dried fields and branches bare, Loosening with searching drops the rigid 7 waste As if it would each root's lost strength repair ; It pierces chestnut-burr and walnut shell ; The furrowed fields disclose the yellow crops; Each bursting pod of talents used can tell ; And all that once received the early rain Declare to man it was not sent in vain. ^^^ Jones Very. SONG OF THE BROOK. [' COME from haunts of coot and hem ; ?* I make a sudden sally, [» And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges ; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways. In little sharps and trebles ; I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow. And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I wind about, and in and out. With here a blossom sailing. And here and there a lusty trout, And here and tliere a grayling ; And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel ; And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots ; I slide by hazel covers ; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses ; I linger by my shingly bars ; I loiter round my cresses ; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river ; For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. Alfred Tennyson. LITTLE STREAMS. ;^ ITTLE streams are light and shadow, j* Flowing through the pasture meadow, « Flowing by the green way-side, Through the forest dim and wide, Through the hamlet still and small — By tiie cottage, by the hall, By the ruined abbey still ; Turning here and there a mill, Bearing tribute to the river — Little streams, I love you ever. Summer music is there flowing — Flowering plants in them are growing ; Happy life is in them all, Creatures innocent and small ; Little birds come down to drink, Fearless of their leafy brink ; Noble trees beside them grow, Glooming them with branches low ; And between, the sunshine, glancingi In their little waves, is dancing. Little streams have flowers a many, Beautiful and fair as any ; Typha strong, and green bur-reed ; Willow-herb, with cotton-seed ; Arrow-head, with eye of jet ; And the water-violet. There the flowering-rush you meet. And the plumy meadow-sweet ; And, in places deep and stilly, Marble-like, the water-lily. Little streams, their voices cheery, Sound forth welcomes to the weary, Flowing on from day to day. Without stint and without stay ; Here, upon their flower}' bank, In the old time pilgrims drank — BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 151 Here have seen, as now, pass by, King-fisher, and dragon-fly ; Those bright things that have their dwelling, Where the little streams are welling. Down in valleys green and lowly. Murmuring not and gliding slowly ; Up in mountain-hollows wild, Fretting like a peevish child ; Through the hamlet, where all day In their waves the children play ; Running west, or running east, Doing good to man and beast — Always giving, weary never. Little streams, I love you ever. Mary Howitt. THE CATARACT AND THE STREAMLET. n OBLE the mountain stream, Bursting in grandeur from its vantage-ground ; Glory is in its gleam Of briglitness — thunder in its deafening sound ! Mark, how its foamy spray. Tinged by the sunbeams with reflected dyes, Mimics the bow of day Arching in majesty the vaulted skies ; Tlience, in a summer-shower. Steeping the rocks around — O ! tell me where Could majesty and power Be clothed in forms more beautifully fair ? Yet lovelier, in my view, The streamlet flowing silently serene ; Traced by the brighter hue, And livelier growth it gives — itself unseen ! It flows through flowery meads, Gladdening the herds which on its margin browse ; Its quiet beauty feeds The alders that o'ershade it with their boughs. Gently it murmurs by The village churchyard : its low, plaintive tone, A dirge-like melody, For worth and beauty modest as its own. More gaily now it sweeps By the small school-house in the sunshine bright ; And o'er the pebbles leaps, Like happy hearts by holiday made light. May not its course express. In characters which they who run may read, The charms of gentleness. Were but its still small voice allowed to plead What are the trophies gained By power, alone, with all its noise and strife, To that meek wreath, unstained, Won by the charities that gladden life .' Niagara's streams might fail. And human happiness be undistnrbed : But Egypt would turn pale, Were her still Nile's o'erflowing bounty curbed ! Bernard Barton. SHOWERS IN SPRING. *HE north-east spends his rage; he now, shut up Within his iron cave, the effusive south Warms the wide air, and o'er the void of *|* heaven Breathes the big clouds with vernal showers distent. At first, a dusky wreath they seem to rise. Scarce staining ether, but by swift degrees. In heaps on heaps the doubled vapor sails Along the loaded sky, and, mingling deep, Sits on the horizon round, a settled gloom ; Not such as wintry storms on mortals shed. Oppressing life ; but lovely, gentle, kind. And full of every hope, of every joy, The wish of nature. Gradual sinks the breeze Into a perfect calm, that not a breath Is heard to quiver through the closing woods. Or rustling turn the many twinkling leaves Of aspen tall. The uncurling floods diffused In glassy breadth, seem, through delusive lapse, Forgetful of their course. 'Tis silence all. And pleasing expectation. Herds and flocks Drop the dry sprig, and, mute-imploring, eye The falling verdure. Hushed in short suspense. The plumy people streak their wings with oil, To throw the lucid moisture trickling off". And wait the approaching sign, to strike at once Into the general choir. Even mountains, vales. And forests, seem impatient to demand The promised sweetness. Man superior walks Amid the glad creation, musing praise And looking lively gratitude. At last The clouds consign their treasures to the fields. And, softly shaking on the dimpled pool Prelusive drops, let all their moisture flow In large effusion o'er the freshened world. The stealing shower is scarce to patter heard By such as wander through the forest walks. Beneath the umbrageous multitude of leaves. James Thomson. THE ANGLER'S SONG. "There is no life more pleasant than the life of the well-gov- erned angler." — Jzaai Walion. HEN first the flame of day Crimsons the sea-like mist, And from the valley rolls away The haze, by the sumbeam kissed, Then to the lonely woods I pass, With angling rod and line. While yet the dew drops in the grass Like flashing diamonds shine. 152 CROWN JEWELS. How vast the mossy forest-halls, Silent, and full of gloom ! Through the high roof the daybeam falls, Like torch-light in a tomb. The old trunks of trees rise round Like pillars in a church or old, And the wind fills them with a sound As if a bell were tolled. Where falls the noisy stream. In many a bubble bright, Along whose grassy margin gleam Flowers gaudy to the sight, There silently I stand, Watching my angle play, And eagerly draw to the land My speckled prey. Oft, ere the carrion bird has left His eyrie, the dead tree, Or ere the eagle's wing hath cleft The cloud in heaven's blue sea, Or ere the lark's swift pinion speeds To meet the misty day, My foot hath shaken the bending reeds. My rod sought out its prey. And when the twilight, with a blush Upon her cheek, goes by. And evening's universal hush Fnls all the darkened sky. And steadily the tapers burn In villages far away. Then from the lontly stream I turn And from the forests gray. Isaac McLellan. HYMN OF NATURE. ,OD of the earth's extended plains ! The dark green fields contented lie : The mountains rise like holy towers. Where the man might commune with the sky : The tall cliff challenges the storm That lowers on the vale below. Where the shaded fountains send their streams. With joyous music in their flow. God of the light and viewless air! Where the summer breezes sweetly flow, Or, gathering in their angry might, The fierce and wintry tempests blow ; All— from the evening's plaintive sigh. That hardly lifts the drooping flower. To the wild whirlwind's midnight cry — Bring forth the language of Thy power. God of the fair and open sky ! How gloriously above us springs The te'hted dome, of heavenly blue. Suspended on the rainbow's rings ! Each brilliant star, that sparkles through, Each gilded cloud, that wanders free In evening's purple radiance, gives The beauty of its praise to Thee. God of the rolling orbs above ! Thy name is written clearly bright In the warm day's unvarying blaze. Or evening's golden shower of light. For every fire that fronts the sun, And every spark that walks alone Around the utmost verge of heaven, Were kindled at Thy burning throne. God of the world ! the hour must come And nature's self to dust return ; Her crumbling altars must decay ; Her incense-fires shall cease to bum ; But still her grand and lovely scenes Have made man's warmest praises flow ; For hearts grow holier as they trace The beauty of the world below. William B. Peabody. SIGNS OF RAIN. FORTY REASONS KOR NOT ACCKPTING AN INVITATION OF A FRIBNO TO MAKK AN EXCURSION WITH HIM. 'HE hollow winds begin to blow ; 2 The clouds look black, the glass is low, 3 The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 4 And spiders from their cobwebs peep. Last night the sun went pale to bed, The moon in halos hid her head ; 7 The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 8 For see, a rainbow spans the sky ! 9 The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 10 Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. 1 1 Hark how the chairs and table crack ! 12 Old Betty's nerves are on the rack ; 13 Loud quacks the duck, the peacocks cry, 14 The distant hills are seeming nigh, 15 How restless are the snorting swine ! 16 The busy flies disturb the kine, 17 Low o'er the grass the swallow wings, 18 The cricket, too, how sharp he sings ! 19 Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 20 Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws ; 21 Through the clear streams the fishes rise, 22 And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 23 The glow-worms, numerous and light, 24 Illumed the dewy dell last night ; 25 At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 26 Hopping and crawling o'er the green ; 27 The whirling dust the wind obeys, 28 And in the rapid eddy plays ; BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 153 29 Tlic frog has changed his yellow vest, 30 And in a russet coat is dressed. 31 Though June, the air is cold and still, 32 The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill ; 33 My dog, so altered in his taste, 34 Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast ; 35 And see yon rooks, how odd their flight ! 36 They imitate the gliding kite, 37 And seem precipitate to fall, 38 As if they felt the piercing ball. 39 'T will surely rain; I see with sorrow 40 Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. Edward Jenner. ^ BEFORE THE RAIN. E knew it would rain, for all the morn, A spirit on slender ropes c.f mist Was lowering its golden buckets down Into the vapory amethyst Of marshes and swamps and dismal fens — Scooping the dew that lay in the flowers, Dipping the jewels out of the sea, To sprinkle them over the land in showers. We knew it would rain, for the poplars showed The white of their leaves, the amber grain Shrunk in the wind — and the lightning now Is tangled in tremulous skeins of rain. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. AFTER THE RAIN. 'HE rain has ceased, and in my room The sunshine pours an airy flood ; And on the church's dizzy vane y The ancient cross is bathed in blood. From out the dripping ivy-leaves, Antiquely carven, gray and high, A dormer, facing westward, looks Upon the village like an eye : And now it glimmers in tlie sun, A square of gold, a disk, a speck : And in the belfry sits a dove With purple ripples on her neck. Thoimas Bailey Aldrich. THE ANGLER'S WISH. ' N these flowery meads would be, These crystal streams should solace me ; To whose harmonious bubbling noise, I with my angle would rejoice. Sit here, and see the turtle-dove, Court his chaste mate to acts of love : Or on that bank, feel the west wind Breathe health and plenty, please my mind To see sweet dew-drops kiss these flowers, And then wash off by April showers : Here, hear my Kenna sing a song, There, see a blackbird feed her young. Or a laverock build her nest ; Here give my weary spirits rest. And raise my low-pitched thoughts above Earth, or what poor mortals love : Thus free from lawsuits, and the noise Of princes' courts, I would rejoice: Or with my Bryan and a book. Loiter long days near Shawford Brook ; There sit by him, and eat my meat. There see the sun both rise and set ; There bid good-morning to next day ; There meditate my time away ; And angle on, and beg to have A quiet passage to a welcome grave. IzAAK Walton. APOSTROPHE TO THE OCEAN. HERE is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore. There is society, where none intrudes, 'f' By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot aii conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean — roll ! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin — his control Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own ; When, for a moment, like a drop of rain. He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan — Without a grave, unknelled, uncoflfined, and unknown. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time. Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole ; or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime — The irnage of eternity — the throne Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, ocean ! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward : from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers — they to me Were a delight ; and if the freshenmg sea Made them a terror- -'twas a pleasing For I was, as it were, a child of thee. And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here. Lord Byron. 154 CROWN JEWELS. © SUNSET AT NORHAM CASTLE AY set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river broad and deep, And Cheviot's rriountains lone ; The battled towers, the donjon keep. The loop-hole grates where captives weep, The flanking walls that round it sweep, In yellow lustre shone. The warriors on the turrets high, Moving athwart the evening sky. Seemed forms of giant height; Their armor, as it caught the rays, Flashed back again the western blaze In lines of dazzling light. St. George's banner, broad and gay. Now faded, as the fading ray Less bright, and less, was flung ; The evening gale had scarce the power To wave it on the donjon tower, So heavily it hung. The scouts had parted on their search, The castle gales were barred ; Above the gloomy portal arch. Timing his footsteps to a march. The warder kept his guard. Low humming, as he paced along, Some ancient border-gathering song. A distant tramping sound he Iiears ; He looks abroad and soon appears, O'er Horncliff hill, a plump of spears Beneath a pennon gay ; A horseman, darting from the crowd. Like lightning from a summer cloud, Spurs on his mettled courser proud, Before the dark array. Beneath the sable palisade, That closed the castle barricade, His bugle-horn he blew; The warder hasted from the wall. And warned the captain in the hall, For well the blast he knew ; And joyfully that knight did call To sewer, squire, and seneschal. Sir Walter Scott. THE ICEBERG. 'WAS night — our anchored vessel slept Out on the glassy sea ; And still as heaven the waters kept, "^ And golden bright — as he. The setting sun, went sinking slow Beneath the eternal wave ; And the ocean seemed a pall to throw Over the monarch's grave. There was no motion of the air To raise the sleeper's tress, And no wave-building winds were there On ocean's loveliness ; i But ocean mingled with the sky With sucli an equal hue. That vainly strove the 'wildered eye To part their gold and blue. And ne'er a ripple of the sea Came on our steady gaze. Save when some timorous fish stole out To bathe in the woven blaze — When, flouting in the light that played ^ All over the resting main, He would sink beneath the wave, and dart To his deep, blue home again. Yet, while we gazed, that sunny eve. Across the twinkling deep, A form came plougliing the golden wave. And rending its holy sleep ; It blushed bright red, while growing on Olir fixed, half-fearful gaze ; But it wandered down with its glow of light. And its robe of sunny rays. It seemed like molten silver, thrown Together in floating flame ; And as we looked, we named it then, The fount whence all colors came : There were rainbows furled with a careless grace. And the brightest red tliat glows ; The purple amethyst there had place, And the hues of a full-blown rose. And the vivid green, as the sun-lit grass Where the pleasant rain hath been ; And the ideal hues, that, thought-like, pass Through the minds of fanciful men ; They beamed full clear — and that form moved on, Like one from a burning grave ; And we dared not think it a real thing. But for the rustling wave. The sun just lingered in our view. From the burning edge of ocean, When by our bark that bright one passed i With a deep, disturbing motion : The far down waters shrank away. With a gurgling rush upheaving, And the lifted waves grew pale and sad, Their mother's bosom leaving. Yet, as it passed our bending stern. In its throne-like glory going. It crushed on a hidden rock, and turned Like an empire's overthrowing. The uptom waves rolled hoar — and, huge. The far-thrown undulations Swelled out in the sun's last, lingering smile. And fell like battling nations. J. O. Rockwell. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 155 MOUNT WASHINGTON ; THE LOFTIEST PEAK OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. OUNT of the clouds, on whose Olympian hei-ht The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, And spirits from the skies come down at night. To chant immortal songs to freedom there ! Thine is the rock of other regions ; where The world of life which blooms so far below Sweeps a wide waste : no gladdening scenes appear, Save where, with silvery flash, the waters flow Beneath the far off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne ; When tempest mounts his rushing car, and throws His billowy mist amid the thunder's home ! Far down the deep ravines the whirlwinds come. And bow the forests as they sweep along ; While, roaring deeply from their rocky womb. The storms come forth — and, hurrying darkly on. Amid the echoing peaks, the revelry prolong ! And, when the tumult of the air is fled, And quenched in silence all the tempest flame. There come the dim forms of the mighty dead. Around the steep which bears the hero's name. The stars look down upon them — and the same Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave, Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame, And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave — The richest, purest tear, that memory ever gave ! Mount of the clouds, when winter round thee throws The hoary mantle of the dying year, Sublime, amid thy canopy of snows. Thy towers in bright magnificence appear ! 'Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue ; When, lo ! in softened grandeur, far, yet clear. Thy battlements stand clothed in heaven's own hue, To swell as freedom's home on man's unbounded view. Grenville Mellen. PALESTINE. OW, upon Syria's land of roses S(jftly the light of eve reposes, And, like a glory, the broad sun Hangs over sainted Lebanon, Whose head in wintry grandeur towers, And whitens with eternal sleet. While summer, in a vale of flowers, Is sleeping rosy at his feet. To one who looked from upper air O'er all the enchanted regions there, How beauteous must have been the glow, The life, how sparkling from below ! Fair gardens, shining streams, with ranks Of golden melons on their banks. More golden where the sunlight falls ; Gay lizards, glittering on the walls Of ruined shrines, busy and bright As they were all alive with light ; And, yet more splendid, numerous flocks Of pigeons, settling on the rocks, With their rich, restless wings, that gleam Variously in the crimson beam Of the warm west — as if inlaid With brilliants from the mine, or made Of tearless rainbows, such as span The unclouded skies of Peristan ! And then, the mingling sounds that come. Of shepherd's ancient reed, with hum Of the wild bees of Palestine, Banqueting, through the flowery vales ; — And, Jordan, those sweet banks of thine. And woods, so full of nightingales ! Thomas Moore. THE NORTHERN LIGHTS. 'O claim the Arctic came the sun With banners of the burning zone. Unrolled upon their airy spars, They froze beneath the light of stars ; And there they float, those streamers old. Those northern lights, forever cold ! Benjamin Franklin Taylor. THE SUPERNATURAL ' HOULD fate command me to the farthest verge Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. Rivers unknown to song ; where first the sun Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam Flames on the Atlantic isles : 'tis nought to me; Since God is ever present, ever felt. In the void waste, as in the city full ; And where he vital breathes, there must be joy. When even at last the solemn hour shall come, And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, I cheerful will obey : there, with new powers. Will rising wonders sing : I cannot go Where universal love not smiles around, Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns ; From seeming evil still educing good, And better tlience again, and better still. In infinite progression. But I lose Myself in him, in light ineffable ; Come then, expressive silence, muse his praise, James Thomson. 156 CROWN JEWELS. HYMN ON SOLITUDE. 'AIL, mildly pleasing solitude, Companion of the wise and good, But. from whose holy, piercing eye, The herd of fools and villains fly. Oh ! how I love with thee to walk, And Hsten to thy whispered talk, Which innocence and truth imparts, And melts the most obdurate hearts. A thousand shapes you wear with ease, And still in every shape you please. Now rapt in some mysterious dream, A lone philosopher you seem ; Now quick from hill to vale you fly, And now you sweep the vaulted sky ; A shepherd next, you haunt the plain, And warble forth your oaten strain. Thine is the balmy breath of morn, Just as the dew-bent rose is born ; And while meridian fervors beat, Thine is the woodland dumb retreat ; But chief, when evening scenes decay, And the faint landscape swims away, Thine is the doubtful soft decline, And that best hour of musing thine. Descending angels bless thy train, The virtues of the sage, and swam ; Plain innocence, in white arrayed. Before thee lifts her fearless head : Religion's beams around thee shine, And cheer thy glooms with light divine : About thee sports sweet liberty ; And rapt Urania sings to thee. Oh, let me pierce thy secret cell 1 And in thy deep recesses dwell ; Perhaps from Norwood's oak-clad hill. When meditation has her fill, I just may cast my careless eyes Where London's spiry turrets rise. Think of its crimes, its cares, its pain. Then shield me in the woods again. James Tho.mson. TO A WILD DEER. 'IT couch of repose for a pilgrim like thee ! Magnificent prison inclosing the free ! With rock-wall encircled — with precipice crowned — Which, awoke by the sun, thou canst clear at a bound. 'Mid the fern and the heather, kind nature doth keep One bright spot of green for her favorite's sleep ; And close to that covert, as clear as the skies When their blue depths are cloudless, a little lake lies, Where the creature at rest can his image behold, Looking up through the radiance, as bright and as bold ! How lonesome ! how wild ! yet the wildness is rife With the stir of enjoyment — the spirit of life. The glad fish leaps up in the heart of the lake, Whose depths, at the sullen plunge, sullenly quake ! As if in his soul the bold animal smiled To his friends of the sky, the joint-heirs of the wild. Yes ! fierce looks thy nature, e'en hushed in repose — In the depths of thy desert regardless of foes, Thy bold antlers call on the hunter afar, With a haughty defiance to come to the war ! No outrage is war to a creature like thee ! The bugle-horn fills thy wild spirit with glee, As thou barest thy neck on the wings of the wind, And the laggardly gaze hound is toiling behind. In the beams of thy forehead that glitter with death — In feet that draw power from the touch of the heath — Elate on the fern-branch the grasshopper sings, And away in the midst of his roundelay springs ; 'Mid the flowers of the heath, not more bright than himself, The wild-bee is busy, a musical elf- Then starts from his labor, unwearied and gay, And circling his antlers, booms far, far away. While high up the mountains, in silence remote, The cuckoo unseen is repeating his note ; The mellowing echo, on watch in the skies, Like a voice from the loftier climate replies. With wide-spreading antlers, a guard to his breast, There lies the wild creature, e'en stately in rest ! 'Mid the grandeur of nature, composed and serene, And proud in his heart of the mountainous scene. He lifts his calm eye to the eagle and raven, At noon sinking down on smooth wings to their haven. In the wide-raging torrent that lends thee its roar — In the cliff that, once trod, must be trodden no more — Thy trust, 'mid the dangers that threaten thy reign ! But what if the stag on the mountain be slain ? On the brink of the rock — lo ! he standeth at bay, Like a victor that falls at the close of the day : While hunter and hound in their terror retreat From the death that is spurned from his furious feet ; And his last cry of anger comes back from the skies, As nature's fierce son in the wilderness dies. John Wilson. THE SIERRAS. •^ IKE fragments of an uncompleted world, •®' /• From bleak Alaska, bound in ice and spray, . -^^ To where the peaks of Darien lie curled In clouds, the broken lands loom bold and gray ; The seamen nearing San Francisco Bay Forget the compass here ; with sturdy hand They seize the wheel, look up, then bravely lay The ship to shore by rugged peaks that stand. The stern and proud patrician fathers of the land. They stand white stairs of heaven — stand a line Of lifting, endless, and eternal white; BEAUTIHS OF NATURE. 157 They look upon the far and flashing brine, Upon the boundless plains, the broken height Of Kaniiakin's battlements. The flight Of time is underneath their untopped towers ; They seem to push aside the moon at night, To jostle and to lose the stars. The flowers Of heaven fall about their brows in shining showers. They stand a line of lifted snowy isles, High held above a tossed and tumbled sea — A sea of wood in wild unmeasured miles ; White pyramids of faith w-here man is free ; Wliite monuments of hope that yet shall be The mounts of matchless and immortal song. I look far down the hollow days ; I see The bearded prophets, simple-souled and strong, That strike the sounding harp and thrill the heeding throng. Serene and satisfied ! supreme ! as lone As God, they loom like God's archangels churled : They look as old as kings upon a throne ; The mantling wings of night are crushed and curled As feathers curl. The elements are hurled From off^ their bosoms, and are bidden go, Like evil spirits, to an under-world ; They stretch from Cariboo to Mexico, A line of battle-tents in everlasting snow. Joaquin Miller. THE SEA BREEZE AND THE SCARF. 'UNG on the casement that looked o'er the main, Fluttered a scarf of blue ; And a gay, bold breeze paused to flatter and tease This trifle of delicate hue ; You are lovelier far than the proud skies are," He said, with a voice that sighed ; ' You are fairer to me than the beautilul sea ; Oh, why do you stay here and hide ? ' You are wasting j'our life in this dull, dark room ;" And he fondled her silken folds. ' O'er the casement lean but a little, my queen, And see what the great Avorld holds ! How the wonderful blue of your inatchless hue. Cheapens both sea and sky ! You are far too bright to be hidden from sight ; Come, fly with me, darling, fly ! " Tender his whisper atid sweet his caress. Flattered and pleased was she. The arms of her lover lifted her over The casement out to sea ; Close to his breast she was fondly pressed, Kissed once by his laughing mouth ; Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave. While the wind went whistling south. Ella Wheeler Wilcox. UNDER THE LEAVES. FT have I walked these woodland paths, Without the blest foreknowing That underneath the withered leaves The fairest buds were growing. To-day the south wind sweeps away The types of autumn's splendor, And shows the sweet arbutus flowers. Spring's children, pure and tender. O prophet-flowers ! — with lips of bloom, Outvying in your beauty The pearly tints of ocean shells — Ye teach me faith and duty ! " Walk life's dark ways," ye seem to say, " With love's divine foreknowing, That where man sees but withered leaves, God sees sweet flowers growing." Albert Laighton. TO THE SKYLARK. AIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert. That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest. Like a cloud of fire ; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dogt soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden lightning Of the setting sun. O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run ; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight ; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the while dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare. From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over- flowed. 158 CROWN JEWELS. What Ihou art we know not : What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. Like a poet hidden In tlie light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not ; Like a high-born maiden • In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower ; Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view ; Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass. Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous and fresh and clear thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine ; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphant chant. Matched with thine, would be all But an empty vaunt — A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain ? What fields, or waves, or mountains ? What shapes of sky or plain ? What love of thine own kind ? What ignorance of pain ? With thy clear, keen joyance Languor cannot be ; Shadow of annoyance Never come near thee : Thou lovest : but nlay, In the shade of the apple-tree. Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years sliall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree. And time shall waste this apple-tree. O, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force aud iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still ? What shall the tasks of mercy be. Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this apple-tree ? " Who planted this old apple-tree ? " The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say ; And, gazing on its mossy stem. The gray-haired man shall answer them : "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times ; 'T is said he made some quaint old rhymes On planting the apple-tree." William Cullen Bryant. THE MAIZE. " That precious seed into the furrow cast Earliest in spring-time crowns the harvest last.'' Phcebe Carv. SONG for the plant of my own native west, Where nature and freedom reside. By plenty still crowned, and by peace ever blest, To the corn ! the green corn of her pride ! BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 161 In climes of the east has the olive been sung, And the grape been the theme of their lays ; But for thee shall a harp of the backwoods be strung, Thou bright, ever beautiful maize ! Afar in the forest the rude cabins rise, And send up their pillars of smoke. And the tops of their columns are lost in the skies, O'er the heads of the cloud-kissing oak ; Near the skirt of the grove, where the sturdy arm swings The axe till the old giant sways, And echo repeats ever}' blow as it rings, Shoots the green and the glorious maize ! There buds of the buckeye in spring are the first, And the willow's gold hair then appears. And snowy the cups of the dogwood that burst By the red bud, with pink-tinted tears. And strip>ed the bolls which the poppy holds up For the dew, and the sun's yellow rays, And brown is the pawpaw's shade-blossoming cup, In the wood, near the sun-loving maize ! AVhen through the dark soil the bright steel of the plough Turns the mould from its unbroken bed The ploughman is cheered by the finch on the bough, And the blackbird doth follow his tread. And idle, afar on the landscape descried, The deep-lowing kine slowly graze, And nibbling the grass on the sunny hillside Are the sheep, hedged away from the maize. With spring-time and culture, in martial array It waves its green broadswords on high, And fights with the gale, in a fluttering fray, And the sunbeams, which fall from the sky ; It strikes its green blades at the zephyrs at noon, And at night at the swift-flying fays. Who ride through the darkness the beams of the moon. Through the spears and the flags of the maize ! When the summer is fierce ^till its banners are green, Each warrior's long beard groweth red, His emerald-bright sword is sharp-pointed and keen. And golden his tassel-plumed head. As a host of armed knights set a monarch at naught, That defy the day-god to his gaze, And, revived every morn from the battle that's fought. Fresh stand the green ranks of the maize ! But brown comes the autumn, and sear gjows the corn. And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, And but for the cock and the noontide horn Old time would be tempted to rest. The humming bee fans off a shower of gold From the mullein's long rod as it sways, And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold The ears of the well-ripened maize ! 11 At length Indian summer, the lovely, doth come, With its blue frosty nights, and days still. When distinctly clear sounds the waterfall's hum, And the sun smokes ablaze on the hill ! A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood, And the hills are all mellowed in haze, While Fall, creeping on like a monk 'neath his hood, Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize. And the heavy wains creak to the barns large and gray, Where the treasure securely we hold. Housed safe from the tempest, dry-sheltered away, Our blessing more precious than gold ! And long from this manna that springs from the sod Shall we gratefully give him the praise, The source of all bounty, our Father and God, Who sent us from heaven the maize ! William W. Fosdick. © WINTER PICTURES. OWN swept the chill wind from the mountain peak. From the snow five thousand summers old ; On open wold and hill-top bleak It had gathered all the cold. And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek ; It carried a shiver everywhere From the unleafed boughs and pastures bare ; The little brook heard it and built a roof 'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof All night by the white stars' frosty gleams He groined his arches and matched his beams ; Slender and clear were his crystal spars As the lashes of light that trim the stars : He sculptured every summer delight In his halls and chambers out of sight ; Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt Down through a frost-leaved forest-crypt. Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed trees. Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew But silvery mosses that downward grew Sometimes it was carved in sharp relief With quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf; Sometimes it was simply smooth aud clear For the gladness of heaven to shine through, and here He had caught the nodding bulrush tops And hung them thickly with diamond drops. Which crj'stalled the beams of moon and sun. And made a star of every one. Within the hall are song and laughter. The cheeks of Christmas grow red and jolly, And sprouting is every corbel and rafter With the lightsome green of ivy and holly ; Through the deepgulf of the chimney wide Wallows the yule-log's roaring tide ; The broad flame-pennons droop and flap And belly and tug as a flag in the wind ; 162 CROWN JEWELS. Like a locust shrills the imprisoned sap, Hunted to death in its galleries blind ; And swift little troops of silent sparks, Now pausing, now scattering away as in fear, Go threading the soot-forest's tangled darks Like herds of startled deer. But the wind without was eager and sharp, Of Sir Launfal's gray hair it makes a harp, And rattles and rings The icy strings, Singing, in dreary monotone, A Christmas carol of its own. Whose burden still, as he might gfuess, Was — "Shelterless, shelterless, shelterless ! " The voice of the seneschal flared like a torch As he shouted the wanderer away from the porch, And he sat in the gateway and saw all night The great hall-fire, so cheery and bold. Through the window slits of the castle old, Build out its piers of ruddy light Against the drift of the cold. There was never a leaf on bush or tree. The bare boughs rattled shudderingly ; The river was dumb and could not speak. For the weaver winter its shroud had spun ; A single crow on the tree-top bleak From his shining feathers shed off the cold sun ; Again it was morning, but shrunk and cold. As if her veins were sapless and old, And she rose up decrepitly For a last dim look at earth and sea. James Russell Lowell. THE MIDNIGHT OCEAN. ' T is the midnight hour : — the beauteous sea, Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven dis- closes. While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee. Far down within the watery sky reposes. As if the ocean's heart were stirred With inward life, a sound is heard, Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep ; 'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air. That lies like a garment floating fair Above the happy deep. The sea, I ween, cannot.be fanned By evening freshness from tlie land, For the land it is far away ; But God hath willed that the sky-bom breeze In the centre of the loneliest seas Should ever sport and play. The mighty moon she sits above, Encircled with a zone of love, A zone of dim and tender light That makes her wakeful eye more bright : She seems to shine with a sunny ray. And the night looks like a mellowed day ! The gracious mistress of the main Hath now an undisturbed reign. And from her silent throne looks down. As upon children of her own, On the waves that lend their gentle breast In gladness for her couch of rest ! John Wilson. SPRING IN THE SOUTH. ■PRING, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair. Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee. And there's a look about the leafless bowers. As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of winter in the land. Save where the maple reddens on the lawn. Flushed by the season's dawn ; Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind. The elm puts on, as if in nature's scorn. The brown of autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb. In gardens you may note amid the dearth The crocus breaking earth : And near the snow-drop's tender white and green. The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows needs must pass Along the budding grass. And weeks go by, before the enamored south Shall kiss the rose's mouth. Still there's sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn ; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why, A feeling as when eager crowds await Before a palace gate Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start. If from a beech's heart A blue-eyed Dryad, stepping forth, should say, " Behold me 1 I am May ! " Henry Timrod. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 16c THREE SUMMER STUDIES. MORNING. 'HE cock has crowed. I hear the doors un- barred ; Down to the grass-grown porch my way I t take, And hear, beside the well within the yard, Full many an ancient, quacking, splashing drake. And gabbling goose, and noisy brood-hen — all Responding to yon strutting gobbler's call. The dew is thick upon the velvet grass, The porch-rails hold it in translucent drops. And as the cattle from the enclosure pass. Each one, alternate, slowly halts and crops The tall, green spears, with all their dewy load, Which grow beside the well-known pasture-roud. A humid polish is on all the leaves — The birds flit in and out with varied notes. The noisy swallows twitter 'neath the eaves, A partridge whistle through the garden floats, "While yonder gaudy peacock harshly cries, As red and gold flush all the eastern skies. Up comes the sun ! Through the dense leaves a spot Of splendid light drinks up the dew ; the breeze Which late made leafy music, dies ; the day grows hot. And .slumbrous sounds come from marauding bees ; The burnished river like a sword-blade shines, Save where 't is shadowed by the solemn pines, NOON. Over the farm is brooding silence now — No reaper's song, no raven's clangor harsh, No bleat of sheep, no distant low of cow, No croak of frogs within the spreading marsh, No bragging cock from littered farmj^ard crows, — The scene is steeped in silence and repose. A trembling haze hangs over all the fields — The panting cattle in the river stand. Seeking tlie coolness which its wave scarce yields ; It seems a Sabbath through the drowsy land ; So hushed is all beneath the summer's spell, I pause and listen for some faint church-bell. The leaves are motionless, the song-birds mute ; The very air seems somnolent and sick : The spreading branches with o'er-ripened fruit Show in the sunshine all their clusters thick, While now and then a mellow apple falls With a dull thud within the orchard's walls, Th2 sky has but one solitary cloud Like a dark island in a sea of light ; The parching furrows 'twixt the corn-rows ploughed Seem f ;;rly dancing in my dazzled sight, While over yonder road a dusty haze Grows luminous beneath the sun's fierce blaze. EVENING. That solitary cloud grows dark and wide. While distant thunder rumbles in the air — A fitful ripple break's the river's tide — The lazy cattle are no longer there, But homeward come, in long procession slow, With many a bleat and many a plaintive low. Darker and wider spreading o'er the west, Advancing clouds, each in fantastic form, And mirrored turrets on the river's breast, Tell in ad\-ance the coming of a storm — Closer and brighter glares the lightning's flash, And louder, nearer sounds the thunder's crash. The air of evening is intensely hot, The breeze feels heated as it fans my brows — Now.'sullen rain-drops patter down like shot, Strike in the grass, or rattle mid the boughs. A sultry lull, and then a g^st again — And now I see the thick advancing rain ! It fairly hisses as it drives along, And where it strikes breaks up in silvery spray As if 't were dancing to tlie fitful song Made by the trees, which twist themselves and sw: In contest with the wind, that rises fast Until the breeze becomes a furious blast. And now, the sudden, fitful storm has fled. The clouds lie piled up in the splendid west, In massive shadow tipped with purplish red, Crimson or gold. The scene is one of rest ; And on the bosom of yon still lagoon I see the crescent cJf tha pallid moon. James Barron Hope. A SNOW-STORM. SCENE IN A VERMONT WINTER. IS a fearful night in the winter time. As cold as it ever can be ; The roar of the blast is heard like the chim; T Of the waves on an angry sea. The moon is full ; but her silver light The stonti dashes out with its wings to-night ; And over the sky from south to north Not a star is seen, as the wind comes forth In the strength of a mighty glee. All day had the snow come down — all day As it never came down before ; And over the hills, at sunset, lay Some two or three feet, or more ; The fence was lost, and the wall of stone ; The windows blocked and the well-curbs gone; The haystack had grown to a mountain lift, And the wood-pile looked like a monster drift, As it lay by the farmer's door. 164 CROWN JEWELS. The night sets in on a world of snow, While the air grows sharp and chill, And the warning roar of a fearful blow Is heard on the distant hill ; , And the norther, see ! on the mountain peak In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek ! He shouts on the plain, ho-ho ! ho-ho ! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, And growls with a savage will. Such a night as this to be found abroad, In the drifts and the freezing air, Sits a shivering dog, in the field, by the road, With the snow in his shaggy hair. He shuts his eyes to the wind and growls ; He lifts his head, and moans and howls ; Then crouching low, from the cutting sleet, His nose is pressed on his quivering feet — Pray, what does the dog do there ? A farmer came from the village plain — But he lost the traveled way ; And for hours he trod with miglit and main A path for his horse and sleigh ; But colder still the cold winds blew. And deeper still the deep drifts grew, And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown. At last in her struggles floundered down, Where a log in a noUow lay. In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort. She plunged in the drifting snow, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, With a word and a gentle blow ; • But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight ; His hands were numb and had lost their might ; So he wallowed back to his half-filled sleigh. And strove to shelter himself till day, With his coat and the buffalo. He has given the last faint jerk of the rein. To rouse up his dying steed ; And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain, For help in his master's need. For a while he strives with a wistful cry To catch a glance from his drowsy eye, And wags his tail if the rude winds flap The skirt of the buffalo over his lap. And whines when he takes no heed. The wind goes down and the storm is o'er — 'T is the hour of midnight, past ; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast. The silent moon with her peaceful light Looks down on the hills with snow all white, And the giant shadow of Camel's Hump, The blasted pine and the ghostly stump. Afar on the plain are cast. But cold and dead by the hidden log Are they who came from the town — The man in his sleigh, and his faithful dog. And his beautiful Morgan brown — In the wide snow desert, far and grand. With his cap on his head and the reins in his hand — The dog with his nose on his master's feet. And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, Where she lay when she floundered down. Charles Gamage Eastman. VIEW FROM THE EUGANEAN HILLS,* NORTH ITALY. IB ANY a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of misery. Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on Day and night, and night and day. Drifting on his dreary way. With the solid darkness black Closing round his vessel's track ; Whilst above, the sunless sky, Big with clouds, hangs heavily, And behind, the tempest fleet Hurries on with lightning feet. Riving sail and cord and plank Till the ship has almost drank Death from the o'erbrimming deep ; And sinks down, down, like that sleep When the dreamer seems to be Weltering through eternity ; And the dim low line before Of a dark and distant shore Still recedes, as, ever still. Longing with divided will, But no power to seek or shun, He is ever drifted on O'er the unreposing wave To the haven of the grave. Ay, many flowering islands lie In the waters of wide agony : To such a one this morn was led My bark, by soft winds piloted. — Mid the mountains Euganean I stood listening to the poean With which the legioned rooks did hail The sun's uprise majestical : Gathering round witli wings all hoar, Through the dewy mist they soar Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven Bursts, and then, as clouds of even, Flecked with fire and azure, lie In the unfathomable sky, So their plumes of purple grain, Starred with drops of golden rain, * The lonely mountains which surround what was once the re- treat, and is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 165 Gleam above the sunlight woods, As in silent multitudes On the morning's fitful gale, Through the broken mist they sail ; And the vapors cloven and gleaming Follow, down the dark steep streaming. Till all is bright and clear and still Round the solitary hill. Beneath is spread like a green sea The waveless plain of Lombardy, Bounded by the vaporous air, Islanded by cities fair ; Underneath day's azure eyes, Ocean's nursling, Venice, lies — A peopled labyrinth of walls, Amphitrite's destined halls, Which her hoary sire now paves With his blue and beaming waves. Lo ! the sun upsprings behind, Broad, red, radiant, half reclined On the level quivering line Of the waters crystalline ; And before that chasm of light. As within a furnace bright, Column, tower, and dome, and spire Shine like obelisks of fire, Pointing with inconstant motion From the altar of dark ocean To the sapphire-tinted skies ; As the flames of sacrifice From the marble shrines did rise, As to pierce the dome of gold Where Apollo spoke of old. Sun-girt city ! thou hast been Ocean's child, and then his queen ; Now is come a darker day. And thou soon must be his prey. If the power that raised thee here Hallow so thy watery bier. A less drear ruin then than now, With thy conquest-branded brow Stooping to the slave of slaves From thy throne among the waves, Wilt thou be when the sea-mew Flies, as once before it flew, O'er thine isles depopulate. And all is in its ancient state. Save where many a palace-gate With green sea-flowers overgrown Like a rock of ocean's own. Topples o'er the abandoned sea As the tides change sullenly. The fisher on his watery way Wandering at the close of day Will spread his sail and seize his oar Till he pass the gloomy shore, Lest thy dead should, from their sleep Bursting o'er the starlight deep. Lead a rapid mask of death O'er the waters of his path. Noon descends around me nou^ : 'T is the noon of autumn's glow, When a soft and purple mist, Like a vaporous amethyst. Or an air-dissolv6d star. Mingling light and fragrance, far From the curved horizon's bound To the point of heaven's profound, Fills the overflowing sky ; And the plains that silent lie Underneath ; the leaves unsodden Where the infant frost has trodden With his morning-winged feet, Whose bright print is gleaming yet ; And the red and golden vines. Piercing with their trellised lines The rough, dark-skirted wilderness ; The dun and bladed grass no less. Pointing from this hoary tower In the windless air ; the flower Glimmering at my feet ; the line Of the olive-sandalled Apennine In the south dimly islanded ; And the Alps, whose snows are spread High between the clouds and sun ; And of living things each one ; And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift dream of song — Interpenetrated lie By the glory Qf the sky ; Be it love, light, harmony, Odor, or the soul of all Which from heaven like dew doth fall. Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe. Noon descends, and after noon Autumn's evening meets me soon, Leading the infantine moon And that one star, which to her Almost seems to minister Half the crimson light she brings From the sunset's radiant springs ; And the soft dreams of the morn (Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being) Pass, to other suflferers fleeing, And its ancient pilot, pain, Sits beside the helm again. Other flowering isles must be In the sea of life and agony ; Other spirits float and flee O'er that gulf; even now, perhaps. On some rock the wild wave wraps. 166 CROWN JEWELS. With folding winds they waiting sit For my bark, to pilot it To some calm and blooming cove. Where for me, and those I love, May a windless bower be built. Far from passion, pain, and guilt. In a dell mid lawny hills, Which the wild sea-murmur fills, And soft sunshine, and the sound Of old forests echoing round. And the light and smell divine Of all flowers that breathe and shine. — We may live so happy there, That the spirits of the air, Envying us, may even entice To our healing paradise The polluting multitude ; But their rage would be subdued By that clime divine and calm, And the winds whose wings rain balm On the uplifted soul, and leaves Under which the bright sea heaves ; While each breathless interval In their whisperings musical The inspired soul suppUes With its own deep melodies ; And the love which heals all strife. Circling, like the breath of life. All things in that sweet abode W^ith its own mild brotherhood. They, not it, would change ; and soon Every sprite beneath the moon Would repent its envy vain, And the earth grow young again I Percy Bysshk Shelley. THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. ,AY, 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 tliat 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. 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 natiu"e's own great God adore. Charles Sprague. WINTER ! WILT THOU NEVER GO? WINTER ! wilt thou never, never go ? O summer! but I weary for thy coming. Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow, And frugal bees laboriously humming. Now the east-wind diseases the infirm. And must crouch in comers from rough weather ; Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm — When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together. And the large sun dips red behind the hills. I, from my window, can behold this pleasure ; And the eternal moon, what time she fills Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure. With queenly motions of a bridal mood. Through the white spaces of infinitude. David Gray. THE HEATH-COCK. , OOD morrow to thy sable beak And glossy plumage dark and sleek. Thy crimson moon and azure eye. Cock of the heath, so wildly shy : I see thee slyly cowering through That wiry web of silvery dew. That twinkles in the morning air. Like casements of my lady fair. A maid there is in yonder tower, Who, p>eeping from her early bower. Half shows, like thee, her simple wile. Her braided hair and morning smile. The rarest things, with wayward will. Beneath the covert hide them still ; The rarest things to break of day Look shortly forth, and slirink away. BEAUTIES OF NATURE. 167 A fleeting moment of delight I sunned me in her cheering sight ; As short, I ween, the time will be That I shall parley hold with thee. Through Snowdon's mist red beams the day, The climbing herd-boy chants his lay, The gnat-flies dance their sunny ring — Thou art already on the wing. Joanna Baillie. MOONLIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE. FROM " EVANGELINE." |EAUTIFUL was the night. Behind the black wall of the forest, Tipping its summit with silver, arose the moon. On the river Fell here and there through the branches a tremulous gleam of the moonlight. Like the sweet thoughts of love on a darkened and de- vious spirit. Nearer and round about her, the manifold flowers of the garden Poured out their souls in odors, that were their prayers and confessions Unto the night, as it went its way, like a silent Carthu- sian. Fuller of fragrance than they, and as heavy with shad- ows and night-dews, Hung the heart of the maiden. The calm and the magical moonlight Seemed to inundate her soul with indefinable longings, As, through the garden gate, and beneath the shade of the oak-trees, Passed she along the path to the edge of the measure- less prairie. Silent it lay, with a silvery haze upon it, and fire-flies Gleaming and floating away in mingled and infinite numbers. Over her head the stars, the thoughts of God in the heavens, Shone on the eyes of man, who had ceased to marvel and worship. Save when a blazing comet was seen on the walls of that temple, As if a hand had appeared and written upon them, "Upharsin." And the soul of the maiden, between the stars and the fire-flies, Wandered alone, and she cried, " O Gabriel ! O my beloved ! Art thou so near unto me, and yet I cannot behold thee? Art thou so near unto me, and yet thy voice does not reach me ? Ah ! how often thy feet have trod this path to the prai- rie ! Ah ! how often thine eyes have looked on the wood- lands around me ! Ah ! how often beneath this oak, returning from labor, Thou hast lain down to rest, and to dream of me in thy slumbers. When shall these eyes behold, these arms be folded about thee?" Loud and sudden and near the note of a whip-poor- will sounded Like a flute in the woods ; and anon, tlirough the neighboring thickets, Farther and farther away it floated and dropped into silence. "Patience!" whispered the oaks from oracular cav- erns of darkness ; And, from the moonlit meadow, a sigh responded, "To-morrow ! " Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. GOD EVERYWHERE IN NATURE. 'OW desolate were nature, and how void Of every charm, how like a naked waste Of Africa, were not a present God Beheld employing, in its various scenes, His active might to animate and adorn ! What life and beauty, when, in all that breathes, Or moves, or grows, his hand is viewed at work? When it is viewed unfolding every bud, Each blossom tingeing, shaping every leaf, Wafting each cloud that passes o'er the sky. Rolling each billow, moving every wing That fans the air, and every warbling throat Heard in the tuneful woodlands ! In the least As well as in the greatest of his works Is ever manifest his presence kind ; As well in swarms of glittering insects, seen Quick to and fro within a foot of air, Dancing a merry hour, then seen no more. As in the systems of resplendent worlds, Through time revolving in unbounded space. His eye, while comprehending in one view The whole creation fixes full on me ; As on me shines the sun with his full blaze, While o'er the hemisphere he spreads the same. His hand, while holding oceans in its palm, And compassing the skies, surrounds my life. Guards the poor rushlight from the blast of death. Carlos Wilcox. HEROISM AND IDYENTURE. THE PILOT. OHN MAYNARD was well known in the Lake district as a God fearing, honest, and intelligent man. He was pilot on a steam-boat from De- troit to Buffalo. One summer after- noon — at that time those steamers seldom carried boats — smoke was seen ascending from below ; and the captain called out, "Simpson, go below and see what the matter is down there." Simpson came up with his face as pale as ashes, and said, " Captain, the ship is on fire !" Then "Fire ! fire ! fire !" on shipboard. All hands were called up ; buckets of water were dashed on the fire, but in vain. There were large quantities of rosin and tar on board, and it was found useless to attempt to save the ship. The passengers rushed forward and inquired of the pilot, " How far are we from Buffalo ?" "Seven miles." " How long before we can reach there?" " Three quarters of an hour at our present rate of steam." " Is there any danger ?" " Danger I Here, see the smoke bursting out ! — go forward, if you would save your lives !" Passengers and crew — men, women, and children — crowded the forward part of the ship. John Maynard stood at the helm. The flames burst forth in a sheet of fire ; clouds of smoke arose. The captain cried out through his trumpet, "John Maynard !" "Ay, ay, sir !" " Are you at the helm ?" "Ay, ay, sir!" " How does she head ?" " South-east by east, sir." " Head her south-east, and run her on shore," said the captain. Nearer, nearer, yet nearer, she ap- proached the shore. Again the captain cried out, "John Maynard I" The response came feebly this time, " Ay, ay, sir !" "Can^ou hold on five minutes longer, John?" he said. " By God's help, I will !" The old man's hair was scorched from the scalp ; one hand was disabled ; — his knee upon the stanchion, his teeth set, his other hand upon the wheel, he stood firm as a rock. He beached the ship ; every man, woman and child was saved, as John Maynard dropped, and his spirit took its flight to God. John B. Gough. LOST IN THE SNOW. HE cold winds swept the mountain's height, And pathless was the dreary wild. And, 'mid the cheerless houps of night, y A mother wandered with her child. As through the drifted snows she pressed, The babe was sleeping on her breast. And colder still the winds did blow. And darker hours of night came on, And deeper grew the drifts of snow — Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone- " O God, she cried, in accents wild, " If I must perish, save my child ! " She stripped her mantle from her breast, And bared her bosom to the storm, And round the child she wrapped the vest. And smiled to think her babe was warm. With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, And sunk upon a snowy bed. At dawn, a traveler passed by : She lay beneath a snowy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye ; Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale — He moved the robe from off the child ; The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled. JOHN MAYNARD. WAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse, One bright midsummer day. The gallant steamer Ocean Queen "^ Swept proudly on her way. Bright faces clustered on the deck, Or leaning o'er the side. Watched carelessly the feathery foam, That flecked the rippling tide. Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky, That smiling bends serene, Could dream that danger, awful, vast. Impended o'er the scene — Could dream that ere an hour had sped. That frame of sturdy oak Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves. Blackened with fire and smoke ? A seaman sought the captain's side, A moment whispered low ; The captain's swarthy face grew pale. He hurried down below. Alas, too late 1 Though quick and sharp And clear his orders came, No human efforts could avail To quench the insidious flame. (108) !E@ ME' jy LD [£T HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 169 The bad news quickly reached the deck, It sped from lip to lip, And ghastly faces everywhere Looked from the doomed ship. " Is there no hope — no chance of life ? " A hundred lips implore ; " But one," the captain made reply, " To run the ship On shore." A sailor, whose heroic soul That hour should yet reveal — By name John Maynard, eastern bom — Stood calmly at the wheel. " Head her south-east ! " the captain shouts, Above the smothered roar, " Head her south-east without delay ! Make for the nearest shore ! " No terror pales the helmsman's cheek, Or clouds his dauntless eye, As in a sailor's measured tone His voice responds, " Ay, Ay ! " Three hundred souls — the steamer's freight — Crowd forward wild with faar, > While at the stem the dreadful flames Above the deck appear. John Maynard watched the nearing flames, But still, with steady hand He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly He steered the ship to land. "John Maynard," with an anxious voice. The captain cries once more, " Stand by the wheel five minutes yet. And we will reach the shore." Through flames and smoke that dauntless heart Responded firmly, still Unawed, though face to face with death, " With God's good help I will ! " The flames approach' with giant strides. They scorch his hands and brow ; One arm disabled seeks his side, Ah, he is conquered now ! But no, his teeth are finnly set, He crushes down tlie pain — His knee upon the stanchion pressed. He guides the ship again. One moment yet ! one moment yet ! Brave heart, thy task is o'er ! The pebbles grate beneath the keel, The steamer touches shore. Three hundred grateful voices rise. In praise to God, that He Hath saved them from the fearful fire, And from the ingulfing sea. But where is he, that helmsman bold ? The captain saw him reel — His nerveless hands released their task. He sunk beside the wheel. The wave received his lifeless corpse. Blackened with smoke and fire. God rest him 1 Hero never had A nobler funeral pyre ! Horatio Alger. Jr. THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. ' OHN GILPIN was a citizen Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, " Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. " To-morrow is our wedding-day. And we will then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair. " My sister, and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise ; so you must ride On horseback after we." He soon replied, " I do admire Of womankind but one. And you are she, my dearest dear ; Therefore it shall be done. " I am a linen-draper bold. As all the world doth know. And my good friend the calender Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, " That's well said ; And for that wine is dear, » We will be furnished with our own. Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; O'eijoyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought, But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed, Where they did all get in ; Six precious souls, and all agog To dash tlirough thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels, Were never folk so glad ; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. 170 CROWN JEWELS. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride. But soon came down again ; For saddle-tree scarce reached had he. His journey to begin, When, turning lound his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came ; for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came down stairs, " The wine is left behind ! " " Good lack ! " quoth he—" yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise. In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise." Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) Had two stone bottles found. To hold the liquor that sho loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed. Full slowly pacing o'er the stones With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet. The snorting beast began to trot. Which galled him in his seat. So fair and softly, John he cried, But John he cried in vain ; That trot became a gallop soon. In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must Who cannot sit upright. He grasped the mane with both his hands. And eke with all his might. His horse, which never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought ; Away went hat and wig ; He little dreamt when he set out Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly. Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both. At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern i The bottles he had slung ; A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all ; And every soul cried out, " Well done ! " As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin — who but he? His fame soon spread around ; He carries weijjht ! he rides a race 1 'Tis for a thousand pound ! And still, as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. n And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behmd his back Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road. Most piteous to be seen. Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight. With leathern girdle braced : For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols he did play. Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay. And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way. Just like unto a trundling mop. Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. " Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's the hcuse' They all aloud did cry ; "The dinner waits, and we are tired :" Said Gilpin— " So am I ! " HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 171 But yet his horse was not a whit Inclined to tarry there ; For why ? his owner had a house Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew, Shot by an archer strong ; So did he fly — which brings me to The middle of my song, Away went Gilpin out of breath. And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender's His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such tiim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him : " What news ? what news ? your tidings tell — Tell me you must and shall — Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all ?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke ; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke : " I came because your horse would come ; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here — They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word. But to the house went in. Whence straight he came with hat and wig ; A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear, Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit, " My head is twice as big as yours. They therefore needs must fit. " But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face ; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, " It is my wedding day. And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine ; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine." Ah, luckless speech and bootless boast. For which he paid full dear ; For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear. Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar. And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig : He lost them sooner than at first ; For why ? — they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down, Into the country far away, She pulled out half a-crown ; And thus unto the youth she said. That drove them to the Bell, " This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back again ! Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein ; But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more. And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away, Went post-boy at his heels. The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road Thus seeing Gilpin fly. With post-boy scampering in the rear, . They raised the hue and cry : — ' Stop thief! stop thief ! a highwayman !" Not one of them was mute ; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space ; The tollmen thinking as before That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town ; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, " Long live the king. And Gilpin, long live he ; And, when he next doth ride abroad. May I be there to see !" William Cowpkr. 172 CROWN JEWELS. FALL OF TECUMSEH. 'HAT heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam, To the war-blast indignantly tramping ? Their mouths are all white, as if froste^ with foam, The steel-bit impatiently champing, 'T is the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein, Conducting the free and the fearless. Ah ! see them rush forward, with wild disdain. Through paths unfrequented and cheerless. From the mountains had echoed the charge of death, Announcing the chivalrous sally ; The savage was heard, with untrembling breath, To pour his response to the valley. One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard. And nought but the war-whoop given ; The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred, As if by the lightning riven. The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke, The blood-stifled gasp of the c'ying, Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke, That upward went wildly flying. In the mist that hung over the field of blood, The chief of the horsemen contended ; His rowels were bathed in the purple flood, That fast from his charger descended. That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight, But the rider repressed not his daring, Till met by a savage, whose rank and might Were shown by the plume he was wearing. The moment was fearful ; a mightier foe Had ne'er swung a battle-axe o'er him ; But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow, And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him. O ne'er may the nations again be cursed With conflict so dark and appalling ! — Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst From their agonized bosqms in falling. Gloom, silence, and solitude, rest on the spot Where the hopes of the red man perished ; But the fame of the hero who fell shall not. By the virtuous, cease to be cherished. He fought, in defence of his kindred and king, With a spirit most loving and loyal ; And long shall the Indian warrior sing The deeds of Tecumseh, the royal. The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye, In his arm slept the force of the thunder, But the bolt passed the sjippliant harmlessly by. And left the freed captive to wonder. Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps, With a rudely-built tumulous o'er him ; And the bright-blossomed Thames, in its majesty, sweeps By the mound where his followers bore him. n THE ENGINEER'S STORY. O, children, my trips are over, The engineer needs rest ; My hand is shaky ; I'm feeling A tugging pain i' my breast ; But here, as the twilight gathers, I'll, tell you a tale of the road. That'll ring in my head forever. Till it rests beneath the sod. We were lumbering along in the twilight. The night was dropping her shade, And the "Gladiator" labored- Climbing the top of the grade ; The train was heavily laden. So I let my engine rest. Climbing the grading slowly, Till we reached the upland's crest. I held my watch to the lamplight — Ten minutes behind the time ! Lost in the slackened motion Of the up-grade's heavy climb ; But I knew the miles of the prairie That stretched a level track, So I touched the gauge of the boiler, And pulled the lever back. Over the rails a-gleaming, Thirty an hour, or so. The engine leaped like a demon, Breathing a fiery glow ; But to me — ahold of the lever — It seemed a child alway. Trustful and always ready My lightest touch to obey. I was proud, you know, of my engine, Holding it steady that night. And my eye on the track before us, Ablaze with the Drummond light We neared a well-known cabin. Where a cliild of three or four, As the up train passed, oft called me, A playing around the door. My hand was firm on the throttle As we swept around the curve, When something afar in the shadow, Struck fire through every nerve. I sounded the brakes, and crashing The reverse lever down in dismay, Groaning to Heaven — eighty paces Ahead was the child at its play ! HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 173 One instant— one, awful and only, The world flew round in my brain, And I smote my hand hard on my forehead To keep back the terrible pain ; The train I thought flying forever, With mad irresistible roll, While the cries of the dying, the night wind Swept into my shuddering soul. Then I stood on the front of the engine- How I got there I never could tell — My feet planted down on the crossbar, Where the cow-catcher slopes to the rail, One hand firmly locked on the coupler. And one held out in the night, While my eve gauged the distance, and measured The speed of our slackening flight. My mind, thank the Lord ! it was steady ; I saw the curls of her hair. And the face that, turning in wonder. Was lit by the deadly glare. I know little more— but I heard it — The groan of the anguished wheels. And remember thinking — the engine In agony trembles and reels. One ro^!.-$'o the day of my dying I shall think t'^e old engine reared back. And as it recoiled, with a shudder I swept my hand over the track ; Then darkness fell over my eyelids, But I heard the surge of the train, And the poor old engine creaking, As racked by a deadly pain. They found us, they said, on the gravel, My fingers enmeshed in her hair, And she on my bosom a-climbing. To nestle securely there. We are not much given to crying — We men that run on the road— But that night, they said, there were faces. With tears on them, lifted to God. ' For years in the eve and the morning As I neared the cabin again. My hand on the lever pressed downward And slackened the speed of the train. When my engine had blown her a greeting, She always would come to the door ; And her look with a fullness of heaven Blesses me evermore. THE MAIN TRUCK, OR A LEAP FOR LIFE. LD Ironsides at anchor lay, In the harbor of Mahon ; A dead calm rested on the bay — The waves to sleep had gone ; When little Hal, the captain's son, A lad both brave and good, In sport, up shroud and rigging ran, And on the main tioick stood ! A shudder shot through every vein-- All eyes were turned on high ! There stood the boy, with dizzy brain. Between the sea and sky ; No hold had he above, below ; Alone he stood in air : To that far height none dared to go — No aid could reach him there. We gazed, but nox a man could speak, With horror all ^ghast — In groups, with pallid brow and cheek, We watched the quivering mast. The atmosphere grew thick and hot, And of a lurid hue ; — As riveted unto the spot, Stood officers and crew. The father came on deck : — he gasped, " Oh, God ; thy will be done ! " Then suddenly a rifle grasped, And aimed it at his son. " Jump, far out, boy, into the wave ! Jump, or I fire," he said ; " That only chance your life can save ; Jump, jump, boy ! " He obeyed. He sunk — he rose — he lived — he moved — And for the ship struck out. On board we hailed the lad beloved. With many a manly shout. His father drew, in silent joy, Those wet arms round his neck. And folded to his heart his boy — Then fainted on the deck. C. C. COLTON. U llJ' THE FATE OF VIRGINIA. H Y is the Forum crowded ? What means this stir in Rome? " "Claimed as a slave, a free-born maid is dragged here from her home. On fair Virginia, Claudius has cast his eye of blight ; The tyrant's creature, Marcus, asserts an owner's right, Oh, shame on Roman manhood ! Was ever plot more clear? But look ! the maiden's father comes ! Behold Vir- ginius here ! " Straightway Virginius led the maid a little space aside. To where the reeking shambles stood, piled up with horn and hide. Hard by, a butcher on a block had laid his whittle down — Virginius caught the whittle up, and hid it in his gown. 174 CROWN JEWELS. And then his eyes grew very dim, and liis throat began *to swell, And in a hoarse, changed voice he spake, " Farewell, sweet child, farewell ! The house that was the happiest within the Roman walls — The house that envied not the wealth of Capua's mar- ble halls, Now, for the brightness of thy smile, must have eternal gloom. And for the music of thy voice, the silence of the tomb. "The time is come. The tyrant points his eager hand this way ; See how his eyes gloat on thy grief, like a kite's upon tlie prey ; With all his wit he little deems that, spurned, be- trayed, bereft, Thy father hath, in his despair, one fearful refuge left ; He little deems that in this hand, I clutch what .still can save Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave ; Yea, and from nameless evil, that passeth taunt and blow — Foul outrage, which thou knowest not — which thou shalt never know. Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss ; And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this ! " With that, he lifted high the steel, and smote her in the side. And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died. Then, for a little moment, all people held their breath ; And through the crowded Forum was stillness as of death ; And in another moment break forth from one and all A cry as if the Volscians were coming o'er the wall ; Till, with white lips and bloodshot eyes, Virginius tot- tered nigh, And stood before the judgment seat, and held the knife on high : " O dwellers in the nether gloom, avengers of the slain. By this dear blood I cry to you, do right between us twain ; And e'en as Appius Claudius hath dealt by me and mine, Deal you by Appius Claudius and all the Claudian line ! " So spake the slayer of his child, and turned, and went his way ; But first he cast one haggard glance to where the body * lay, And writiied, and groaned a fearful gro;in, and then, with steadfast feet. Strode right across the market-place unto the Sacred street. Then up sprang Appius Claudius : " .Stop him, alive or dead ! Ten thousand pounds of copper to tlie man who brings his head ! " He looked upon his clients — but none would work his will ; He looked upon his lictors — but thyy trembled a:id stood still. And as Virginius through the press his way in silence cleft, Ever the mighty multitude fell back to right and left ; And he hath passed in safety unto his woful home. And there taken horse to tell the camp what deeds are done in Rome. Lord Macaulav. GOFFE, THE REGICIDE. N the course of Philip's war, which involved al- most all the Indian tribes in New England, and among others those in the neighborhood of Hadley, the inhabitants thought it proper to ob- serve the ist of September, 1675, as a day of fasting and prayer. While they were in the church, and employed in their worship, they were surprised by a band of savages. The people instantly betook tht m selves to their arms, — which, according to the custom of the times, they had carried with them to the churcli, — and, rushing out of the house, attacked their in- vaders. The panic under which they began the con flict was, however, so great, and their number was so disproportioned to that of their enemies, that they fought doubtfully at first, and in a short time began evidently to give way. At this moment an ancient man, with hoary locks, of a most venerable and dig- nified aspect, and in a dress widely differing from that of the inhabitants, appeared suddenly at their head, and with a firm voice and an example of un- daunted resolution, reanimated their spirits, led them again to the conflict, and totally routed the savages. When the battle was ended, the stranger disappeared ; and no person knew whence he had come, or whither he had gone. The relief was so timely, so sudden, so unexpected, and so providential ; the appearance and the retreat of him who furnished it were so unac- countable ; his person was so dignified and com- manding, his resolution so superior, and his inter- ferance so decisive, that the inhabitants, without any uncommon exercise of credulity, readily believed him to be an angel sent by Heaven for their preservation. Nor was this opinion seriously controverted until it was discovered, several years afterward, that Goffe and Whalley had been lodged in the house of Mr. Russell. Then it was known that their deliverer was Goffe, Whalley having become superannuated some time before the event took place. Timothy Dwigiit. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 175 JOHNNY BARTHOLOMEW. 'HE journals this morning are full of a tale Of a terrible ride through a tunnel by rail ; And people are called on to note and ad- mire How a hundred or more, through the smoke-c^oud and fire, Were borne from all peril to limbs and to lives — Mothers saved to their children, and husbands to wives, But of him who performed such a notable deed Quite little the journalist gives us to read. In truth, of this hero so plucky and bold, There is nothing except, in few syllables told, His name, which is Johnny Bartholomew. Away in Nevada — they don't tell us where. Nor does it much matter — a railway is there, Which winds in and out through the cloven ravines. With glimpses at times of the wildest of scenes — Now passing a bridge seeming fine as a thread. Now shooting past cliffs that impend o'er the head, Now plunging some black-throated tunnel within, Whose darkness is roused at the clatter and din ; And ran every day with its train o'er the road. An engine that steadily dragged on its load, And was driven by Johnny Bartholomew. With throttle-valve down, he was slowing the train. While the sparks fell around and behind him like rain. As he came to a spot where a curve to the right Brought the black, yawning mouth of a tunnel in sight, And peering ahead with a far-seeing ken, Felt a quick sense of danger come over him then. Was a train on the track ? No I A peril as dire — The further extreme of the tunnel on fire I And the volume of smoke as it gathered and rolled, Shook fearful dismay from each dun-colored fold, But daunted not Johnny Bartholomew. Beat faster his heart, though its current stood still. And his nerves felt a jar but no tremulous thrill ; And his eyes keenly gleamed through their partly closed lashes, And his lips— not with fear— took the color of ashes. " If we falter, these people behind us are dead ! So close the doors, fireman— we'll send her ahead ! Crowd on the steam till she rattles and swings ! Open the throttle-valve ! Give her her wings !" Shouted he from his post in the engineer's room. Driving onward perchance to a terrible doom. This man they call Johnny Bartholomew. Firm grasping the bell-rope and holding his breath, On, on through the Vale of the Shadow of Death, On, on through that horrible cavern of hell, Through flames that arose and through timbers that fell. Through the eddying smoke and the serpents of fire That writhed and that hissed in their anguish'and ire. With a rush and a roar like a wild tempest's blast. To the free air beyond them in safety they passed ! While the clang of the bell and the steam pipe's shrill yell, Told the joy at escape from that underground hell, Of the man they called Johnny Bartholomew. Did the passengers get up a service of plate ? Did some oily-tongued orator at the man prate ? Women kiss him ? Young children cling fast to his knees ? Stout men in their rapture his brown fingers squeeze ? And where was he born ? Is he handsome ? Has he A wife for his bosom, a child for his knee ? Is he young ? Is he old ? Is he tall ? Is he short ? Well, ladies, the journals tell naught of the sort. And all that they give us about him today, After telling the tale in a commonplace way. Is — the man's name is Johnny Bartholomew. Thomas Dunn English. THE FRENCH ARMY RETREATING FROM MOSCOW. m AGNIFICENCE of ruin ! what has time In all it ever gazed upon of war, ■^JL-^ Of the wild rage of storm, or deadly clime, Seen, with that battle's vengeance to com- pare? How glorious shone the invader's pomp afar ! Like pampered lions from the spoil they came ; The land before them silence and despair, The land behind them massacre and flame ; Blood will have tenfold blood. What are they now ? A name. Homeward by hundred thousands, column-deep, Broad square, loose squadron, rolling like the flood. When mighty torrents from their channels leap. Rushed through the land the haughty multitude, Billow on endless billow ; on througli wood. O'er rugged hill, down sunless, marshy vale. The death-devoted moved, to clangor rude Of drum and horn, and dissonant clash of mail. Glancing disastrous light before that sunbeam pale. Again they reached thee, Borodino ! still Upon the loaded soil the carnage lay. The human harvest, now stark, stiff, and chill, Friend, foe, stretched thick together, clay to clay ; In vain the startled legions burst away ; The land was all one naked sepulchre ; The shrinking eye still glanced on grim decay, , Still did the hoof and wheel their passage tear, Through cloven helms and arms, and corpses mould ering drear. George Crolv. 176 CROWN JEWELS. JIM BLUDSO. 'ALL, no ! I can't tell where he lives, Because he don't live, you see : Leastways, he's got out of the habit Of livin' like you and me. Whar have you been for the last three years That you haven't heard folks tell How Jimmy Bludso passed in his checks, The night of the " Prairie Belle? " He warn't no saint — them engineers Is all pretty much alike — One wife of Natchez-under the-Hill, And another one here, in Pike. A careless man in his talk was Jim, And an awkward man in a row — But he never pinked, and he never lied, I reckon he never knowed how. And this was all the religion he had — To treat his engine well ; Never be passed on the rivtr ; To mind the pilot's bell ; And if ever the " Prairie Bell " took fire, A thousand times he swore He'd hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last soul got ashore. All boats has their day on the Mississip', And her day came at last — The "Movastar" was a better boat, But the " Belle," she wouldn't be passed, And so came tarin' along that night, The oldest craft on the line. With a nigger squat on her safety-valve. And her furnaces crammed, rosin and pine. The fire bust out as she cleared the bar, And burnt a hole in the night. And quick as a flash she turned, and made For that willer-bank on the right. There was runnin' and cursin', but Jim yelled out Over all the infernal roar, "I'll hold her nozzle agin the bank Till the last galoot's ashore ! " Thro' the hot, black breath of the burning boat Jim Bludso's voice was heard. And they all had trust in his cussedness, And knowed he would keep his word. And sure's you're born, they all got off Afore the smoke-stacks fell. And Bludso's ghost went up alone In the smoke of the " Prairie Belle." He warn't no saint — but at judgment I'd run my chance with Jim 'Longside of some pious gentlemen That wouldn't shook hands with him. He'd seen his duty a dead sure thing, And went for it thar and then ; And Christ ain't a-going to be too hard On a man that died for men. John Kay. RAMON. RUNK and senseless in his place, Prone and sprawling on his face More like brute than any man Alive or dead — By his great pump out of gear. Lay the peon engineer. Waking only just to hear. Overhead, Angry tones that called his name, Oaths and cries of bitter blame — Woke to hear all this, and waking, turned and fled ! "To the man who'll bring to me," Cried Intendant Harry Lee — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine — " Bring the sot alive or dead, I will give to him," he said, " Fifteen hundred /^.yo^y down. Just to set the rascal's crown Underneath this heel of mine : Since but death Deserves the man whose deed, Be it vice or want of heed. Stops the pumps that give us breath — Stops the pumps that suck the death From the poisoned lower levels of the mine !" No one answered, for a cry From the shaft rose up on high ; And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below Came the miners each, the bolder Mounting on the weaker's shoulder, Grappling, clinging to their hold or Letting go. As the weaker gasped and fell From the ladder to the well — To the poisoned pit of hell Down below ! " To the man who sets them free," Cried the foreman, Harry Lee — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine — " Brings them out and sets them free, I will give that man," said he, " Twice that sum, who with a rope Face to face with death shall cope. Let him come who dares to hope ! " " Hold your peace ! " some one replied. Standing by the foreman's side ; "There has one already gone, whoe'er he be !" Then they held their breath with awe, Pulling on the rope, and saw HEROISM AND ADVENTURii, 177 Fainting figures re-appear, On the black rope swinging clear, Fastened by some skilful hand from below ; Till a score the level gained, And but one alone remained — He the hero and the last. He whose skilful hand made fast The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer ! Haggard, gasping, down dropped he At the feet of Harry Lee — Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine ; " I have come, " he gasped, " to claim Both rewards. SeSor, my name Is Ramon ! I'm the drunken engineer — I'm the coward, Sefior— " Here He fell over, by that sign Dead as stone ! Bret Harte. DEATH OF GAUDENTIS. The following inscription was found in the Catacombs upon the tomb of the Architect of the Coliseum : Thus thou keepest thy promises, O Vespasian I the rewarding with death of him, the crown of thy glory in Rome. Do rejoice, O Gaudentisl the cruel tyrant promised much, but Christ gave thee all, who prepared thee such a mansion. |EFORE Vespasian's regal throne Skilful Gaudentis stood ; " Build me," the haughty monarch cried, " A theatre for blood. I know thou'rt skilled in mason's work, Thine is the power to frame Rome's Coliseum vast and wide, An honor to thy name. "Over seven acres spread thy work, And by the gods of Rome, Thou shalt hereafter by my side Have thy resplendent home. A citizen of Roman rights. Sliver and golden store. These shall be thine ; let Christian blood But stain the marble floor." So rose the Amphitheatre, Tower and arch and tier ; There dawned a day when martyrs stood Within that ring of fear. But strong their quenchless trust in God, And strong their human love, Their eyes of faith, undimmed, were fixed On temples far above. And thousands grazed, in brutal joy. To watch those Christians die — • But one beside Vespasian leaned, With a strange light in his eye. (12) What thoughts welled up within his breast, As on that group he gazed. What gleams of holy light from heaven. Upon his dark soul blazed ! Had he by password gained access To the dark Catacomb, And learned the hope of Christ's beloved, Beyond the rack, the tomb ? The proud Vespasian o'er him bends, " My priceless architect. To-day I will announce to all Thy privilege elect — A free-made citizen of Rome." Calmly Gaudentis rose. And folding, o'er his breast, his arms. Turned to the Saviour's foes ; And in a strength not all his own, With life and death in view. The fearless architect exclaimed, "I am a Christian too." Only a few brief moments passed. And brave Gaudentis lay Within the Amphitheatre, A lifeless mass of clay. Vespasian promised him the rights Of proud Imperial Rome ; But Christ with martyrs crowned him king. Beneath heaven's cloudless dome. THE BATTLE OF IVRY. OW glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are 1 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre ! t Now let there be the merry sound of music and the dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vales, O I pleasant land of France ! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 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 are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah ! hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war. Hurrah ! hurrah ! for Ivry and King Henry of Na- varre! Oh, how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn oJ day. We saw the army of the League drawn out in long ar- ray ; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears! 178 CROWN jp:wels. There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land ! And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand ; And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's em- purpled flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood ; And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war, To fight for his own holy name, and Henry of Navarre. The King has come to marshal us, in all his armor drest, And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gal- lant crest. He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye ; He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously, he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, in deafening shout, " God save our lord, the King ! " "And if my standard-bearer fall— as fall full well he may. For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray — Press where ye see my white plume .shine, amid the ranks of war. And be your oriflamme, to-day, the helmet of Na- varre." Hurrah ! the foes are moving ! Hark to the mingled din Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin ! The fiery Duke is pricking fast across St Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivairy of Guelders and Al- mayne. Now, by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies now — upon them with the lance ! A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow- white crest. And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Na- varre. Now, God be praised, the day is ours ! Mayenne hath turned his rein, D'Aumale hath cried for quarter — the Flemish Count is slain ; Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Bis- cay gale ; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. And then we thought on vengence, and all along our van, " Remember St. Bartholomew ! " was passed from man to man ; But out spake gentle Henry, then—" No Frenchman is my foe ; Down, down with everj' foreigner ! but let your breth- ren go." Oh, was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Na- varre ? 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 spearmens' souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look thet your arms be bright ! Ho ! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night ; For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise and the valor of the brave. Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are ! And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Na- varre ! Lord Macaulay. ©' THE DRAW-BRIDGE KEEPER. History and poetry celebrate no sublimer act of devotion than that of Albert G. Drecker, the watchman of the Passaic Rivev draw-bridge, on the New York and Newark Railroad. The train was due, and he was closing the draw when his little child fell into the deep water. It would have been easy enough to rescue him, if the father could have taken the time, but already the thundering train was at hand. It was a cruel agony. His child could be saved only at the cost of other lives com'ritted to his care. The brave man did his duty, but the child was drowned. The pass at Thermopylae was not more heroically kept. RECKER, the draw-bridge keeper opened wide The dangerous gate to let the vessel through ; His little son was standing by his side. Above Passaic river, deep and blue ; While in the distance, like a moan of pain. Was heard the whistle of the coming train. At once brave Drecker worked to swing it back — The gate-like bridge, that seems a gate of death ; Nearer and nearer, on the slender track, Came the swift engine, puffing its white breath. Then, with a shriek, the loving father saw His darling boy fall headlong from the draw. Either at once down in the stream to spring And save his son, and let the living freight HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 179 Rush on to death, or to his work to cling, And leave his boy unhelped to meet his fate ; Which should he do ? Were you, as he was tried, Would not your love outweight all else beside? And yet the child to him was full as dear As yours may be to you — the light of eyes, A presence like a brighter atmosphere, The household star that shone in love's mildskies- Yet side by side with duty, stern and grim, Even his child became as nought to him. For Drecker, being great of soul, and true, Held to his work, and did not aid his boy. Who in the deep, dark water sank from view. Then from the father's life went forth all joy ; Tut, as he fell back, pallid with his pain. Across the bridge, in safety, passed the train. And yet the man was poor, and in his breast Flowed no ancestral blood of king or lord ; True greatness needs no title and no crest To win from men just honor and reward ; Nobility is not of rank, but mind — And ii inborn, and common in our kind. He is most noble whose humanity Is least corrupted. To be just and good The birthright of the lowest born may be ; Say what we can, we are one brotherhood, And rich, or poor, or famous or unknown. True hearts are noble, and true hearts alone. Henry Abbe v. ON BOARD THE CUMBERLAND, MARCH, 7, 1862. U 'TAND to your guns, men ! " Morris cried ; Small need to pass the word ; Our men at quarters ranged themselves Before the drum was heard. And then began the sailors' jests : " What thing is that, I say? " "A 'long-shore meeting-house adrift A standing down the bay ? " " So shot your guns and point them straight ; Before this day goes by, W^e'U try of what her metal's made." A cheer was our reply. " Remember, boys, this flag of ours Has seldom left its place ; And where it falls, the deck it strikes Is covered with disgrace. " I ask but this ; or sink or swim, Or live or nobly die, My last sight upon earth may be To see that ensign fly ! " Meanwhile the shapeless iron mass Came moving o'er the wave. As gloomy as a passing hearse, As silent as the grave. Her ports were closed ; from stem to stern No sign of life appeared : We wondered, questioned, strained our eyes, Joked — every thing, but feared. She reached our range. Our broadside rang ; Our heavy pivots roared ; And shot and shell, a fire of hell. Against her side we poured. Gods mercy ! from her sloping roof The iron tempest glanced, As hail bounds from a cottage-thatch, And round her leaped and danced ; Or when against her dusky hull We struck a fair, full blow. The mighty, solid iron globes Were crumbled up like snow. On, on, with fast increasing speed. The silent monster came. Though all our starboard battery Was one long line of flame. She heeded not ; no guns she fired ; Straight on our bows she bore ; Through riving plank and crashing frame Her furious way she tore. Alas ! our beautiful, keen bow. That in the fiercest blast So gently folded back the seas, They hardly felt we passed. Alas ! alas ! my Cumberland, That ne'er knew grief before, To be so gored, to feel so deep The tusk of that sea-boar ! Once more she backward d^-ew apace ; Once more our side she re it. Then, in the wantonness C)f hate. Her broadside through us sent. The dead and dying round us lay, But our foemen lay abeam ; Her open port-holes maddened us, We fired with shout and scream. We felt our vessel settling fast ; We knew our time was brief: " Ho ! man the pumps ! " But they who worked And fought not, wept witli grief. 180 CROWN JEWELS. From captain down to powder-boy, No hand was idle then : Two soldiers, but by chance aboard, Fought on like sailor men. And when a gun's crew lost a hand, Some bold marine stepped out, And jerked his braided jacket off. And hauled the gun about Our forward magazine was drowned, And up from the sick-bay Crawled out the wounded, red with biqod. And round us gasping lay ; — Yes, cheering, cal'ing us by name, Struggling with failing breath To keep their shipmates at the post Where glory strove with death. With decks afloat and powder gone, The last broadside we gave From the guns' heated iron lips Burst out beneath the wave. So sponges, rammers, and handspikes — As men-of-war's men should — We placed within their proper racks. And at our quarters stood. " Up to the spar deck ! save yourselves ! " Cried Selfridge. " Up, my men ! God grant that some of us may live To fight yon ship again ! " We turned : we did not like to go ; Yet staying seemed but vain. Knee-deep in water ; so we left ; Some swore, some groaned with pain. We reached the deck. There Randall stood : "Another turn, men — so ! " Calmly he aimed his pivot gun : " Now, Tenny, let her go ! " It did our sore hearts good to hear The song our pivot sang, As rushing on from wave to wave The whirring bomb-shell sprang. Brave Randall leaped upon the gun. And waved his cap in sport ; " Well done ! well aimed ! I saw that shell Go through nn open port ! " It was our last, our deadliest shot ; The deck was overflown ; The poor ship staggered, lurched to port. And gave a living groan. Down, down, as headlong through the waves Our gallant vessel rushed ; A thousand gurgling watery sounds Around my senses gushed. Then I remember little more ; One look to heaven I gave, Where, like an angel's wing, I saw Our spotless ensign wave. I tried to cheer. I cannot say Whether I swam or sank ; A blue mist closed around my eyes, And everything was blank. When I awoke, a soldier lad, All dripping from the sea. With two great tears upon his cheeks. Was bending over me. I tried to speak. He understood The wish I could not speak. He turned me. There, thank God ! the flag Still fluttered at the peak ! And there, while thread shall hang to thread, Oh, let that ensign fly ! The noblest constellation set Against the northern sky — A sign that we who live may claim The peerage of the brave ; A monument that needs no scroll, For those beneath the wave. George H. Boker. COLUMBUS FIRST DISCOVERS THE NEW WORLD. LAND IN HE breeze had been fresh all day, with more sea than usual, and they had madegreat pro- gress. At sunset they had stood again to the y west, and were ploughing the waves at a rapid rate, the Pinta keeping the head, from her su- perior sailing. The greatest animation prevailed throughout the ships : not an eye was closed that night. As the evening darkened, Columbus took his station on the top of the castle or cabin on a high poop of his vessel, ranging his eye along the dusky horizon, and maintaining an intense and unremitting watch. About ten o'clock, he thought he beheld a light glimmering at a great distance. Fearing his eager hopes might deceive him, he called to Pedro Gutierrez, gentleman of the king's bedchamber, and inquired whether he saw such a light ; the latter re- plied in the afiirmative. Doubtful whether it might not yet be some delusion of the fancy, Columbus called Rodrigo Sanchez, of Segovia, and made the same inquiry. By the time the latter had ascended the round-house, the light had disappeared. They saw it once or twice afterwards in sudden and passing HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. ISl et^nms, as if it were a touch in the bark of a fisher- man, rising and sinking with the waves, or in the hand of some person on shore, borne up and down as he walked from house to house. So transient and uncertain were these gleams, that few attached any importance to them ; Columbus, however, considered them as certain signs of land, and, moreover, that the land was inhabited. They continued their course until in the morning, when a gun from the Pinta gave the joyful signal of land. It was first descried by a mariner named Ro- drigo de Triana ; but the reward was afterwards ad- judged to the admiral forhaving previously perceived the light. The land was now clearly seen about two leagues distant ; whereupon they took in sail, and lay to, waiting impatiently for the dawn. The thoughts and feelings of Columbus in this little space of time must have been tumultuous and in- tense. At length, in spite of every difficulty and danger, he had accomplished his object. The great mystery of the ocean was revealed ; his theory, which had been the scoff of sages, was triumphantly estab- lished ; he had secured to himself a glory durable as the world itself. It is difficult to conceive the feelings of such a man at such a moment, or the conjectures which must have thronged upon his mind, as to the land before him, covered with darkness. That it was fruitful was evident from the vegetables which floated from its shores. He thought, too, that he perceived the fra- grance of aromatic groves. The moving light he had beheld proved it the residence of man. But what were its inhabitants ? Were they like those of the other parts of the globe ; or were they seme strange and monstrous race, such as the im- agination was prone in those times to give to all re- mote and unknown regions ? Had he come upon some wild island far in the Indian Sea ; or was this the famed Cipango itself, the object of his golden fancies? A thousand speculations of the kind must have swarmed upon him, as, with his anxious crews, he waited for the night to pass away, wondering whether the morning light would reveal a savage wil- derness, or dawn upon spicy groves, and glittering fanes, and gilded cities, and all the j plendor of orien- tal civilization. Washington Irving. Yea, trust the guiding God, and go along the float- ing graves ; Though hid till now, yet now behold the new world o'er the seas ! With genius, nature stands in solemn union still, And ever what the one foretells, the other shall ful- fill. Frederic Schiller. THE GREAT DISCOVERY. ' TEER on, bold sailor ; wit may mock thy soul that sees the land, And hopeless, at the helm, may droop the weak and weary hand ; Yet ever, ever to the west, for there the coast must lie. And dim it dawns, and glimmery dawns, before thy reason's eye ; ■ SHERIDAN'S RIDE. P from the South at break of day. Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, The affrighted air with a shudder bore, Like a herald in haste, to the chieftain's door, The terrible grumble, and rumble, and roar, Telling the battle was on once more, And Sheridan twenty miles away. And wider still those billows of war Thundered along the horizon's bar ; And louder yet into Winchester rolled The roar of that red .sea uncontrolled, Making the blood of the listener cold. As he thought of the stake in that fiery fray. And Sheridan twenty miles away. But there is a road from Winchester town, A good, broad highway leading down ; And there through the flush of the morning light, A steed as black as the steeds of night. Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight. As if he knew the terrible need. He stretched away with his utmost speed ; Hills rose and fell ; but his heart was gay, With Sheridan fifteen miles away. Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thundering south. The dust, like smoke from the cannon's mouth ; Or the trail of a comet, sweeping faster and faster, Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster. The heart of the steed, and the heart of the master Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, Impatient to be where the battle-field calls ; Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, With Sheridan only ten miles away. Under his spuming feet, the road Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. And the landscape sped away behind Like an ocean flying before the wind, And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire, Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire. But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire ; He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. With Sheridan only five miles away. The first that the General saw were the groups Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; What was done — what to do — a glance told him both, And striking his spurs, with a terrible oath, 182 CROWN JEWELS. He dashed down the line, 'mid a storm of huzzis, And the wave of retreat checked its course there, be- cause The sight of the master compelled it to pause. With foam and with dust the black charger was gray ; By the flash of his eye, and his red nostril s play, He seemed to the whole great army to saj', " I have brought you Sheridan all the way From Winchester down, to save the day." Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! And when their statues are placed on high, Under the dome of the Union sky — The American soldiers' Temple of Fame, There with the glorious General's name. Be it said in letters both bold and bright : "Here is the steed that saved the day By carrying Sheridan into the fight, From Winchester — twenty miles away ! " Thomas Buchanan Read NORVAL Y name is Norval : on the Grampian hill My father feeds his flocks a frugal swain, Whose constant care was to increase his store, And keep his only son, myself, at home. For I had heard of battles, and I longed To follow to the field some warlike lord : And Pleaven soon granted what my sire denied. This moon which rose last night, round as my shield, Had not yet filled her horns, when, by her light A band of fierce barbarians, from the hills, Rushed like a torrent down upon the vale, Sweeping our flocks and herds. The shepherds fled For safety and for succor. I alone, With bended bow, and quiver full of arrows, Hovered about the enemy, and markt d The road he took, then hastened to my friend: Whom with a troop of fifty chosen men, I met advancing. The pursuit I led, Till we o'ertook the spoil encumbered foe. We fought and conquered. Ere a sword w^as drawn An arrow from my bow had pierced their chief. Who wore that day the arms which now I wear. Rt turning home in triumph, I disdained The shepherd's slothful life ; and having heard That our good king had summoned his bold peers To lead their warriors to the Carron side, I left my father's house, and took with me A chosen servant to conduct my steps — Yon trembling coward, who forsook his master. Journeying with this intent, I passed these towers And, Heaven-directed, came this day to do The happy deed that gilds my humble name. John Ho.me. THE RIDE OF PAUL VENAREZ. AUL VENAREZ heard them say, in the frontier town, that day, That a band of Red Plume's warriors was upon the trail of death ; Heard them tell of murder done — three men killed at Rocky Run, " They're in danger up at Crawford's," said Venarez, under breath. "Crawford's" — thirty miles away— was a settlement, that lay In a green and pleasant valley of the mighty wilder- ness ; Haifa score of homes was there, and in one a maiden fair Held the heart of Paul Venarez — " Paul Venarez' lit- tle Bess." So no wonder he grew pale when he heard the settler's tale Of the men he had seen murdered yesterday, at Rocky Run. " Not a soul will dream," hesaid, "of the danger that's ahead ; By my love for little Bessie, I must see that some- thing's done." Not a moment he delayed, when his brave resolve was made. "Why, my man," his comrades told him when they knew his daring plan, " You are going straight to death." But he answered, "Save your breath, I may fail to get to Crawford's but I'll do the best I can." O'er the forest rail he sped, and his thoughts flew on ahead To the little band at Crawford's, thinking not of dan- ger near. " Oh, God help me save, " cried he, " little Bess ! " And fast and free Trusty Nell bore on the hero of the far-away frontier. Low and lower sank the sun. He drew rein at Rocky Run ; "Here these men met death, my Nellie," and he stroked his horse's mane : "So will they we go to warn, ere the breaking of the morn, If we fail, God help us, Nellie ! " Then he gave his horse the rein. Sharp and keen a rifle-shot woke the echoes of the spot. " Oh, my Nellie, I am wounded," cried Venarez with a moan. And the warm blood from his side spurted out in a red tide, And he trembled in the saddle, and his face had ashy grown. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 183 "I will save them yet," he cried. "Bessie Lee shall know I died For her sake." And then he halted in the shelter of a hill : From his buckskin shirt he took, with weak hands a little book ; And he tore a blank leaf from it " This," said he "shall be my will." From a branch a twig he broke, and he dipped his pen of oak In the red blood that was dripping from the wound below the heart. "Rouse," he wrote, "before too late. Red Plume's warriors lie in wait. Good-by, Bess ! God bless you always." Then he felt the warm tears start. Then he made his message fast, love's first letter, and its last ; To his saddle-bow he tied it, while his lips were white with pain. " Bear my message, if not me, safe to little Bess," said he. Then he leaned down in the saddle, and clutched hard the sweaty mane. Just at dusk, a horse of brown, flecked with foam, came panting down To the settlement at Crawford, and she stopped at Bessie's door. But her rider seemed asleep. Ah, his slumber was so deep Bessie's voice could never wake him, if she called forever more. You will hear the story told by the young and by the old In the settlement at Crawford's, of the night when Red Plume came ; Of the sharp and bloody fight ; how the chief fell, and the flight Of the panic-stricken warriors. Then they speak Venarez' name In an awed and reverent way, as men utter " Let us pray," As we speak the name of heroes, thinking how they lived and died ; I So his memory is kept green, while his face and heaven between Grow the flowers Bessie planted, ere they laid her by his side. THE RELIEF OF LUCKNOW. THAT last day in Lucknow fort ! We knew that it was the last ; « That the enemy's lines crept surely on, And the end was coming fast. To yield to that foe meant worse than death ; And the men and we all worked on ; It was one day more of smoke and roar, And then it would all be done. There was one of us, a corporal's wife, A fair, young, gentle thing, Wasted with fever in the siege, And her mind was wandering. She lay on the ground, in her Scottish plaid, And I took her head on my knees ; "When my father comes hame frae the pleugh," she said, " Oh ! then please wauken me." She slept like a child on her father's floor, In the flecking oT woodbine-shade. When the house-dog sprawls by the open door, And the mother's wheel is stayed. It was smoke and roar and powder-stench, And hopelessly waiting for deatli ; And the soldier's wife, like a full-tired child, Seemed scarce to draw her breath. I sank to sleep ; and I had my dream Of am English village-lane, And wall and garden ; — but one wild scream Brought me back to the roar again. There Jessie Brown stood listening Till a sudden gladness broke All over her face ; and she caught my hand And drew me near as she spoke : — "The Hielanders ! O, dinna ye hear The slogan far awa ? The McGregor's — O, I ken it weel ; It's the grandest o' them a' ! " God bl^ss the bonny Hielanders ! We're saved ! we're saved ! " she cried ; And fell on her knees ; and thanks to God Flowed foith like a full flood tide. Along the battery-line her cry Had fallen among the men, And they started back ; — they were there to die ; But was life so near them, then ? They listened for life ; the rattling fire Far off", and the far-off" roar, Were all ; and the colonel shook his head, And they turned to their guns once more. But Jessie said, "The slogan's done ; But winna ye hear it noo ? The Campbells are comin' ! It's no a dream ' Our succors hae broken through ! " We heard the roar and the rattle afar, But the pipes we could not hear ; So the men plied their work of hopeless w: i And knew that the end was near. 184 CROWN JEWELS. It was not long ere it made its way — A thrilling, ceaseless sound : It was no noise from the strife afar. Or the sappers under ground. It was the pipes of the Highlanders ! And now they played Auld Lang Syne! It came to our men like the voice of God, And they shouted along the line. And they wept, and shook one-another's hands, And the women sobbed in a crowd ; And every one knelt down where he stood, And we all thanked God aloud. That happy time, when we welcomed them. Our men put Jessie first ; And the general gave her his hand, and cheers Like a storm from the soldiers burst. And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, Marching round and round our line ; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, As the pipes played Auld Lang Syne. Robert T. S. Lowell. I&' BY THE ALMA RIVER. 'ILLIE, fold your little hands ; Let it drop — that "soldier" toy : Look where father's picture stands — Father, that here kissed his boy Not a month since — father kind. Who this night may (never mind Mother's sob, my Willie dear) Cry out loud that He may hear Who is God of battles — cry, " God keep father safe this day By the Alma River!" Ask no more, child. Never heed Either Russ, or F"rank, or Turk ; Right of nations, trampled creed. Chance-poised victory's bloody work ; Any flag i' the wind may roll On thy heights, Sebastopol ! Willie, all to you and me Is that spot, whate'er it be, Where he stands — no other word — Stands — God sure the child's prayers heard- Near the Alma River. Willie, listen to the bells Ringing in the town to-day ; That's for victory. No knell swells For the many swept away — Hundreds, thousands. Let us weep. We, who need not— just to keep Reason clear in thought and brain Till the morning comes again ; Till the third dread morning tell Who they were that fought and— fell By the Alma River. Come, we'll lay us down, my child ; Poor the bed is — poor and hard ; But thy father, far exiled. Sleeps upon the open sward, Dreaming of us two at home ; Or, beneath the starry dome. Digs out trenches in the dark. Where he buries — ^Willie, mark ! — Where he buries those who died Fighting — fighting at his side — By the Alma River. Willie, Willie, go to sleep ; God will help us, O my boy ! He will make the dull hours creep Faster, and send news of joy ; When I need not shrink to meet Those great placards in the street, That for weelcs will ghastly stare In some eyes — child, say that prayer Once again — a different one — Say, " O God ! Thy will be done By the Alma River." Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, THE TROOPER'S DEATH, 'HE weary night is o'er at last ! We ride so still, we ride so fast ! We ride where death is lying. "^ The morning wind doth coldly pass, Landlord ! we'll take another glass. Ere dying. Thou, springing grass, that art so green, Shalt soon be rosy red, I ween, My blood the hue supplying ! I drink the first glass, sword in hand, To him who for the Fatherland Lies dying ! Now quickly comes the second draught. And that shall be to freedom quaflfed While freedom's foes are flying ! The rest, O land, our hope and faith ! We'd drink to thee with latest breath, Though dying ! My darling^ ! — ah, the glass is out ! The bullets ring, the riders shout — No time for wine or sighing ! There ! bring my love the shattered glass — Charge ! on the foe ! no joys surpass Such dying ! From the Cennan. Translation of R. W. Raymond. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 185, BALAKLAVA. THE charge at Balaklava ! O that rash and fatal charge ! Never was a fiercer, braver, Than that charge at Balaklava, On the battle's bloody marge ! All the day the Russian columns, Fortress huge, and blazing banks. Poured their dread destructive volumes On the French and English ranks— On the gallant allied ranks ! Earth and sky seemed rent asunder By the loud incessant thunder ! When a strange but stem command — Needless, heedless, rash command — Came to Lucan's little band — Scarce six hundred men and horses Of those vast contending forces : — " England's lost unless you save her ! Charge the pass at Balaklava ! " O that rash and fatal charge. On the battle's bloody marge ! Far away the Russian eagles Soar o'er smoking hill and dell, And their hordes, like howling beagles. Dense and countless, round them yell ! Thundering cannon, deadly mortar, Sweep the field in every quarter ! Never, since the days of Jesus, Trembled so the Chersonesus ! Here behold the Gallic Lilies — Stout St. Louis' golden Lilies — • Float as erst at old Ramillies ! And beside tliem, lo ! the Lion ! With her trophied cross, is flying ! Glorious standards ! — shall they waver On the field of Balaklava ? No, by heavens ! at that command — Sudden, rash, but stern command — Charges Lucan's little band ! Brave six hundred ! lo ! they charge, On the battle's bloody marge ! Down J on deep and skirted valley. Where the crowded cannon play — Where the Czar's fierce cohorts rally, Cossack, Calmuck, savage Kalli — Down that gorge they swept away ! Down that new Thermopylae, Flashing swords and helmets see ! Underneath the iron shower. To the brazen cannon's jaws. Heedless of their deadly power. Press they without fear or pause — To the very cannon's jaws ! Gallant Noland, brave as Roland At the field of Roncesvalles, Dashes down the fatal valley. Dashes on the bolt of death, Shouting with his latest breath, " Charge, then, gallants ! do not waver. Charge the pass at Balaklava !" O that rash and fatal charge, On the battle's bloody marge ! Now the bolts of volleyed thunder Rend that little band asunder. Steed and rider wildly screaming, Screaming wildly, sink away ; Late so proudly, proudly gleaming, Now but lifeless clods of clay — Now but bleeding clods of clay! Never, since the days of Jesus, Saw such sight the Chersonesus ! Yet your remnant, brave six hundred, Presses onward, onward, onward, Till they storm the bloody pass — Till, like brave Leonidas, They storm the deadly pass, Sabring Cossack, Calmuck, Kalli, In that wild shot-rended valley — Drenched with fire and blood, like lava, Awful pass at Balaklava ! O that rash and fatal charge. On the battle's bloody marge I For now Russia's rallied forces. Swarming hordes of Cossack horses, Trampling o'er the reeking corses. Drive the thinned assailants back. Drive the feeble remnant back. O'er their late heroic track ! Vain, alas ! now rent and sundered. Vain your struggles, brave two hundred I Thrice your number lie asleep, In that valley dark and deep. Weak and wounded you retire From that hurricane of fire — That tempestuous storm of fire- , But no soldiers, firmer, braver, Ever trod the field of fame, Than the Knights of Balaklava — Honor to each hero's name ! Yet their country long shall mourn For her rank so rashly shorn — So gallantly, but madly shorn In that fierce and fatal charge. On that battle's bloody marge. Alexander Beaufort Meek. CAVALRY SONG. UR good steeds snuff the evening air, Our pulses with their purpose tingle ; The foeman's fires are twinkling there ; He leaps to hear our sabres jingle ! 186 CROWN JEWELS. Halt! Each carbine send its whizzing ball : Now, cling ! clang ! forward all, Into the fight ! Dash on beneath the smoking dome; Through level lightnings gallop nearer ! One look to heaven I No thoughts of home : The guidons that we bear are dearer. Charge ! Cling ! clang ! forward all ! Heaven help those whose horses fall • Cut left and right ! They flee before our fierce attack ! They fall ! they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back And leave the foeman to his dirges. Wheel ! The bugles sound the swift recall : Cling ! clang ! backward all ! Home, and good-night ! Edmund Clarence Stedman. THE NOBLEMAN AND THE PENSIONER. LD man, God bless you ! does your pipe taste sweetly ? A beauty, by my soul ! A red-clay flower-pot, rimmed with gold so neatly ! What ask you for the bowl ? " " O, sir, that bowl for worlds I would no* part with ; A brave man gave it me. Who won it — now what think you ? — of a bashaw At Belgrade's victory. " There, sir, ah ! there war booty worth the showing — Long life to Prince Eugene ! Like after-grass you might have seen us mowing The Turkish ranks down clean." "Another time I'll hear your story, — Come, old man, be no fool ; Take these two ducats — gold for glory — And let me have the bowl ! " 'I'm a poor churl, as you may say, sir ; My pension's all I'm worth : iTet I'd no' give that bowl away, sir, For all ' ae gold on earth. just hf xr now ! Once, as we hussars, all merry, Hard jn the foe's rear pressed, A blundering rascal of a janizary Shot through our captain's breast. "At once across my horse I hove him — The same would he have done — And from the smoke and tumult drove him Safe to a nobleman. "I nursed him, and, before his end, bequeathing His money and this bowl To me, he pressed my hand, j'jst ceased his breathing And so he died, brave soul ! " The money thou must give mine host — so thought I — Three plunderings suffered he : And, in remembrance of my old friend, brought I The pipe away with me. " Henceforth in all campaigns with me I bore it, In flight or in pursuit ; It was a holy thing, sir, and i ^rore it Safe-sheltered in my boot " This very limb, I lost it by a shot, sir. Under the walls of Prague -. First at my precious pipe, ua sure, I caught, sir, And then picked up my leg." " You move me even to tears, old sire : What was the brave man's name ? Tell me, that I, too, may admire. And venerate his fame." " They called him only the brave Walter ; His farm lay near the Rhine." — " God bless your old eyes ! 't was my father. And that same farm is mine. "Come, friend, you've seen some stormy weather, With me is now your bed ; We'll drink of Walter's grapes together, And eat of Walter's bread." " Now — done ! I march in, then, to-morrow ; You're his true heir, I see ; And when I die, your thanks, kind master, The Turkish pipe shall be." From the German of Pfeffel. Translation of Charles T. Brooks. MY WIFE AND CHILD. [Written in the year 1846, in Mexico, the author being at tha* time Colonel of the ist Regiment Georgia Volunteers.] 'HE tattoo beats — the lights are gone. The camp around in slumber lies. The night with solemn pace moves on. The shadows thicken o'er the skies ; But sleep my weary eyes hath flown, And sad, uneasy thoughts arise. I think of thee, O darling one. Whose love my early life hath blest — Of thee and him — our baby son — ^ Who slumbers on tliy gentle breast. God of the tender, frail, and lone, O, guard the tender sleeper's rest ' And hover gently, hover near To her whose watchful eye is wet- To mother, wife — the doubly dear. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. is; In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear, And cheer her drooping spirits yet. Now, while she kneels before thy throne, O, teach her, Ruler of the skies. That, while by thy behest alone Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise. No tear is wept to Thee unknown. No hair is lost, no sparrow dies ! That Thou canst stay the ruthless hand Of dark disease, and soothe its pain ; That only by Thy stern commands The battle's lost, the soldier's slain ; That from the distant sea or land Tiiou bring'st the wanderer home again. And when upon her pillow lone Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon The brightening current of her breast, No frowning look or angry tone Disturb the Sabbath of her rest ! WTiatever fate these forms may show, Loved with a passion almost wild, By day, by night, in joy or woe, By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe, O God, protect my wife and child ! Henry R. Jackson. MONTEREY. E were not many — we who stood Before the iron sleet that day ; Yet many a gallant spirit would Give half his years if but he could Have been with us at Monterey. Now here, now there, the shot it hailed In deadly drifts of fiery spray. Yet not a single soldier quailed When wounded comrades round them wailed Their dying shout at Monterey. And on, still on our column kept, Through walls of flame, its withering way ; Where fell the dead, the living stept, Still charging on the guns which swept The slippery streets of Monterey. The foe himself recoiled aghast, When, striking where he strongest lay. We swooped his flanking batteries past, And, braving full their murderous blast. Stormed home the towers of Monterey. Our banners on those turrets wave. And there our evening bugles play ; Where orange boughs above their grave, Keep green the memory of the brave Who fought and loll at Monterey. We are not many — we who pressed Beside the brave who fell that day ; But who of us has not confessed He'd rather share their warrior rest Than not have been at Monterey ? Ch.\rlks Fenno Hoffman. THE HEART OF THE BRUCE. ' T was upon an April mom. While yet the frost lay hoar. We heard Lord James's bugle-horn Sound by the rocky shore. Then down we went, a hundred knights, All in our dark array. And flung our armor in the ships That rode witliin the bay. We spoke not as the shore grew less. But gazed in silence back, Where the long billows swept away The foam behind our track. And aye the purple hues decayed Upon the fading hill, And but one heart in all that ship Was tranquil, cold, and still. The good Lord Douglas paced the deck, And O, his face was wan ! Unlike the flush it used to wear When in the battle-van. "Come hither, come hither, my trusty k.iight. Sir Simon of the Lee , There is a freit lies near my soul I fain would tell to thee. " Thou know'st the worJs King Robert spoke Upon his dying day : How he bade take his noble heart And carry it far away ; " And lay it in the holy soil Where once the Saviour trod, Since he might not bear the blessed Cross, Nor strike one blow for God. " Last night as in my bed I lay, I dreamed a dreary dream : — Methought I saw a pilgrim stand In the moonlight's quivering beam. " His robe was of the azure dye. Snow-white his scattered hairs. And even such a cross he bore As good St. Andrew bears. ' Why go ye forth. Lord James,' he said, ' With spear and belted brand ? Why do you take its dearest pledge From this our Scottish land ? 188 CROWN JFAVELS. "•The sultry breeze of Galilee Creeps through its groves of palm, The olives on the Holy Mount Stand glittering in the calm; " ' But 't is not there that Scotland's heart Sliall rest, by God's decree, Till the great angel calls the dead To rise from earth and sea ! " ' Lord James of Douglas, mark my rei e ! That heart shall pass once more In fiery fight against the foe. As it was wont of yore. " ' And it shall pass beneath the Cross, And save King Robert's vow ; But other hands shall bear it back. Not, James of Douglas, thou ! ' " Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray. Sir Simon of the Lee — For truer friend had never man Than thou hast been to me — " If ne'er upon the Holy Land 'T is mine in life to tread, Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth The relics of her dead." The tear was in Sir Simon's eye As he wrung the warrior's hand — " Betide me weal, betide me woe.. I'll hold by thy command. " But if in battle-front, Lord James, 'T is ours once more to ride, Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend. Shall cleave me from thy side ' " And aye we sailed and aye we sailed Across the weary sea. Until one morn the coast of Spain Rose grimly on our lee. And as we rounded to the port, Beneath the watch-tower's wall, We heard the clash of the atabals. And the trumpet's wavering call. " Why sounds yon eastern music here So wantonly and long, And whose the crowd of armed men That round yon standard throng ? " " The Moors have come from Africa To spoil and waste and slay, And King Alonzo of Castile Must fight with them to-day." " Now shame it were," cried good Lord James, "Shall never be said of me That I and mine have turned aside From the Cross injeopardie I '• Have down, have down, my merry men all- Have down unto the plain , We'll let the Scottish lion loose Withm the fields of Spain ! " " Now welcome to me, noble lord, Thou and thy stalwart power , Dear is the sight of a Christian knight, Who comes in such an hour ! " Is it for bond or faith you come. Or yet for golden foe ? Or bring ye France's lilies here. Or the flower of Burgundie ? " " God greet thee well, thou valiant king. Thee and the belted peers — Sir James of Douglas am I called. And these are Scottish spears. " We do not fight for bond or plight. Nor yet for golden fee ; But for the sake of our blessed Lord, Who died upon the tree. "We bring our great King Robert's heart Across the weltering wave, To lay it in the holy soil Hard by the Saviour's grave "True pilgrims we, by land or sea, W'here danger bars the way , And therefore are we here, Lord King, To ride with thee this day ! " The King has bent his stately head. And the tears were in his eyne — "God's blessing on thee, noble knight. For this brave thought of thine ! " I know thy name full well, Lord James ; And honored may I be, That those who fought beside the Bruce Should fight this day for me ! " Take thou the leading of the van. And charge the Moors amain , There is not such a lance as thine In all the host of Spain ! " The Douglas turned towards us then, O, but his glance was high ! — " There is not one of all my men But is as bold as I. " There is not one of all my knights But bears as true a spear — Then onward, Scottish gentlemen, And think King Robert's here ' " The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew. The arrows flashed like flame, As spur in side, and spear in rest. Against the foe we came. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 189 And many a bearded Saracen Went down, both horse and man ; For through their ranks we rode like corn, So furiously we ran ! But in behind our path they closed, Though fain to let us through. For they were forty thousand men, And we were wondrous few. We might not see a lance's length, So dense was their array, But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade Still held them hard at bay. " Make in ! make in ! " Lord Douglas cried — " Make in, my brethren dear ! Sir William of St. Clair is down ; We may not leave him here 1 " But thicker, thicker grew the swarm. And sharper shot the rain. And the horses reared amid the press, But they would not charge again. "Now Jesus help thee," said Lord James, " Thou kind and true St. Clair ! And if I may not bring thee off, I'll die beside thee there ! " Then in his stirrups up he stood, So lion-like and bold. And held the precious heart aloft, All in its case of gold. He flung it from him, far ahead, And never spake he more, But — "Pass thou first, thou dauntless heart. As thou wert wont of yore ! " The roar of fight rose fiercer yet, And heavier still the stour. Till the spears of Spain came shivering in, And swept away the Moor. " Now praised be God, the day is won ! They fly, o'er flood and fell — Why dost thou draw the rein so hard, Good knight, that fought so well?" " O, ride ye on, Lord King ! " he said, " And leave the dead to me. For I must keep the dreariest watch That ever I shall dree ! " There lies, above his master's heart, The Douglas, stark and grim ; And woe is me I should be here. Not side by side with him ! " The world grows cold, my arm is old, And thin my lyart hair. And all that I loved best on eartli Is stretched before me tliere. " O Bothwell banks, that bloom so bright Beneath the sun of May ! The heaviest cloud that ever blew. Is bound for you this day. " And Scotland ! thou mayst veil thy head In sorrow and in pain, The sorest stroke upon thy brow Hath fallen this day in Spain ! '• We'll bear them back unto our ship. We'll bear them o'er the sea. And lay them in the hallowed earth Within our own countrie. "And be thou strong of heart, Lord King, For this I tell thee sure. The sod that drank the Douglas' blood Shall never bear the Moor ! " The King he lighted from his horse. He flung his brand away. And took the Douglas by the hand, So stately as he lay. " God give thee rest, thou valiant soul ! That fought so well for Spain ; I'd rather half my land were gone, So thou wert here again ! " We bore the good Lord James away, And the priceless heart we bore, And heavily we steered our ship Towards the Scottish shore. No welcome greeted our return. Nor clang of martial tread, But all w^ere dumb and hushed as death Before the mighty dead. We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk, The heart in fair Melrose ; And woful men were we that day — God grant their souls repose ! William Edmlndstone Avtoun. HUDIBRAS' SWORD AND DAGGER. 'IS puissant sword unto his side, Near his undaunted heart was tied. With basket hilt that would hold broth, And serve for fight and dinner both. In it he melted lead for bullets To shoot at foes, and sometimes pullets. To whom he bore so fell a grutch He ne'er gave quarter to any such. The trenchant blade, Toledo trusty. For want of fighting was grown rusty. And ate into itself, for lack Of somebody to hew and hack. The peaceful scabbard, where it dwelt, The rancor of its edge had felt ; ! 190 CROWN JEWELS. For of the lower end two handful It had devoured, it was so manful ; And so much scorned to lurk in case, As if it durst not show its face. This sword a dagger had, his page, That was but little for his age, And therefore waited en him so As dwarfs unto knight-errants do. It was a serviceable dudgeon. Either for fighting or for drudging. When it had stabbed or broke a head, It would scrape trenchers or chip bread, Toast cheese or bacon, though it were To bait a mouse-trap 't would not care ; 'Twould make clean shoes, and in the earth Set leeks and onions, and so-forth : It had been 'prentice to a brewer, Where this and more it did endure ; But left the trade, as many more Have lately done on the same score. Samuel Butler. FLODDEN FIELD. [The battle was fought in September, 1513, between the forces of England and Scotland. The latter were worsted, and King James slain with eight thousand of his men. Lord Surrey com- manded the English troops.] -' Q MOMENT then Lord Marmion stayed. And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, Then forward moved his band, Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won. He halted by a cross of store, That on a hillock standing lone. Did all the field command. Hence might they see the full array Of either host for deadly fray ; Their marshalled lines stretched east and west. And fronted north and south, And distant salutation past From the loud cannon-mouth ; Not in the close successive rattle That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between. — The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed : " Here, by this cross," he gently said, " You well may view the scene ; Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare : O, think of Marmion in thy prayer ! — Thou wilt not?— well — no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare — You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard. With ten picked archers of my train; With England if the day go hard. To Berwick speed amain — But, if we conquer, cruel maid. My spoils shall at your feet be laid. When here we meet again." He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire; but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle-plain, His way to Surrey took. Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill ; On which (for far the day was spent) The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view : Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, " Unworthy office here to stay ! No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — But, see ! look up — on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent." And sudden, as he .spoke. From the sliarp ridges of the hill. All downward to the banks of Till Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and vast, and rolling far. The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone. Announced their march ; their tread alone, At times their warning trumpet blown. At times a stifled hum, Told England from his moimtain-throne King James did rushing come — Scarce could they hear or see their foes. Until at weapon-point they close. They close in clouds of smoke and dust. With sword-sway and with lance's thrust ; And such a yell was there. Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth And fiends in upper air : O, life and death were in the shout. Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair. Long looked the anxious squires ; their eye Could in the darkness naught descry. At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast ; And, first, the ridge of mangled spears Above the brightening cloud appears ; And in the smoke the pennons flew. As in the storm the bright sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war. And plumed crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave ; But naught distinct they see : W^ide raged the battle on the plain ; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 191 Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: And stainless Tunstall's banner white, And Edmund Howard's lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight ; Although against them come Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Highlandman, And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntley and with Home. Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle ; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied, 'T was vain : — but fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell ; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. The Border slogan rent the sky ! A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : Loud were the clanging blows ; Advanced — forced back — now low, now high. The pennon sunk and rose ; As bends the bark's mast in the gale. When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail. It wavered mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear : — "By heaven and all its saints, I swear, I will not see it lost ! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads, and patter prayer- I gallop to the host." And to the fray he rode amain. Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge. Made, for a space, an opening large — The rescued banner rose. But darkly closed the war around. Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too ; — yet stayed, As loath to leave the helpless maid. When, fast as shaft can fly. Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread. The loose rein dangling from his head. Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by ; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast. To mark he would return in haste. Then plunged into the fight. Ask me not what the maiden feels. Left in that dreadful hour alone : Perchance her reason stoops or reels ; Perchance a courage, not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone. — The scattered van of England wheels ; — She only said, as loud in air The tumult roared, " Is Wilton there ? " — They fly, or, maddened by despair. Fight but to die—" Is Wilton there ? " With that, straight up the hill there rode Two horsemen drenched with gore. And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone. Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . . Young Blount his armor did unlace. And, gazing on his ghastly face. Said — " By St. George, he's gone ! That spear-wound has our master sped — And see the deep cut on his head 1 Good-night to Marmion.'" — " Unnurtured Blount 1 thy brawling cease : He opes his eyes," said Eustace, "peace ! " When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! Redeem my pennon — charge again ! Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — vain ! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! — Yet my last thought is England's : — fly, To Dacre bear my signet-ring : Tell him his squadrons up to bring : — Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; Trunstall lies dead upon the field. His life-blood stains the spotless shield : Edmund is down ; — my life is reft ; — The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire — With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost. Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly I Leave Marmion here alone — to die." They parted, and alone he lay : Clare drew her from the sight away. Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmured — " Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst, Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring, Of blessed water from the spring. To slake my dy^ng thirst? " 192 CROWN JEWELS. 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 ! Scarce were the pitying accents said, When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh stream! et ran ; Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Jiees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side. But in abhorrence backward drew ; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where waged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn ! behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, ' Drink, weary pilgrim, drink and pray For the kind soul of Sybil Grey, Who built this cross and well." She filled the helm, and back she hied, And witla surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion's head ; A pious man whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought. To shrive the dying, bless the dead. Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave. And, as she stooped lus brow to lave — *' Is it the hand of Clare," he said, *'Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" Then, as remembrance rose — * Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 1 must redress her woes. Short space, few words are mine to spare ; Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — "Alas ! " she said, "the while — O, think of your immortal weal ! In vain for Constance is your zeal ; She — died at Holy Isle." — Lord Marmion started from the ground, As light as if he felt no wound ; Though in the action burst the tide In torrents from his wounded side. "Then it was truth ! " he said, — " I knew That the dark presage must be true. — I would the fiend, to whom belongs The vengeance due to all her wrongs, Would spare me but a day ! For wasting fire, and dying groan, And priests slain on the altar stone, Might bribe him for delay. It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — Curse on yon base marauder's lance, And doubly cursed my failing brand ! A sinful heart makes feeble hand." Then, fainting, down on earth he sunk. Supported by the trembling monk. With fruitless labor, Clara bound, And strove to stanch the gushing wo'und : The monk, with unavailing cares, Exhausted all the Church's prayers. Ever, he said, that, close and near, A lady's voice was in his ear. And that the priest he could not hear. For that she ever sung, " In the lost battle, borne down by the flying. Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying ! " So the notes rung : — "Avoid thee, fiend !— with cruel hand, Shake not the dying sinner's sand ! — O, look, my son, upon yon sign Of the Redeemer's grace divine : O, think on faith and bliss : — By many a death-bed I have been, And many a sinner's parting seen. But never aught like this." The war, that for a space did fail. Now trebly thundering swelled the gale, And — Stanley ! was the cry : — A light on Marmion's visage spread. And fired his glazing eye : With dying hand above his head He took the fragment of his blade, And shouted " Victory ! " — Charge, Chester, charge I On, Stanley, on ! " Were the last words of Marmion. Sir Walter Scott. NASEBY. By Obadiah Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-thkir-nobles- WITH-LINKS-OF-IRON ; SERGEA.NT IN IrETON'S REGKVIK.NT. WHEREFORE come ye forth, in triumph from the North, J With your hands and your feet and your raiment all red ? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread ? O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit. And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod ; For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the strong. Who sat in the high places and slew the saints of God. It was about the noon of a glorious day in June, That we saw their banners dance and their cuirasses shine, HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 193 And the man of blood was there, with his long essenced i Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine. Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us to the fight; When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a shout Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! For God ! for the cause ! — for the church ! for the laws ! For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums. His braves of Alsatia, and pages of VVliitehall ; They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes ! Close your ranks ! For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to fall. They are here ! They rush on ! We are broken ! We are gone ! Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast, O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight it to the last! Stout Skippon hath a wound ; the centre hath given ground : Hark ! hark ! what means the trampling of horsemen on our rear ? Whose banner do I see, boys ? 'T is he ! thank God ! 't is he, boys ! Bear up another minute ! Brave Oliver is here. Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row. Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dikes. Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the accurst. And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar; And he — he turns, he flies : — shame on those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war! Ho ! comrades, scour the plain ; and, ere ye strip the slain. First give another stab to make your search secure ; Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broadpieces and lockets. The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. (13) were gay and bold. When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to- day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks. Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven, hell and fate ? And the fingers that once were so busy with your bl des. Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths ! Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades .■' Down ! down ! forever down, with the mitre and the crown ! With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope ! There is woe in Oxford halls ; there is wail in Dur- ham's stalls ; The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the bishop rends his cope. And she of the Seven Hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword ; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and the Word ! Lord Mac aula y. BANNOCKBURN. Robert Bruce's address to his army. ' COTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled ; Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie Now's the day, and now's the hour ; See the front o' battle lower ; See approach proud Edward s power : Chains and slaverie ! Wha will be a traitor knave ? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave ? Let him turn and flee I Wha for Scotland's king and law, Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa' ? Let him follow me ! 194 CROWN JEWELS. By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free ! Lay the proud usurpers low ! Tyrants fall in every foe ! Liberty's in every blow ! Let us do, or die ! Robert Burns. BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. F 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. 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 ; whem 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 the feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back ; — Their shots along the deep slowly boom ; — Tiien cease — and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail ; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Outspoke \he 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 blest our chief. That he gave her wounds repose ; And the sounds of joy and grief. From her people wildly rose. As death withdrew his shades from the day ; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful 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, While 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 I to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true. On the deck of fame that died — With the gallant good Riou : 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! Thomas Campbell. A COURT LADY. 'ER hair was tawny with gold, her eyes with pur- ple were dark, Her cheeks' pale opal burnt with a red and restless spark. Never was lady of Milan nobler in name and in race Never was lady of Italy fairer to see in the face. Never was lady on earth more true as woman and wife. Larger in judgment and instinct, prouder in manners and life. She stood in the early morning, and said to her maid- ens, " Bring That silken robe made ready to wear at the court of the king. " Bring me the clasps of diamond, lucid, clear of the mote. Clasp me the large at the waist, and clasp me the small at the throat. " Diamonds to fasten the hair, and diamonds to fasten the sleeves. Laces to drop from their rays, like a powder of snow from the eaves," HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 195 Gorgeous she entered the sunlight which gathered her up in a flame, While straight, in her open carriage, she to the hospi- tal came. In she went at the door, and gazing, from end to end, " Many and low are the pallets, but each is the place of a friend." Up she passed through the wards, and stood at a young man's bed : Bloody the band on his brow, and livid the droop of his head. "Art thou a Lombard, my brother ? Happy art thou !" she cried, And smiled like Italy on him : he dreamed in her face and died. Pale with his passing soul, she went on still to a second : He was a grave, hard man, whose years by dungeons were reckoned. Wounds in his body were sore, wounds in his life were sorer. "Art thou a Romagnole ? " Her eyes drove lightnings before her. " Austrian and priest had joined to double and tighten the cord Able to bind thee, O strong one — free by the stroke of a sword. " Now be grave for the rest of us, using the life over- cast To ripen our wine of the present (too new) in glooms of the past." Down she stepped to a pallet where lay a face like a girl's. Young, and pathetic with dying — a deep black hole in the curls. "Art thou from Tuscany, brother? and seest thou, dreaming in pain. Thy mother stand in the piazza, searching the list of the slain?" Kind as a mother herself, she touched his cheeks with her hands : " Blessed is she who has borne thee, although she should weep as she stands." On she passed to a Frenchman, his arm carried off by a ball : Kneeling, , . "O more than my brother ! how shall I thank you for all ? "Each of the heroes around us has fought for his land and line, But thou has fought for a stranger, in hate of a wrogg not thine. " Happy are all free peoples, too strong to be dis- possessed ; But blessed are those among nations who dare to be strong for the rest ! " Ever she passed on her way, and came to a couc!. where pined One with a face from Venetia, white with a hope ou; of mind. Long she stood and gazed, and twice she tried at the name, But two great crystal tears were all that faltered ant" came. Only a tear for Venice ? — she turned as in passion ano loss, And stooped to his forehead and kissed it, as if she were kissing the cross. Faint with that strain of heart, she moved on tc another. Stern and strong in his death. "And dost thou suf- fer, my brother? " Holding his hands in hers: — "Out of the Piedmont lion Cometh the sweetness of freedom ! sweetest to live or to die on." Holding his cold, rough hands— "Well, O, well have ye done In noble, noble Piedmont, who would not be noble alone." Back he fell while she spoke. She rose to her fee: with a spring — " That was a Piedmontese ! and this is the court o: the king." Elizabeth Barrett Browning. BATTLE OF WYOMING AND DEATH OF GERTRUDE. EAVEN'S verge extreme Reverberates the bomb's descending star — And sounds that mingled laugh, and shout, and scream, To freeze the blood, in one discordant jar. Rung to the pealing thunderbolts of war. Whoop after whoop with rack the ear assailed. As if unearthly fiends had burst their bar ; While rapidly the marksman's shot prevailed, And ay, as if for death, some lonely trumpet wailed. Then looked they to the hills, where fire o'erhung The bandit groups in one Vesuvian glare ; Or swept, far seen, the tower, whose clock unrung. Told legible that midnight of despair. She faints — she falters not — the heroic fair, As he the sword and plume in haste arrayed. 196 CROWN JEWELS. One short embrace — he clasped his dearest care ; But hark ! what nearer war-drum shakes the glade ! Joy, joy! Cohimbia's friends are trampling through the shade 1 They came of every race the mingled swarm. Far rung the groves and gleamed the midnight grass With flambeau, javelin, and naked arm ; As warriors wheeled their culverins of brass, Sprung from the woods, a bold athletic mass, Whom virtue fires, and liberty combines ; And first the wild Moravian yagers pass, His plumed host the dark Iberian joins ; And Scotia's sword beneath tlie Highland thistle shines. And in the buskined hunters of the deer To Albert's home with shout and cymbal throng, Roused by their warlike pomp, and mirth, and cheer, Old Outalissi woke his battle-song, And, beating with his war-club cadence strong, Tells how his deep-stung indignation smarts ; Of them that wrapt his house in flames, erelong To whet a dagger on their sLony hearts, And smile avenged ere yet his eagle spirit parts. Calm, opposite the Christian father rose; Pale on his venerable brow its rays Of martyr-light the conflagration throws ; One hand upon his lovely child he lays, And one the uncovered crowd to silence sways ; While, though the battle-flash is faster driven Unawed, with eye unstartled by the blaze, He for his bleeding country prays to Heaven, Prays that the men of blood themselves may be for- given. Short time is now for gratulating speech : And yet, beloved Gertrude, ere began Thy country's flight yon distant towers to reach, Looked not on thee the rudest partisan With brow relaxed to love ? And murmurs ran. As round and round their willing ranks they drew. From beauty's sight to shield the,hostile van. Grateful on them a placid look she threw, Nor wept, but as she bade her mother's grave adieu ! Past was the flight and welcome seemed the tower, That like a giant standard-bearer frowned Dt fiance on the roving Indian power. Beneath each bold and promontory mound With embrazure em*bossed and armor crowned, And arrowy frize, and wedged ravelin. Wove like a diadem its tracery round The lofty summit of that mountain green ; Here stood secure the group, and eyed a distant scene, A scene of death ! where fires beneath the sun. And blended arms, and white pavilions glow ; And for the business of destruction done, Its requiem the war-horn seemed to blow : There, sad spectatress of her country's wo ! The lovely Gertrude, safe from present harm, Had laid her cheek, and clasped her hands of snow On Waldegrave's shoulder, half within his arm Enclosed, that felt her heart, and hushed its wild alarm I But short that contemplation — sad and short The pause to bid each much-loved scene adieu ! Beneath the very shadow of the fort. Where friendly swords were drawn, and banners flev/ ; Ah ! who could deem that foot of Indian crew Was near? — yet there, with lust of murderous deeds. Gleamed like a basilisk, from woods in view. The ambushed foeman's eye — his volley speeds. And Albert, Albert falls ! the dear old father bleeds ! And tranced in giddy horror, Gertrude swooned ; Yet, while she clasps him lifeless to her zone, Say, burst they, borrowed from her father's wound, These drops ? Oh God ! the life-blood is her own : And faltering, on her Waldegrave's bosom thrown — "Weep not, O love ! " she cries, " to see me bleed ; Thee, Gertrude's sad survivor, thee alone Heaven's peace commiserate ; for scarce I heed These wounds ; yet thee to leave is death, is death in- deed! Clasp me a little longer on the brink Of fate! while I can feel thy dear caress ; And when this heart hath ceased to beat — oh ! think. And let it mitigate thy wo's excess. That thou hast been to me all tenderness, And friend to more than human friendship just. Oh ! by that retrospect of happiness, And by the hopes of an immortal trust, God shall assuage thy pangs — when I am laid in dust ! Go, Henry, go not back, when I depart, The scene thy bursting tears too deep will move. Where my dear father took thee to his heart, And Gertrude thought it ecstasy to rove With thee, as with an angel, through the grove Of peace, imagining her lot was cast In heaven ; for ours was not like earthly love. And must this parting be our very last ? No ! I shall love thee still, when death itself is past. Half could I bear, methinks, to leave this earth. And thee, more loved than aught beneath the sun. If I had lived to smile but on the birth Of one dear pledge. But shall there then be none, In future times — no gentle little one To clasp thy neck, and look, resembling me ? Yet seems it, even while life's last pulses run, A sweetness in the cup of death to be, Lord of my bosom's love ! to die beholding thee ! " Hushed were his Gertrude's lips ! but still their bland And beautiful expression seemed to melt With love that could not die ! and still his hand She presses to the heart no more that felt. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 197 Ah, heart ! where once each fond affection dwelt, And features yet that spoke a soul more fair. Mute, gazing, agonizing as he knelt — Of them that stood encircling his despair He heard some friendly words ; but knew not what they were. For now to mourn theit judge and child arrives A faithful band. With solemn rites between 'T was sung how they were lovely in their lives, And in their deaths had not divided been. Touched by the music and the melting scene. Was scarce one tearless eye amidst the crowd — Stem warriors, resting on their swords, were seen To veil their eyes, as passed each much-loved shroud — While woman's softer soul in wo dissolved aloud. Then mournfully the parting bugle bid Its farewell o'er the grave of worth and truth ; Prone to the dust afflicted Waldegrave hid His face on earth ; him watched, in gloomy ruth, His woodland guide : but words had none to soothe The grief that knew not consolation's name ; Casting his Indian mantle o'er the youth, He watched, beneath its folds, each burst that came. Convulsive, ague-like, across tlie shuddering frame ! "And I could weep," the Oneida chief His descant wildly thus begun ; " But that I may not stain with grief The death-song of my father's son. Or bow this head in wo ! For, by my wrongs, and by my wrath, To-morrow Areouski's breath. That fires yon heaven with storms of death, Shall light us to the foe : And we shall share, my Christian boy, The foeman's blood, the avenger's joy ! But thee, my flower, whose breath was g^ven By milder genii o'er the deep. The spirits of the white man's heaven Forbid not thee to weep : Nor will the Christian host, Nor will thy father's spirit grieve. To see thee, on the battle's eve, Lamenting, take a mournful leave Of her who loved thee most : She was tlie rainbow to thy sight ! Thy sun — thy heaven — of lost delight ! To-morrow let us do or die. And when the bolt of death is hurled, Ah ! whither then with thee to fly. Shall Outalissi roam the world ? Seek we thy once-loved home ? The hand is gone that cropt its flowers ; Unheard their clock repeats its hours ; Cold is the hearth within theu- bowers : And should we thither roam, Its echoes and its empty tread Would sound like voices from the dead ! Or shall we cross yon mountains blue, Whose streams my kindred nation quaffed, And by my side, in battle true, A thousand warriors drew the shaft ? Ah ! there, in desolation cold, The desert serpent sleeps alone. Where grass o'ergrows each mouldering bone, And stones themselves to ruin grown, Like me, are death-like old. Then seek we not their camp ; for there The silence dwells of my despair ! But hark, the trump ! to-morrow thou In glory's fires shalt dry thy tears : Even from the land of shadows now My father's awful ghost appears Amidst the clouds that round us roll ; He bids my soul for battle thirst — He bids me dr>- the last— the first — The only tears that ever burst From Outalissi's soul ; Because I may not stain with grief The death-song of an Indian chief ! " Thomas Campbell. ^ CADYOW CASTLE. HEN princely 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. But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, And vaults by ivy mantled o'er, Thrill to the music of the shade. Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. Yet still of Cadyow's faded fame You bid me tell a minstrel tale, And tune my harp of Border frame On the wild banks of Evandale. For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, From pleasure's lighter scenes can turn, To draw oblivion's pall aside. And mark the long-forgotten urn. Then, noble maid, at thy command Again the crumbled walls shall rise ; Lo, as on Evan's bank we stand, The past returns — the present flies. Where, with J:he rocks' wood-covered side, Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride, And feudal banners flaunt between : 198 CROWN JEWELS. Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagged with thorn and tangling sloe, The ashler buttress braves its force, And ramparts frown in battled row. 'Tis night — the shades of keep and spire Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; And on the wave the warder's fire Is chequering the moonlight beam. Fades slow their light ; the East is gray ; The weary warder leaves his tower ; Steeds snort ; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, And merry hunters quit the bower. The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — Clatters each plank and swinging chain. As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout Urge the shy steed and slack the rein. First of his troop the chief rode on ; His shouting merry-men shout behind ; The steed of princely Hamilton Was fleeter than the mountain wind. From the thick copse the roebucks bound. The startled red deer scuds the plain. For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound Has roused their mountain haunts again. Through the huge oaks of Evandale, Whose limbs a thousand years have worn. What sullen roar comes down the gale, And drowns the hunter's pealing horn ? Mightiest of all the beasts of chase That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race. The mountain bull comes thundering on. Fierce on the hunter's quivered hand He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow. Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand, And tosses high his mane of snow. Aimed well, the chieflain's lance has flown Struggling in blood the savage lies ; His roar is sunk in hollow groan — Sound, merry huntsmen, sound the pryse 'Tis noon — against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear ; Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. 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? " Stem Claude replied, with darkening face, (Grey 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 hearths, in social glee. The war-worn soldier turned him home. " There, wan from her maternal throes. His Margaret, beautiful and mild. Sat in her bower, a pallid rose. And peaceful nursed her new-bom child. " Oh, change accursed ! passed are those days ; False Murray's mthless spoilers came, And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, Ascends destruction's volumed flame. "What sheeted phantom wanders wild, Where mountain Esk through woodland flows, Her arms enfold a shadowy child— Oh ! is it she, the pallid rose? " The wildered traveler sees her glide, And hears her feeble voice with awe — ' Revenge,' she cries, ' on Murray's pride, And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh !'" 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. 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 ; Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, As one some visioned sight that saw ; Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair? — 'Tis he, 'tis he, 'tis Bothwellhaugh ! From gory sell and reeling steed Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound; And, reeking from the recent deed, He dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis 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 Linlithgow's crowded town. "From the wild border's humbled side In haughty triumph marched he ; While Knox relaxed his bigot pride. And smiled the traitorous pomp to see. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 199 "But can stern power with all her vaunt, Or pomp, with all her courtly glare, The settled heart of vengeance daunt, Or change the purpose of despair? "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 Macfarlane's plaided clan. "Glencaim and stout Parkhead were nigh, Obsequious at their regent's rein, And haggard Lindsay's iron eye, That saw fair Mary weep in vain. " 'Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; Scarce could his trampling charger move, So close the minions crowded nigh. "From the raised vizor's shade his eye, Dark rolling, glanced the ranks along ; And his steel truncheon, waved on high. Seemed marshaling the iron throng. "But yet his saddened brow confessed A passing shade of doubt and awe ; Some fiend was whispering in his breast — Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh. "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. ^ "My Margaret's spectre glided near, With pride her bleeding victim saw, And shrieked in his death-deafened ear, Remember injured Bothwellhaugh ! "Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault ! Spread to the wind thy bannered tree ! Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow ! Murray is fallen and Scotland free 1" Vaults every warrior to his steed ; Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — " Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed ! Couch, Arran, couch thy spear of flame ! " But see, the minstrel vision fails — The glimmering spears are seen no more ; The shouts of war die on the gales. Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. For the loud bugle, pealing high, The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie The bannered towers of Evandale. For chiefs, intent on bloody deed. And vengeance shouting o'er the slain, Lo ! high-born beauty rules the steed. Or graceful guides the silken rein. And long may peace and pleasure own The maids who list the minstrel's tale ; Nor e'er a ruder guest be known; On the fair banks of Evandale. Sir Walter Scott. JAMES FITZ-JAMES AND ELLEN. (3 FOOTSTEP struck her ear, And Snowdoun's graceful Knight was near. She turned the hastier, lest again The prisoner should renew his strain. 'O welcome, brave Fitz-James !" she said ; How may an almost orphan maid Pay the deep debt" — " O, say not so I To me no gratitude you owe. Not mine, alas 1 the boon to give, And bid thy noble father live ; I can but be thy guide, sweet maid. With Scotland's King thy suit to aid. No tyrant he, though ire and pride May lead his better mood aside. Come, Ellen, come ; 't is more than time. He holds his court at morning prime." With beating heart and bosom wrung. As to a brother's arm she clung, Gently he dried the falling tear, And gently whispered hope and cheer ; Her faltering steps half led, half stayed. Through gallery fair and high arcade. Till, at his touch, its wings of pride A portal arch unfolded wide. Within 't was brilliant all and light, A thronging scene of figures bright ; It glowed on Ellen's dazzled sight. As when the setting sun has given Ten thousand hues to summer eve And from their tissue fancy frames Aerial knights and fairy dames. Still by Fitz-James her footing stayed ; A few faint steps she forward made. Then slow her drooping head she raised. And fearful round the presence gazed : 200 CROWN JEWELS. For him she sought who owned this state, The dreaded prince whose will was fate ! She gazed on many a princely port Might well have ruled a royal court; On many a splendid garb she gazed — Then turned bewildered and amazed, For all stood bare ; and in the room Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. To him each lady's look was lent, On him each courtier's eye was bent. Midst furs and silks and jewels sheen He stood, in simple Lincoln green, The centre of the glittering ring — And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's King ! As wreath of snow, on mountain breast, Slides from the rock that gave it rest, Poor Ellen glided from her stay, And at the Monarch's feet she lay ; No word her choking voice commands : She showed the ring, she clasped her hands. 0, not a moment could he brook. The generous prince, that suppliant look ! Gently he raised her, and the while Checked with a glance the circle's smile ; Graceful, but grave, her brow he kissed, And bade her terrors be dismissed : — " Yes, fair ; the wandering poor Fitz-James The fealty of Scotland claims. To him thy woes, thy wishes bring ; He will redeem his signet-ring. Ask naught for Douglas ; yester even His prince and he have much forgiven ; Wrong hath he had from slanderous tongue, 1, from his rebel kinsman, wrong. We would not to the vulgar crowd Yield what they craved with clamor loud ; Calmly we heard and judged his cause, Our council aided and our laws. I stanched thy father's death-feud stem. With stout De Vaux and gray Glencairn ; And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own The friend and bulwark of our throne. But, lovely infidel, how now ? What cloud's thy misbelieving brow? Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; Thou must confirm this doubting maid." Then forth the noble Douglas sprung. And on his neck his daughter hung. The monarch drank, that happy hour. The sweetest, holiest draught of power — When it can say, the godlike voice. Arise, sad virtue, and rejoice ! Yet would not James the general eye On nature's raptures long should pry : He stepped between — " Nay, Douglas, nay, Steal not my proselyte away 1 The riddle 't is my right to read. That brought this happy chance to speed. Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray In life's more low, but happier way, 'T is under name which veils my power. Nor falsely veils, for Stirling's tower Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, And Normans call me James Fitz-James. Thus watch I o'er insulted laws. Thus learn to right the injured cause." Then, in a tone apart and low, " Ah, little trait'ress ! none must know What idle dream, what lighter thought. What vanity full dearly bought. Joined to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew My spell-bound steps to Benvenue, In dangerous hour, and all but gave Thy monarch's life to mountain glaive ! " Aloud he spoke — " Thou still dost hold That little talisman of gold, Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring : What seeks fair Ellen of the King ? " Full well the conscious maiden guessed, He probed the weakness of her breast ; But with that consciousness there came A lightening of her fears for Grasme, And more she deemed the monarch's ire Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire. Rebellious broadsword boldly drew ; And, to her generous feeling true. She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. "Forbear thy suit ; the King of kings Alone can stay life's parting wings. I know his heart, I know his hand, Have shared his cheer, and proved his brand. My fairest earldom would I give To bid Clan-Alpine's chieftain live ! — Hast thou no other boon to crave ? No other captive friend to save ? " Blushing, she turned her from the king. And to the Douglas gave the ring. As if she wished her sire to speak The suit that stained her glowing cheek. " Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, And stubborn justice holds her course. Malcolm, come forth ! " — And, at the word Down knelt the Graeme to Scotland's lord. " For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, From thee may vengeance claim her dues, Who, nurtured underneath our smile, Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, And sought, amid thy faithful clan, A refuge for an outlawed man. Dishonoring thus thy royal name — Fetters and warder for the Grseme ! " His chains of gold the king unstrung. The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, Then gently drew the glittering band. And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. Sir Walter Scott. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 201 THE SEA-CAVE. ■ OUNG Neuha plunged into the deep, and he Followed : her track beneath her native sea, Was as a native's of the element, So smoothly, bravely, brilliantly she went. Leaving a streak of light behind her heel, Which struck and flashed like an amphibious steel. Closely, and scarcely less expert to trace The depths where divers hold the pearl in chase, Torquil, the nursling of the Northern seas. Pursued her liquid steps with art and ease. Deep — deeper for an instant Nehua led The way — then upward soared — and, as she spread Her arms, and flung the foam from off" her locks, Laughed, and the sound was answered by the rocks. They had gained a central realm of earth again. But looked for tree, and field, and sky, in vain. Around she pointed to a spacious cave, Whose only portal was the keyless wave, (A hollow archway by the sun unseen, Save through the billows' glassy veil of green, In some transparent ocean holiday. When all the finny people are at play). Wiped with her hair the brine from Torquil's eyes, And clapped her hands with joy at his surprise. Forth from her bosom the young savage drew A pine torch, strongly girded with gnatoo ; A plantain leaf o'er all, the more to keep Its latent sparkle from the sapping deep. This mantle kept it dry ; then from a nook Of the same plantain leaf, a flint she took, A few shrunk, withered twigs, and from the blade Of Torquil's knife struck fire, and thus arrayed The grot with torchlight. Wide it was and high. And showed a self-born Gothic canopy ; The arch upreared by nature's architect. The architrave some earthquake might erect ; The buttress from some mountain's bosom hurled, When the poles crashed and water was the world ; There, with a little tinge of phantasy. Fantastic faces moped and mowed on high. And then a mitre or a shrine would fix The eye upon its seeming crucifix. Then nature played with the stalactites, And built herself a chapel of the seas. And Neuha took her Torquil by the hand. And waved along the vault her kindled brand. And led him into each recess, and showed The secret places of their new abode. Nor these alone, for all had been prepared Before, to soothe the lover's lot she shared ; The mat for rest ; for dress the fresh gnatfto, The sandal-oil to fence against the dew ; For food the cocoa-nut, the yam, the bread Bom of the fruit ; for board the plantain spread With its broad leaf, or turtle-shell which bore A banquet in the flesh if covered o'er ; The gourd with water recent from the rill, The ripe banana from the mellow hill ; A pine torch pile to keep undying light ; And she herself as beautiful as night, To fling her shadowy spirit o'er the scene, And make their subterranean world serene. She had foreseen, since first the stranger's sail Drew to their isle, that force or flight might fail, And formed a refuge of the rocky den For Torquil's safety from his countrymen. Each dawn had wafted there her light canoe, Laden with all the golden fruits that grew ; Each eve had seen her gliding through the hour With all could cheer or deck their sparry bower ; And now she spread her little store with smiles, The happiest daughter of the loving isles. 'Twas morn ; and Neuha, who by dawn of day Swam smoothly forth to catch the rising ray. And watch if aught approached the amphibious lair Where lay her lover, saw a sail in air : It flapped, it filled, then to the growing gale Bent its broad arch : her breath began to fail With fluttering fear, her heart beat thick and high, While yet a doubt sprung where its course might lie : But no ! it came not ; fast and far away, The shadow lessened as it cleared the bay. She gazed, and flung the sea-foam from her eyes. To watch as for a rainbow in the skies. On the horizon verged the distant deck, Diminished, dwindled to a very speck — Then vanished. All was ocean, all was joy ! Lord Byron. BRISTOWE TRAGEDY; OR, THE DEATH OF SIR CHARLES BAWDIN. 'HE feathered songster chanticleer Had wound his bugle horn, And told the early villager "^ The coming of the morn. King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray ; And heard the raven's croaking throat Proclaim the fated day. "Thou'rt right," quoth he, "lor, by the God That sits enthroned on high ! Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, To-day shall surely die." Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait. " Go tell the traitor, that to-day He leaves this mortal state." Sir Canterlone then bended low. With heart brimful of woe ; He journeyed to the castle-gate. And to Sir Charles did go. 202 CROWN JEWELS. But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles' life. "O good Sir Charles !" said Canterlone, " Bad tidings do I bring." "Speak boldly, man," said brave Sir Charles, " What says thy traitor king?" " I grieve to tell, before yon sun Does from the welkin fly, He hath upon his honor sworn, That thou shalt surely die." "We all must die," quoth brave Sir Charles, " Of that I'm not affeared ; What boots to live a little space ? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared ; " But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day Than live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye." Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate. Then Master Canning sought the king, And fell down on his knee : " I'm come," quoth he, " unto your grace To move your clemency." Then quoth the king, " Your tale speak out, You have been much our friend ; Whatever your request may be. We will to it attend." *' My noble liege : all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, He thought it still was right : " He has a spouse and children twain, All ruined are for aye. If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day." ' Speak not of such a traitor vile, The king in fury said ; "Before the evening star doth shine, Bawdin shall lose his head. "Justice does loudly for him call, And he shall have his meed ; Speak, Master Channing ! What thing else At present do you need ? " "My noble liege," good Channing said, " Leave justice to our God, And lay the iron rule aside ; Be thine the olive rod. "Was God to search our hearts and reins, The best were sinners great ; Christ's vicar only knows no sin, In all this mortal state. " Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'Twill fast thy crown full sure ; From race to race thy family All sovereigns shall endure : "But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign, Thy crown upon thy children's brows Will never long remain." "Canning, away ! this traitor vile Has spurned my power and me ; How canst thou then for such a man Intreat my clemency? " " My noble liege ! the truly brave Will val'rous actions prize, Respect a brave and noble mind, Although in enemies." " Canning, away ! By God in heaven. That did my being give, I will not taste a bit of bread Whilst this Sir Charles doth live. " By Mary and all saints in heaven. This sun shall be his last ; " Then Canning dropped a briny tear. And from the presence passed. With heart brimful of gnawing grief. He to Sir Charles did go. And sat him down upon a stool, And tears began to flow. "We all must die," <|uoth brave Sir Charles ; " What boots it how or when ; Death is the sure, the certain fate Of all us mortal men. ' Say, why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye ; Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-like cry ?" Quoth godly Canning, " I do weep, That thou so soon must die, And leave thy sons and helpless wife ; 'Tis this that wets mine eye." "Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring ; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor king. "When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life. The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 203 " Before I saw the lightsome sun, This was appointed me ; Shall mortal man repine or grudge What God ordains to be ? "How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around ; Wlien smoking streams of crimson blood Imbrued the fattened ground : " How did I know that every dart That cut the airy way, Might not find passage to my heart, And close mine eyes for aye ? "And shall I now, for fear of death, %> Look wan and be dismayed ! No ! from my heart fly childish fear, Be all the man displayed. "Ah ! Godlike Henry ! God forfend. And guard thee and thy son, If 'tis His will ; but if 'tis not, Why then His will be done. " My honest friend, my fault has been To serve God and my prince ; And that I no time-server am. My death will soon convince. " In London city was I born. Of parents of great note ; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat : "I make no doubt but he is gone Where soon I hope to go ; Where we forever shall be blest. From out the reach of woe : "He taught me justice and the laws With pity to unite ; And eke he taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right : ^ He taught me with a prudent hand, To feed the hungry poor, Nor let my servant drive away The hungry from my door : " And none can say but all my life I have his wordys kept ; And summed the actions of the day Each night before I slept. " I have a spouse, go ask of her. If I defiled her bed ? I have a king, and none can lay Black treason on my head. " In Lent, and on the holy eve. From flesh I did refrain ; Why should I then appear dismayed To leave this world of pain ? "No ! hapless Henry ! I rejoice I shall not see thy death ; Most willingly in thy just cause Do I resign my breath. " O, fickle people ! ruined land ! Thou wilt ken peace nae moe ; While Richard's sons exalt themselves, Thy brooks with blood will flow. "Say, were ye tired of godly peace. And godly Henry's reign, That you did chop your easy days For those of blood and pain ? " What though I on a sled be drawn. And mangled by a hind? I do defy the traitor's power. He cannot harm my mind ; "What though, uphoisted on a pole. My limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear ; " Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away. There with the servants of the Lord My name shall live for aye. "Then welcome death ! for life eteme I leave this mortal life , Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, My sons and loving wife ! " Now death as welcome to me comes. As e'er the month of May ; Nor would I even wish to live. With my dear wife to stay." Quoth Canning, " 'Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die ; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly." And now the bell began to toll. And clarions to sound ; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A prancing on the ground : And just before the officers. His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of woe. With loud and dismal din. " Sweet Florence ! now I pray, forbear — In quiet let me die ; Pray God that everj' Christian soul May look on death as I. "Sweet Florence ! why these briny tears ? They wash my soul away. And almost make me wish for life. With thee, sweet dame, to stay. 204 CROWN JEWELS. " 'Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss ; Now, as a proof of husband's love, Receive this holy kiss." Then Florence faltering in her say Trembling these wordys spoke, "Ah, cruel Edward ! bloody king ! My heart is well nigh broke : "Ah, sweet Sir Charles ! why wilt thou go, Without thy loving wife ! The cruel axe that cuts thy neck, It eke shall end my life." And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife, And thus to her did say : " I go to life, and not to death, Trust thou in God above. And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts Him love : "Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run : Florence ! should death thee take— adieu ! Ye officers, lead on." Then Florence raved as any mad. And did her tresses tear ; " Oh ! stay, my husband ! lord ! and life ! "— Sir Charles then dropped a tear. Till tired out with raving loud, She fellen on the floor ; Sir Charles exerted all his might, And marched from out the door. Upon a sled he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweet ; Looks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street. Before him went the council-men, In scarlet robes and gold, And tassels spangling in the sun. Much glorious to behold ; The friars of Saint Augustine next Appeared to the sight. All clad in homely russet weeds. Of godly monkish plight : In diflferent parts a godly psalm Most sweetly did they chant ; Behind their backs six minstrels came, Who tuned the strung bataunt. Then five and twenty archers came ; Each one the bow did bend. From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend. Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sled, By two black steeds in trappings white, With plumes upon their head : Behind him five and twenty more Of archers strong and stout, With bended bow each one in hand, Marched in goodly rout : Saint James's friars marched next. Each one his part did chant ; Behind their backs six minstrels came. Who tuned the strung bataunt : Then came the mayor and aldermen, In cloth and scarlet decked ; And their attending-men each one, Like eastern princes trickt. And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng ; The windows were all full of heads, As he did pass along. And when he came to the high cross. Sir Charles did turn and say, " O Thou, that savest man from sin. Wash my soul clean this day !" At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state, To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate. Soon as the sled drew nigh enough, That Edward he might hear, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up. And thus his words declare : "Thou seest me, Edward ! traitor vile ! Exposed to infamy ; But, be assured, disloyal man 1 I'm greater now than thee. " By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou wearest now a crown ; And hast appointed me to die. By power not thine own. " Thou thinkest I shall die to-day ; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For aye upon my brow ; " Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years. Shall rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand ; "Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave ! Shall fall on thy own head" — From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sled. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 205 King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away. And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say : "To him that so-much dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring ; Behold the man ! he spake the truth He's greater than a king !" " So let him die !" Duke Richard said ; "And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows." And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill ; The axe did glister in the sun, His precious blood to spill. Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by val'rous chiefs Gained in the bloody war : And to the people he did say, " Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully. " As long as Edward rules this land. No quiet will you know ; Your sons and husbands shall be slain. And brooks with blood shall flow. ** You leave your good and lawful king. When in adversity ; Like me, unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die." Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching Him unto Himself His parting soul to take. Then, kneeling down, he laid his head. Most seemly on the block ; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke ; And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine ; And tears enough, to wash't away. Did flow from each man's eyne. The bloody axe his body fair Into four partes cut ; And every part and eke his head, Upon a pole was put. One part did rot on Kynwulft-hill, One on the minster tower. And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour ; The other on St. Powle's good gate, A dreary spectacle ; His head was placed on the high cross, In high-street most nobel. Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate : God prosper long our king. And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God's mercy sing ! Thomas Chatterton. THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR. OME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged — 'tis at a white heat now : The bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though on the forge's brow The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound, And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round. All clad in leather panoply, their broad hands only' bare — j Some rest upon their sledges here, some work thi windlass there. j The windlass strains the tackle chains, the black mound I heaves below, I And red and deep a hundred veins burst out at every I throe : It rises, roars, rends all outright — O Vulcan, what a glow I 'Tis blinding white, 'tis blasting bright — the high sun shines not so ! The high sun sees not, on the earth, such a fiery fear- ful show ; The roof-ribs swarth, the candant hearth, the ruddy lurid row Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe. As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster, slow Sinks on the anvil ; — ^all about the faces fiery grow. " Hurrah ! " they shout, "leap out — leap out ; " bang, bang, the sledges go ; Hurrah ! the jetted lightningfs are hissing high and low ; — A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow, The leathern mail rebounds the hail, the rattling cin- ders strew The ground around ; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow. And thick and loud the swinking crowd at every stroke pant, "Ho!" Leap out, leap out, my masters ; leap out, and lay on load! Let's forge a goodly anchor ; — a bower thick and broad ; 206 CROWN JEWELS. For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road — The low reef roaring on her lee — the roll of ocean poured From stem to stem, sea after sea ; the mainmast by the board ; The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains ! But courage still, brave mariners ! the bower yet re- mains, And not an inch to flinch he deigns, save when ye pitch sky high ; Then moves his head, as though he said, " Fear noth- ing — here am I." Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep- time: Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime. But while you sling your sledges, sing — and let the burthen be, The anchor is the anvil king, and royal craftsmen we ! Strike in, strike in— the sparks begin to dull their rust- ling red ; Our hammers ring with sharper din, our work will soon be sped. Our anchor soon must change his bed of fiery rich array, For a hammock at the roaring bows, on an oozy couch of clay ; Our anchor soon mast change the lay of merry crafts- men here, For the yeo-heave-o', and the heave-away, and the sighing seaman's cheer ; When, weighing slow, at eve they go — far, far from love and home ; And sobbing sweethearts, in a row, wail o'er the ocean foam. ■ • In livid and obdurate gloom he darkens down at last ; A shapely one he is, and strong, as e'er from cat was cast. O trusted and trustworthy guard, if thou hadst life like me. What pleasures would thy toils reward beneath the deep green sea ! O deep sea-diver, who might then behold such sights as thou? The hoary monster's palaces 1 methinks what joy 'twere now To go plumb plunging down amid the assembly of the whales, And feel the churned sea round me boil beneath their scourging tails ! Then deep in tangle-weeds to fight the fierce sea-uni- corn, * And send him foiled and bellowing back, for all his ivory horn ; To leave the subtile sworder-fish of bony blade forlorn ; And for the ghastlv-grinning shark to laugh his jaws to scorn • To leap down on the kraken's back, where 'mid Nor- wegian isles He lies, a lubber anchorage for sudden shallowed miles ; Till snorting, like an under-sea volcano, off he rolls ; Meanwhile to swing, a-buffeting the far astonished shoals Of his back-browsing ocean-calves; or, happily in a cove, Shell-strewn, and consecrate of old to some Undine's love. To find the long-haired maidens ; or, hard by icy lands, To wrestle with the sea-serpent, upon cerulean sands. O broad-armed fisher of the deep, whose sports can equal thine ? The dolphin weighs a thousand tons, that tugs thy ca- ble line ; And night by night, 'tis thy delight, thy glory day by day. Through sable sea and breaker white, the giant game to play — But shamer of our little sports ! forgive the name I gave — A fisher's joy is to destroy — thine office is to save. O lodger in the sea-king's halls ! couldst thou but un- derstand Whose be the white bones by thy side — or who that dripping band. Slow swaying in the heaving wave, that round about thee bend. With sounds like breakers in a dream, blessing their ancient friend ; — O, couldst thou know what heroes glide with larger steps round thee. Thine iron side would swell with pride — thou'dst leap t . within the sea ! Give honor to their memories who left the pleasant strand To shed their blood so freely for the love of father- land — Who left their chance of quiet age and grassy church- yard grave So freely, for a restless bed amid the tossing wave ! O, though our anchor may not be all I have fondly sung, Honor him for their memory whose bones he goes among ! Samuel Ferguson. THE BATTLE OF ALEXANDRIA. 'ARP of Memnon ! sweetly strung To the music of the spheres ; While the hero's dirge is sung, Breathe enchantment to our ears. Let thy numbers, soft and slow. O'er the plain wiih carnage spread Soothe the dying while they flow To the memory of the dead. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 207 ¥ Lashed to madness by the wind, As the Red Sea surges roar, Leave a gloomy gulf behind, And devour the shrinking shore. Thus, with overwhelming pride, Gallia's brightest, boldest boast, In a deep and dreadful tide. Rolled upon the British host. Now the veteran chief drew nigh, Conquest towering on his crest, Valor beaming from his eye. Pity bleeding on his breast. On the whirlwind of the war High he rode in vengeance dire ; To his friends a leading star; To his foes consuming fire. Charged with Abercrombie's doom, Lightning winged a cruel ball : 'Twas the herald of the tomb, And the hero felt the call — Felt — and raised his arms on high ; Victory well the signal knew. Darted from his awful eye, And the force of France o'erthrew. Harp of Memnon ! sweetly strung To the music of the spheres ; While the hero's dirge is sung, Breathe enchantment to our ears. Let thy numbers, soft and slow, O'er the plain with carnage spread, Soothe the dying while they flow To the memory of the dead. Then thy tones triumphant pour, Let them pierce the hero's grave ; Life's tumultuous battle o'er, O, how sweetly sleep the brave ! From the dust their laurels bloom, High they shoot and flourish free ; Glory's temple is the tomb ; Death is immortality. James Montgomery. THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. AIR stood the wind for France, When we our sails advance. Nor now to prove our chance Longer will tarry ; But putting to the main. At Kause, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train, Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort. Furnished in warlike sort. Marched toward Agincourt In happy hour ; Skirmishing day by day With those that stopped his way, Where the French general lay With all his power. Which in his height of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the king sending ; Which he neglects the while. As from a nation vile, Yet, with an angry smile, Their fall portending. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then : Though they to one be ten. Be not amazed ; Yet have we well begun. Battles so bravely won Have ever to the sun By fame been raised. And for myself, quoth he, This my full rest shall be ; England ne'er mourn for me Nor more esteem me. Victor I will remain. Or on this earth lie slain ; Never shall she sustain Loss to redeem me. Poitiers and Cressy tell. When most their pride did swell Under our swords they fell. No less our skill is Than when our grandsire great, Claiming the regal seat. By many a warlike feat Lopped the French lilies. The Duke of York so dread The eager vaward led ; With the main Henry sped Amongst his henchmen. Excester had the rear, A braver man not there ; O Lord ! how hot they were On the false Frenchmen. They now to fight are gone ; Armor on armor shone ; Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder ; That with the cries they make The very earth did shake, Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder. 208 CROWN JEWELS. Well it thine age became, O noble Erpingham ! Which did the signal aim To our hid forces ; When, from a meadow by Like a storm suddenly, The English archery Struck the French horses. With Spanish yew so strong. Arrows a cloth-yard long, That like to serpents stung. Piercing the weather ; None from his fellow starts. But playing manly parts, And like true English hearts. Stuck close together. When down their bows they threw. And forth their bilboes drew. And on the French they flew, Not one was tardy : Arms were from shoulders sent, Scalps to the teeth were rent ; Down the French peasants went ; Our men were hardy. This while our noble king, His broad sword brandishing, Down tne French host did ding. As to o'erwhelm it ; And many a deep wound rent His arms with blood besprent, And many a cruel dent. Bruised his helmet. Glo'ster, that duke so good Nexi of the royal blood, For famous England stood. With his brave brother Clarence, in steel so bright, Though but a maiden knight, Yet in that furious fight Scarce such another. Warwick in blood did wade , Oxford the foe invade. And cruel slaughter made. Still as they ran up. Suffolk his axe did ply ; Beaumont and Willoughby Bare them right doughtily, Ferrers and Fanhope. Upon Saint Crispin's day Fought was this noble fray, Which fame did not delay To England to carry. O, when shall Englishmen With such acts fill a pen. Or England breed again Such a King Harry ? Michael Drayton. YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. E manners of England That guard our native seas ; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze, 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 spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave ; For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave : 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. Brittannia needs no bulwarks. 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 blow ; 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 troubled night depart. And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean-warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow ; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Thomas Campbell. THE UNRETURNING BRAVE. aND Ardennes waves above them her green leaves, Dewy with nature's tear drops, as they pass Grieving. If auglit inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave ; — alas ! Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass Of living valor, rolling on the foe. And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 209 Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, Last eve in beauty's circle proudly gay ; The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife, The morn the marshaling in arms— the day Battle's magnificently stern array ! The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent The earth is covered thick with other clay, Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent. Rider and horse— friend, foe — in one red burial blent ! Their praise is hymned by loftier harps than mine ; Yet one I would select from that proud throng. Partly because they blend me with his Ime, 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 showered The death-bolts deadliest the thinned files along. Even where the thickest of war's tempest lowered. They reached no nobler breast than thine, young, gal- lant Howard ! There have been tears and breaking hearts for thee, And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; But when I stood beneath the fresh green tree, Which living waves where thou didst cease to live. And saw around me the wide field revive With fruits and fertile promise, and the spring Come forth her work of gladness to contrive With all her reckless birds upon the wing, I turned from all she brought, to those she could not bring. Lord Byron. ® ALFRED THE HARPER. ARK fell the night, the watch was set, '1 he host was idly spread, . The Danes around their watchfires met, Caroused, and fiercely fed. The chiefs beneath a tent of leaves, And Guthrum, king of all, Devoured the flesh of England's beeves, And laughed at England's fall. Each warrior proud, each Danish earl, In mail and wolf-skin clad, Their bracelets white with plundered pearl, Their eyes with triumph mad. From Huber-land to Severn-land, And on to Tamar stream. Where Thames makes green the towery strand, Where Medway's waters gleam — With hands of steel and mouths of flame They raged the kingdom through ; And where the Norseman sickle came. No crop but hunger grew. They loaded many an English horse With wealth of cities fair ; They dragged from many a father's corse The daughter by her hair. (14) And English slaves, and gems, and gold; Were gathered round the feast ; Till midnight in their woodland hold. Oh ! ne'er that riot ceased. In stalked a warrior tall and rude Before the strong sea-kings ; "Ye lords and earls of Odin's brood, Without a harper sings. He seems a simple man and poor. But well he sounds the lay ; And well, ye Norseman chiefs, be sure. Will ye the song repay." In trod the bard with keen cold look. And glanced along the board. That with the shout and war-cry shook Of many a Danish lord. But thirty brows, inflamed and stem. Soon bent on him their gaze, While calm he gazed , as if to learn Who chief deserved his praise. Loud Guthrum spake — " Nay, gaze not thus, Thou harper weak and poor ! By Thor ! who bandy looks with us Must worse than looks endure. Sing high the praise of Denmark's host, High praise each dauntless earl ; The brave who stun this English coast With wars unceasing whirl," The harper slowly bent his head. And touched aloud the string ; Tlien raised his face, and boldly said, "Hear thou my lay, O king ! High praise from every mouth of man To all who boldly strive, Who fall where first the fight began, And ne'er go back alive. " Fill high your cups, and swell the shout, At famous Regnar's name ! Who sank his host in bloody rout, When he to Humbercame. His men were chased, his sons were slain, And he was left alone. They bound him in an iron chain Upon a dungeon stone. " With iron links they bound him fast ; With snakes they filled the hole, That made his flesh their long repast, And bit into his soul. "Great chiefs, why sink In gloom your eyes ? Why champ your teeth in pain ? Still lives the song though Regnar dies ! Fill high your cups again. Ye too, perchance, O Norsemen lords 1 Who fought and swayed so long, Shall soon but live in minstrel words, And owe your names to soag,. 210 CROWN JEWELS. " This land has graves by thousands more Than that where Regnar lies. When conquests fade, and rule is o'er, The sod must close your eyes. Hew soon, who knows ? Not chief, nor bard ; And yet to me 'tis given. To see your foreheads deeply scarred, And guess the doom of heaven. " I may not read or when or how. But, earls and kings, be sure I see a blade o'er every brow. Where pride now sits secure. Fill high the cups, raise loud the strain ! When chief and monarch fall, Their names in song shall breathe again, And thrill the feastful hall." Grim sat the chiefs ; one heaved a groan, And one grew pale with dread, His iron mace was grasped by one. By one his wine was shed. And Guthrum cried, " Nay, bard, no more We hear thy boding lay ; Make drunk the song with spoil and gore ! Light up the joyous fray ! " " Quick throbs my brain " — so burst the song — " To hear the strife once more. The mace, the axe, they rest too long ; Earth cries, ' My thirst is sore ! ' More blithely twang the strings of bows Than strings of harps in glee ; Red wounds are lovelier than the rose, Or rosy lips to me. " Oh ! fairer than a field of flowers, When flowers in England grew, Would be the battle's marshaled powers, The plain of carnage new. With all its deaths before my soul The vision rises fair ; Raise loud the song, and drain the bowl ! I would that I were there ! " Loud rang the harp, the minstrel's eye Rolled fiercely round the throng ; It seemed two crashing hosts were nigh, Whose shock aroused the song. A golden cup King Guthrum gave To him who strongly played ; And said, " I won it from the slave Who once o'er England swayed." King Guthrum cried, " 'Twas Alfred's own ; Thy song befits the brave : The king who cannot guard his throne Nor wine nor song shall have." The minstrel took the goblet bright, And said, " I drink the wine To him who owns by justest right The cup thou bid'st be mine. " To him, your Lord, oh shout ye all ! His meed be deathless praise ! The king who dares not nobly fall. Dies basely all his days." " The praise thou speak est," Guthrum said, " With sweetness fills mine ear ; For Alfred swift before me fled. And left me monarch here. The royal coward never dared Beneath mine eye to stand. Oh, would that now this feast he shared, And saw me rule his land ! " Then stem the minstrel rose, and spake. And gazed upon the king — " Not now the golden cup I take. Nor more to thee I sing. Another day, a happier hour. Shall bring me here again : The cup shall stay in Guthrum's power Till I demand it then." The harper turned and left the shed, Nor bent to Guthrum's crown ; And one who marked his visage said It wore a ghastly frown. The Danes ne'er saw that harper more, For soon as morning rose. Upon their camp King Alfred bore, And slew ten thousand foes. John Sterling. THE WILD HUNTSMAN. 'HE Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn. To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! His fiery courser snuffs tlie morn, Ip" And thronging serfs their lord pursue. The eager pack, from couples freed. Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake ; While answering hound, and horn, and steed. The mountain echoes startling wake. The beams of God's own hallowed day Had painted yonder spjire with gold. And, calling sinful man to pray, Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled : But still the Wildgrave onward rides ; Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! When, spurring from opposing sides. Two stranger horsemen join the train. Who was each stranger, left and right. Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell. The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May ; HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 211 The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, "Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase, afford ? " "Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," Cried the fair youth, with silver voice ; "And for devotion's choral swell, Exchange the rude unhallowed noise " To-day the ill-omened chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; To-day the warning spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.' "Away, and sweep the glades along ! " The sable hunter hoarse replies ; "To muttering monks leave matin-song, And bells, and books, and mysteries." The Wildgrave spurred his ardent steed, And, launcliing forward with a bound, "Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound? "Hence if our manly sport offend ! With pious fools go chant and pray ! — Well hast thou spoke, my dark-browed friend ; Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!" The Wildgrave spurred his courser light. O'er moss and moor ; o'er holt and hill ; And on the left, and on the right, Each stranger horseman followed still. Up springs from yonder tangled thorn, A stag more white than mountain snow ; And louder rung the Wildgrave s horn, "Hark, forward, forward! holla, ho!" A heedless wretch has crossed the way ; He gasps the thundering hoofs below ; — But, live who can, or die who may. Still, " Forward, forward ! " on they go. See where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn's blessings crowned; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave s feet, A husbandman with toil embrowned : ' ' O mercy, mercy, noble lord ! Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, "Earned by the sweat these brows have poured In scorching hour of fierce July," Earnest the right hand stranger pleads. The left still cheering to the prey ; The impetuous Earl no warning heeds. But furious holds the onward way. "Away, thou hound! so basely born. Or dread the scourge's echoing blow !" — Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, "Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! " So said, so done : — A single bound Clears the poor laborer's humble pale ; Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale. And man and horse, and hound and horn. Destructive sweep the field along ; While, joying o'er the wasted corn, Fell famine marks the maddening throng. Again uproused, the timorous prey Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill; Hard run, he feels his strength decay, And trusts for life his simple skill. Too dangerous solitude appeared ; He seeks the shelter of the crowd : Amid the flock's domestic herd His harmless head he hopes to shroud. O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill. His track the steady bloodhounds trace ; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, The furious Earl pursues the chase. Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; — "O spare, thou noble Baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all ; These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care !" Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey ; The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds. But furious keeps the onward way. " Unmannered dog ! to stop my sport, "Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Tliough human spirits, of thy sort. Were tenants of these carrion kine ! " Again he winds his bugle-horn, " Hark, forward, forward, holla, ho ! " And through the iierd, in ruthless scorn. He cheers his furious hounds to go. In heaps the throttled victims fall ; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near ; The murderous cries the stag appal — Again he starts, new- nerved by fear. Witli blood besmeared, and white with foam. While big the tears of anguish pour. He seeivs, amid the forest's gloom. The humble hermit's hallowed bower. But man and horse, and horn and hound, Fast rattling on his traces go ; The sacred chapel rung around With, "Hark away ! and holla, ho ! " 212 CROWN JEWELS. All mild, amid the rout profane, The holy hermit poured his prayer : "Forbear with blood God's house to stain ; Revere his altar, and forbear ! "The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wronged by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head : Be warned at length, and turn aside." Still the fair horseman anxious pleads ; Tlie black, wild whooping, points the prey : Alas 1 the Earl no warning heeds. But frantic keeps the forward way. "Holy or not, or right or wrong. Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn ; Not sainted martyrs' sacred song. Not God himself, shall make me turn ! " He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, " Hark forward, forward ! holla, ho ! " But off, on whirlwind's pinions borne, , The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. And horse and man, and horn and hound, And clamor of the" chase, were gone ; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, A deadly silence reigned alone. Wild gazed the aflTrighted Earl around ; He strove in vain to wake his horn, In vain to call : for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne. He listens for his trusty hounds ; No distant baying reached his ears ; His courser, rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful bears. Still dark and darker frown the shades, Dark as the darkness of the grave ; And not a sound the still invades, Save what a distant torrent gave. High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length tlie solemn silence broke ; And from a cloud of swarthy red. The awful voice of thunder spoke. " Oppressor of creation fair ! Apostate Spirit's hardened tool ! Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor ! The measure of thy cup is full. "Be chased forever through the wood ; Forever roam the affrighted wild ; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God's meanest creature is his child." 'Twas hushed : one flash of sombre glare, With yellow tinged the forests brown ; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chilled each nerve and bone. Cold poured the sweat in freezing rill ; A rising wind began to sing ; And louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call ; — her entrails rend ; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mixed with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell. What ghastly huntsman next arose, Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; His eye like midnight lightning glows, His steed the swarthy hue of hell. The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, With many a shriek of helpless woe ; Behind him hound, and horse, and horn. And, " Hark away, and holla, ho I" With wild despair's reverted eye, Close, close behind he marks the throng, Wilh bloody fangs, and eager cry ; In frantic fear he scours along. — Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, Till time itself shall have an end ; By day, they scour earth's caverned space, At midnight's witching hour ascend. » This is the horn, and hound and horse, That oft the lated peasant hears ; Appalled he signs the frequent cross, When the wild din invades his ears. The wakeful priest oft drops a tear For human pride, for human woe. When, at his midnight mass, he hears The infernal cry of " Holla, ho ! " Translation from Burger, by Sir Walter Scott. u THE OLD SERGEANT. OME a little nearer, doctor — thank you ; let me take the cup : Draw your chair up — draw it closer ; just another little sup ! May be you may think I'm better ; but I'm pretty well used up — Doctor, you've done all you could do, but I'm just a- ©' gomg up "Feel my pulse, sir; if you want to, but it ain't much use to try " — "Never say that," said the surgeon, as he smotheretl down a sigh ; " It will never do, old comrade, for a soldier to say die!" " What you say will make no difference, doctor, when you come to die." HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 213 "Doctor, what has been the matter?" "You were "Dr, Austin! — what ^ay is this ? " " It Is Wednesday very faint, they say ; You must try to get to sleep now." " Doctor, have I been away ? ' ' "Not that anybody knows of!" "Doctor — doctor, please to stay ! There is something I must tell you, and you won't have long to stay ! " I have got my marching orders, and I'm ready now to go; Doctor, did you say I fainted? — but it couldn't have been so, For as sure as I'm a sergeant, and was wounded at Shiloh, I've this very night been back there, on the old field of Shiloh ! "This is all that I remember: The last time the lighter came, And the lights had all been lowered, and the noises much the same, He had not been gone five minutes before something called my name : ' Orderly sergeant — Robert Burton ! '—just that way it called my name. "And I wondered who could call me so distinctly and so slow, Knew it couldn't be the lighter, he could not have spoken so. And I tried to answer, ' Here, sir ! ' but I couldn't make it go ; For I couldn't move a muscle and I couldn't make it go. " Then I thought : It's all a nightmare, all a humbug and a bore ; Just another foolish fancy — and it won't come any more ; night, you know." " Yes — to-morrow will be New Year's, and a rigiit good time below ! What time is it. Dr. Austin?" "Nearly twelve.'' "Then don't you go ! Can it be that all this happened — all this — not an hour ago! "There was where the gunboats opened on the dark opposing host ; And where Webster semi-circled his last guns upon the coast ; There were still the two log-houses, just the same, or else their ghost — And the same old transport came and took me over — or its ghost ! " And the old field lay before me, all deserted, far and wide : There was where they fell on Prentiss — there McCler- nand met the tide ; There was where stern Sherman rallied, and where Hurlbut's heroes died — Lower down, where 'Wallace charged them, and kept charging till he died. ^ "There was where Lew Wallace showed them he was of the canny kin, There was where old Nelson thundered, and where Rousseau waded m ; There McCook sent 'em to breakfast, and we all be- gan to win — There was where the grape-shot took me, just as we began to win. " Now, a siiroud of snow and silence over everj'thing was sprt:ad ; And but fur this old blue mantle and the old hat on my head. But it came, sir, notwithstanding, just the same way as i ^,,,,„] j „^t have even doubted, to this moment, I w,n before dead- ♦ Orderly sergeant-Robert Burton ! '-even ; ^ox my footsteps were as silent as the snow upon the louder than before. dead ! "Death and silence! — Death and silence! all around me as I sped ! And behold, a mighty tower, as if builded to the dead. To the heaven of the heavens lifted up its mighty head. Till the stars and stripes of heaven all seemed waving from its head ! " Round and mighty based it towered up into the infi- nite — And I knew no mortal mason could have built a shaft so bright ; For it shone like solid sunshine ; and a winding stair of light Wound around it and around it till it wound clear out of sight 1 "That is all that I remember, till a sudden burst of light. And I stood beside the river, where we stood that Sun- day night, Waiting to be ferried over to the dark b'ufis opposite, When the river was perdition, and all hell was oppo- site ! — "And the same old palpitation came again in all its power, And I heard a bugle sounding, as from some celestial tower ; And the same mysterious voice said : ' It is the eleventh hour ! Orderly sergeant — Robert Burton — it is the eleventh hour!' 214 CROWN JEWELS. "And, behold, as I approached it — with a rapt and dazzled stare — Thinking that I saw old comrades just ascending; the great stair — Suddenly the solemn challenge broke of—" Halt ! ' and * Who goes there ! ' ' I'm a fnend,' I said, ' if you are ! ' ' Then advance, sir, to the stair ! ' " I advanced ! That sentry, Doctor, was Elijah Ballan- tyne ! First of all to fall on Monday, after we had formed the line ! 'Welcome, my old Sergeant, welcome ! Welcome by that countersign ! ' And he pointed to the scar there, under this old cloak of mine. " As he grasped my hand I shuddered, thinking only of the grave ; But he smiled and pointed upward, with a bright and bloodless glaive : ' That's the way, sir, to Headquarters.' ' What Head- quarters ? ' 'Of the Brave ! ' ' But the great tower ? ' ' That was builded of the great deeds of the brave ! ' "Then a sudden shame came o'er me at his uniform of light : At my own so old and battered, and at his so new and bright ; *Ah!' said he, 'you have forgotten the new uniform to-night ! 'Hurry back — you must be here at just twelve o'clock to-night !' "And the next thing I remember, you were sitting there and I Doctor — did you hear a footstep ? Hark ! — God bless you all ! Good bye ! Doctor, please to give my musket and my knapsack, when I die, To my son — my son that's coming — he won't get here till I die ! " Tell him his old father blessed him — as he never did before — And to carry that old musket" Hark ! a knock is at the door ! " Till the Union " See ! it opens ! "Father ! father ! speak once more ! " " Bless you " — gasped the old gray sergeant. And he lay and said no more ! FORCEVTHE WiLLSON. WRECK OF "THE GRACE OF SUTHERLAND. U 'E'.S a rare man. Our parson ; half a head above us all." "That's a great gift, and notable," .said I. " Ay, Sir ; and when he was a younger man He went out in the life-boat very oft, Before ' The Grace of Sunderland ' was wrecked. He's never been his own man since that hour ; For there were thirty men aboard of her, Anigh as close as you are now to me, And ne'er a one was saved. ' ' They're lying now, With two small children, in a row : the church And yard are full of seamen's graves, and few Have any names. "She bumped upon the reef; Our parson, my young son, and several more Were lashed together with a two-inch rope, And crept along to her • their mates ashore Ready to haul them in. The gale was high, The sea was all a boiling seething froth, And God Almighty's guns were going off, And the land trembled. " When she took the ground, She went to pieces like a lock of hay Tossed from a pitchfork. Ere it came to that. The captain reeled on deck with two small things, One in each arm — his little lad and lass. Their hair was long and blew before his face, Or else we thought he had been saved ; he fell. But held them fast. The crew, poor luckless souls ! The breakers licked them off, and some were crushed, Some swallowed in the yeast, some flung up dead, The dear breath beaten out of them : not one Jumped from the wreck upon the reef to catch The hands that strained to reach, but tumbled back With eyes wide open. But the captain lay And clung — the only man alive. They prayed — ' For God's sake, captain, throw the children here ! ' ' Throw them ! ' our parson cried ; and then she struck And then he threw one, a pretty two years' child. But the gale dashed him on the slippery verge. And down he went. They say they heard him cry. " Then he rose up and took the other One, And all our men reached out their hungry arms. And cried out, ' Throw her, throw her ! ' and he did. He threw her right against the parson's breast. And all at once a sea broke over them. And they that saw it from the shore have said It struck the wreck, and piecemeal scattered it, Just as a woman might the lump of salt That 'twixt her hands into the kneading-pan She breaks and crumbles on her rising bread. "We hauled our men in : two of them were dead- The sea had beaten them, their heads hung down • Our parson's arms were empty, for the wave Had torn away the pretty, pretty lamb ; We often see him stand beside her grave : But 'twas no fault of his, no fault of his." Jean Ingelow. HEROISM AND ADVENTURE. 215 ill: GEORGE NIDIVER. EN have done brave deeds, And bards have sung them well ; of good George Nidiver Now a tale will tell. In Californian mountains A hunter bold was he : Keen his eye and sure his aim As any you should see. A little Indian boy Followed him everywhere, Eager to share the hunter's joy, The hunter's meal to share. And when the bird or deer Fell by the hunter's skill, The boy was always near To help with right good-will. One day as through the cleft Between two mountains steep. Shut in both right and left, Their questing way to keep. They see two grizzly bears, With hunger fierce and fell. Rush at them unawares Right down the narrow dell. The boy turned round with screams, And ran with terror wild : One of the pair of savage beasts Pursued the shrieking child. The hunter raised his gun — He knew one charge was all — And through the boy's pursuing foe He sent his only ball. The other on George Nidiver Came on with dreadful pace : . The hunter stood unarmed, And met him face to face. I say unarmed he stood : Against those frightful paws The rifle butt, or club of wood, Could stand no more than straws. George Nidiver stood still, And looked him in the face : The wild beast stopped amazed. Then came with slackening pare. Still firm the hunter stood, Although his heart beat high: Again the creature stopped, And gazed with wondering eye. The hunter met his gaze. Nor yet an inch gave way ; The bear turned slowly round. And slowly moved away. What thoughts were in his mind It would be hard to spell : What thoughts were in George Nidiver, I rather guess than tell. But sure that rifle's aim, Swift choice of generous part. Showed in its passing gleam The depths of a brave heart SEH PICTURES. HOW'S MY BOY? O, sailor of the sea ! How's my boy — my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what ship sailed he?" "My boy John — He that went to sea — What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea, And not know my John ? I might as well have asked some landsman, Yonder down in the town. There's not a soul in all the parish But knows my John. " How's my boy — my boy ? And unless you let me know I'll swear you are no sailor, Blue jacket or no — " Brass buttons or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no — Sure his ship was the 'Jolly Briton ' " — " Speak low, woman, speak low ! " " And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town ! Why should I speak low, sailor?" — " That good ship went down." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the ship, sailor — I was never aboard her. Be she afloat or be she aground, "Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound Her owners can afford her ! T say, how's my John ? " — " Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." " How's my boy — my boy ? What care I for the men, sailor ? I'm not their mother — How's my boy — my boy? Tell me of him and no other ! How's my boy — my boy ? " Sydney Dobkll. ALL'S WELL ©ESERTED by the waning moon, When skies proclaim night's cheerless noon. On tower, or fort, or tented ground The sentry walks his lonely round ; And should a footstep haply stray Where caution marks the guarded way, "Who goes there ? Stranger, quickly tell ! " "Afriend!" "Theword?" " Good-night ;" all's well. Or, sailing on the midnight deep, When weary messmates soundly sleep. The careful watch patrols the deck, To guard the ship from foes or wreck •, And while his thoughts oft homewards veer, Some friendly voice salutes his ear — What cheer? Brother, quickly tell ; Above— below." "Good-night;" all's well. Thomas Dibdin. THE SEA-BIRD'S SONG. N the deep is the mariner's danger, On the deep is the mariner's death ; Wiio to fear of the tempest a stranger Sees the last bubble burst of his breath? 'Tis the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair; The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird. The only witness there. Who watches their course who so mildly Careen to the kiss of the breeze? Who lists to their shrieks who so wildly Are clasped in the arms of the seas? Who hovers on high o'er the lover. And her who has clung to his neck? Whose wing is the wing that can cover With its shadow the foundering wreck? My eye in the light of the billow, My wing on the wake of the wave, I shall take to my breast for a pillow The shroud of the fair and the brave. My foot on the iceberg has lighted. When hoarse the wild winds veer about ; My eye when the bark is benighted. Sees the lamp of the light house go out. I'm the sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, Lone looker on despair. The sea-bird, sea-bird, sea-bird, The only witness there. John G. C. Brainard. (216) SEA PICTURES. 217 THE MARINER'S DREAM. N 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 morn ; While memory each scene gaily covered with flowers. And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn. 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 flower o'er the thatch, And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; All trembnng 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 bedewed 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 — " O God ! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." Ah ! whence is that flame which now glares on his eye? Ah ! what is that sound which now bursts on his ear? *Tis the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis 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 wavts 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 dealh-angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave ! O sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight ! In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ; Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, — Tliy 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 fame 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 ; Frail, short-sighted mortals their doom must obey — O sailor boy ! sailor boy ! peace to thy soul ! W^ILLIAM DiMOND. THE TREASURES OF THE DEEP. llJ HAT hidest thou in thy treasure-caves and cells. Thou hollow-sounding and mysterious main? Pale glistening pearls, and rainbow-colored shells, Bright things which gleam unrecked of and in vain. Keep, keep thy riches, melancholy sea ! W^e ask not such from thee. Yet more, the depths have more ! Wliat wealth un- told. Far down, and shining through their stillness, lies ! Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, Won from ten thousand royal aigosies. Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! Earth claims not chese again ! Yet more, the depths have more ! Thy waves have rolled Above the cities of a world gone by ! Sand hath filled up the palaces of old. Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry ! Dash o'er them. Ocean ! in thy scornful play, Man yields them to decay ! Yet more ! the billows and the depths have more ! High hearts and brave are gathered to thy breast ! They hear not now the booming waters roar — The battle thunders will not break their rest. Keep thy red gold and gems thou stormy grave ! Give back the true and brave ! Give back the lost and lovely ! Those for whom The place was kept at board and hearth so long 218 CROWN JEWELS. The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, And the vain yearning woke 'midst festal song ! Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown — But all is not thine own ! To thee the love of woman hath gone down ; Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, O'er youth's bright locks, and beauty's flowery crown ! Yet must thou hear a voice — " Restore the dead 1 Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — Restore the dead, thou Sea ! " Felicia Dorothea Hemans. TO CERTAIN GOLDEN FISHES. ESTLESS forms of living light, Quivering on your lucid wings, Cheating still the curious sight With a thousand shadowings ; Various as the tints of even, Gorgeous as the hues of heaven, .Reflected on your native streams In flitting, flashing, billowy gleams. Harmless warriors clad in mail Of silver breastplate, golden scale ; Mail of nature's own bestowing. With peaceful radiance mildly glowing Keener than the Tartar's arrow. Sport ye in your sea so narrow. Was the sun himself your sire ? Were ye born of vital fire ? Or of the shade of golden flowers, Such as we fetch from eastern bowers To mock this murky clime of ours? Upwards, downwards, now ye glance, Weaving many a mazy dance ; Seeming still to grow in size, When ye would elude our eyes. Pretty creatures ! we might deem Ye were happy as ye seem. As gay, as gamesome, and as blithe. As light, as loving, and as lithe, As gladly earnest in your play. As when ye gleamed in fair Cathay; And yet, since on this hapless earth There's small sincerity in mirth, And laughter oft is but an art To drown the outcry of the heart, It may be, that your ceaseless gambols, Your wheelings, dartings, divings, rambles. Your restless roving round and round The circuit of your crystal bound, Is but the task of weary pain. An endless labor, dull and vain ; And while your forms are gaily shining, Your little lives are inly pining ! Nay — but still I fain would dream That ye are happy as ye seem. Hartlev Coleridge. OUR BOAT TO THE WAVES. UR boat to the waves go free. By the bending tide, where the curled wave breaks. Like the track of the wind on the white snow-flakes : Away, away ! 'T is a path o'er the sea. Blasts may rave, — spread the sail, For our spirits can wrest the power from the wind, And the gray clouds yield to the sunny mind, Fear not we the whirl of the gale. William Ellery Channing. THE SEA. 'HE sea ! the sea ! the open sea ! The blue, the fresh, the ever free ! Without a mark, without a bound, "f* It runneth the earth's wide regions round ; It plays with the clouds ; it mocks the skies ; Or like a cradled creature lies. I'm on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! I am where I would ever be ; With the blue above, and the blue below. And silence whereso'er I go ; If a storm should come and awake the deep. What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. I love, oh how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide. When every mad wave drowns the moon, Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the south-west blasts do blow. I never was on the dull tame shore, But I loved the great sea more and more. And backward flew to her billowy breast, Like a bird that seeketh its mother's nest ; And a mother she was, and is, to me ; For I was born on the open sea ! The waves were white, and red the morn. In the noisy hour when I was born ; And the whale it whistled, the porpoise rolled, And the dolphins bared their backs of gold ; And never was heard such an outcry wild As welcomed to life the ocean-child ; I've lived since then, in calm and strife, Full fifty summers, a sailor's life, With wealth to spend and a power to range. But never have sought nor sighed for change ; And Death, whenever he comes to me, Shall come on the wild, unbounded sea ! Bryan W. Procter. {Barry Cornwall.) SEA PICTURES. 210 THE LIGHT-HOUSE. 'HE scene was more beautiful far to the eye, Than if day in its pride had arrayed it : The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure, 'f' 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 li.^ht-house 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 billows' commotion. And o'er them the light-house 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 ! Thomas Moore. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast ; And bends the gallant mast, my boys, While, like the eagle free. Away the good ship flies, and leaves Old England on the lee. Oh, for a soft and gentle wind ! I heard a fair one cry ; But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high ; And white waves heaving iiigh, my boys, The good ship tight and free — The world of waters is our home. And merry men are we. There's tempest in yon horned moon, And lightning in yon cloud : And hark the music, mariners 1 The wind is piping loud : The wind is piping loud, my boys, The lightning flashing free — While the hollow oak our palace is. Our heritage the sea. Allan Cunningham. 1^ THE MINUTE-GUN. HEN in the storm on Albion's coast. The night-watch guards his weary post, From thoughts of danger free. He marks some vessel's dusky form. And hears, amid the howling storm, The minute-gun at sea. Swift on the shore a hardy few The life-boat man with a gallant crew And dare the dangerous wave ; Through the wild surf they cleave their way. Lost in the foam, nor know dismay. For they go the crew to save. But O, what rapture fills each breast Of the hopeless crew of the ship distressed ! Then, landed safe, what joy to tell Of all the dangers that befell 1 Then is heard no more, By the watch on shore. The minute-gun at sea. R. S. Sharpk. TWILIGHT AT SEA. 'HE twilight hours, like birds, flew by, As lightly and as free. Ten thousand stars were in the sky. Ten thousand on the sea ; For every wave, with dimpled face. That leaped upon the air. Had caught a star in its embrace, And held it trembling there. Amelia B. Welby. OCEAN. Af^ REAT Ocean ! strongest of creation's sons, |(®1 Unconquerable, unreposed, untired, V4/ That rolled the wild, profound, eternal bass f In nature's anthem, and made music such As pleased the ear of God ! original, Unmarred, unfaded work of Deity I And unburlesqued by mortal's puny skill ; From age to age enduring, and unchanged, Majestical, inimitable, vast, Loud uttering satire, day and night, on each Succeeding race, and little pompous work Of man ; unfallen, religious, holy sea! Thou bowedst thy glorious head to none, fearedst none, Heardst none, to none didst honor, but to God Thy Maker, only worthy to receive Thy great obeisance. Robert Pollok. 220 CROWN JEWELS. llJ THE TEMPEST. E were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep — It was midnight on the waters And a storni was on the deep. 'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, " Cut away the mast ! " . So we shuddered there in silence — For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring. And the breakers talked with death. As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy in his prayers, "We are lost ! " the captain shouted As he staggered down tlie stairs. But his little daughter whispered. As she took his icy hand, " Is n't God upon the ocean Just the same as on the land ? " Then we kissed the little maiden, And we spoke in better cheer. And we anchored safe in harbor When the morn was shining clear. James Thomas Fields. THE BAY OF BISCAY. OUD roared the dreaded thunder, The rain a deluge showers. The clouds were rent asunder By lightning's vivid powers ; The night both drear and dark, Our poor devoted bark, Till next day, there she lay. In the Bay of Biscay, O ! Now dashed upon the billow, Her opening timbers creak, Each fears a watery pillow, None stops the dreadful leak ; To cling to slippery shrouds Each breathless seaman crowds. As she lay, till the day, In the Bay of Biscay, O ! At length the wished-for morrow Broke through the hazy sky. Absorbed in silent sorrow, Each heaved a bitter sigh ; The dismal wreck to view Struck horror to the crew. As she lay, on that day. In the Bay of Biscay, O ! Her yielding timbers sever. Her pitchy seams are rent. When Heaven, all bounteous ever, Its boundless mercy sent — A sail in sight appears ! We hail her with three cheers ; Now we sail, with the gale. From the Bay of Biscay, O I Andrew Cherry. THE SEA-LIMITS. ONSIDER the sea's listless chime ; Time's self it is made audible, — The murmur of the earth s own shell, Secret continuance sublime Is the era's end. Our sight may pass No furlong farther. Since time was, This sound hath told the lapse of time. No quiet which is death's, — it hath The mournfulness of ancient life, Enduring always at dull strife. As the world's heart of rest and wrath. Its painful pulse is on the sands. Lost utterly, the whole sky stands Gray and not known along its path. Listen alone beside the sea, Listen alone among the woods ; Those voices of twin solitudes Shall have one sound alike to tliee. Hark where the murmurs of thronged men Surge and sink back and surge again, — Still the one voice of wave and tree. Gather a shell from the strewn beach. And listen at its lips ; they sigh The same desire and mystery. The echo of the whole sea's speech. And all mankind is thus at heart Not anything but what thou art ; And earth, sea, man, are all in each. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. GRANDEUR OF THE OCEAN. HE most fearful and impressive exhibitions of power known to our globe, belong to the ocean. The volcano, with its ascending flame and fall- Y ing torrents of fire, and the earthquake, whose footstep is on the ruin of cities, are circumscribed in the desolating range of their visitations. But the ocean, when it once rouses itself in its chainless strength, shakes a thousand shores with its storm and thunder. Navies of oak and iron are tossed in mockery from its crest, and armaments, manned by the strength and courage of millions, perish among its bubbles. SEA PICTURES. 221 The avalanche, shaken from its glittering steep, if it roll to the bosom of the earth, melts away, and is lost in vapor ; but if it plunge into the embrace of the ocean, this mountain mass of ice and hail is borne about for ages in tumult and terror ; it is the drifting monument of the ocean's dead. The tempest on land is impeded by forests, and broken by mountains ; but on the plain of the deep it rushes unresisted ; and when its strength is at last spent, ten thousand giant waves still roll its terrors onward. The mountain lake and the meadow stream are in- habited only by the timid prey of the angler ; but the ocean is the home of the leviathan— his ways are in the mighty deep. The glittering pebble and the rainbow- tinted shell, which the returning tide has left on the shore, and the watery gem which the pearl-diver reaches at the peril of his life, are all that man can filch from the treasures of the sea. The groves of coral which wave over its pavements, and the halls of amber which glow in its depths, are beyond his approaches, save, when he goes down there to seek, amid their si- lent magnificence, his burial monument. The islands, the continents, the shores of civilized and savage realms, the capitals of kings, are worn by time, washed away by the wave, consumed by the flame, or sunk by the earthquake ; but the ocean still remains, and still rolls on in the greatness of its una- bated strength. Over the majesty of its form and the marvel of its might, time and disaster have no power. Such as creation's dawn beheld, it rolleth now. The vast clouds of vapor which roll up from its bo- som, float away to encircle the globe; on distant mountains and deserts they pour out their watery trea- sures, which gather themselves again in streams and torrents, to return, with exhulting bounds, to their par- ent ocean. These are the messengers which proclaim in every land the exhaustless resources of the sea ; but it is reserved for those who go down in ships, and who do business on the great waters, to see the works of the Lord and his wonders in the deep. Let one go up upon deck in the middle watch of a still night, with naught above him but the silent and solemn skies, and naught around and beneath him but an interminable waste of waters, and with the convic- tion that there is but a plank between him and eternity, a feeling of loneliness, solitude, and desertion, mingled with a sentiment of reverence for the vast, mysterious and unknown, will come upon him with a power, all unknown before, and he might stand for hours en- tranced in reverence and tears. Man, also, has made the ocean the theatre of his power. The ship in which he rides that element, is one of the highest triumphs of his skill. At first, this floating fabric was only a frail bark, slowly urged by the laboring oar. The sail, at length, arose and spread its wings to the wind. Still he had no power to direct his course when the lofty promontory sunk from sight, or the orbs above him were lost in clouds. But the se- cret of the magnet is, at length, revealed to him, and his needle now settles, with a fixedness which love has stolen as the symbol of its constancy, to tlie polar star. Now, however, he can dispense even with sail, and wind, and flowmg wave. He constructs and propels his vast engines of flame and vapor, and, through the solitude of the sea, as over the solid land, goes thunder- ing on his track. On the ocean, too, thrones have been lost and won. On the fate of Actium was sus- pended the empire of the world. In the gult of Salamis, the pnde of Pei sia found a grave ; and the crescent set forever in the waters of Navarino ; while, at Trafalgar and the Nile, nations held their breath "As each gun From its adamantine lips. Spread a death-shade round the ships Like the hurricane's eclipse Of the sun." But, of all the wonders appertaining to the ocean, the greatest, perhaps, is its transfonning power on man. It unravels and weaves anew the web of his moral and social being. It invests him with feelings, associations, and habits, to which he has been an entire stranger. It breaks up the sealed fountain of his nature, and lifts his soul into features prominent as the cliffs which bee- tle over its surge. Once the adopted child of the ocean, he can never bring back his entire sympathies to land. He will still move in his dreams over that vast waste of waters, still bound in exultation and triumph through its foaming billows. All the other realities of life will be compara- tively tame, and he will sigh for his tossing element, as the caged eagle for the roar and arrowy light of his mountain cataract. Walter Colton. THE GREAT DEEP. |EAUTIFUL, sublime, and glorious ; Mild, majestic, foaming, free — Over time itself victorious. Image of eternity ! Sun and moon and stars shine o'er thee, See thy surface ebb and flow, Yet attempt not to explore thee In thy soundless depths below. Whether morning's splendors steep thee With the rainbow's glowing grace. Tempests rouse, or navies sweep thee, 'Tis but for a moment's space. Earth — her valleys and her mountains, Mortal man's behests obey ; The unfathomable fountains ScofT.his search and scorn his sway. Such art thou, stupendous ocean ! But, if overwhelmed by thee. Can we think, without emotion, What must thy Creator be ? Bernard Barton. 222 CROWN JEWELS. ON THE BEACH. 'HE sun is low, as ocean's flow Heaves to the strand in breakers white ; And sea-birds seek their wild retreat "^ Where cliffs reflect the fading light. The billow gleams in parting beams, And sighs upon the lonely shore , Whilst childhood stands upon the sands To greet the coming fisher's oar. Swift to my heart the waves impart Another dream of restless life , As some proud mind the fierce fates bind, Or doom to vain and endless strife. The waves are bright with peace to-night, And gladly bound 'neath summer's reign ; I tread the verge of the shelving surge, To muse upon its wild refrain. O deep ! thy winds, in murmuring chimes Sweet to my ear, my love implore , Thou dost enthral with siren call. And tempt me from thy peaceful shore ! Yes, o'er thy graves, thy heaving waves, A stern delight with danger dwells ; There's buoyant life amid thy strife, And rapture in thy lonely dells. E'en in thy wrath, thy surging path Hath peril's joy beyond thy shores I Amid the glare of thy despair, The soul above thy terror soars. But 'neath thy smile there's death and wile, The dark abyss, the waiting grave ! Thy surges close o'er human woes On distant strand, in secret cave ! Insatiate sea ! oh, where is she Who trod in love thy gathered sands ? Thou gavest her back as wreck and wrack, Pallid, to sad, imploring hands ! And where is he, O sea ! O sea ! Who dared thy treacherous crests to ride ? The quick command, the hastening hand. Were vain to rescue from thy tide ! Yet not in woe the plaint should go Against thee for the storm's behest ; Thou'rt but the slave when wild winds rave And tyrant tempests lash thy breast. Doomed in thy keen the fates to meet. Thou dost obey a mightier wrath ! Imperious sway commands thy way, And riots in its reckless path. Shall time's swift flight e'er stay thy might That dooms us to thy caves unblest ! Or God's right arm thy tides disarm, And soothe to peace thy long unrest ? No ' still thy waves with moaning staves ' Shall heave thy gray sands to the shore. And thou shalt roU o'er depth and shoal Forever and forevermore ! William Whitehead BY THE SEA 'T is a beauteous evening, calm and free , The holy time is quiet as a nun Breathless with adoration ■, the broad sun Is sinking down in its tranquility ; The gentleness of heaven is on the sea; Listen ! the mighty being is awake. And doth with his eternal motion make A sound like thunder — everlastingly. Dear child I dear girl ! that walk'st with me here. If thou appear untouched by solemn thought Thy nature is not therefore less divine : Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, And worship'st at the Temple's inner shrine, God being with thee when we know it not. William Wordsworth ON THE LOSS OF "THE ROYAL GEORGE WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVED ' 1782 *OLL 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. A land-breeze shook the shrouds, And she was overset. Down went the Royal George, With all her crew complete. Toll for the brave ! Brave Kempenfelt 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 Kempenfelt went down With twice four hundred men. SEA PICTURES. 223 Weigh the vessel up, Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup The tear that England owes. Her timbers yet are sound, And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder, And plough the distant main. But Kempenfelt is gone; His victories are o'er ; And he and his eight hundred Shall plough the wave no more. William Cowper. THE SHIPWRECK. ' N vain the cords and axes were prepared. For now the audacious seas insult the yard ; High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade And o'er her burst in terrible cascade. Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies, Her shattered top half buried in the skies, Then headlong plunging thunders on the ground ; Earth groans ! air trembles ! and the deeps resound ! Her giant-bulk the dread concussion feels, And quivering with the wound in torment reels. So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes, The bleeding bull beneath the murderer's blows. Again she plunges ! hark ! a second shock Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock : Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries. The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes In wild despair ; while yet another stroke, With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak ; Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell The lurking demons of destruction dwell. At length asunder torn her frame divides, And, crashing, spreads in ruin o'er the tides. O, were it mine with tuneful Maro's art To wake to sympathy the feeling heart ; Like him the smooth and mournful verse to dress In all the pomp of exquisite distress, Then too severely taught by cruel fate. To share in all the perils I relate, Then might I with unrivalled strains deplore The impervious horrors of a leeward shore ! As o'er the surge the stooping mainmast hung. Still oa the rigging thirty seamen clung ; Some, struggling, on a broken crag were cast, And there by oozy tangles grappled fast. Awhile they bore the o'erwhelming billows' rage, Unequal combat with their fate to wage ; Till, all benumbed and feeble, they forego Their slippery hold, and smk to shades below. Some, from the main-yard arm impetuous thrown On marble ridges, die without a groan. Three with Palemon on their skill depend, And from the wreck on oars and rafts descend. Now on the mountain wave on high they ride. Then downward plunge beneath the involving tide, Till one, who seems in agony to strive. The whirling breakers heave on shore alive; The rest a speedier end of anguish knew, And pressed the stony beach, a lifeless crew ! William Falconer. THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION. NE flight 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, Wliat 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, — While you and I, Bill, on the deck Are comfortably lying, My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots Above 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. THE DISAPPOINTED LOVER. WILL go back to the great sweet mother — Mother and lover of men, the sea. I will go down to her, I and none other. Close with her, kiss her, and mix her with me ; Cling to her, strive with her, hold her fast. O fair white mother, in days long past Born without sister, born without brother. Set free my soul as thy soul is free. 224 CROWN JEWELS. fair green-girdled mother of mine, Sea, that art clothed with the sun and the rain, Thy sweet hard kisses are strong like wine, Thy large embraces are keen like pain. Save me and hide me with all thy waves, Find me one grave of thy thousand graves, Those pure cold populous graves of thine — Wrought without hand in a world without stain. 1 shall sleep, and move with the moving ships, Change as the winds change, veer in the tide ; My lips will feast on the foam of thy lips, I shall rise with thy rising, with thee subside ; Sleep, and not know if she be, if she were — Filled full with life to the eyes and hair, As a rose is full filled to the rose-leaf tips With splendid summer and perfume and pride. This woven raiment of nights and days. Were it once cast off and unwound from me. Naked and glad would I walk in thy ways. Alive and aware of thy waves and thee ; Clear of the whole world, hidden at home, Clothed with the green, and crowned with the foam, A pulse of the life of thy straits and bays, A vein in the heart of the streams of the sea. Algernon Charles Swinburne. THE LONG VOYAGE. 'HE mackerel boats sailed slowly out Into the darkening sea, But the gray gull's flight was landward, "f" The kestrel skimmed the lea. Strange whisperings were in the air ; And though no leaflet stirred, The echo of the distant storm, The moaning sough, was heard. It came — the swift-winged hurricane — Bursting upon the shore, Till the wild bird's nest and the fisher's cot All trembled at its roar. And women wept, and watched and wept, And prayed for the night to wane ; And watched and prayed, though the setting sun Lit up the window-pane. " A sail ! " That sail is not for you ; It slowly fades away. The sun may set ; the moon may rise ; The night may turn to day ; Slow years roll by, and the solemn stars Glide on — but all in vain ! They have sailed away on a long, long voyage ; They'll never come back again. Sam Slick, Jr. DOVER BEACH. HE sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the Straits ; — on the French coast, the t light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window ; sweet is the night air ! Only from the long line of spray Where the ebb meets the moon-blanched sand, Listen I you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling, At their return upon the high strand. Begin and cease, and then again begin. With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Matthew Arnold. ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN. THOU vast ocean ! ever sounding sea ! Thou symbol of a drear immensity? Thou thing that windest round the solid -^ world Like a huge animal, which, downward hurled From the black clouds, lies weltering and alone. Lashing and writhing till its strength be gone ! Thy voice is like the thunder, and thy sleep Is as a giant's slumber, loud and deep. Thou speakest in the East and in the West At once, and on thy heavily laden breast Fleets come and go, and shapes that have no life Or motion, yet are moved and meet in strife. The earth has naught of this : no chance or change Ruffles its surface, and no spirits dare Give answer to the tempest wakened air ; But o'er its wastes the weakly tenants range At will, and wound its bosom as they go; Ever the same, it hath no ebb, no flow : But in their stated rounds the seasons come, And pass like visions to their wonted home ; And come again, and vanish ; the young Spring Looks ever bright with leaves and blossoming ; And Winter always winds his sullen horn, When the wild Autumn, with a look forlorn. Dies in his stormy manhood ; and the skies Weep, and flowers sicken, when the summer flies. O, wonderful thou art, great element. And fearful in thy spleeny humors bent. And Jovely in repose ! thy summer form Is beautiful, and when thy silver waves Make music in earths dark and winding caves, 1 love to wander on thy pebbled beach, Marking the sunlight at the evening hour, And hearken to the thoughts thy waters teach, — Eternity — eternity — and power. Bryan W. Procter {Barry Cornwall). SEA PICTURES. 225 THE SEA-SHORE. HAVE seen a curious child, who dweft upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell To which in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely ; and his countenance soon Brightened with joy ; for from within were heard Murmurings whereby the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea. Even such a shell the universe itself Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things ; Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; And central peace, subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. William Wordsworth. © THE CORAL GROVE. EEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow : From coral rocks the sea-plants lift Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; The water is calm and still below. For the winds and the waves are absent there, And the sands are bright as the stars that glow In the motionless fields of upper air : There with its waving blade of green, The sea-flag streams through the silent water. And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen To blush like a banner bathed in slaughter : There with a light and easy motion The fan coral sweeps through the clear deep sea ; And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean Are bending like corn on the upland lea ; And life, in rare and beautiful forms. Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms Has made the top of the waves his own : And when the ship from his fury flies, When the myriad voices of ocean roar. When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies. And demons are waiting the wreck on the shore. Then, far below, in the peaceful sea. The purple mullet and gold-fish rove. Where the waters murmur tranquilly Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. James Gates Percival. (15) THE mCHCAPE ROCK. O 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 blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The sun in heaven was shining gay. All things were joyful on tliat day ; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round And there was joyance in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green ; Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck And 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 Rover'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'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok. " The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; Sir Ralpli 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. On the deck the Rover takes his stand So dark it is they see no land. 22G CROWN JEWELS. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon." 'Can'st 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 curst 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. Robert Southev. TO SEA! *0 sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er, The wanton water leaps in sport. And rattles down the pebbly shore, The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, And unseen mermaid's pearly song Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar : To sea ! to sea ! the calm is o'er. To sea ! to sea ! our white-winged bark Shall billowing cleave its watery way, And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Triton's azure day. Like mountain eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height. The anchor heaves ! The ship swings free, Our sails swell full ! To sea ! to sea ! Thomas Lovell Beddoes. SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN BERMUDA. W HERE the remote Bermudas ride In the ocean's bosom unespied. From a small boat that rowed along The listening winds received this song : "What should we do but sing His praise That led us through the watery maze Where he the huge sea monsters wracks. That lift the deep upon their backs, Unto an isle so long unknown. And yet far kinder than our own ? He lands us on a grassy stage. Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage ; He gave us this eternal spring Which here enamels everything, And sends the fowls to us in care On daily visits through the air. He hangs in shades the orange bright Like golden lamps in a green night. And does in the pomegranates close Jewels more rich than Ormus shows : He makes the figs our mouths to meet, And throws the melons at our feet ; But apples, plants of such a price, No tree could ever bear them twice. With cedars chosen by his hand From Lebanon he stores the land ; And makes the hollow seas that roar Proclaim the ambergris on shore. He cast (of which we rather boast) The Gospel's pearl upon our coast ; And in these rocks for us did frame A temple where to sound his name ; O, let our voice his praise exalt Till it arrive at heaven's vault, Which then perhaps rebounding may Echo beyond the Mexique bay ! " — Thus sung they in the English boat A holy and a cheerful note ; And all the way, to guide their chime, With falling oars they kept the time. Andrew Marvell. STANZAS ON THE SEA. H ! I shall not forget until memory depart, When first I beheld it, the glow of my heart ; The wonder, the awe, the delight that stole o'er me, When its billowy boundlessness opened before me. As I stood on its margin, or roamed on its strand, I felt new ideas within me expand, Of glory and grandeur, unknown till that hour, And my spirit was mute in the presence of power ! In the surf-beaten sands that encircled it round, In the billow's retreat, and the breakers rebound, In its white-drifted foam, and its dark-heaving green, Each moment I gazed, some fresh beauty was seen. And thus, while I wandered on ocean's bleak shore, And surveyed its vast surface, and heard its waves roar, I seemed wrapt in a dream of romantic delight. And haunted by majesty, glory and might ! Bernard Bartow. (3 SEA-WEED. WEARY weed, tossed to and fro. Drearily drenched in the ocean brine, Soaring high and sinking low, Lashed along without will of mine ; Sport of the spume of the surging sea. Flung on the foam, afar and anear, Mark my manifold mystery — Growth and grace in their place appear. SEA PICTURES. 227 I bear round berries, gray and red, Rootless and rover though I be ; My spangled leaves, when nicely spread Arboresce as a trunkless tree ; Corals curious coat me o'er, White and hard in apt array ; Mid the wild waves' rude uproar Gracefully grow I, night and day. Hearts there are on the sounding shore. Something wiiispers soft to me, Restless and roaming forevermore, Like this wenry weed of the sea ; Bear they yet on each beating breast The eternal type of the wondrous whole. Growth unfolding amidst unrest, Grace informing with silent soul. Cornelius George Fenner. THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS. BAILED from the Downs in the " Nancy," My jib how she smacked through the breeze ! She's a vessel as tight to my fancy As ever sailed on the salt seas. So adieu to the white clilTs of Britain, Our girls and our dear native shore ! For if some hard rock we should split on, We shall never see them any more. But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow, high or low. Our duty keeps us to our tethers, And where the gale drives we must go. When we entered the Straits of Gibraltar I verily thought she'd have sunk, For the wind began so for to alter. She yawed just as tho' she was drunk, The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, Htlm aweather, the hoarse boatswain cries ; Brace the foresail athwart, see she quivers. As through the rough tempest she flies. But sailors were born for all weathers. Great guns let it blow, high or low. Our duly keeps us to our tethers. And where the gale drives we must go. The storm came on thicker and faster, As black just as pitch was the sky, When truly a doleful disaster Befel three poor sailors and L Ben Buntline. Sam Shroud and Dick Handsail, By a blast that came furious and hard. Just while we were furling the mainsail. Were every soul swept from the yard. But sailors were born for all weathers, Great guns let it blow, high or low. Our duty keeps us to our tethers. And where the gale drives we must go. Poor Ben, Sam, and Dick cried "peccavi," As for I, at the risk of my neck — While they s.nnk down in peace to old Davy — Caught a rt'pe, and so landed on deck. Well, what would you have ? We were stranded. And out of a fine jolly crew Of three hundred that sailed, never landed But I and, I think, twenty-two. But sailors were born for all weathers. Great guns let it blow, high or low. Our duty keeps us to our tethers, And where the gale drives we must go. Charles Dibdin. THE "ATLANTIC." The good steamship " Atlantic " was wrecked on the coast of Newfoundland, and sevcnil hundred lives were lost. build her long and narrow and deep ! She shall cut the sea with a scimetar's sweep, Whatever betides and whoever may weep 1 Bring out the red wine ! Lift the glass to the lip ! With a roar of great guns, and a " I lip 1 hip ! Hurrah ! " for the craft, we will christen the ship ! Dash a draught on the bow ! Ah, the spar of white wood Drips into the sea till it colors the flood With the very own double and symbol of blood ! Now out with the name of the monarch gigantic That shall queen it so grandly when surges are frantic ! Child of fire and of iron, God save the "Atlantic !" All aboard, my fine fellows! "Up anchor!" the word — Ah, never again shall that order be heard. For two worlds will be mourning you gone to a third ! To the trumpet of March wild gallops the sea ; The white-crested troopers are under the lee — Old World and New World and Soul-World are three. Great garments of rain wrap the desolate night ; Sweet heaven disastered is lost to the sight ; "Atlantic," crash on in the pride of thy might ! Willi thy look-out's dim cry, "One o'clock, and all right!" Ho, down with the hatches ! The seas come aboard i All together they come, like a passion.ite word. Like pirates that put every soul to the sword ! Their black flag all abroad makes murky the air. But the ship parts the night as a maiden her hair — Through and through tiie thick gloom, from land hcrj to land there, Like the shuttle that weaves for a mourner to wear ! Good-night, proud " Atlantic ! " One tick of the clock, And a staggering craunch and a shivering shock — 'Tis the flint and the steel ! 'Tis the ship and the rock ! 228 CROWN JEWELS. Deathless sparks are struck out from the bosoms of girls, From the stout heart of manhood, in scintilLint whirls, Like the stars of the flag when the banner unfurls ! What hundreds went up unto God in their sleep ! What hundreds in agony baffled the deep — Nobody to pray and nobody to weep ! Alas for the flag of the single " White Star," With light pale and cold as the woman's hands are WhOj froze in the shrouds, flashed her jewels afar. Lost her hold on the world, and then clutched at a spar ! God of mercy and grace ! How the bubbles come up With souls from the revel, who stayed not to sup ; Death drank the last toast, and then shattered the cup ! Benjamin F. Taylor. THE SHIPWRECKED SAILORS. 'HE floods are raging, and the gales blow high, Low as a dungeon-roof impends the sky ; Prisoners of hope, between the clouds and "^ waves, Six fearless sailors man yon boat that braves Peril redoubling upon peril past ; — From childhood nurslings of the wayward blast, Aloft as o'er a buoyant arch they go. Whose keystone bieaks — as deep they plunge below ; Unyielding, though the strength of man be vain ; Struggling, though borne like^surf along the main ; In front, a battlement of rocks ; in rear, Billow on billow bounding ; near, more near, They verge to ruin ; — life and death depend On the next impulse — shrieks and prayers ascend. James Montgomery. © THE BEACON LIGHT. ARKNESS was deepening o'er the seas, And still the hulk drove on ; No sail to answer to the breeze, — Her masts and cordage gone : Gloomy and drear her course of fear, — Each looked but for a grave, — When, full in sight, the beacon-light Came streaming o'er the wave. And gayly of the tale they told. When they were safe on shore ; How hearts had sunk, and hopes grown cold. Amid the billows' roar ; When not a star had shone from far, By its pale beam to save, Then, full in sight, the beacon-light Came streaming o'er the wave. Then wildly rose the gladdening shout Of all that hardy crew ; Boldly they put the helm about, And through the surf they flew. Storm was forgot, toil heeded not, And loud the cheer they gave, As, full in sight, the beacon-light Came streaming o'er the wave. Thus, in the night of nature's gloom. When sorrow bows the heart, When cheering hopes no more illume. And comforts all depart ; Then from afar shines Bethlehem's star, With cheering light to save ; And, full in sight, its beacon-light Comes streaming o'er the grave. Julia Pardoe. AT SEA. 'HE night is made for cooling shade, For silence, and for sleep ; And when I was a child, I laid My hands upon my breast, and prayed, And sank to slumbers deep : Childlike as then I lie to-night. And watch my lonely cabin-light. Each movement of the swaying lamp Shows how the vessel reels : As o'er her deck the billows tramp, And all her timbers strain and cramp With every shock she feels. It starts and shudders, while it burns. And in its hinged socket turns. Now swinging slow and slanting low, It almost level lies ; And yet I know, while to and fro I watch the seaming pendule go With restless fall and rise. The steady shaft is still upright, Poising its little globe of light. hand of God ! O lamp of peace ! O promise of my soul 1 Though weak, and tossed, and ill at ease. Amid the roar of smiting seas. The ship's convulsive roll, 1 own with love and tender awe Yon perfect type of faith and law. A heavenly trust my spirit calms, My soul is filled with light : The Ocean sings his solemn psalms. The wild winds chant : I cross my palms, Happy as if to-night Under the cottage roof again I heard the soothing summer rain. John Townsend Trowbridge. SEA PICTURES. 229 RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. An Ancient Mariner meeteth three ^aI• lants hidden to a wed- ding feast. And detain- cth one. The Wed- ding-Guest is spcll- tuund by the eye of tlic old sea- faring; man, and con- strained 13 hea- his The Mari. ner tells how the ship sailed southward with a gooa wind and fair weathci- tillit reached th.^ line. The Wed- ding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale. The ship drawn by a storm to- ward the kouth pole. PART I. Y* T is an Ancient Mariner, •^* And he stoppeth one of three. •!» "By thy long gray l>eard and glittering I eye, Now wherefore stoppest thou me ? The bridegroom's doors are opened wide. And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set — Mayst hear the merry din." He holds him with a skinny hand : " There was a ship," quoth he. " Hold off! unhand me, graybeard loon ! " Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still ; He listens like a three years' child ; The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone — He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner : " The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared ; Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill. Below the light-house top. The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he ; And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea ; Higher and higher every dav. Till over the mast at noon " The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The Bride hath paced into the hall — Red as a rose is she ; Nodding their heads before her goes Thfe merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner : " And now the Storm -blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong ; He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow — As who pursued with j'ell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head — The ship drove fast ; loud roared the blast. And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow And it grew wondrous cold ; And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifTs Did send a dismal sheen ; Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. , The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was all around ; It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. Like noises in a swound ! At length did cross an Albatross—- Thorough the fog it came ; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; The helmsman steered us through ! And a good south wind sprung up behind ; The Albatross did follow. And every day, for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo ! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moonshine." " God save thee, Ancient Mariner ! From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — Why look'st thou so?"— "With my cross- bow I shot the Albatross. The sun now rose upon the right : Out of the sea came he. Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow. Nor any day, for food or pl^y, Came to the mariners' hollo ! And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe : For all averred I had killed the bifid That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! The land of ice and of fearful sounds where no Till a ereat sea-bird, called the Albatross came throuijh the snow- fog, and vas received with K^eat joy and hos pitality. And 1o! tlie Albatross Erovcth a ird of go-d omen, and foUoweth the ship as it returned northward throu'^h fofr and floating tee. TheAncient Mariner in- hospitably killcth the pious bird of good omen. His ship- mates cry out against the A:»ciem M iriner. fiu killin)( tlie bird ol good luck. 230 CROWN JEWELS. But when , tile foj; cleared ofl, they juscir]r the same, and thus nnke them- selves ac- complices in the crime. The fair breeze con- tinues; the ihil> enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails north- ward, even till it reach- es the line. Tlie ship hath been suddenly becalmed; and the Albatross begins to be avenged. A Spirit had fol- lowed them; one of the invisi- ble inhabit- ants of this planet, neither de- parted souls nor angels. They are very numer- ous, and there is no climate or element without one The ship- mates, in 'their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the An- cient Mari- ner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. The Ancient Mariner be- huldetii a sign in the •lemeatafar Nor dim nor red, like God's own head The glorious sun uprist : 1 hen all averred, I had killed the bird Tiiat brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down — 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea. All in a hot and copper sky The bloody sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck — nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot; O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea ! About, about, in reel and rout, The death-fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils. Burnt green, and blue, and white. And some in dreams assurM were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross the Albatross About my neck was hung. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye — A weary time ! a weary time ! How glazed each weary eye !— When, looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. A flash of ioy. And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes on- ward with- out wind or tidet At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist ; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist — A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared ; As if it dodged a water-sprite. It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, *' •*» "«*"■ ' *^ ' er approach We could nor laugh nor wail ; hi" t"'b?a Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! a"(lear"rai^ I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, fr°e™ h'his And cried, ' A sail ! a sail ! ' Jh^l'i'nds"^ thirst. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call ; Gramercy 1 they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. ' See ! see ! ' I cried, ' she tacks no more ! ' Hither to work us weal — Without a breeze, without a tide. She steadies with upright keel ! ' The western wave was all a-flame; The day was well nigh done ; Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun. When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas ! thought I — and my heart beat loud — How fast she nears and nears ! Are those her sails that glance in the sun, Like restless gossamers ? Are those her ribs through which the sun Did peer, as tlirough a grate ? And is that woman all her crew ? Is that a death ? and are there two ? Is Death that woman's mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her loclcs were yellow as gold ; Her skin was as white as leprosy : The night-mare, Life-in-Death, was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came. And the twain were casting dice : ' The game is done. I've won ! I've won ! ' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out ; At one stride comes the dark ; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Otf shot the spectre-bark. It seeroeth him liutth* skeleton of a ship. And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting sun. The spec- tre-woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew 1 Death and Life-iu- Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) win- neth the An- cient Mari- ner. No twilight within the couruof tha ■un. SEA PICTURES. 231 At the rising o^ the moon. We listened and looked sideways up ! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip ! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; From the sails the dew did drip — Till clombe above the eastern bar. The horned moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged moon. Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men (And I heard nor sigh nor groan,) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly — They fled to bliss or woe ! And every soul, it passed me by. Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " PART IV. " I fear thee, Ancient Mariner ! I fear thy skinny hand ! And thou art long, and lank, and brown As is tlie ribbed sea-sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye. And thy skinny hand so brown." — " Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men so beautiful ! And they all dead did lie : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did L I looked upon the rotting sea. And drew my eyes away ; ^t theT I looked upon the rotting deck, . should live, ... i t j t and so many And there the dead men lay. lie dead. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But, or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky. Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet me after another. his ship- mates drop ^wn dead. But Life-in- Death be- gins her worlc on the Ancient Mariner. The Wed- ding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him; but the An- cient Mari- ner assureth him of his bodily life, and pro- ceedeth to relate his horrible penance. He despis- eth the creatures of the calm ; The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they : The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I conld not die. The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide : Softly she was going up. And a star or two beside — Her beams bemocked the sultry main. Like April hoar-frost spread ; But where tlie ship's huge shadow lay The charmed water burnt alway, A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship I watched the water-snakes ; They moved in tracks of shining white ; And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire — Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. They coiled and swam ; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare ; A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware — Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. The selfsame moment I could pray ; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. PART V. SLEEP I it is a gentle thing. Beloved from pole to pole ! To Mary Queen the praise be given ! She sent the gentle sleep from heaven That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck. That had so long remained, 1 dreamt that ihey were filled with dew ; And when I awoke, it ramed. My lips were wet, my throat was cold My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams And still my body drank. But the curse liretb fur him in the eye of the dead men. In his loneliness and fiexd- ness he yearnctli towards the journeying fiirM)tt, and the stars that still sojourn , yst he behold- ech Cod's creatures of the great calm. Their beaa- ty and that happtoASS. He blessetb them in hi* heart. The spell begins t» break. By grace mt the holy Mother, the Ancient Mariner is refreshed wiih raia. 232 CROWN JEWELS. He heareth sounds and seeeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the ele- ments. The bodies of the ship's crew are in- spired, and the ship moves on; fiut not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spif- itf, sent down by the invocation v{ the ifuar* ttian samt. I moved, and could not feel my limbs • I was so light — almost I thought that I had died in sleep. And was a blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind — It did not come anear ; But with its sound it shook the sails. That were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life ; And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about ; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud — The moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The moon was at its side ; Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag — A river steep and wide. The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on ! Beneath the lightning and the moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose — Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; Yet never a breeze up blew ; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. Where they were wont to do ; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — We were a ghastly crew. The Body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee : The Body and I pulled at one rope. But he said naught to me." " I fear thee, Ancient Mariner ! " " Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 'T was not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again. But a troop of spirits blest : For when it dawned — they dropped their arms. And clustered round the mast ; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the sun ; Slowly the sounds came back again. Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky, I heard the skylark sing ; Sometimes all little birds that are. How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! And now 't was like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on. Yet never a breeze did breathe : Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep. From the land of mist and snow. The Spirit slid : and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off" their tune, And the ship stood still also. The sun, right up above the mast. Had fixed Iier to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir. With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go. She made a sudden bound : It flung the blood into my head And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, I heard, and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. 'Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man ? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross ! The Spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The lone- some spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as tne line, in obe- dience to the angelic troop, but still requir- eth ven- geance. The Polar Spirit's fel- low-de- mons, the invisible in- habitants d theolcmci , talf them rela.e, one to tlie other, that f)cn.ince ong and heavy for the Ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who rettimeth southwiird. SEA PICTURES. 233 The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.' PART VI. FIRST VOICB. TheMarinet hath been cast into a trance ; for the angelic power caus- eth the ves- sel to drive northward faster than human life could en- dure. ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again, Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast ? What is the ocean doing ? ' SECOND VOICE. ' Still as a slave before his lord. The ocean hath no blast ; His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast — If he may know which way to go ; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see ! how graciously She looketh down on him.' FIRST VOICB. ' But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind ?' SECOND VOICE. ' The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated ; For slow and slow that ship will go. When the Mariner's trance is abated.' The super- I woke, and we were sailing on natural mo* « . ., .1 _ tion is re- As m E gentle weather ; Marfne'r ' ° 'Twas night, Calm night — the moon was high ; h!s*plnan"e The dead men stood together. begins anew. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter ; All fixed on me their stony eyes. That in the moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away ; I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. _^ And now this spell was snapt ; once more The curse is _ "^ '^ ' finally ex- I vicwcd the oceaii ereen, puted. ° ' And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And, having once turned round, walks on. And turns no more his head ; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me. Nor sound nor motion made ; Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek, Like a meadow-gale of spring — It mmgled strangely with my fears. Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. Yet she sailed softly too ; Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. O dream of joy ! is this indeed The light-house top 1 see j" Is this the hill f is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o'er the harbor-bar. And I with sobs did pray — let me be awake, my God ! Or let me sleep alway. The harbor-bay was clear as glass. So smoothly it was strewn ! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less That stands above the rock ; Thsi moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were. In crimson colors came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were : 1 turned my eyes upon the deck — Christ 1 what saw I there 1 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph man. On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand : It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land, E^ch one a lovely light ;^ , This seraph band, each waved his hand. No voice did they impart — No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, 1 heard the pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away. And I saw a boat appear. And the An- cient Mari- ner behold- eth his ni- tivecoBntiK The angelic luirits leave the dead bodies, and appear in their owm forms of light. 334 CROWN JEWELS. The hermit ot the wood The pilot and the pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast : Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third— I heard his voice • It is the hermit good ! He singeth loud his Godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrivee my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross' blood. PART VII. This hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skifT-boat neared : I heard them talk, ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those lights so many and fair That signal made but now?' approacheth 'Strange, by my faith ! ' the hermit said — the ship 1 with won. 'And they answered not our cheer ! The planks looked warped I and see those sails How thin they are and sere ! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest- brook along ; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young.' ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look (The pilot made reply) — I am a-feared.' — ' Push on, push on ! ' Said the hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. "* The ship auddenlj Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread : , It reached the ship, it split the bay ; The ship went down like lead. The Ancient Stunucd by that loud and dreadful sound, Manner is •' Si't? '" "\« Which sky and ocean smote, pilot s boat. ■' ' Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the pilot's boat. Upon the whirl where sank the ship The boat span round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips — the pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit ; Tlie holy hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars ; the pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long ; and all the while His eyes went to and fro : *.Ha I ha ! ' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.' And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land ! The hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. 'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man P — The hermit crossed his brow : 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou ? ' Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale — And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns ; And till my ghastly tale is told This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see I know the man that must hear me — To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding-guests are there ; But in the garden-bower the Bride And bride-maids singing are ; And hark the little vesper bell. Which biddeth me to prayer ! O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea — So lonely 't was, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'T is sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — The Ancient Mirjiicreir- nesily cn- trcatctli ilie liermit to and tlieiwn- anceoflile falls uniiim. And CYcr and aiioa throughout his future- life an u^o- ny con- straincth him to travel from land to land. SEA PICTURES. 235 To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray. While each to his great Father bends — Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay ! Md toteach Farcwell ! farewell ! but this I tell* by his own example. To thee, thou Weddnig-Guest ! love and ' ^ rererenceto J-Jc prayCth Well who lOVCth Wcll Both man and bird and beast. all things that God made and V»reth. He prayeth best who loveth best All things both great and small ; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all." The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar. Is gone. And now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the Bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn ; A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. POOR JACK. ^TKt O, patter to lubbers and swabs, do ye see, 1*4^1 'Bout danger, and fear, and the like ; ^ ^ A tight-water boat and good sea room give me, And it a'n't to a little I'll strike. Though the tempest topgallant-masts smack smooth should smite. And shiver each splinter of wood, Clear the deck, stow the yards, and bouse everything tight. And under reefed foresail we'll scud : Avast ! nor don't think me a milksop so soft To be taken for trifles aback ; For they say there's a Providence sits up aloft, To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! I heard our good chaplain palaver one day, About souls, heaven, mercy, and such ; And, my timbers ! what lingo he'd coil and belay ; Why, 't was just all as one as High Dutch ; For he said how a sparrow can't founder, d'ye see. Without orders that come down below ; And a many fine things that proved clearly to me That Providence takes us in tow : "For," says he, do you mind me, "let storms e'er so oft Take the topsails of sailors aback. There's a sweet little cherub that sits up aloft. To keep watch for tlie life of poor Jack ! " I said to our Poll — for, d'ye see, she would cry — When last we weighed anchor for sea. "What argufies sniveling and piping your eye? Why, what a blamed fool you must be ! Can't you see, the world's wide, and there's room for us all, Both for seamen and lubbers ashore ? And if to old Davy, I should go, friend Poll, You never will hear of me more. What then ? All's a hazard : come, don't be so soft : Perhaps I may laughing come back ; For, d'ye see, there's a cherub sits smiling aloft. To keep watch for the life of poor Jack ! " D'ye mind me, a sailor should be every inch All as one as a piece of the ship, And with her brave the world, not offering to flinch From the moment the anchor's a-ti ip. As for me, in all weathers, all times, sides, and ends. Naught's a trouble from duty that springs. For my heart is my Poll's, and my rhino's my friend's. And as for my will, 't is the king's. Even when my time comes, ne'er believe me so soft As lor grief to be taken aback ; For the same little cherub that sits up aloft Will look out a good berth for poor Jack ! Charles Dibdin. NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR. LOVE contemplating — apart From all his homicidal glory — The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's glory ! 'Twas when his banners at Boulogne Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman. They suffered him — I know not how — Unprisoned on the shore to roam ; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home. His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over ; With envy i/iry could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover. A stormy midnight watch, he thought. Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the .storm his vessel brought To England nearer. At last, when care had banished sleep. He saw one morning, dreaming, doting, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating ; He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day laborious; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat By mighty working. 23G CROWN JEWELS. Heaven help as ? 't was a thing beyond Description wretched ; such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry. For, ploughing in the s ilt-sea field. It would have made tne boldest shudder ; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled — No sail, no rudder. From neighboring woods he interlaced His sorry skifTwith wattled wiilows ; And ihus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows — But Frenchmen caught him on the bt^ach, His little Argo sorely jeering ; fill tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing. With folded arms Napoleon stood. Serene alike in peace and danger ; And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger : — *> Rash man, that wouldst yon channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashionwd^ rhy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned." " 1 have no sweetheart," said the lad ; " But — absent long from one another-^ Great was the longing that I had To see my mother." " And so thou shalt," Napoleon said, " Ye've both my favor fairly won ; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son." He gave the tar a piece of gold. And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed. Our sailor oft could scarcely shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty, But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte. Thomas Campbell. llJ SUNRISE AT SEA. HEN the mild weather came, And set the sea on flame. How often would I rise before the sun. And from the masts behold The gradual splendors of the sky unfold, Ere the first line of disk had yet begun, Above the horizon's arc, To show its flaming gold. Across the purple dark 1 One perfect dawn how well I recollect, When the whole East was flecked With flashing streaks and shafts of amethyst, While a light crimson mist Went up before the mountain luminary, And all tlie strips of cloud began to vary Their hues, and all the zenith seemed to open. As if to show a cope beyond the cope ! How reverently calm the ocean lay At the bright birth of that celestial day ! How every little vapor, robed in state, Would melt and dissipate Before the augmenting ray, Till the victorious orb rose unattended. And every billow was his mirror splendid ! Epes Sargent. (2 THE STORM. EASE, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! List, ye landsman 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 halyards stand ! Down top-gallants quick be hauling ! Down your stay-sails — hand, boys, hand ! Now it freshens, set the braces. Quick the topsail-sheets let go ; Luff", boys, luff ! don't make wry faces, Up your topsails nimbly clew. Round us roars the tempest louder. Think what fear our minds inthralls ! Harder yet it blows, still harder, Now again the boatswain calls. The topsail-yard point to the wind, boys See all clear to reef each course ; Let the foresheet go — don't mind, boys, Though the weather should be worse. Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get, Reef the mizzen, see all clear ; Hand up, each preventer-brace set ! Man the foreyards, cheer, lads, cheer ! Now the dreadful thunder's roaring. Peal on peal contending clash. On our heads fierce rain falls pouring, In our eyes blue lightnings flash. SEA PICTURES. 237 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 1 While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, We our wives and children mourn ; Alas ! from hence there's no retreating, Alas ! to them 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. O'er the lee-beam is the land, boys, Let the guns o'erboard be thrown ; To the pumps call 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's rights 1 she's rights, boys ! we're offshore, George Alexander Stevens. THE SEA IN CALM AND STORM. ARIOUS and vast, sublime in all its forms, [!^^ When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms ; Its colors changing, when from clouds and sun Shades after shades upon the surface run ; Embrowned and horrid now, and now serene In limpid blue and evanescent green ; And oft the foggy banks on ocean lie, Lift the fair sail, and cheat the experienced eye ! Be it the summer noon ; a sandy space The ebbing tide has left upon its place ; Then just the hot and stony beach above. Light, twinkling streams in bright confusion move ; (For, heated thus, the warmer air ascends, And with the cooler in its fall contends). Then the broad bosom of the ocean keeps An equal motion ; swelling as it sleeps, Then slowly sinking ; curling to the strand, Faint, lazy waves o'ercreep the ridgy sand, Or tap the tarry boat with gentle blow, And back return in silence, smooth and slow. Ships in the calm seem anchored ; for they glide On the still sea, urged solely by the tide. View now the winter storm ! Above, one cloud, Black and unbroken, all the skies o'ershroud ; The unwieldly porpoise, through the day before. Had rolled in view of boding men on shore ; And sometimes hid and sometimes showed his form, Dark as the cloud, and furious as the storm. All where the eye delights, yet dreads, to roam The breaking billows cast the flying foam Upon the billows rising — all the deep Is restless change— the waves, so swelled and steep, Breaking and sinking and the sunken swells, Nor one, one moment, in its station dwells : But nearer land you may the billows trace. As if contending in their watery chase ; May watch the mightiest till the shoal they reach, Then break and hurry to their utmost stretch ; Curled as they come, they strike with furious force, And then, reflowing, take their grating course, Raking the rounded flints, which ages past Rolled by their rage, and shall to ages last. Far off, the petrel, in the troubled way. Swims with her brood, or flutters in the spray ; She rises often, often drops again, And sports at ease on the tempestuous main. High o'er the restless deep, above the reach Of gunner's hope, vast flights of wild ducks stretch ; Far as the eye can glance on either side. In a broad space and level line they glide ; All in their wedge-like figures from the north. Day after day, flight after flight, go forth. Inshore their passage tribes of sea-gulls urge, And drop for prey within the sweeping surge ; Oft in the rough, opposing blast they fly Far back, then turn, and all their force apply, While to the storm they give their weak, complaining cry; Or clap the sleek white pinion to the breast, And in the restless ocean dip for rest. George Crabbe. A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. LIFE on the ocean wave, A home on the rolling deep ; Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep ! Like an angel caged I pine, On this dull, unchanging shore : O, 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. We shoot through the sparkling foam, Like an ocean-bird set free, — Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea. 238 CROWN JEWELS. The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown ; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll 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. NIGHT AT SEA. 'HE lovely purple of the noon's bestowing Has vanished from the waters, where it flung ^ A royal color, such as gems are throwing Tyrian or regal garniture among. 'Tis night, and overhead the sky is gleaming. Through the slight vapor trembles each dim star ; I turn away — my heart is sadly dreaming Of scenes they do not light, of scenes afar. My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me, as I think of you ? By each dark wave around the vessel sweeping. Farther am I from old dear friends removed ; Till the lone vigil that I now am keeping, I did not know how much you were beloved. How many acts of kindness little heeded. Kind looks, kind words, rise half reproachful now ! Hurried and anxious, my vexed life has speeded. And memory wears a soft accusing brow. My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me, as I think of you? The very stars are strangers, as I catch them Athwart the shadowy sails that swell above ; I cannot hope that other eyes will watch them At the same moment with a mutual love. They shine not there, as here they now are shining ; The very hours are changed. — Ah, do you sleep? O'er each home pillow midnight is declining — May some kind dream at least my image keep ! My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me, as I think of you ? Yesterday has a charm, to-day could never Fling o'er the mind, which knows not till it parts yow it turns back with tenderest endeavor To fix the past within the heart of hearts. Absence is full of memory, it teaches The value of all old familiar things ; The strengthener of affection, while it reaches O'er the dark parting, with an angel's wings. My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me, as I think of you? The world, with one vast element omitted — Man's own especial element, the earth ; Yet, o'er the waters is his rule transmitted By that great knowledge whence has power its birth. How oft on some strange loveliness while gazing Have I wished for you — beautiful as new. The purple waves like some wild army raising Their snowy banners as the ship cuts through. My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me, as I think of you? The sword-fish and the shark pursue their slaugh- ters. War universal reigns these depths along. Like some new island on the ocean springing, Floats on the surface some gigantic whale. From its vast head a silver fountain flinging, Bright as the fountain in a fairy tale. My friends, my absent friends 1 I read such fairy legends while with you, Light is amid the gloomy canvas spreading. The moon is whitening the dusky sails. From the thick bank of clouds she masters, sheddmg The softest influence that o'er night prevails. Pale is she like a young queen pale with splendor. Haunted with passionate thoughts too fond, too deep , The very glory that she wears is tender. The very eyes that watch her beauty fain would weep. My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me, as I think of you ? Sunshine is ever cheerful, when the morning Wakens the world with cloud-dispelling eyes; The spirits mount to glad endeavor, scorning What toil upon a path so sunny lies. Sunshine and hope are comrades, and their weather Calls into life an energy like spring's ; But memory and moonlight go together, Reflected in the light that either brings. My friends, my absent friends ! Do you think of me then ? I think of you. The busy deck is hushed, no sounds are waking But the watch pacing silently and slow ; The waves against the sides incessant breaking, And rope and canvas swaying to and fro. The topmast-sail, it seems like some dim pinnacle Cresting a shadowy tower amid the air ; While red and fitful gleams come from the binnacle. The only light on board to guide us — where? My friends, my absent friends 1 Far from my native land, and far from you. On one side of the ship, the moonbeam's skimmer In luminous vibrations sweeps the sea, But where the shadow falls, a strange, pale gllnnner Seems, glow-worm like, amid the waves to be. All that the spirit keeps of thought and feeling, Takes visionary hues from such an hour ; But while some phantasy is o'er me stealing, I start — remembrance has a keener power : My friends 1 my absent friends I From the fair dream I start to think of you. / SEA PICTURES. 239 A dusk line in the moonli2ht — I discover What all day long vainly I sought to catch ; Or is it but the varying clouds that hover Thick in the air, to mock the eyes that watch ? No ; well the sailor knows each speck, appearing. Upon the tossing waves, the far-off strand ; To that dark line our eager ship is steering. Her voyage done— to morrow we shall land. Letitia Elizabeth Landon. HILDA. SPINNING. PINNING, spinning, by the sea, All the night 1 On a stormy, rock-ribbed shore, Where the north-winds downward pour. And the tempests fiercely sweep From the mountains to the deep, Hilda spins beside the sea. All the night I Spinning, at her lonely window, By the sea I With her candle burning clear, Every night of all the year, And her sweet voice crooning low Quaint old songs of love and woe, Spins she at her lonely window By the sea. On a bitter night in March, Long ago, Hilda, very young and fair. With a crown of golden hair, Watched the tempest raging wild, Watched the roaring sea — and smiled — Through that woful night in March, Long ago I WTiat, though all the winds were out In their might? Richard's boat was tried and true ; Staunch and brave his hardy crew ; Strongest he to do or dare. Said she, breathing forth a prayer : " He is safe, though winds are out In their might ! " But, at length, the morning dawned Still and clear ; Calm, in azure splendor, lay All the waters of the bay ; And the ocean's an;4ry moans Sank to solemn undertones, As, at last, the morning dawned Still and clear 1 With her waves of golden hair Floating free, Hilda ran along the shore, Gazing off the waters o'er ; And the fishermen replied : "He will come in with the tide," As they saw her golden hair Floating free ! Ah ! he came in with the tide, Came alone ! Tossed upon the shining sands, Ghastly face and clutching hands. Seaweed tangled in his hair, Bruised and torn his forehead fair — Thus he came in with the tide. All alone 1 Hilda watched beside her dead Day and night. Of those hours of mortal woe Human ken may never know ; She was silent, and his ear Kept the secret, close and dear, Of her watch beside her dead, Day and night ! What she promised in the darkness, Who can tell ? But upon that rock-ribbed shore Bums a beacon evermore ; And, beside it, all tlie night, Hilda guards the lonely light, Thougii what vowed she in the darknesa None may tell ! Spinning, spinning by the sea, All the night 1 While her candle, gleaming wide O'er the restless, rolling tide. Guides with steady, changeless ray. The lone fisher up the bay — Hilda spins beside the sea. Through the night. Fifty years of patient spinning By the sea I Old and worn, she sleeps to-day. While the sunshine gilds the bay ; But her candle shining clear Every night of all the year. Still is telling of her spinning By the sea ! THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. HIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main — The venturous bark that flings y On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Wliere the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 240 CROWN JEWELS. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil ; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea. Cast from her lap, forlorn ! From thy dead lips a clearer note is bom Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! While on mine ear it rings. Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings : — Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll ! Leave thy low-vaulted past ! Let erch new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast. Till thou at length art free. Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea I Oliver Wendell Holmes. THE DYING SAILOR. 'E called his friend, and prefaced with a sigh A lover's message — " Thomas, I must die : Would I could see my Sallie, and could rest My throbbing temples on her faithful breast, And gazing, go ! — if not, this trifle take, And say, till death I wore it for her sake ; Yes ! I must die — blow on sweet breeze, blow on ! Give me one look, before my life be gone, Oh ! give me that, and let me not despair, One last fond look — and now repeat the prayer." He had his wish, had more ; I will not paint The lovers' meeting : she beheld him faint. With tender fears, she took a nearer view, Her terrors doubling as her hopes withdrew ; He tried to smile, and, half succeeding, said, " Yes I I must die ;" and hope for ever fled. Still long she nursed him ; tender thoughts meantime. Were interchanged, and hopes and views sublime. To her he came to die, and every day She took some portion of the dread away : With him she prayed, to him his Bible read. Soothed the faint heart, and held the aching head ; She came with smiles the hour of pain to cheer ; Apart, she sighed, alone, she shed the tear; Then, as if breaking from a cloud, she gave Fresh light, and gilt the prospect of the grave. One day he lighter seemed, and they forgot The care, the dread, the anguish of tlieir lot ; They spoke with cheerfulness, and seemed to think. Yet said not so — "perhaps he will not sink": A sudden brightness in his look appeared, A sudden vigor in his voice was heard ; — She had been reading in the book of prayer. And led him forth, and placed him in his chair ; Lively he seemed, and spoke of all he knew, The friendly many, and the favorite few ; Nor one that day did he to mind recall. But she has treasured, and she loves them all ; When in her way she meets them, they appear Peculiar people — death has made them dear. He named his friend, but then his hand she prest. And fondly whispered "Thou must go to rest"; "I go," he said ; but, as he spoke, she found His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound! Then gazed affrightened ; but she caught a last, A dying look of love, and all was past! George Crabbe PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. THE AMERICAN FLAG. HEN Freedom from her mount- ain height, Unfurled her standard to the air, She tore the azure robe of night, And set the stars of glory the-e ! She mingled with its gorgeous C^ ^ '^^^ milky baldric of the skies, J»> % * And striped its pure celestial " t white With streakings of the morning light ; 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 trumping 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 'tis 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's 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 th« 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 shrink beneath 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 (16) (241) 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 ! Joseph Rodman Drake. THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER. In 1814, when the British fleet was at the mouth of the Potomac River, and intended to attack Baltimore, Mr. Key and Mr. Skin- ner were sent in a vessel with a flag of truce to obtain the release of some prisoners the English had taken in their expedition againt Washington. They did not succeed, and were told that they would be detained till after the attack had been made on Baltimore. Accordingly, they went in their own vessel, strongly guarded, with the British fleet, and when they came within sight of Fort McHenry, a short distance below the city, they could see the American flag flying on the ramparts. As the day closed in, the bombardment of the fort commenced, and Mr. Key and Mr Skinner remained on deck all night, watching with deep anxiety every shell that was fired. While the bombardment continued, it was sufficient proof that the fort had not surrendered. It sud- denly ceased some time before day ; but as they had no commBni- catian with any of the enemy's ships, they did not know whether the fort had surrendered and their homes and friends were in danger, or the attack upon it had been abandoned. They paced the deck the rest of the night in painful suspense, watching with intense anxiety for the return of day. At length the light came, and they saw that " our flag was still there," and soon they were informed that the attack had failed. In the fervor of the moment, Mr. Key took an old letter from his pocket, and on its back wrote the most of this celebrated song, finishing it as soon as he reached Baltimore. He showed it to his friend Judge Nicholson, who was so pleased with it that he placed it at once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after it was all over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, and took its place at once as a national song. Thus, this patriotic, impassioned ode became forever associated with the " Stars and Stripes." SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light. What so proudly we hailed in the twilight's J last gleaming? Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming ; 242 CROWN JEWELS. And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there. O, say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave? On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep, Where the foes haughty host in dread silence re- poses. What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, In full glory reflected now shines on the stream. 'Tis the star-spangled banner ! O, long may it wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! And where is that band 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 footstep's pol- lution. No refuge could save the hireling and slave From the terror of death and the gloom of the grave. And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! O, 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 has made and preserved us a nation. Then conquer we must, for 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 S. Key. FREEDOM IRREPRESSIBLE. IS said that Persia's baffled king, In mad, tyrannic pride. Cast fetters on the Hellespont, "^ To curb its swelling tide : But freedom's own true spirit heaves The bosom of the main ; It tossed those fetters to the skies, And bounded on again ! The scorn of each succeeding age On Xerxes' head was hurled. And o'er that foolish deed has pealed The long laugh of a world. Thus, thus, defeat, and scorn, and shame. Is his, who strives to bind The restless, leaping waves of thought, The free tide of the mind. Sarah Jane Lippincott, {Grace Greenwood.) INDEPENDENCE BELL— JULY 4, 1776. When the Declaration of Independence was adopted by Con- gress, the event was announced by ringing tlie old Stale-House bell, which bore the inscription " Proclaim liberty throUi;hout the land, to all the inhabitants thereof! " The old bellman stationed his little grandson at the door of the hall, to await the instructions of the door-keeper when to ring. At the word, the young patriot rushed out, and clapping his hands shouted: — "Ring! Ring! RING!" PIERE was a tumult in the city III the quaint old Quaker town, And the streets were rife with people Y Pacing restless up and down — People gathering at the corners, Where they whispered each to each. And the sweat stood on their temples With the earnestness of speech. As the bleak Atlantic currents Lash the wild Newfoundland shore. So they beat against the State House, So they surged against the door ; And the mingling of their voices Made the harmony profound, Till the quiet street of Chestnut Was all turbulent with sound. " Will they do it ? " ' • Dare they do it ?" "Who is speaking?" "What's the news?" " What of Adams ? " " What of Sherman ? ' ' " Oh, God grant they won't refuse ! " ' " Make some way there ! " " Let me nearer ! " " I am stifling ! " " Stifle, then I When a nation's life's at hazard. We've no time to think of men ! " So they surged against the State House, While all solemnly inside, Sat the " Continental Congress," Truth and reason for their guide. O'er a simple scroll debating. Which, though simple it might be, Yet should shake the cliff's of England With the thunders of the free. Far aloft in that high steeple Sat the bellman, old and gray, He was weary of the tyrant And his iron-sceptered sway ; So he sat, with*one hand ready On the clapper of the bell. When his eye could catch the signal, The long-expected news, to tell. See ! See ! The dense crowd quivers Through all its lengthy line, As the boy beside the portal Hastens forth to give the sign ! With his little hands uplifted, Breezes dallying with his hair. Hark ! with deep, clear intonation. Breaks his young voice on the air : PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 24.; Hushed the people's swelling murmur, Whilst the boy cries joyously ; *' Ring ! " he shouts, " Ring ! grandpapa, Ring ! oh, ring for Liberty ! " Quickly, at the given signal The old bellman lifts his hand. Forth he sends the good news, making Iron music through the land. How they shouted ! What rejoicing ! How the old bell shook the air. Till tiie clang of freedom ruffled, The calmly gliding Delaware ! How the bonfires and the torches Lighted up the night's repose, And from the flames, like fabled Phoenix, Our glorious liberty arose ! That old State House bell is silent. Hushed is now its clamorous tongjue ; But the spirit it awakened Still is living — ever young ; And when we greet the smiling sunlight On the fourth of each July, We will ne'er forget the bellman Who, betwixt the earth and sky. Rung out, loudly, "Independence;" Which, please God, shall never die ! LOVE OF COUNTRY. lREATHES 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. Sir Walter Scott. HAIL, COLUMBIA. The following account of the circumstances attending the com- position of this song was communicated by the author a few months before his death. " It was written in the summer of 1798, when war with France was thought to be inevitable. Congress was then in session in Philadelphia, deliberating upon that import- ant subject, and acts of hostility had actually taken place. The contest between England and France was raging. The violation of our rights by both belligerents was forcing us from the just and wise policy of President Washington, which was to do equal jus- tice to both, to take part with neither, but to preserve a strict and honest neutrality between them. The violence of the spirit o( party has never risen highei, I think, in our country, tnan it did at that time. The theatre was then open in the city. A young man belonging to it, whose talent was as a singer, was about to take his benefit. I had known hint when he was at school. On' this acquaintance, he called on nie one Saturday afternoon, liis benefit being announced for the following Monday. His prospects were very disheartening; but he said that if lie could get a patri- otic song adapted to the tune of the ' Presidents March,' he did not doubt of a full house; that the poets of the theatrical corps had been trying to accomplish it, but had not succeeded. I told him I would try what I could do for him. He came the next after- noon, and the song was ready for hira. The object of the author was to get up an Atnerican spirit, which should be independent of, and above the interests, passions, and policy of both belliger- ents, and look and feel exclusively for our own honor and rights. No allusion is made to France or England, or the quarrel between them, or to the question which was most at fault in their treatment of us. Of course the song found favor with both parties, for both were Americans. Such is the history of ' Hail, Columbia.' " 'AIL Columbia, happy land, Hail, ye heroes ! heaven-bom 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 boasL Ever mindful what it cost ; Ever grateful for the prize. Let its altar reach the skies. Firm, united let us be. Rallying 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 shore ; 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. WTiile offering peace sincere and just, In Heaven we place a manly tnist. That truth and justice will prevail, And every scheme of bondage fail. Sound, sound the trump of fame ! Let Washington's gfreat name Ring through the world with loud applause ; Ring through the world with loud applause ; Let every clime to freedom dear Listen with a joyful ear ! With equal skill and godlike power, He governed in the fearful hour Of horrid war ; or guides with ease The happier times of honest peace. 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 tlie storm will beat ; 244 CROWN JEWELS. But, armed in virtue firm and true, His hopes are fixed on Heaven and you. When hope was sinking in dismay, And glooms obscured Columbia's day, His steady mind, from changes free. Resolved on deatli or liberty. Joseph Hopkinson. GENERAL WARREN'S ADDRESS. ' TAND ! the ground's your own, my braves ! Will ye give it up to slaves ? Will ye look for greener graves ? Hope ye mercy still ? What's the mercy despots feel ? Hear it in that battle-peal ! Read it on yon bristling steel ! Ask it — ye who will. Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? Will ye to your homes retire ? Look behind you ! — they're afire ! And before you, see Who have done it ! From the vale On they come ! — and will ye quail? Leaden rain and iron hail Let their welcome be ! In the God of battles trust ! Die we may — and die we must : But, O, where can dust to dust Be consigned so well. As where heaven its dews shall shed On the martyred patriot's bed, And the rocks shall raise their head. Of his deeds to tell ? John Pierpont. THE PEOPLE'S SONG OF PEACE. FROM "the song OF THE CENTENNIAL." 'HE grass is green on Bunker Hill, The waters sweet in Brandy wine ; The sword sleeps in the scabbard still, The farmer keeps his flock and vine; Then who would mar the scene to-day With vaunt of battle-field or fray? The brave corn lifts in regiments Ten thousand sabres in the sun ; The ricks replace the battle-tents, The bannered tassels toss and run. The neighing steed, the bugle's blast, These be but stories of the past. The earth has healed her wounded breast, The cannons plough the field no more; The heroes rest ! O, let them rest In peace along the peaceful shore ! They fought for peace, for peace they fell ; They sleep in peace,""and all is well. The fields orget the battles ought. The trenches wave in golden grain : Shall we neglect the lessons taught. And tear the wounds agape again ? Sweet Mother Nature, nurse the land, And heal her wounds with gentle hand. Lo ! peace on earth ! Lo ! flock and fold ! Lo ! rich abundance, fat increase, And valleys clad in sheen of gold 1 O, rise and sing a song of peace ! For Theseus roams the land no more, And Janus rests with rusted door. Joaquin Miller. ON LAYING THE CORNER STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT. IS not this a holy spot ? 'Tis the high place of freedom's birth! J God of our fathers ! is it not The holiest spot of all the earth ? Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side ; The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; And those old men, thy seers, abide No more on Zion's mournful brow. But on this hill thou. Lord, hast dwelt, Since round its head the war-cloud curled. And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt In prayer and battle for a world. Here sleeps their dust : 'tis holy ground : And we, the children of the brave, From the four winds are gathered round. To lay our oflfering on their grave. Free as the winds around us blow, Free as the waves below us spread, We rear a pile, that long shall throw Its shadow on their sacred bed. But on their deeds no shade shall fall, While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame. Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, And thy right hand shall guard their fame. John Pierpont. THE WOODS OF TENNESSEE. 'HE whip-poor-will is calling From its perch on splintered limb. And the plaintive notes are echoing Through the isles of the forest dim ; The slanting threads of starlight Are silvering shrub and tree. And the spot where the loved are sleeping, In the woods of Tennessee. PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 245 The leaves are gently rustling, But they're stained with a tinge of red, For they proved to many a soldier Their last and lonely bed. As they prayed in mortal agony To God to set them free, Death touched them with his finger In the woods of Tennessee. In the list of the killed and wounded, Ah me ! alas ! we saw The name of our noble brother. Who went to the Nation's w-ar. He fell in the tide of battle On the banks of the old " Hatchie," And rests 'neath the wild grape arbors In the woods of Tennessee. Many still forms are lying In their forgotten graves, On the green slopes of the hillsides, Along Potomac's waves ; But the memory will be ever sweet Of him so dear to me. On his country's altar offered. In the woods of Tennessee. U BARBARA FRIETCHIE. P Irom the meadows rich with com. Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand. Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep. 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 Hags 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 four score 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. 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 w^ill. " 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 tossed Over the heads of the serried host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the soldier rides on his raids no more. Honor to her ! and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. ~ Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. Flag of Freedom and Union, wave ! Peace and order and beauty draw Round thy symbol of light and law ; And ever the stars above look down On thy stars below in Frederick town. John Greenleaf Whittier. THE MARSEILLAISE. ■ E sons of freedom, wake to glory ! Hark ! hark ! what myriads bid you rise ! Your children, wives, and grandsh-es hoary, Behold their tears and hear their cries ! Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding, With hireling hosts, a ruffian band. Affright and desolate the land. While peace and liberty lie bleeding? To arms ! to arms ! ye brave ! The avenging sword unsheathe ; March on ! march on ! all hearts resolved On victory or death. 246 CROWN JEWELS. Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling, Which treacherous kings confederate raise ; The dogs of war, let loose, are howling. And lo! our fields and cities blaze ; And shall we basely view the ruin, While lawless force, with guilty stride, Spreads desolation far and wide, With crimes and blood his hands imbruing. O liberty ! can man resign thee, Once having felt thy generous flame? Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee ? Or whips thy noble spirit tame ? Too long the world has wept, bewailing That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield. But freedom is our sword and shield, And all their arts are unavailing. RouGET DE Lisle. A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes : " You're wounded I " " Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said : " I'm killed, sire I " And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. Robert Browning. AN INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. OU 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, Oppresive 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 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 rame 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'll be there anon To see your flag-bird flap his A'ans Where I, to heart's desire. Perched him !" The chiefs eye flashecf ; his plans Soared up again like fire. The chief's eye flashed ; but presently Softened itself, as sheathes llJ RULE BRITANNIA. HEN Britain first, at Heaven's command. Arose from out the azure main. This was the charter of the land, And guardian angels sung the strain : Rule Britannia, Britannia rules the waves ! Britons never shall be slaves. The nations not so blest as thee. Must in their turn to tyrants fall. Whilst thou shall flourish great and free, The dread and envy of them all. 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. Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame ; All their attempts to bend thee down Will but arouse thy generous flame. And work their woe and thy renown. To thee belongs the rural reign ; Thy cities shall with commerce shine ; All shall be subject to the main. And every shore it circles tliine. 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. J.^mes Thomson. ADDRESS AT THE DEDICATION OF GETTYS- BURG CEMETERY. OURSCORE and seven years ago our fathers brought forth upon this continent a new na- tion, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We are met to dedi- cate a portion of it as the final resting-place of those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense we cannot dedicate, we cannot consecrate, we cannot hallow this ground. PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 247 The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remem- ber what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the livnig, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work they have thus far so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us, that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the cause for which they gave the last full measure of de- votion , that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain, and that the nation shall, under God, have a new birth of freedom, and that the government of the people, by the people, and for the people shall not perish from the earth. Abraham Lincoln. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. Many of the women of the South, animated by noble sentiments, have shown themselves impartial in their offerings made to the memory of the dead. They have strewn flowers alike on the graves of the Confederate and of the National soldiers. I Y the flow of the inland river. Whence the fleets of iron have fled. Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver. Asleep on the ranks of the dead : — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Under the one, the Blue, Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory. Those in the gloom of defeat. All with the battle-blood gory. In the dusk of eternity meet : — Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day ; Under the laurel, the Blue, Under the willow, the Gray. From the silence of sorrowful hours, The desolate mourners go. Lovingly laden with flowers. Alike for the friend and the foe : — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue, Under the lilies, the Gray. So, with an equal splendor. The morning sun-rays fall. With a touch impartially tender. On the blossoms blooming for all : — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day ; Broidered with gold, the Blue, Mellowed with gold, the Gray. So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain : — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day ; Wet with the rain, the Blue, Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done ; In the storm of the years that are fading. No braver battle was won : — Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day ; Under the blossoms, the Blue, Under the garlands, the Gray. No more shall the war cry sever. Or the winding rivers be red ; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead ! Under the sod and the dew. Waiting the judgment day ; Love and tears for the Blue, Tears and love for the Gray. F. M. Finch. llJ PATRIOTISM. HAT is patriotism ? Is it a narrow affec- tion for the spot where a man was born ? Are the very clods where we tread entitled to this ardent preference because they are greener? No, sir: this is not the character of the virtue, and it soars higher for its object. It is an extended self-love, mingling with all the en- joyments of life, and twisting itself with the minutest filaments of the heart. It is thus we obey the laws of society, because they are the laws of vir- tue. In their authority we see, not the array of force and terror, but the venerable image of our country's honor. Every good citizen makes that honor his own, and cherishes it not only as precious, but as sa- cred. He is willing to risk his life in its defence, and is conscious that he gains protection while he gives it ; for what rights of a citizen will be deemed inviolable when a State renounces the principles that constitute their security ? Or, if his life should not be invaded, what would its enjoyments be in a country odious in the eyes of strangers and dishonored in his own ? Could he look with affection and veneration to such a country as his parent? The sense of having one would die within him ; he would blush for his patri- otism, if he retained any, and justly, for It would be a vice. He would be a banished man in his native land. Fisher Ames. 248 CROWN JEWELS. LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. .«^ 'HE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky "f" Their giant branches tossed. And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark On the wild New England shore. Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came ; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame. Not as the flying come. In silence and in fear ; They shook the depths of the desert gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storm they sang. And the stars heard, and the sea ; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. 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 that pilgrim band : — Why had they come to wither there. Away from their childhood's land ? There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth ; There was manhood's brow serenely high, And the fiery heart of youth. What sought they thus afar ? Bright jewels of the mine ? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — They sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod ; They left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship God. Felicia Dorothea Hemans. ON BEING FOUND GUILTY OF TREASON. a JURY of my countrymen have found me guilty of the crime for which I stood in- dicted. For this I entertain not the slightest feeling of resentment towards them. Influ- enced, as they must have been, by the charge of the lord chief justice, they could have found no other verdict. What of that charge? Any strong obser- vations on it I feel sincerely would ill befit the solemnity of this scene; but I would earnestly be- seech of you, my Lord — you who preside on that bench — when the passions and prejudices of this hour have passed away, to appeal to your own con- science, and to ask of it, was your charge as it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent between the subject and the crown ? My Lords, you may deem this language imbecom- ing in me, and perhaps it will seal my fate. But I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost ; I am here to regret nothing I have ever done, — to re- tract nothing I have ever said. I am here to crave, with no lying lip, the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it, even here — here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their foot- prints in the dust; here on this spot, where the shadows of death surround me, and from which I see my early grave in an unanointed soil opened to re- ceive me — even here, encircled by these terrors, the hope which has beckoned me to the perilous sea upon which I have been wrecked, still consoles, ani- mates, enraptures me. No ; I do not despair of my poor old country — her peace, her liberty, her glory. For that country, I can do no more than bid her hope. To lift this island up ; to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of being the meanest beggar in the world ; to restore her to her native powers and her ancient constitution, — this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails the penalty of death ; but the history of Ireland explains this crime, and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal — I de- serve no punishment. Judged by that history, the treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, is sanctioned as a duty, will be ennobled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments, my Lord, I await the sentence of the court. Having done what I felt to be my duty, having spoken what I felt to be the truth — as I have done on every other occasion of my short career — I now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my passion, and my death ; the country whose misfortunes have in- voked my sympathies; whose factions I have sought to still ; whose intellect I have prompted to a lofty aim ; whose freedom has been my fatal dream. I ofTer to that country, as a proof of the love I bear her, and the sincerity with which I thought and spoke and struggled for her freedom, the life of a young heart, and with that life all the hopes, the honors, the endearments, of a happy and an honored home. Pronounce, then, my Lords, the sentence which the laws direct, and I will be prepared to hear it. I trust I shall be prepared to meet its execution. I hope to be able, with a pure heart and perfect composure, to appear before a higher tribunal, a tribunal where a Judge of infinite goodness as well as of justice will preside, and where, my Lords, many, njany of the judgments of this world will be reversed. Thomas Francis Meaghkr. PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 249 BATTLE HYMN Oh THE REPUBLIC. INE 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 tlie 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 flar- ing 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. 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. Julia Ward Howe. THE DRUMMER BOY. U © AN INCIDENT OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. APTAIN GRAHAM, tlie men were sayin* Ye would want a drummer lad. So I've brought my boy Sandie, Tho' my heart is woeful sad ; But nae bread is left to feed us, And no siller to buy more. For the gudeman sleeps forever, Where the heather blossoms o'er. " Sandie, make your manners quickly. Play your blithest measure true — Give us ' Flowers of Edinboro', While yon fifer plays it too. Captain, heard ye e'er a player Strike in truer time than he ?" " Nay, in truth, brave Sandie Murray Drummer of our corps shall be." " I give ye thanks — but. Captain, maybe Ye will hae a kindly care For the friendless, lonely laddie, When the battle wark is sair : For Sandie's aye been good and gentle, And I've nothing else to love. Nothing — but the grave off yonder. And the Father up above." Then, her rough hand gently laying On the curl-encircled head. She blessed her boy. The tent was silent, And not another word was said ; For Captain Graham was sadly dreaming Of a benison, long ago. Breathed above his head, then golden, Bending now, and touched with snow. " Good-bye, Sandie." " Good-bye, mother, I'll come back some summer day ; Don't you fear — they don't shoot drummers Ever, Do they, Captain Gra ? One more kiss — watch for me, mother, You will know 'tis surely me Coming home — for you will hear me Playing soft the reveille." After battle. Moonbeams ghastly Seemed to link in strange affright, As the scudding clouds before them Shadowed faces dead and white ; And the night-wind softly whispered. When low moans its light wing bore — Moans that ferried spirits over Death's dark wave to yonder shore. Wandering where a footstep careless Might go splashing down in blood. Or a helpless hand lie grasping Death and daisies from the sod — Captain Graham walked swift onward, While a faintly-beaten drum Quickened heart and step together : " Sandie Murray 1 See, I come ! " Is it thus I find you, laddie ? Wounded, lonely, lying here, Playing thus the reveille ? See — the morning is not near." A moment paused the drummer boy, And lifted up his drooping head : " Oh, Captain Graham, the light is coming, 'Tis morning, and my prayers are said. " Morning I See, the plains grow brighter — Morning — and I'm going home ; That is why I play the measure, Mother will not see me come ; But you'll tell her, won't you, Captain — " Hush, the boy has spoken true ; To him the day has dawned forever, Unbroken by the night's tattoo. 250 CROWN JEWELS. SCOTLAND. £^ AND of my fathers ! — though no mangrove here •®' /• O'er thy blue streams her flexile branches rear; ■^^ Nor scaly palm her fingered scions shoot ; Nor luscious guava wave her yellow fruit ; Nor golden apples glimmer from the tree ; — Land of dark heaths and mountains, thou art free ! Untainted yet, thy stream, fair Teviot ! runs, With unatondd blood of Gambia's sons : No drooping slave, with spirit bowed to toil, Grows, like the weed, self-rooted to the soil, Nor cringing vassal on these pansied meads Is bought and bartered, as the flock he feeds. Free as the lark that carols o'er his head. At dawn the healthy ploughman leaves his bed, Binds to the yoke his sturdy steers with care, And, whistling loud, directs the mining share : Free as his lord, the peasant treads the plain, And heaps his harvest on the groaning wain ; Proud of his laws, tenacious of his right. And vain of Scotia's old unconquered might. John Leyden. ARNOLD WINKELRIED In the battle of Sempach, in the fourteenth century, this martyr- patriot, perceiving that there was no other means of breaking the heavy-armed lines of the Austrians than by gathering as many oi their spears as he could grasp together, opened, by this means, a passage for his fellow-combatants, who, with hammers and hatchets, hewed down the mailed men-at-arms and won the vic- tory. "ffi AKE way for liberty ! " he cried — Made way for liberty, and died ! ♦ In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood ; Impregnable their front appears. All horrent with projected spears. Opposed to these, a hovering band Contended for their fatherland. Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ignoble yoke ; Marshalled once more at freedom's call, Xhey came to conquer or to fall. And now the work of life and death , Hung on the passing of a breath ; The fire of conflct burned within ; The battle trembled to begin : Yet, while the Austrians held their ground Point for assault was nowhere found ; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed. The unbroken line of lances blazed ; That line 't were suicide to meet. And perish at their tyrants' feet. How could they rest within their graves. To leave their homes the haunts of slaves? Would they not feel their children tread. With clanking chains, above their head ? It must not be : this day, this hour, Annihilates the invader's power! All Switzerland is in the field — She will not fly ; she cannot yield ; ' She must not fall ! her better fate Here gives her an immortal date. Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host, And felt as if 't were a secret known That one should turn the scale alone, While each unto himself was he On whose sole arm hung victory. It did depend on one, indeed ; Behold him — Arnold Winkelried ! There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a nobler name. Unmarked, he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace. The very thought come o'er his face ; And, by the motion of his form. Anticipate the bursting storm ; And, by the uplifting of his brow. Tell where the bolt would strike, and how. But 't was no sooner thought than done — The field was in a moment won ! " Make way for liberty ! " he cried. Then ran, with arms extended wide. As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp. " Make way for liberty ! " he cried ; Their keen points crossed from side to side * He bowed among them like a tree. And thus made way for liberty. Swift to the breach his comrades fly — " Make way for liberty I " they cry. And through the Austrian phalanx dart. As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart ; While, instantaneous as his lall, Rout, ruin, panic seized them all. An earthquake could not overthrow A city with a surer blow. Thus Switzerland again was free — Thus death made way for liberty. James Montgomery. DIE WACHT AM RHEIN— (THE WATCH ON THE RHINE.) a ROAR like thunder strikes the ear, Like clang of arms or breakers near, " On for the Rhine, the German Rhine ! " "Who shields thee, my beloved Rhine?" Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear — Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. A hundred thousand hearts beat high. The flash darts forth from every eye, PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 251 For Teutons brave, inured by toil, Protect their country's holy soil. Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear — Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. The heart may break in agony, Yet Frenchmen thou shall never be. In water rich is Rhine ; thy flood, Germania, rich in heroes' blood. Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear — Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. When heavenward ascends the eye. Our heroes' ghosts look down from high; We swear to guard our dear bequest, And shTeld it with the German breast. Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear — Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. 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, thou need'st not fear — Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. We take the pledge. The stream runs by ; Our banners proud, are wafting high. On for the Rhine, the German Rhine ! We all die for our native Rhine. Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer — Thy Rhineland watch stands firmly here. THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. H ! give me back that royal dream My fancy wrought. When I have seen your sunny eyes Grow moist with thought ; And fondly hoped, dear love, your heart from mine Its spell had caught ; And laid me down to dream that dream divine. But true, methought. Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours blessed as it ought. To learn to love sweet nature more For your sweet sake, To watch with you — dear friend, with you ! — Its wonders break ; The sparkling spring in that bright face to see Its mirror make — On summer morns to hear the sweet birds sing By linn and lake ; And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a grander music wake ! To wake the old weird world that sleeps In Irish lore ; The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung By Mulla's shore ; Dear Curran's airy thoughts, like purple birds That shine and soar ; Tone's fiery hopes, and all the deathless vows That Grattan swore ; The songs that once our own dear Davis sung — ah me ! to sing no more. And all those proud old victor-fields We thrill to name, Whose memories are the stars that light Long nights of shame ; The Cairn, the Dan, the Rath, the Power, the Keep, That still proclaim In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep Was Eire's fame ; Oh ! we shall see them all, with her, that dear, dear friend we two have loved the same. Yet ah ! how truer, tenderer still Methought did seem That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home By Dodder's stream. The morning smile, that grew a fix^d star With love-lit beam, The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far And shining stream Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a dream. For still to me, dear friend, dear love, Or both — dear wife, Your image comes with serious thoughts, But tender, rife ; No idle plaything to caress or chide In sport or strife, But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, To walk through life, Linked hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, true husband and true wife. Sir Charles Gavan Duffy. THE PILGRIMS. OW slow yon tiny vessel ploughs the main ! Amid the heavy billows now she seems A toiling atom — then from wave to wave Leaps madly, by the tempest lashed — or reels, Half wrecked, through gulfs profound. — Moons, wax and wane. But still that lonely traveler treads the deep. — I see an ice-bound coast, toward which she steers With such a tardy movement, that it seems Stern winter's hand hath turned her keel to stone, And sealed his victory on her slippery shrouds. — They land ! — They land ! — not like the Genoese, With glittering sword and gaudy train, and eye Kindling with golden fancies. — Forth they come From their long prison— hardy forms, that brave The world's unkindness — men of hoary hair, And virgins of firm heart, and matrons grave. 252 CROWN JEWELS. Who hush the wailing infant with a glance. — Bleak nature's desolation wraps them round, Eternal forests and unyielding earth, And savage men, who through the thickets peer With vengeful arrow. — What could lure their steps To this dreary desert? — Ask of him who left His father's home to roam through Haran's wilds, Distrusting not the Guide who called him forth. Nor doubting, though a stranger, that his seed Should be as ocean's sands. — And can ye deem it strange That from their planting such a branch should bloom As nations envy. — Would a germ, embalmed With prayer's pure tear-drops, strike no deeper root Than that which mad ambition's hand doth strew Upon the winds, to reap the winds again ? Hid by its veil of waters from the hand Of greedy Europe, their bold vine spread forth In giant strength. — Its early clusters crushed In England's wine-press, gave the tyrant host A draught of deadly wine. O, ye who boast In your free veins the blood of sires like these, Lose not their lineaments ! Should Mammon cling Too close around your heart — or wealth beget That bloated luxury which eats the core From manly virtue— or the tempting world Make faint the Christian purpose in your soul. Turn ye to Plymouth's beach — and on that rock Kneel in their foot-prints, and renew the vow They breathed to God. LvDiA Huntley Sigourney. a O' THE PICKET GUARD. 'LL 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. There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread As he tramps from the rock to the fountain. And he thinks of the two in the low 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 : " Ha ! 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. Ethelin Eliot Beers. THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD. 'HE muffled drum's sad roll has beat The soldier's last tattoo ; No more on life's parade shall meet The brave and fallen few. On fame's eternal camping-ground Their silent tents are spread. And glory guards with solemn round The bivouac of the dead. No rumor of the foe's advance Now swells upon the wind, No troubled thought at midnight haunts Of loved ones left behind ; No vision of the morrow's strife The warrior's dream alarms, No braying horn or screaming fife At dawn shall call to arms. Their shivered swords are red with rust, Their plumed heads are bowed, Their haughty banner trailed in dust Is now their martial shroud — And plenteous funeral tears have washed The red stains from each brow, And the proud forms by battle gashed Are free from anguish now. The neighing troop, the flashing blade. The bugle's stirring blast. The charge, the dreadful cannonade. The din and shout are passed — PATRIOTISM AND FREEDOM. 253 Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal, Shall thrill with fierce delight Those breasts that never more may feejt The rapture of the fight. Like the fierce northern hurricane That sweeps his great plateau, Flushed with the triumph yet to gain Came down the serried foe — Who heard the thunder of the fray Break o'er the field beneath, Knew well the watchword of that day Was victory or death. Full many a mother's breath hath swept O'er Angostura's plain, And long the pitying sky has wept Above its mouldered slain. The raven's scream, or eagle's flight, Or shepherd's pensive lay, Alone noV wake each solemn height That frowned o'er that dead fray. Sons of the dark and bloody ground, Ye must not slumber there, Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air ! Your own proud land's heroic soil Shall be your fitter grave ; She claims from war its richest spoil — ^ The ashes of her brave. Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest, " Far from the gory field. Borne to a Spartan mother's breast On many a bloody shield. The sunshine of their native sky Shines sadly on them here. And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The heroes' sepulchre. Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead ! Dear as the blood ye gave ; No impious footstep here shall tread The herbage of your grave ! Nor shall your glory be forgot While fame her record keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot Where valor proudly sleejjs. Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone In deathless song shall tell. When many a vanished year hath flown. The story how ye fell ; Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight. Nor time's remorseless doom, Can dim one ray of holy light That gilds your glorious tomb. Theodore O'Hara. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION, THE CREOLE LOVER'S SONG. IGHT wind, whispering wind, wind of the Carib sea ; The palms and the still ?"3^ lagoon, Long for thy coming soon ; But first my lady find : Haste nor look behind, To-night, to-night, love's her- ald be. The feathery bamboo moves, the dewy plantains weep ; From the jasmine thicket bear The scents that are swooning there. And steal from the orange groves The breath of a thousand loves, To bear her ere she sleep. And the lone bird's tender song that rings from the ceiba tree ; The fire-fly's light and the glow Of the moonlit waters low — All things that to-night belong. And can do my love no wrong. Bear her this hour for me. Speed thee, speed thee, wind of the deep, for the cy- clone comes in wrath, The distant forests moan : Thou hast but an hour thine own, An hour thy tryst to keep. Ere the hounds of tempest leap, And follow upon thy path. Whisperer; tarry a space, she waits for thee in the night. She leans from her casement there, With the star-blooms in her hair. And a shadow falls like lace From the fern-tree over her face, And over henmantle white. Spirit of air and fire, to-night my herald be ; Tell her I love her well. And air that I bid the tell. And fold her ever the nigher, With'tfte strength of my soul's desire : Wind, wind-ofi the Carib sea. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH- YARD. *HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the ka ; The ploughman homeward plods his weary t way, And leaves the world to darkness gind to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl doth to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-t)uilt shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn. No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn. Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not ambition mock their useful toil. Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. Await alike the inevitable hour ; — The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault. If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? ' Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, I Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death ? (254) SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 255 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll ; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the sopl. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear ; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest ; Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. The applause of listening senates to command. The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land. And read their history in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined ; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learned to stray ; Along the cool, sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect. Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked. Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply ; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey. This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? On some fond breast the parting soul relies. Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, Dost in these lines Iieir artless tale relate ; If 'chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say : "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high. His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. " Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove ; Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. "One morn I missed him on the 'customed hill. Along the heath, and near his favorite tree ; Another came — nor yet beside the rill. Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; " The next, with dirges due, in sad array. Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne ; — Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.'' THE EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; Fair science frowned not on his humble birth, And melancholy marked him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send . He gave to misery all he had— a tear ; He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend. No further seek his merits to disclose. Or draw his frailties from their dread abode : (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God. EXPECTATION. H, never sit we down, and say There's nothing left but sorrow ! We walk the wilderness to-day, The promised land to-morrow. And though age wearies by the way, And hearts break in the furrow. We'll sow the golden grain to-day, And harvest comes to-morrow. Build up heroic lives, and all Be like a sheathen sabre. Ready to flash out at God's call, O chivalry of labor ! Triumph and toil are twins ; and aye Joy suns the cloud of sorrow ; And 't is the martyrdom to-day Brings victory to-morrow. Gerald Massey, 256 CROWN JEWELS. A PSALM OF LIFE. *ELL me not, in mournful numbers, " Life is but an empty dream ! For the soul is dead that slumbers, 'f And things are not what they seem." Life is real ! life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; " 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. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THOSE EVENING BELLS. ' HOSE evening bells ! those evening bells ! How many a tale their music tells Of youth, and home, and that sweet time When last I heard their soothing chime ! Those joyous hours are passed away ; And many a heart that then was gay. Within the tomb now darkly dwells. And hears no more those evening bells. And so 'twill be when I am gone — That tunefeul peal will still ring on ; While other bards shall walk these dells, And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. Thomas Moork. THE MAGICAL ISLE. 'HERE 'S a magical isle in the River of Time, Where softest of echoes are straying ; And the air is as soft as a musical chime, Or the exquisite breath of a tropical clime When June with its roses is swaying. 'Tis where memory dwells with her pure golden hue, And music forever is flowing : While the low-murmured tones that come trembling through Sadly trouble the heart, yet sweeten it too. As the south wind o'er water when blowing. There are shadowy halls in that fairy-like isle. Where pictures of beauty are gleaming ; Yet the light of their eyes, and their sweet, sunny smile. Only flash round the heart with a wildering wile. And leave us to know 'tis but dreaming. And the name of this isle is the Beautiful Past, And we bury our treasures all there : There are beings of beauty too lovely to last ; There are blossoms of snow, with the dust o'er them cast; There are tresses and ringlets of hair. There are fragments of song only memory sing^. And the words of a dear mother's prayer ; There's a harp long unsought, and a lute without strings — Hallowed tokens that love used to wear. E'en the dead — the bright, beautiful dead — there arise. With their soft, flowing ringlets of gold : Though their voices are hushed, and o'er their sweet eyes. The unbroken signet of silence now lies. They are with us again, as of old. In the stillness of night, hands are beckoning there. And, with joy that is almost a pain, We delight to turn back, and in wandering there, Through the shadowy halls of the island so fair. We behold our lost treasures again. Oh ! this beautiful isle, with its phantom-like show, Is a vista exceedingly bright : And the River of Time, in its turbulent flow, Is oft soothed by the voices we heard long ago. When the years were a dream of delight. TRUE NOBILITY. 'OWE'ER it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good ; Kind hearts are more than coronets. And simple faith than Norman blood. Alfred Tennyson. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 257 A THING OF BEAUTY IS A JOY FOREVER. Q THING of beauty is a joy forever : Its loveliness increases ; it will never Pass into nothingness ; but still will keep A bower quiet for us, and a sleep Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing ; Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing A flowery band to bind us to the earth, Spite ot despondence, of the inhuman dearth Of noble natures, of the gloomy days. Of all the unhealthy and o'erdarkened ways Made for our searchmg : yes, in spite of all, Some shape of beauty moves away the pall From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon, Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon For simple sheep ; and such are daffodils With the green world they live in ; and clear rills That for themselves a cooling covert make 'Gainst the hot season ; the mid-forest brake. Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms : And such, too, is the grandeur of the dooms We have imagined for the mighty dead ; All lovely tales that we have heard or read. John Keats. THE EMIGRANT'S FAREWELL UR native land — our native vale — A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Cheviot mountains blue. Farewell, ye hills of glorious deeds, And streams renowned in song- Farewell, ye braes and blossomed meads. Our hearts have loved so long. The mossy cave and mouldering tower That skirt our native dell — The martyr's grave, and lover's bower, We bid a sad farewell ! Home of our love ! our father's home ! Land of the brave and free ! The sail is^flapping on the foam That bears us far from thee ! We seek a wild and distant shore, Beyond the western main — We leave thee to return no more, Nor view thy cliffs again ! Our native land — our native vale — A long and last adieu ! Farewell to bonny Teviotdale, And Scotland's mountains blue ! Thomas Pringle. 17 A BUTTERFLY ON A CHILD'S GRAVE. BUTTERFLY basked on a baby's grave, Where a lily had chanced to grow : "Why art thou here, with thy gaudy dye, When she of the blue and sparkling eye Must sleep in the churchyard low? " Then it lightly soared through the sunny air, And spoke from its shining track : " I was a worm till I won my wings, And. she whom thou mournest, like a seraph sings Wouldst thou call the blest one back ? " LVDIA HUNTLEV SiGOURNEY. THEOLOGY IN THE QUARTERS. OW, I's got a notion in my head dat when you come to die, An' Stan' de 'zamination in de Cote-house in de sky, You'll be 'stonished at de questions dat de angel's gwine to ax When he gits you on de witness-stan' an' pin you to de fac's ; 'Cause he'll ax you mighty closely 'bout your doin's in de night, An' de water-milion question's gwine to bodder you a sight ! Den your eyes'Il open wider dan dey ebber done befo' When he chats you 'bout a chicken-scrape dat hap- pened long ago 1 De angels on de picket-line erlong de Milky Way Keeps a-watchin' what you're dribin' at, an' hearin' what you say ; No matter what you want to do, no matter whar you's gwine, Dey's mighty ap' to find it out an' pass it 'long de line ; An' of en at de meetin', when you make a fuss an' laugh, Why, dey send de news a-kitin' by de golden tele graph ; Den, de angel in de orfis, what's a settin' by de gate, Jes' reads de message wid a look an' claps it on da slate ! Den you better do your juty well an' keep your con- science clear, An' keep a-lookin straight ahead an' watchin' whar* you steer ; 'Cause arter while de time'll come to journey fum de Ian', An' dey'll take you way up in de a'r an' put you onde Stan' ; Den you'll hab to listen to de clerk an' answer mighty straight, Ef you ebber 'spec' to trabble froo de alaplaster gate ! J. A. Macon. 258 CROWN JEWELS. THE WIDOW AND CHILD. 'OME they brought her warrior dead ; She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; All her maidens, watching, said, " She must weep or she will die." Then they praised him, soft and low. Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe ; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stept. Took a face-cloth from the face ; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years. Set his child upon her knee — Like summer tempest came her tears — "Sweet my child, I live for thee." Alfred Tennyson. OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD? The following was the favorite poem of President Lincoln. A friend showed it to him when a young man, and afterwards he clipped it from a newspaper and learned it by heart. For a long time he did not know the author's name, but subsequently learned it. /CN H ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave. The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, Be scattered around, and together be laid ; And the young and the old, and the low and the high Shall molderto dust and together shall lie. The infant a mother attended and loved ; The mother that infant's affection who proved; The husband that mother and infant who blessed — Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest. The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by ; And the memory of those who loved her and praised Are alike from the minds of the living erased. The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne; The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn; The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap ; The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep ; The beggar who wandered in search of his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we tread. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven ; The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven ; The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flowers or the weed That withers away to let others succeed ; So the multitude comes, even those we behold. To repeat every tale that has often been told. For we are the same our fathers have been ; We see the same sights our fathers have seen ; We drink the same stream, and view the same sun, And run the same course our fathers have run. The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink ; To the life we are clinging they also would cling ; But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing. They loved, but the story we cannot unfold ; They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come; They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb. They died ! aye ! they died ; and we things that are now, Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow. Who make in their dwelling a transient abode. Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road. Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. We mingle together in sunshine and rain ; And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge, Still follow each other, like surge upon surge. 'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,— Oh ! why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? William Knox. MEMORY. The following poem was written by the late President Garfield during his senior year in Williams College, Mass., and was pub- lished in the Williams Quarterly for March, 18^6. IS beauteous night; the stars look brightly down Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow. No light gleams at the windows, save my own. Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. And now with noiseless step, sweet memory comes And leads me gently through her twilight realms. What poet's tuneful lyre has ever sung. Or delicatest pencil e'er portrayed The enchanted, shadowy land where memory dwells? It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear. Dark-shaded by the mournful cypress tree ; And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed In heaven's own blue. Upon its craggy clifls, SENTIME-VT AND RKFLECTION. 2-,0 Robed in the dreamy light of distant years, Are clustered joys serene of other days. Upon its gently sloping liillsides bend Tiie weeping willows o'er the sacred dust Of dear departed ones ; yet in that land, Where'er our footsteps fall upon the shore. They that were sleeping rise from out the dust Of death's long, silent years, and round us stand As erst they did before the prison tomb Received their clay within its voiceless halls. The heavens that bend above that land are hung VVith clouds of various hues. Some dark and chili. Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade Upon the sunny, joyous land below. Others are floating through the dreamy air. White as the falling snow, their margins tinged With gold and crimson hues ; their shadows fa!! Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes, Soft as the shadow of an angel's wing. W^hen the rough battle of the day is done, And evening's peace falls gently on tlie heart, I bound away, across the noisy years. Unto t!ic utmost verge of memory's land. Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet, And memory dim with dari< oblivion joins ; Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell Upon the ear in childhood's early m.orn ; And, wandering thence along the rolling years, I see the sh.-dow of my former self Gliding from chi!d!iood up to man's estate ; Tiie path of youth winds down thorough many a vale, And on the brink of many a dread abyss. From out whose darkness comes no ray of light. Save that a phantom dances o'er the gulf And beckons toward the verge. Again the path Leads o'er the summit where the sunbeams fall ; And thus in light and shade, sunshine and gloom. Sorrow and joy this life-path leads along. •James Abkam GARFinLD. THE WEIGHT OF A WORD. 'AVE you ever thought of the weight of a word That falls in the heart like the song of a bird. That gladdens the springtime of memory and youth, And garlands wiUi cedar t'le banner of truth. That moistens the harvesting spot cf t!ie brain. Like dewdrops that fall on a meadow (,f grain. Or that shrivels the germ and destroys the fruit And lies lilce a worm at the lifeless root? I saw a farmer at break of day Hoeing his corn in a careful way ; An enemy came with a drouth in his eye, Discouraged the worker and hurried by. \ The keen-edged blade of the faithful hoe Dulled on the earth in the long-corn row ; The weeds sprung up and their feathers tossed Over the f.eld, and the crop was — lost. A sailor launched on an angry bi.y When the heavens entombed the face of the dny ; The wind arose, like a beast in pain, And shook on the billows his yellow mane ; ■ • The storm beat down as if cursed the cloud, And the waves held up a dripping shroud-.— But, hark ! o'er the waters that wildly raved Came a word of cheer, and he was — saved. A poet passed with a song of God Hid in his heart, like a gem in a clod. His lips were framed to pronounce the thought. And the music of rhyt'im its magic wrouglit ; ' Feeble at first was the happy trill, Low was the echo that answered the hill. But a jealous friend spoke near his side. And on his lips the sweet song — died. A woman paused where a chandelier Threw in the darkness its poisoned spear; Weary and footsore from journeying long. She had straj'ed unawares from the right to the wrong. Angels were beck'ning her back from the den, Hell and its demons were beck'ning her in ; The tone of an urchin, like one who forgives, Drew her back, and in heaven that sweet word — lives. Words I words ! They are little, yet mighty and brave ; They rescue a nation, an empire save — They close up the gaps in a fresh bleeding heart That sickness and sorrow have severed apart. ^ rhey fall on the path, like a ray cf the sun, Where the shadows of death lay so heavy upon ; They lighten the earth over our blessed dehd. A word that will comfort, oh ! leave not unsaid. ORIENTAL MYSTICISM. The following passage is translated from a German version of the Dschau har Odsat, a Persian poem of the tiiirtecntli century, and is here ofTercd as a specimen of the mystic writings of the East— a single sprig brought to town from a distant and unfre- quented gard, n. These writings arc cliaracterizcd by wildncss of fancy, a philosophy extremely abstruse, and especially by a deep spiritual life. They prove, as w ill be seen in the lines which fol- low, that tile huHian mind has strong religious instincts; which, liowevcr, unless guided by a higher wisdom, are Jiable to great perveisioii — Extiavagant as the conception of the passage here selected must appear to us, it has still i;s foundation in truth. That the ideas of infinite and divine things, which slumber in the mind, a''e often violently awakend l.y external objects, is what every one has experienced. Says a modern poet, in prospect of " clear, placid Leman," " It is a thing Which warns me, by its stillness, to forsake n.irth's troubled wafers lor a purer spring." And what is the story of Rudbari and Hassan, but an cxhibiJoii, a /a mode orierUale, of the same trulh? «^|» N ancient days as the old stories run, .,4. Strange hap befell a father and hus son. \^ Rudbari- was an old sea faring man I And loved the rough paths of the ocean ; And Hassan was his child — a boy as bright As the keen moon, gleaming in the vault of night. 260 CROWN JEWELS. Rose-red his cheek, Narcissus-like his eye, And his form might well with the slender cypress vie. Godly Rudbari was, and just and true, And Hassan pure as a drop of early dew. — Now, because Rudbari loved this only child, He was feign to take him o'er the waters wild. The ship is on the strand — friends, brothers, parents, there Take the last leave with mingled tears and prayer. The sailor calls, the fair breeze chides delay, The sails are spread, and all are under way. But when the ship, like a strong-shot arrow, flew. And the well-known shore was fading from the view, Hassan spake, as he gazed upon the land, Such mystic words as none could understand : — "On this troubled wave in vain we seek for rest. Who builds his house on the sea, or his palace on its breast ? Let me but reach yon fixed and steadfast shore, And the bounding wave shall never tempt me more." Then Rudbari spake : — "And does my brave boy fear The ocean's face to see, and his thundering voice to hear? He will love, when home returned at last, To tell, in his native cot, of dangers past." Then Hassan said : "Think not thy brave boy fears When he sees the ocean's face, or his voice of thunder hears ; But on these waters I may not abide ; Hold me not back ; I will not be denied." Rudbari now wept o'er his wildered child : "What mean these looks, and words so strangely wild? Dearer, my boy, to me than all the gain That I've earned from the bounteous bosom of the main ! Nor heaven, nor earth, could yield one joy to me. Could I not, Hassan, share that joy with thee." But Hassan soon, in his wandering words, betrayed The cause of the mystic air that round him played : "Soon as I saw these deep, wide waters roll, A light from the Infinite broke in upon my soul ! " "Thy words, my child, but ill become thine age. And would better suit the mouth of some star-gazing sage." ''Thy words, my father, cannot turn away Mine eye, now fixed on that supernal day." "Dost thou not, Hassan, lay these dreams aside, I'll plunge thee headlong in this whelming tide." "Do this, Rudbari, only not in ire, 'Tis all I ask, and all I can desire. For on the bosom of this rolling flood, Slumbers an awful mystery of good ; And he may solve it, w!io will self expunge. And in the depths of boundless being plunge." He spake, and plunged, and as quickly sunk beneath As the flying snow-flake melts on a summer heath. A moment Rudbari stood, as fixedly bound As the pearl is by the shell that clasps it round. Then he followed his Hassan with a frantic leap, And they slumber both on the bottom of the deep ! Leonard Woods. THE SEASONS OF LIFE. SPRING. 'HE soft green grass is growing. O'er meadow and o'er dale ; The silvery founts are flowing Upon the verdant vale ; The pale snowdrop is springing, To greet the glowing sun ; The primrose sweet is flinging Perfume the fields among ; The trees are in the blossom. The birds are in their song. As spnng upon the bosom Of nature's borne along. So the dawn of human life doth green and verd> /tt spring ; It doth little ween the strife that after years will bring ; Like the snowdrop it is fair, and like the primrose sweet ; But its innocence can't scare the blight from its re- treat. SUMMER. The full ripe corn is bending In waves of golden light ; The new-mown hay is sending Its sweets upon the night ; The breeze is softly sighing. To cool the parched flowers ; The rain, to see them dying. Weeps forth its gentle showers ; The merry fish are playing, Adown yon crystal stream ; And night from day is straying. As twilight gives its gleam. And thus manhood, in its prime, is full and ripe and strong ; And it scarcely deems that time can do its beauty wrong. Like the merry fish we play adown the stream of life ; And we wreck not of the day that gathers what is rife. The flowers all are fading, Their sweets are rifled now ; And night sends forth her shading Along the mountain brow ; The bee hath ceased its winging, To flowers at early morn ; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 261 The birds have ceased their singing, Sheafed is the golden corn ; The harvest now is gathered, Protected from the clime ; The leaves are seared and withered, That late shone in their prime. Thus when fourscore j'ears are gone o'er the frail life of man, Time sits heavy on his throne, as near his brow we scan ; Like the autumn leaf that falls, when winds the branches wave, Like night-shadows daylight palls, like all, he finds a grave. WINTER. The snow is on the mountain, The frost is on the vale, The ice hangs o'er the fountain, The storm rides on the gale ; The earth is bare and naked. The air is cold — and drear. The sky with snow-clouds flakfid, And dense foul fogs appear ; The sun shines not so brightly Through the dark murky skies, The nights grow longer — nightly. And thus the winter dies. Thus falls man, his season past, the blight has ta'en his bloom ; Summer gone, the autumn blast consigns him to the tomb ; Then the winter cold and drear, with pestilential breath. Blows upon nis silent bier, and whispers — " This is death." Thomas John Ouseley. THE VILLAGE SCHOOL-MASTER. ^ESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossom 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 lis 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 — 'Twas 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. 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. Oliver Goldsmith. THE INQUIRY. ELL me, ye winged winds, that round my path- way roar, Do ye not know some spot where mortals "^ weep no more ? Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the West, Where, free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest? The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low, And sighed for pity as it answered — " No." Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play, Knowest thou some favored spot, some island far away. Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs — Where sorrow never lives, and friendship never dies ? The loud waves, rolling in perpetual flow, Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer — "No." And thou, serenest moon, that, with such lovely face. Dost look upon the earth, asleep in night's embrace ; Tell me, in all thy round, hast thou not seen some spot Where miserable man might find a happier lot? Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe. And a voice, sweet, but sad, responded — "No." Tell me, my secret soul ; — oh ! tell me, hope and faith, Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin, and death ?— Is there no happy spot, where mortals may be blessed. Where grief may find a balm, and wearmess a rest ? Faith, hope and love, best boons to mortals given, Waved their bright wings, and whispered — "Yes, in heaven !" Charles Mackay. FROM CHILDHOOD TO OLD AGE. ,EHOLD, fond man! See here thy pictured life; — pass some ftw years. Thy flowering spring, thy summer's ardent strength. Thy sober autumn fading into age, And pale concluding wint° • comes at last, And shuts the scene. 2G2 CROWN JEWELS. OBSERVATIONS OF REV. GABE TUCKER. OU may notch it on de palin's as a mightj- resky plan To make your judgment by de clo'es da* kivers up a man ; For I hardly needs to tell you how you often come ercross A fifty-dollar saddle on a twenty-dollar hoss. An', wukin' in de low-groun's, you diskiver.as you go. Datthe fines' shuck may hide de meanes' nubbin in a row ! I think a man lias got a mighty slender chance for heben Dat holds on to his piety but one day out o' seben ; Dat talks about de sinners wid a heap o' solemn chal, An' nebber draps a nickel in de missionary hat ; Dafs foremost in the meetin'-house for raisin all de chunes, But lays aside his 'ligion wid his Sunday pantaloons ! I nebber judge o' people datT meets along the way By de places whar dey come fum an' de houses whar dey stay ; For de bantam chicken's awful fond o' roostin pretty high, An' de turkey-buzzard sails above de eagle in de sky; Dey ketches little minners in de middle ob de sea, An' you finds da smalles' 'possum up de bigges' kind o'tree ! J. A. Macon. THE LAST LEAF. SAW him once before, As he passed by the door ; And again The pavement stones resound As he totters o'er the ground With his cane. But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets So forlorn ; And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, " They are gone." The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has pressed In their bloom ; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said — Poor old lady ! she is dead Long ago— ; That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow. T!i.;y say that in his prime, Ere the pruning-knife of tinis Cut him down. Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town. But now his nose is thin. And it rests upon his chin, Like a staff; And a crook is in his back. And a melancholy crack In his laugh. 1 know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here, But the old three-cornered hat. And the breeches— »and all that, Are so queer 1 And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now. At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. Oliver WENnia.i- Hoi.mks. THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED. 'READ softly, bow the head, In reverent silence bow ; No passing bell doth toll, "f* Yet an immortal soul Is passing now. .Stranger ! however great, With lowly reverence bow ; There's one in that poor shed — One by that paltry bed — Greater than thou. Beneath that beggar's roof, Lo ! Death doth keep his state, Enter, no crowds attend ; Enter, no guards defend This palace gate. Tliat pavement, damp and cold. No smiling courtiers tread ; One silent woman stands, Lifting with meagre hands A dying head. No mingling voices sound. An infant wail alone ; A sob suppressed — again That sliort deep gasp, and then The parting groan. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 233 O change ! O wondrous cjiange ! Burst are the prison bars — This moment, there, so low, So agonized, and now — Beyond the stars. O change ! stupendous change ! There lies tlie soulless clod ; The,sun eternal breaks. The new immortal wakes — Wakes with his God ! Caroline Anne Southey. IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT. ' F I should die to-night. My friends would look upon my quiet face, Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair ; And laying snow-white flowers against my hair. Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands, with lingering caress, Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night ! If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought. Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said : Errands on which the willing feet had sped — The memory of my selfishness and pride. My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be mourned to-night. If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me. Recalling other days remorsefully; The eyes that chill me wiih averted glance. Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften in the old familiar way, For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay.? So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night. O friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow. The way is lonely ; let me feel them now. Think gently of me ; I am travel worn ; My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive ! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead ! When dreamless rest is mine, I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-night. BETTER THINGS. jETTER to smell the violet cool, than sip the glowing wine ; Better to hark a hidden brook, than watch a diamond shine. Better the love of a gentle heart, than beauty's favor proud ; Better the rose's living seed, than roses in a crowd. Better to love in loneliness, than to bask in love all day ; Better the fountain in the heart, than the fountain by the way. Better be fed by a mother's hand, than eat alone at will ; Better to trust in God, than say : " My goods my storehouse fill." Better to be a little wise, than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child, than toil to fill perfection's round. Better to sit at a master's feet, than thrill a listening State ; Better suspect that thou art proud, than be sura that thou art great. Better to walk the real unseen, than watch the hour's event ; Better the "Well done," at the last, than the air with shouting rent. Better to have a quiet gri jf, than a hurrying delight ; Better the twiliglit of the dawn, than the noonday burning bright. Better a death when work is done, than earth's most favored birth ; Better a child in God's great house, than the king of all the earth. George McDonald. WOMAN'S WILL EN, dying, make their wiils, but wives Escape a work so sad ; Why should they make what all their lives The gentle dames have had ? John Godfrey Saxe. AN ANGEL IN THE HOUSE. 'OW sweet it were, if without feeble fright, Or dying of the dreadful beauteous sight, An angel came to us, and we could bear To see him issue from the silent air At evening in our room, and bend on ours His divine eyes, and bring us from his bowers News of dear friends, and children who have never Been dead indeed — as we shall know forever. Alas I we think not what we daily see About our hearths — angels, that are to be. Or may be if they will, and we prepare Their souls and ours to meet in happy air — A child, a friend, a wife whose soft heart sings In unison with ours, breeding its future wings. Leigh Hunt 264 CROWN JEWELS. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. OODMAN, spare that tree ! Touch not a single bough ! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot ; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy ax shall harm it not ! That old familiar tree. Whose glory and renown , Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke ! Cut not its earth-bound ties ; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies !. When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here ; My father pressed my hand — Forgive this foolish tear. But let that old oak stand ! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend ! Here shall the wild-bird sing. And still thy branches bend. Old tree 1 the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot ; While I've a hand to save, Thy ax shall hurt it not. George Perkins Morris. THE LONG AGO. H ! a wonderful stream is the river of Time, As it runs through the realm of tears, With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, And a broader sweep and a surge sublime, As it blends in the ocean of years ! How the winters are drifting like flakes of snow. And the summers like birds between, And the years in the sheaf, how they come and they j^o On the river's breast, with its ebb and its flow, As it glides in the shadow and sheen ! There's a magical isle up the river Time, Where the softest of airs are playing, There's a cloudless sky and a tropical clime, And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, And the Junes with the roses are straying. And the name of this isle is the " Long Ago," And we bury our treasures there ; There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow, There are heaps of dust— oh ! we loved them so — There are trinkets and tresses of hair. There are fragments of songs that nobody sings, There are parts of an infant's prayer, There's a lute unswept and a harp without strings, There are broken vows and pieces of rings. And the garments our loved used to wear. There are hands that are waved when the fairy shore By the fitful mirage is lifted in air. And we sometimes hear through the turbulent roar Sweet voices we heard in the days gone before. When the wind down the river was fair. Oh ! remembered for aye be that blessed isle, All the day of our life until night ; And when evening glows with its beautiful smile. And our eyes are closing in slumbers a while. May a loveKer isle be in sight. Bayard F. Tavi^or. ROLL CALL ORPORAL GREEN ! " the orderly cried ; "Here ! " was the answer, loud and clear, From the lips of the soldier who stood near — And " here ! " was the word the next replied. u e "Cyrus Drew ! " — then a silence fell — This time no answer followed the call ; Only his rear-man had seen him fall, Killed or wounded, he could not tell. There they stood in the failing light. These men of battle, with grave, dark looks. As plain to be read as open books, While slowly gathered the shades of night. The fern on the hill-sides was splashed with blood. And down in the corn where the poppies grew Were redder stains than the poppies knew ; And crimson-dyed was the river's flood. For the foe had crossed from the other side That day, in the face of a murderous fire That swept them down in its terrible ire ; And their life-blood went to color the tide. " Herbert Kline ! " At the call there came Two stalwart soldiers into the line. Bearing between them this Herbert Kline, Wounded and bleeding, to answer his name, " Ezra Kerr ! " — and a voice answered, " here ! " " Hiram Kerr ! " — but no man replied. They were brothers, these two ; the sad winds sighed, And a shudder crept through the cornfield near. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 265 " Ephraim Deane ! ''—then a soldier spoke : " Deane carried our regiment's colors," he said ; " Where our ensign was shot, I left him dead. Just after the enemy wavered and broke. " Close to the road side his body lies; I paused a moment and gave him drink ; He murmured his mother's name, I think, And death came with it and closed his eyes." 'Twas a victory; yes, but it cost us dear — For that company's roll, when called at night, Of a hundred men who went into the fight, Numbered but twenty that answered, " here I " N. G. Shepherd, THE LARK AND HER LITTLE ONES WITH . THE OWNER OF A FIELD. ii &: EPEND upon yourself alone," Is a sound proverb worthy credit, n ^sop's time it was well known, And there (to tell the truth) I read it. The larks to build their nests began, When wheat was in the green blade still — That is to say, when Nature's plan Had ordered Love, with conquering will, To rule the earth, the sea, and air. Tigers in woods, sea monsters in the deep ; Nor yet refuse a share To larks that in the cornfields keep. One bird, however, of these last. Found that one-half the spring was past, Yet l)rought no mate, such as the season sent To others. Then with firm intent Plighting her troth, and fairly matched, She built her nest and gravely hatched. All went on well, the com waved red Above each little fledgling's head. Before they 'd strength enough to fly, And mount into the April sky. A hundred cares the mother lark compel To seek with patient care the daily food ; But first she warns her restless brood To watch, and peep, an J listen well, And keep a constant sentinel ; 'And if the owner comes iiis corn to see. His son, too, as 't will likely be. Take heed, for when we're sure of it. And reapers come, why, we must flit." No sooner was the lark away Than came the owner with his son, "The wheat is ripe," hesaid, "so run. And bring our friends at peep of day. Each with his sickle sharp and ready." The lark returns : alarm already Had seized the covey. One commences — " He said himself, at early morn His friends he'd call to reap the com." The old lark said— "If that is all. My worthy children, keep your senses; No hurry till the first rows fall. We '11 not go yet, dismiss all fear ; To-morrow keep an open ear. Here's dinner ready, now be gay." They ate and slept the time away. The morn arrives to wake the sleepers, Aurora comes, but not the reapers. The lark soars up : and on his round The farmer comes to view his ground. "This wheat," he said, ''ought not to stand ; Our friends are wrong no helping hand To give, and we are wrong to tmst Such lazy fools for half a crust. Much less for labor. Sons," he cried, " Go, call our kinsmen on each side ; We'll go to work." The little lark Grew more afraid. "Now, mother, mark. The work within an hour's begun," The mother answered — " Sleep, my son ; We will not leave our house to-night." Well, no one came ; the bird was right. The third time came the master by : " Our error's great," he said, repentantly : " No friend is better than oneself; Remember that, my boy, it's worth some pelf. Now, what to do ? Why, I and you Must whet our sickles and bfegin ; That is the shortest way, I see ; I know at last the surest plan : We'll make our harvest as we can." No sooner had the lark o'erheard — " 'Tis time to flit, my children, come !" Cried out the very prudent bird. Little and big went fluttering, rising, Soaring in a way surprising. And left without a beat of drum. THE ORPHAN BOY, 'HE room is old — the night is cold — But night is dearer far than day ; For then, in dreams, to him it seems, That she's returned who's gone away ! His tears are passed — he clasps her fast — Again she holds him on her knee ; And — in his sleep — he murmurs deep, "Oh ! mother, go no more from me !" But morning breaks, the child awakes — The dreamer's happy dream hath fled ; The fields look sere, and cold, and drear — Like orphans, mourning summer dead! — The wild birds spring, on shivering wing. Or, cheerless, chirp from tree to tree ; And still he cries, with weeping eyes, "Oh ! mother dear, come back to me !" • 2CG CROWN JEWELS. Can no one tell where angels dwell ? — He's called them oft till day grew dim ; If they were near — and they could hear — He thinks they'd bring her back to him ! "Oh ! angels sweet, conduct my feet," He cries, "where'er her home may be ; Oh ! lead me on to where she's gone, Or bring my mother back to me !" Charles Swain. WILL THE NEW YEAR COME TO-NIGHT. MAMMA? ^ ILL the New Year come to-night, mamma? I'm tired of waiting so — My stocking hung by the chimney-side full three long days ago ; I run to peep within the door by morning's early light — 'Tis empty still ; oh, say, mamma, will the New Year come to-night ? Will the New Year come to-night, mamma ? the snow is on the hill. And the ice must be two inches thick upon the mead- ow's rill. I heard you tell papa last night his son must have a sled; (I didn't mean to hear, mamma), and a pair of skates, you said. I prayed for just those things, mamma. Oh, I shall be full of glee, And the orphan boys in the village school will all be envying me ; But I'll give them toys and lend them books, and make their New Year glad. For God, you say, takes back his gifts when little folks are bad ; And won't you lef me go, mamma, upon the New Year's day. And carry something nice and warm to poor old widow Gray? I'll leave the basket near the door within the garden gate- Will the New Year come to-night, mamma? it seems so long to wait. The New Year comes to-night, mamma, I saw it in my sleep ; My stocking hung so full, I thought — mamma, what makes you weep ? — But it only held a little shroud — a shroud and nothing more ; And an open coffin made for me was standing on the floor! It seemed so very strange indeed, to find such gifts, in- stead Of all the gifts I wished so much — the story-books and sled; And while I wondered what it meant, you came with tearful joy. And said, "Thc.u'lt findthe New Year first ; God call- eth thee, my boy." It is not all a dream, mamma — I know it must be true ; But have I been so bad a boy, God taketh me from you? I don't know what papa will do when I am laid to rest, And you will have no Willie's head to fold upon your breast. The New Year comes to-night, mamma ; place your dear hand on my cheek. And raise my head a little more ; it seems so hard to speak. I shall not want the skates, mamma, I'll never need the sled ; But won't you give them both to Blake, who hurt me on my head ? He used to hide my books away and tear the pictures too. But now he'll know that I forgive, as then I tried to do. And if you please, mamma, I'd like the story-books and slate To go to Frank, the drunkard's boy, you wouldn't let me hate ; And dear mamma, you won't forget, upon the New- Year's day. The basketful of something nice for poor old widow Gray? The New Year comes to-night, mamma — it seems so very soon, I think God didn't hear me ask for just another June. I know I've been a thoughtless boy and made you too much care. And maybe for your sake, mamma, God doesn't hear my prayer. There's one thing more — my pretty pets, the robin and the dove. Keep for you and dear papa, and teach them how to love. The garden-rake, the little hoe, you'll find them nicely laid Upon the garret floor, mamma, the place where last I played. I thought to need them both so much when summer comes again, To make my garden by the brook that trickles through the glen ; It cannot be ; but you will keep the summer flowers green. And plant a few — don't cry, mamma — a very few I mean. Where I'm asleep : I'll sleep so sweet beneath the apple tree. Where you and robin in the morn will come and sing to me. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 267 The New Year comes — good-night, mamma, " I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord" — tell dear papa — "my precious soul to keep ; If I " — how cold it seems — how dark — kiss me — I can- not see, . '. The New Year comes to-night, mamma, the old year dies wiih nie. Cora M. Eager. THE LAST TIME THAT I MET LADY RUTH. 'HERE are some things hard to understand, O heip me, my God, to trust in Thee ! But I never shall forget her soft white hand, "f* And her eyes when she looked at me. It is hard to pray the very same prayer Which once at our mother's knee we prayed — When where we trusted our whole heart, there Our trust hath been betrayed. I swear that the milk-white muslin so light On her virgin breast, where it lay demure, Seemed to be touched to a purer white By the touch of a breast so pure. I deemed her the one thing undefiled By the air we breathe, in a world of sin ; Tlie truest, the tenderest, purest child A man ever trusted in ! When she blamed me (she, with her fair child's face !) That never wilh her to the church I went To partake o.Tthe Gospel of truth and grace. And the Cliristian sacrament, And I said I would for her own sweet sake, Though it v.as but herself I should worship there, How that happy child's face strove to take On its dimples a serious air ! I remember the chair she would set for me. By the flowers, when all the house was gone To drive in the Park, and I and she Were left to be happy alone. There she leaned her head on my knees, my Ruth, With the primrose loose in her half-closed hands ; And I to!d her tales of mytyjyandering youth In the far fair foreign lahj^B. The last time I met her was here in town, ' At a fancy ball at the Duchess of D., On the stairs, where her husband was handing her down. There we met, and she talked to me. She with powder in hair and patch on chin, And I in the garb of a pilgrim priest. And between us both, without and within, A hundred years at least ! We talked of the house, and the late long rains. And the crush at tlie French Ambassador's ball. And .... well, I have not blown out my brains. You see I can laugh, that is all. Robert Bulwer Lvtton {Owen Meredith). ii R THE SNOW-FUKE. OW, if I fall, will it be my lot To be cast in some low and lonely spot. To melt, and to sink unseen cr forgot ? And then will my course be ended ? " 'Twas thus a feathery snow-flake said, As down through the measureless space it strayed. Or, as half by dalliance, half afraid. It seemed in mid air suspended. " O, no," said the earth, " thou shalt not lie. Neglected and lone, on my lap to die, Thou pure and delicate child of the sky ; For thou wilt be safe in my keeping ; But, then, I must give thee a lovelier fonn ; Thou'lt not be a part of the wintry storm, But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm. And tlie flowers from my bosom are peeping. "And then thou shalt have thy choice to be Restored in tlie lily tliat decks tlie lea, In the jessamine bloom, the anemone. Or aught of thy spotless whiteness ; To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead, With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead. In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed. Regaining thy dazzling brightness ; — "To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep. When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep. In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap In a drop from the unlocked fountain ; Or, leaving tlie valley, the meadow and heath. The streamlet, the flowers, and all beneath, To go and be wove in the silvery wreath Encircling the brow of the mountain. " Or wouldst thou return to a home in the skies. To shine in the iris I'll let tliee arise. And appear in the many and glorious dyes A pencil of sunbeams is blending. But true, fair thing, as my name is earth, I'll give thee a new and vernal birth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth. And never regret descending ! " "Then I will drop," said the trusting flake ; " But bear it in mind that the choice I make Is not in the flowers nor the dew to awake, Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning : For, things of thyself, they expire with thee ; But those that are lent from on high, like me. They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free. To the regions above returning. 268 CROWN JEWELS. "And if true to thy word, and just thou art, Like the spirit that dwells in the holiest heart, Unsullied by thee, thou wilt let nie. depart, And return to my native heaven ; For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, From time to time, in thy sight to glow. So thou may'st remember the flake of snow By the promise that God hath given." Hannah Flagg Gould. THE MINSTREL GIRL. 'GAIN 'twas evening — Agnes knelt, Pale, passionless — a sainted one : On wasted cheek and pale brow dwelt The last beams of the setting sun. Alone — the damp and cloistered wall Was round her like a sepulchre ; And at the vesper's mournful call Was bending every worshipper. She knelt — her knee upon the stone, Her thin hand veiled her tearful eye, As it were sin to gaze upon The changes of the changeful sky. It seemed as if a sudden thought Of her enthusiast moments came With the bland eve — and she had sought To stifle in her heart the flame Of its awakened memory : She felt she miglit not cherish, then, The raptures of a. spirit, free And passionate as hers had been, When its sole worship was, to look With a delighted eye abroad ; And read, as from an open book, The written languages of God. How changed she kneels ! — the vile, gray hood, Where spring-flowers twined with raven hair, And where the jewelled silk hath flowed, Coarse veil and gloomy scapulaire. And wherefore thus? Was hers a soul. Which, all unfit for nature's gladness. Could grasp the bigot's poisoned bowl. And drain with joy its draught of madness? Read ye the secret, who have nursed In your own hearts intenser feelings, Which stole upon ye, at the first. Like bland and musical revealings From some untrodden paradise, Until your very soul was theirs ; And from their maddening ecstacies Ye woke to mornfulncss and prayers. To weave a garland, will not let it wither ; — Wondering, I listen to the strain sublime. That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time. Wafted in grand simplicity along, The undying breath, the very soul of song. John Green leaf Whittier, © A SONG OF THE MOLE. E jay-bird hunt de sparrer-nes', De bee-martin sail all 'roun', De squir'l, he holler fum de top er de tree — Mr. Mole, he slay in de groun'; He hide en he stay twel de dark drap down — Mr. Mole, he stay in de groun'. De w'ipperuill holler fum 'cross de fence — He got no peace er niin' ; Mr. Mole, he grabble en he dig twel he Ian' Un'need de sweet tater vine ; He Ian' down dar whar no sun ain't shine, Un'need de sweet-tater vine. De sparrer-hawk whet his bill on de rail — Oh, ladies, lissen unter me, Mr. Mole, he handle his two little spade, Down dar whar no eye kin see ; He dig so fur en he dig so free, Down dar whar no eye kin see. De nigger, he wuk twel de dark drap down, En den Mr. Mole is he ; He sing his song de whole night long Whar de patter-roller never kin see ; He sing en he play— oh, gals, go 'way ! — Whar de patter-roller never kin see. Joel Chandler Harris {Uncle Remus). GIVE ME THREE GRAINS OF CORN, MOTHER. THE IRISH FAMINE. ,IVE me three grains of corn, motlier — Only three grains of corn ; It will keep the little life I have Till the coming of the morn, am dying of hnnger and cold, mother — Dying of hunger and cold ; uid half the agony of such a death My lips have never told. It has gnawed like a wolf at my heart, mother — A wolf that is fierce for blood ; All the livelong day, and the night beside. Gnawing for lack of food. I dreamed of bread in my sleep, mother. And the sight was heaven to see ; I awoke witli an eager, famishing lip. But you had no bread for me. How could I look to you, mother- How could I look to you For bread to' give to your starving boy. When you were starving too ? For I read the famine in your check. And in your eyes so wild, And I felt it in your bony hand As you laid it on your child. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 269 The Queen has lands and gold, mother — The Queen has lands and gold, While you are forced to your empty breast A skeleton babe to hold — A babe that is dying of want, mother. As I am dying now, With a ghastly look in its sunken eye, And famine upon its brow. W'hat has poor Ireland done, mother— Wiiat has poor Ireland done. That the world looks on and sees us starve. Perishing one by one ? Do the men of England care not, mother — The great men and the high — For the suffering sons of Erin's isle. Whether they live or die ? There is many a brave heart here, mother — Dying of want and cold, While only across the channel, mother, Are many that roll in gold ; There are rich and pro'-d men there, mother, With wondrous wealth to view. And the bread tlicy fling to their dogs to-night Would give life to me and you. Come nearer to my side, mother, Come nearer to my side. And hold me fondly as you held My father when he died ; Quick ! for I cannot see you, mother. My breath is almost gone ; Mother ! dear mother I ere I die, Give me three grains of C9m. Amelia Blanford Edwards. IDEAS THE LIFE OF A PEOPLE. 'HE leaders of our Revolution were men of whom the simple truth is the highest praise. Of every condition in life, they were singularly sagacious, ■^ sober, and thoughtful. Lord Chatham spoke only the truth when he said to Franklin, of the men who composed the first colonial Congress : " The Congress is the most honorable assembly of statesmen since those of the ancient Greeks and Romans in the most virtuous times." Given to grave reflection, they were neither dreamers nor visionaries, and they were much too earnest to be rhetoricians. It is a curious fact, that they were generally men of so calm a temper .that they lived to extreme age. With the exception of Patrick Henry and Samuel Adams, they were most of them profound scholars, and studied the history of mankind that they might know men. They were so familiar with the lives and thoughts of the wisest and best minds of the past that a classic aroma hangs about their writings and their speech ; and they were pro- foundly convinced of what statesmen always know, and the adroitest mere politicians never perceive — that ideas are the life of a people ; that the conscience, not the pocket, is the real citadel of a nation, and that when you have debauched and demoralized that conscience by teaching tl-.at there are no natural rights, and that therefore there is no moral right or wrong in political action, you have poisoned the wells and rotted the crops in the ground. The three greatest living statesmen of England knew this also, Edmund Burke knew it, and Charles James Fox, and William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. But they did not speak for the King, or Parliament, or the English nation. Lord Gower spoke for them when he said in Parliament : "Let the Americans talk about their natu- ral and divine riglits ; their rights as men and citizens ; their rights from God and nature I I am for enforcing these measures." My lord was contemptuous, and the King hired the Hessians, but the truth remained true. The Fathers saw the scarlet soldiers swarming over the sea, but more steadily they saw that the na- tional progress had been secure only in the degree that the political system had conformed to natural justice. They knew the coming wreck of property and trade, but they knew more surely that Rome was never so rich as when she was dying, and, on the other hand, the Netherlands, never so powerful as when they were poorest. Farther away, they read the names of As- syria, Greece, Egypt. They had art, opulence, splen- dor. Corn enough grew in the valley of the Nile. The Syrian sword was as sharp as any. They were mer- chant princes, and the clouds in the sky were rivaled by their sails upon the sea. They were soldiers, and their frown frightened the world. " Soul, take thine ease," those empires said, languid with excess of luxury and life. Yes: but you remem- ber the king who had built his grandest palace, and was to occupy it upon the morrow ; but when the morrow came the palace was a pile of ruins. " Woe is me 1 " cried the King, " who is guilty of this crime ? " "There is no crime," replied the sage at his side; "but the mortar was made of sand and water only, and the builders forgot to put in the lime." So fell the old em- pires, because the governors forgot to put justice into their governments. George William Curtis. MY MIND TO ME A KINGDOM IS. Ill Y mind to me a kingdom is ; Such perfect joy therein I find As far exceeds all earthly bliss That God or nature hath assigned; Though much I want that most would have, Yet still my mind forbids to crave. Content I live ; this is my stay — I seek no more than may suffice. I press to bear no haughty sway ; Look, what I lack my mind supplies. Lo ! thus I triumph like a king, Content with that my mind doth bring. 270 CROWN JEWELS. I see how plenty surfeits oft, And hasty climbers soonest fall ; I see that such as sit aloft Mishap doth threaten most of all. These get with toil, and keep with fear ; Such cares my mind could never bear. No princely pomp nor wealthy store. No force to win the victory, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to win a lover's eye — To none of these I yield as thrall ; For why, my mind despiseth all. Some have too much, yet still they crave ; I little have, yet seek no more. They are but poor, though much they have ; And I am rich with little store. They poor, I rich ; they beg, I give ; They lack, I lend ; they pine, I live. I laugh not at another's loss, I grudge not at another's gain ; No worldly wave my mind can toss ; I brook that is another's bane. I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend ; I loathe not life, nor dread mine end. I joy not in no earthly bliss; I wei^h not Crcesus' wealth a straw; For care, I care not what it is ; I fear net fortune's fatal law ; My mind is such as may not move For beauty bright, or force of love. I wish but what I have at will ; I wander not to seek for more ; I like the plain, I climb no hill ; In greatest storms I sit on shore, And laugh at them that toil in vain To get what must be lost again. I kiss not where I wish to kill ; I feign not love where most I hate; I break no sleep to win my will ; I wait not at the inighty's gate. I scorn no poor, I fear no rich ; I feel no want, nor have too much. The court nor cart I like nor loathe ; Extremes are counted worst of all ; The golden mean betwixt them both Do.h surest suit, and fears no fall ; This is my choice ; for why, I find No wealth is like a quiet mind. My wealth is health and perfect ease ; My conscience clear my chief defence ; I never seek by bri'ocs to please. Nor by desert to give offence. Thus do I live, thus will I die ; Would i.11 did so as well as I ! William Byrd. THE RIGHT MUST CONQUER. N this world, with ils wild whirling eddies and mad foam oceans, where men and nations perish as if without law, and judgment for an unjust thing is sternly delayed, dost thou think that there is therefore no justice? It is what the fool hath said in h.is heart. It is what the wise in all times were wise because they denied, and knew forever not to be. I tell thee again, there is nothing else but jur-tice. One strong thing I find here below : the just thing, the true thing. My friend, if thou hadst all the artillery of Woolwich trundling at thy back in support of an unjust thing, and infinite bonfires visibly waiting ahead of tliee, to blaze centuries long for thy victory on behalf of it, I would advise thee to call halt, to fling down thy baton and say, " In Heaven's name, no ! " Thy "success " ? Poor fellow ! what will thy success amount to? If the thing is unjust, thou hast not succeeded ; no, not though bonfires blazed from north to south, and bells rang, and editors wrote leading articles, and the just things lay trampled out of sight to all mortal eyes abolished and annihilated things. It is the right and noble alone that will have victory in this struggle ; the rest is wholly an obstruction, a post- ponement and fearful imperilment of the victory. To- wards an eternal centre of right and nobleness, and of that oniy, is all confusion tending. We already know whither it is all tending ; what will have victory, what will have none. The heaviest will reach the centre. The heaviest has it.i deflections, its obstructions, nay, at times its reboundings ; whereupon some blockhead shall be hcardjubilating, "See, your heaviest ascends !" but at all moments it is moving centreward fast as it is convenient for it; sinking, sinking; and, by laws o'der tlian the world, old as the Maker's first plan of the world, it has to arrive there. Await the issue. In all battles, if you await the issue, each fighter has prospered according to his right. Ills riglit and his might, at the close of the account, were one and the same. He has fought with all his might, and in exact proportion to all his right lie has prevailed. His very death is no victory over him. He dies in- deed ; but his work lives, very truly lives. A hetcic Wallace, quartered on the scaffold, cannot hinder that his Scotland become, one day, a part of England ; but he does hinder that it become, on tyran- nous, unfair terms, a part of it ; commands still, as with a.god's voice, from his old Valhalla and Temple of the Brave, that there be a just, real union, as of brotlierand brother — not a fahe and merely semblant one, as of slave and master. If the union witli England be in fact one of Scotland's chief blessings, we thank Wallace withal that it was not the chief curse. Scotland is not Ireland ; no, because brave men rose there and said, " Behold, ye must not tread us down like slaves, and ye shall not and cannot 1 " SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 271 Fight on, thou brave, true heart, and falter not, through dark fortune and through bright. The cause thou fighttst for, so far as it is true, no further, yet pre- cisely so far, is very sure of victory. The falsehood alone of it will be conquered, will be abolished, as it ought to be ; but the truth of it is part of nature's own laws, co-operates with the world's eternal tendencies, and cannot be conquered. Tho.mas Carlvle. THE BLIND MAN. 'HERE is a world, a pure unclouded clime, Where there is neither grief, nor death, nor time ! "^ Nor loss of friends ! Perhaps when yonder bell Beat slow, and bade the dying day farewell. Ere yet the glimmering landscape sank to-night, They thought upon that world of distant light ; And when the blind man, lifting light his hair. Felt the faint wind, he raised a warmer prayer ; Then sighed, as the blithe bird sung o'er his head, " No mom will shine on me till I am dead !" William Lisle Bowles. SOMEBODY'S DARLING. ' NTO a ward of the whitewashed halls. Where the dead and dying lay. Wounded by bayonets, shells and balls, Somebody's darling was borne one day — Somebody's darling, so young and so brave, Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face. Soon to be hid by the dust of th-; grave. The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold. Kissing the snow of the fair young brow, Pale are the lips of delicate mould — Somebody's darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow, Brusli all the wandering waves of gold ; Cross Lis hands on his bosom now — Somebody's darling is still and cold. Kiss him once for somebody's sake. Murmur a prayer both soft and low ; One br'ght curl from its fair mates take — They are somebody's pride, you know; Somebody's hand hath rested there — Was it a mother's, soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair Been baptized in their waves of light ? God knows best ! he was somebody's love ; Somebody's heart enshrined him there ; Somebody wafted his name above. Night and mom, on the wings'of prayer. Somebody wept when he marched away. Looking so handsome, brave and grand ; Somebody's kiss on his forehead lay. Somebody clung to his parting hand. Somebody's waiting and watching for him — Yearning to hold Iiim again to her heart ; And there lie lies with his blue eyes dim, And the smiling child-like lips apart. Tenderly bury the fair young dead, Pausing to drop on liis grave a tear ; Carve in the wooden slab at his head, " Somebody's darling slumbers here." Marie R. Lacoste. THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS. OME reckon their age by years. Some measure their life by art ; , But some tell their days by the flow of their ^ tears, And their lives by the moans of their heart. The dials of earth may show The length, not the depth of years- Few or many they come, few or many they go — But time is best measured by tears. Ah ! not by the silver gray That creeps through the .^^unny hair. And not by the scenes that we pass on our way, And not by tlie furrows the fingers of care On forehead and face have made — Not so do we count our years ; Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade Of our souls, and the fall of our tears. For the young are ofttimes old, Though their brows be bright and fair ; While their blood beats warm, their hearts are cold^ O'er them the spring — but winter is there. And the old are ofttimes young When their hair is thin and white ; And they sing in age, as in youth they sung And they laugh, for their cross was light. But, bead by bead, I tell The rosary of my years ; From a cross— to a cross they lead ; 'tis well, And they're blest with a blessing of tears. Better a day of strife Than a century of sleep ; Give me instead of a long stream of life The tempests and tears of the deep. A thousand joys may foam On the billows of all the years , But never the foam brings the lone back home — He reaches the haven through tears. Abram J. Ryan. 272 CROWN JEWELS. THE COLLIER'S DYING CHILD. *HE cottage was a thatched one, its outside old and mean ; Yet everything within that cot was wondrous 7 neat and clean : The night was dark and stormy — the wind was blow- ing wild; A patient mother sat beside the death-bed of her child — A little, worn-out creature — his once bright eyes grown dim : It was a collier's only child — they called him "Little Jim." And oh ! to see the briny tears fast flowing down her cheek. As she offered up a prayer in thought! — she was afraid to speak, Lest she might waken one she loved far dearer than her life ; For she had all a mother's heart, that wretched col- lier's wife. With hands uplifted, see, she kneels beside the suf- ferer's bed, And prays that God will spare her boy, and take her- self instead ; She gets her answer from the child, soft falls these words from him — " Mother ! the angels do so smile, and beckon Little Jim! I have no pain, dear mother, now ; but, oh ! I am so dry: Just moisten poor Jim's lips once more ; and, mother, do not cry ! " With gentle, trembling haste, she held a teacup to his lips — He smiled to thank her — then betook three little tiny sips. " Tell father, when he comes from work, I said ' good night ! ' to him ; And,mother, now I'll goto sleep." .... Alas! poor Little Jim ! She saw that he was dying ! The child the loved so dear Had uttered the last words she'd ever wish to hear. The cottage door is opened— the collier's step is heard ; The father and the mother meet, but neither speak a word: He felt that all was over — he knew the child was dead ! He took the candle in his hand, and stood beside the bed: His quivering lip gave token of the grief he'd fain conceal ; And see, the mother joins him ! — the stricken couple kneel ; With hearts bowed down by sorrow, they humbly ask, of Him In heaven, once more that they may meet their own poor "Little Jim!" WIND AND RAIN. J ATTLE the window, winds ! Rain, drip on the panes ! There are tears and sigiis in our hearts and eyes. And a weary weight on our brains. The gray sea heaves and heaves, On the dreary flats of sand ; And the blasted limb of the churchyard yew, It shakes like a ghostly hand ! The dead are engulfed beneath it, Sunk in the grassy waves; But we have more dead in our hearts to-day Than the earth in all her graves ! Richard Henry Stoddard. THE FUNERAL WAS walking in Savannah, pasta church decayed and dim, When there slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral hymn ; And a sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew. Till I found myself environed in a little negro pew. Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild. On the altar was a coffin, in the coffin was a child. I could picture him when living — curly hair, protruding lip- And had seen perhaps a thousand in my hurried south- ern trip. But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of death That had fanned more flames of sorrow with his flut- tering breath ; And no funeral ever glistened with more sympathy profound Than was in the chain of tear drops that enclasped those mourners round. Rose a sad old colored preacher at the little wooden desk. With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque ; With simplicity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face ; With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed, undying race. And he said, " Now, don' be weepin* for dis pretty bit o' clay. For de little boy who lived there, he done gone and rim away ! He was doin' very finely, and he 'precitate your love ; But his sure 'nuff" Father want him inde large house up above. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 273 "Now, He didn' give you dat baby, by a hundred thousand mile ! He jist think you need some sunshine, an' He lend it for a while ! An' He let you keep an' love him till your heart was bigger grown ; An' dese silver tears you're sheddin's jest de interest on de loan. \ ' ' Here yer oder pretty chilrun ! — Don't be makin' it appear Dat your love got sort o' 'nopolized by this little fellow here. Don't pile up too much your sorrows on deir little mental shelves, So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves? "Just you think, you poor deah mounahs, creepin' 'long o'er sorrow's way. What a blessed little picnic dis yere baby's got to-day ! Your good faders and good moders crowd de little fel- low round In de angel-tended garden of de Big Plantation Ground. "An' dey ask him, ' Was your feet sore ? ' an' take off his little shoes. An' dey wash him, and dey kiss him, and dey say, ' Now, what's de news ? ' An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose, den de little fellow say : ' All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de heb- enly way.' "An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty things he view ; Den a tear come, and he whisper : * But I want my paryents, too ! ' But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song ; Says, ' If only dey be faithful, dey will soon be comin' 'long.' "An' he'll get an education dat will proberly be worth Seberal t mes as much as any you could buy for him on earth ; He'll be in de Lawd s big school-house, widout no con- tempt or fear. While dere's no end to de bad tings might have hap- pened to him here. "So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, An' don't go to critersizin' dat ar One wot knows the best! He have sent us many comforts— He have right to take away — To the Lawd be praise an' glory, now and ever ! Let us pray." Will M. Carleton. 18 NINE GRAVES IN EDINBORO'. Robert Arnim says concerning the death of Jemmy Camber, one of the jesters of King James I, during his reign in Scotland: "Jemmy rose, made him ready, takes Ms liorse, and rides to the churchyard in tlie high towne, where he found the sexton (as the custom is there) making nine graves— three for men, three for women, and three for children; and whoso dyes next, first come, first served. 'Lend me thy spade,' says Jemmy, and wilh that digs a hole, which hole he bids him make for his grave ;'and doih give him a French crowne. The man, willing to please him (more for his gold than his pleasure^ did so; and the foole gets upon his horse, rides to a gentleman of the towne, and on the sodaine with- in two houres after dyed ; of whom the sexton telling, he was buried there indeed." N the church-yard, up in the old high town, The sexton stood at his daily toil, And he lifted his mattock and drove it down, And sunk it deep in the sacred soil. And then as he delved he sang right lustily, Aye as he deepened and shaped the graves In the black.old mold that smelled so mustily, And thus was the way of the sexton's staves : " It's nine o' the clock, and I have begun The settled task that is daily mine ; By ten o' the clock I will finish one — By six o' the clock there must be nine : "Just three for women, and three for men ; And, to fill the number, another three For daughters of women and sons of men Who men or women shall never be. " And the first of the graves in a row of three Is his or hers who shall first appear ; All lie in the order they come to me. And such has been ever the custom here." The first they brought was a fair young child, And they saw him buried and went their way ; And the sexton leaned on his spade and smiled, And wondered, " How many more to-day?" The next was a man ; then a woman came : The sexton had loved her in years gone by ; But the years had gone, and the dead old dame He buried as deep as his memory. At six o' the clock his task was done ; Eight graves were closed, and the ninth prepared- Made ready to welcome a man — what one 'Twas little the grim old sexton cared. He sat him down on its brink to rest. When the clouds were red and the sky was gray, And said to himself: " This last is the best And deepest of all I have digged to-day. "Who will fill it, I wonder, and when ? It does not matter : whoe'er they be. The best and the worst of the race of men Are all alike when they come to me." 274 CROWN JEWELS. They went to him with a man, next day, When the sky was gray and the clouds were red, As the sun set forth on his upward way ; They went — and they found the sexton dead. Dead, by the open grave, was he ; And they buried him in it that self-same day, And marvelled much such a thing should be ; And since, the people will often say : If ye dig, no matter when, Graves to bury other men. Think — it never can be known WhenyeUl chance to dig your own. Mind ye of the tale ye know — Nine graves in Edinbro. Irwin Russell. W WHEN I BENEATH THE COLD RED EARTH AM SLEEPING. *"* 'HEN I beneath the cold red earth am sleep- ing, Life's fever o'er. Will there for me be any bright eye weeping That I'm no more ? Will there be any heart still memory keeping Of heretofore ? When the great winds through leafless orests rushing, Like full hearts break — When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully gush- ing, Sad music make — Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing. Mourn for my sake ? When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray. And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twin- ing. Burst through that clay — W^ill there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day ? When the night shadows, with the ample sweeping Of her dark pall. The world and all its manifold creation sleeping — The great and small — Will there be one, e\'en at that dread hour, weeping For me — for all ? When no star twinkles with its eyes of glory On that low mound. And wintry storms have witii their ruins hoary Its lonene^s crowned, Will there be then one, versed in misery's story. Pacing it round ? It may be so — but this is selfish sorrow To ask such meed — A meekness and a wickedness, to borrow From hearts that bleed The wailings of to-day, for what to-morrow , Shall never need. Lay me then gently in my narrow dwelling, Thou gentle heart ! And, though thy bosom should with grief be swelling, Let no tear start ; It were in vain — for time hath long been knelling — Sad one, depart I "William Motherwell ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC. WAS at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's war-like son — Aloft in awful state *!* The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound, (So should desert in arms be crowned ;) The lovely Thais by his side Sate like a blooming Eastern bride In flower of youth and beauty's pride : — Happy, happy, happy pair ! None but the brave None but the brave None but the brave deserves the fair ! Timotheus, placed on high ■ Amid the tuneful choir, With flying fingers touched the lyre : The trembling notes ascend the sky, And heavenly joys inspire. The song began from Jove, Who left his blissful seats above — Such is the power of mighty love ! A dragon's fiery form belied the god ; Sublime on radiant spheres he rode When he to fair Olympia prest. And while he sought her snowy breast ; Then round her slender waist he curled. And stamped an image of himself, a sovereign of the world, — The listening crowd admire the lofty sound ! A present deity ! they shout around : A present deity ! the vaulted roofs rebound ! With ravished ears The monarch hears, Assumes the god ; Affects to nod. And seems to shake the spheres. The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung — Of Bacchus ever fair and ever young : The jolly god in triumph comes ! Sound the trumpets, beat thu- drums ! SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 275 Flushed with a purple grace He shows his honest face : Now give tlie hautboys breatli ; he comes, he comes ! Bacchus, ever fair and young. Drinking joys did first ordam ; Bacchus' blessings are a treasure, Drinkmg is the soldier's pleasure : Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure. Sweet is pleasure after pain. Soothed with the sound, the King grew vain ; Fought all his battles o'er again, And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain ! The master saw the madness rise, His glowing cheeks, his ardent eyes ; And while he heaven and earth defied Changed his hand and checked his pride. He chose a mournful muse Soft pity to infuse : He sung Darius great and good, By too severe a fate Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate. And weltering in his blood ; Deserted, at his utmost need. By tliose his former bounty fed ; On the bare earth exposed he lies With not a friend to close his eyes. With downcast looks the joyless victor sate, Revolving in his altered soul The various turns of chance below ; And now and then a sigh he stole, And tears began to flow. The mighty master smiled to see That love was in the next degree ; 'Twas but a kindred sound to move, For pity melts tlie mind to love. Softly sweet, in Lydian measures Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble. Honor but an empty bubble. Never ending, still beginning; Fighting still, and still destroying; If the world be worth thy winning, Think, O think, it worth enjoying : Lovely Thais sits beside thee. Take the good the gods provide thee ! The many rend the skies with loud applause ; So love was crowned, but music won the cause. The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sighed and looked, sighed and looked. Sighed and looked and sighed again : At length with love and wine at once opprest, The vanquished victor sunk upon her breast. Now strike the golden lyre again : A louder yet, and yet a louder strain ! Break his bands of sleep asunder, And rouse him like a rattling peal of thunder. Hark, hark ! that horrid sound Has raised up his head : As awaked from the dead And amazed he stares around. Revenge, revenge, Timotheus cries, See the furies arise ! See the snakes that they rear How they hiss in their hair. And the sparkles that flash from their eyes ! Behold a ghastly band Each a torch in his hand ! Those are Grecian ghosts, that in battle were slain And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due To the valiant crew I Bohold how they toss their torches on high. How they point to the Persian abodes And glittering temples of their hostile gods. The princes applaud with a furious joy : And the king seized a flambeau with zeal to destroy Thais led the way To light him to his prey, And like another Helen, fired another Troy ! Thus long ago, Ere heaving bellows learned to blow. While organs yet were mute, Timotheus, to his breathing flute And sounding lyre Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle sofl desire. At last divine Cecilia came, Inventress of the vocal frame ; The sweet enthusiast from her sacred store Enlarged the former narrow bounds, And added length to solemn sounds. With nature's mother-wit, and arts unknown before. Let old Timotheus yield the prize. Or both divide the crown ; He raised a mortal to the skies ; She drew an angel down ! John Dryden. R ART AND NATURE. ATURE is made better by no mean. But nature makes that mean : so over thrt art Which you say adds to nature is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marr A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By buds of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather ; but The art itself is nature. William Shakspeare. 276 CROWN JEWELS. D/EDALUS. AIL for Daedalus, all that is fairest ! All that is tuneful in air or wave ! Shapes whose beauty is truest and rarest, Haunt with your lamps and spells his erave ! Statues, bend your heads in sorrow, Ye that glance 'mid ruins old, That know not a past, nor expect a morrow On many a moonlight Grecian wold ! By sculptured cave and speaking river, Thee, Daedalus, oft the nymphs recall ; The leaves with a sound of winter quiver, Murmur thy name, and withering fall. Yet are thy visions in soul the grandest Of all that crowd on the tear-dimmed eye. Though, Daedalus, thou no more commandest New stars to that ever-widening sky. Ever thy phantoms arise before us. Our loftier brothers, but one in blood ; By bed and ta'-le they lord it o'er us, With looks of beauty and words of good. Calmly they show us mankind victorious O'er all that's aimless, blind, and base ; Their presence has made our nature glorious, Unveiling our night's illumined face. Wail for Daedalus, earth and ocean ! .Stars and sun, lament for him ! Ages quake in strange commotion ! All ye realms of life be dim! Wail for Daedalus, awful voices, From earth's deep centre mankind appall ! Seldom ye sound, and then death rejoices, For he knows that then the mightiest fall. John Sterling. DICKENS IN CAMP, BOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting. The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tmts oi health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race of wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure, A hoarded volume drew. And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure, To hear the tale anew ; And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell. He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of " Little Nell." Perhaps 'twas boyish fancy— for the reader Was youngest of them all — But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar A silence seemed to fall ; The fir trees, gathering doser in the shadows, Listened in every spray. While the whole camp, with " Nell," on English meadows Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken As by some spell divine — Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp, and wasted all its fire : And he who wrought that spell ? — Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell ! Lost is that camp ! but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly, And laurel wreaths intwine, Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly — This spray of western pine. Bret Harte. JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. NE time my soul was pierced as with a sword, Contending still with men untaught and wild. When He who to the prophet lent his gourd, Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. A summer gift, my precious flower was given, A very summer fragrance was its life ; Its clear eyt s soothed me as the blue of heaven, When home I turned, a weary man of strife. With unformed laughter, musically sweet. How soon the wakening babe would meet my kiss • With outstretched arms, its care-wrought father greet ! O, in the desert, what a spring was this ! A few short months it blossomed near my heart : A few short months, else toilsome all, and sad ; But that home-solace nerved me lor my part, And of the babe I was exceeding glad. Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce formed, was dying, (The prophet's gourd, it withered in a night !) And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse trying. Took gently home the child of my delight. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 277 Not rudely culled, not suddenly it perished, But gradual faded from our love away : As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherished, Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day. My blessed Master saved me from repining, So tenderly He sued me for His own ; So beautiful He made my babe's declining. Its dying blessed me as its birth had done. And daily to my board at noon and even Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, That we might commune of our rest in heaven, Gazing the while on death, without its sting. And of the ransom for that baby paid. So very sweet at times our converse seemed. That the sure truth of grief a gladness made : Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeemed ! There were two milk-white doves my wife had nour- ished : And I, too, loved, erewhile, at times to stand Marking how each the other fondly cherished, And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand ! So tame they grew, that to his cradle flying. Full oft they cooed him to his noontide rest ; And to the murmurs of his sleep replying. Crept gently in, and nestled in his breast. 'Twas a fair sight ; the snow-pale infant sleeping, So fondly guardianed by those creatures mild. Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes keeping Wondrous the love betwixt the birds and child ! Still as he sickened seemed the doves too dwining. Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty play ; And on the day he died, with sad note pining, One gentle bird would not be frayed away. His mother found it, when she rose, sad hearted, At early dawn, with sense of nearing ill ; And when at last, the little spirit parted. The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. The other flew to meet my sad home-riding. As with a human sorrow in its coo; To my dead child and its dead mate then guiding, Most pitifully plained— and parted too. 'Twas my first hansel and propine to heaven ; And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod. Precious His comforts — once an infant given. And offered with two turtle-doves to God ! Anna Stuart Menteath. LOOKING INTO THE FUTURE. QT summer eve, when heaven's aerial bow Spans with bright arch the glittering hills below. Why to yon mountain turns the musing eye. Whose sunbright summit mingles with the sky? Why do those cliffs of shadowy tint appear More sweet than all the landscape smiling near? 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, And robes the mountain in its azure hue. Thus, with delight, we linger to survey The promised joys of life's unmeasured way ; Thus, from afar, each dim-discovered scene More pleasing seems than all the past hath been, And every form that fancy can repair From dark oblivion, glows divinely there. What potent spirit guides the raptured eye To pierce the shades of dim futurity ? Can wisdom lend, with all her heavenly power, The pledge of joy's anticipated hour? Ah, no ! she darkly sees the fate of man — Her dim horizon pointed to a span ; Or, if she hold an image to the view, 'Tis nature pictured too severely true. Thomas Campbkll. ONLY WAITING. NLY waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown. Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown ; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day, Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and gray. Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home. For the summer time is faded. And the autumn winds have come. Quickly, reapers ! gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart — For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart. Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate. At whose feet I long have lingered. Weary, poor and desolate. Even now I hear the footsteps. And their voices far away ; If they call me I am waiting, Only waiting to obey. Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown, Only waiting till the glimmer Of the last day's beam is flown ; Then from out the gathered darkness, Holy, deathless stars shall rise. By whose light my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies. Francis Laughton Mace. 278 CROWN JEWELS. U m THE WANTS OF MAN. AN wants but little here below. Nor wants that little long." 'Tis not with me exactly so, But 'tis so in the song. My wants are many, and if told, Would muster many a score ; And were each wish a mint of gold, I still should long for more. What first I want is daily bread. And canvas-backs and wine ; And all the realms of nature spread Before me when I dine ; With four choice cooks from France, beside. To dress my dinner well ; Four courses scarcely can provide My appetite to quell. What next I want, at heavy cost, Is elegant attire : Black sable furs for winter's frost, And silks for summer's fire ; And Cashmere shawls, and Brussels lace My bosom's front to deck, And diamond rings my hands to grace. And rubies for my neck. And then I want a mansion fair, A dwelling-house, in style, Four stories high, for wholesome air — A massive marble pile ; With halls for banquetings and balls. All furnished rich and fine ; With high-blood studs in fifty stalls. And cellars for my wine. I want a garden and a park. My dwelling to surround — A thousand acres (bless the mark !) With walls encompassed round — Where flocks may range and herds may low. And kids and lambkins play, And flowers and fruits commingled grow, All Eden to display. I want, when summer's foliage falls. And autumn strips the trees, A house within the city's walls. For comfort and for ease ; But here as space is somewhat scant. And acres somewhat rare, My house in town I only want To occupy — a square. I want a cabinet profuse Of metals, coins, and gems ; A printing-press for private use, Of fifty thousand em- ; And plants, and minerals, and shells ; Worms, insects, fishes, birds ; And every beast on earth that dwells In solitude or herds. And maples of fair glossy stain, Must form my chamber doors. And carpets of the Wilton grain Must cover all my floors ; My walls with tapestry bedecked. Must never be outdone ; And damask curtains must protect Their colors from the sun. And mirrors of the largest pane From Venice must be brought ; And sandal-wood and bamboo-cane For chairs and tables bought ; On all the mantel-pieces, clocks Of thrice-gilt bronze must stand. And screens of ebony and box Invite the stranger's hand. I want (who does not want ?) a wift^ Aflfectionate and fair, To solace all the woes of life. And all its joys to share ; Of temper sweet, of yielding will, Of firm yet placid mind, With all my faults to love me still, With sentiment refined. And when my bosom's darling sings, With melody divine, A pedal harp of many strings Must with her voice combine. Piano, exquisitely wrought. Must open stand, apart. That all my daughters may be taught To win the stranger's heart. My wife and daughters will desire Refreshment from perfumes, Cosmetics for the skin require, And artificial blooms. The civet fragrance shall dispense, And treasured sweets return ; Cologne revive the flagging sense, And smoking amber bum. And when at night my weary head Begins to droop and dose, A chamber south, to hold my bed. For nature's sole repose ; With blankets, counterpanes and sheet. Mattress, and sack of down. And comfortables for my feet, And pillows for my crown. I want a warm and faithful friend, To cheer the adverse hour. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 279 Who ne'er to flatter will descend, Nor bend the knee to power ; A friend to chide me when I'm wrong, My inmost soul to see ; And that my friendship prove as strong For him, as his for me. I want a kind and tender heart, For others' wants to feel ; A soul secure from fortune's dart, And bosom armed with steel ; To bear Divine chastisement's rod, And, mingling in my plan, Submission to the will of God, With charity to man. I want a keen, observing eye, An ever-listening ear. The truth through all disguise to spy. And wisdom's voice to hear ; A tongue, to speak at virtues' need, In heaven's sublimest strain; And lips, the cause of man to plead, And never plead in vain. I want uninterrupted health. Throughout my long career. And streams of never-failing wealth, To scatter far and near — The destitute to clothe and feed. Free bounty to bestow. Supply the helpless orphan's need. And soothe the widow's woe. I want the seals of power and place. The ensigns of command, Charged by the people's unbought grace. To rule my native land ; Nor crown, nor sceptre would I ask, But from my country's will. By day, by night, to ply the task Her cup of bliss to fill. I want the voice of honest praise To follow me behind. And to be thought, in future days. The friend of human kind ; That after-ages, as they rise, Exulting may proclaim; In choral union to the skies. Their blessings on my name. These are the wants of mortal man ; I cannot need them long. For life itself is but a span, And earthly bliss a song. My last great want, absorbing all. Is, when beneath the sod. And summoned to my final call — The mercy of my God. John Quincv Adams. THE RAVEN. NCE upon a midnight dreary, While I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious Volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, Suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, Rapping at my chamber door. " 'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "Tapping at my chamber door — Only this, and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember. It was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember Wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; Vainly I had tried to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow — Sorrow for the lost Lenore — For the rare and radiant maiden Whom the angels name Lenore — Nameless here for evermore. And the silken, sad, uncertain Rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me — filled me with fantastic Terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating Of my heart, I stood repeating *' 'Tis some visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor entreating Entrance at my chamber door ; — This it is, and nothing more." Presently my soul grew stronger ; Hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly Your forgiveness I implore ; But the fact is I was napping, And so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, Tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you" — Here I opened wide the door : Darkness there, and nothing more ! Deep into that darkness peering. Long I stood there wondering, fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal Ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, And the darkness gave no token. And the only word there spoken Was the whispered word, ' Lenore !" This I whispered, and an echo Murmured back the word, " Lenore !" Merely this, and nothing more. :^80 CROWN JEWELS. Then into the chamber turning, AH my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping Somewhat louder than before, "Surely," said I, "surely that is Something at my window lattice ; Let me see, then, what thereat is, And this mystery explore — Let my heart be still a moment, And this mystery explore ; — 'Tis the wind, and nothing more 1" Open here I flung the shutter, When, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven Of the saintly days of yore ; Not the least obeisance made he ; Not ^n instant stopped or stayed he ; But, with mien of lord or lady. Perched above my chamber door — Perched upon a bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door — Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling My sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum Of the countenance it wore, ' Though thy crest be shorn and shaven. Thou," I said, "art sure no craven, Gtiastly grim and ancient raven, Wandering from the nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is On the night's Plutonian shore ;" Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." Much I marvelled this ungainly Fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning — Little relevancy bore ; For we cannot help agreeing That no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing Bird above his chamber door — Bird or beast upon the sculptured Bust above his chamber door. With such name as " Nevermore." But the raven sitting lonely On the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in That one word he did outpour. Nothing farther then he uttered — Not a feather then he fluttered — Till I scarcely more than muttered " Other friends have flown before — On the morrow he will leave me. As my hopes have flown before." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken By reply so aptly spoken, " Doubtless," said I, "what it utters It is only stock and store Caught from some unhappy master Whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster. Till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his hope the Melancholy burden bore Of ' Nevermore ' — of ' Nevermore.' " But the raven still beguiling All my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in Front of bird and bust and door ; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking What this ominous bird of yore — What this grim, ungainly, ghastly. Gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking " Nevermore." This I sat engaged in guessing. But no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now Burned into my bosom's core ; This and more I sat divining. With my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining That the lamplight gloated o'er ; But whose velvet violet lining With the lamplight gloating o'er. She shall press, ah, never more ! Then, methought, the air grew denser. Perfumed from an unseen censer. Swung by angels whose faint foot-falls Tinkled on the tufted floor. "Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee, By these angels he hath sent thee Respite — respite and nepenthe From thy memories of Lenore ! Quaff, oh, quaff" this kind nepenthe, And forget this lost Lenore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore ! " " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil ! — Prophet still, if bird or devil ! Whether tempter sent, or whether Tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, On this desert land enchanted — On this home by horror haunted — Tell me truly, I implore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? Tell me — tell me, I implore ! " Quoth the raven, " Nevermore." SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 281 " Prophet ! " said I, " thing of evil — Prophet still, if bird or devil ! — By that heaven that bends above us — Ey that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden If, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden Whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden Whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." " Be that word our sign of parting. Bird or fiend ! " I shrieked, upstarting — "Get thee back into the tempest And the night's Plutonian shore ! Leave no black plume as a token Of that lie thy soul hath spoken ! Leave my loneliness unbroken ! — Quit the bust above my door ! Take thy beak from out my heart. And take thy form from off my door ! " Quoth the raven, "Nevermore." And the raven, never flitting, Still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas Just above my chamber door ; And his eyes have all the seeming Of a demon that is dreaming. And the lamplight o'er him streaming Throws his shadow on the floor ; And my soul from out that shadow That lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted— nevermore ! Edgar Allen Poe. THERE'S NO DEARTH OF KINDNESS. 'HERE'S no dearth of kindness In this world of ours ; Only in our blindness We gather thorns for flowers ! Outward, we are spurning — Trampling one another ! While we are inly yearning At the name of " brother ! " There's no dearth kindness Or love among mankind, But in darkling loneness Hooded hearts grow blind ! Full of kindness tingling, Soul is shut from soul. When they might be mingling In one kindred whole ! There's no dearth of kindness, Though it be unspoken, From the heart it buildeth Rainbow-smiles in token — That there be none so lowly. But have some angel-touch : Yet, nursing loves unholy, We live for self too much I As the wild-rose bloweth, As runs the happy river, Kindness freely floweth In the heart forever. But if men will hanker Ever for golden dust, Kinglitst hearts will canker, Brightest spirits rust. There's no dearth of kindness In this world of ours ; Only in our blindness We gather thorns for flowers ! Oh, cherish God's best giving, Falling from above ! Life were not worth living, Were it not for love. Gerald Massky. WHAT I LIVE FOR. LIVE for those who love me, Whose hearts are kind and true ; For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too ; For all human ties that bind me, For the task by God assigned me, For the bright hope:, left behind me. And the good that I can do. I live to learn their story. Who've suffered for my sake ; To emulate their glory, And follow in their wake; Bards, patriots, martyrs, sages, The noble of all ages, Whose deeds crown history's pages, And time's great volume make. I live to hold communion With all that is divine ; To feel there is a union 'Twixt nature's heart and mine ; To profit by affliction, Reap truths from fields of fiction. Grow wiser from conviction. And fulfil each grand design. I live to hail that season, By gifted minds foretold, When men shall live by reason. And not alone by gold ; When man to man united. And every wrong thing righted. The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old. 282 CROWN JEWELS. I live for those who love me, For those who know me true ; For the Heaven that smiles above me, And awaits my spirit too ; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance. For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. G. LiNN^us Banks. LOOK ALOFT. This spirited piece was suggested by an anecdote related of a ship-boy who, growing dizzy, was about to fall from the rigging, but was saved by the mate's characteristic exclamation, " Look aloft, you lubber 1 " N the tempest of life, when the wave and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, " Look aloft ! " and be firm, and be fearless of heart. If the friend who embraced in prosperity's glow, With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe. Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed, " Look aloft " to the friendship which never shall fade. Should the visions which hope spreads in light to thine eye, Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly, Then turn, and through tears of repentent regret, " Look aloft" to the Sun that is never to set. Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart. The wife of thy bossom, in sorrow depart, " Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb. To that soil where affection is ever in bloom. And oh ! when death comes in his terrors, to cast His fears on the future, his pall on the past. In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart And a smile in thine eye, " look aloft," — and depart. Jonathan Lawrence. llJ MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE 'E stand now on the rivers's brink. It may well be called the Concord — the river of peace and quietness — for it is certainly the most un- excitable and sluggish stream that ever loi- tered imperceptibly towards its eternity, the sea. Posi- tively, I had lived three weeks beside it, before it grew quite clear to my perception which way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a north-western breeze is vexing its surface, on a sun- shiny day. From the incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of becoming the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a wild, free, moun- tain torrent. While all things else are compelled to subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy liberty, without turning a solitary spindle, or affording even water-power enough to grind the com that grows upon its banks. The torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly shore, nor so much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course. It slumbers . between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow-grass, and bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows, or the roots of elm and ash trees, and clumps of maples. Flags and rushes grow along its plashy shore ; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves on the margin ; and the fragrant white pond- lily abounds, generally selecting a position just so far from the river's bank that it cannot be grasped, save at the hazard of plunging in. It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and perfume, springing, as it does, from the black mud over which the river sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the mud-turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the same black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its rank life and noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the world, that some persons assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances which sup- ply good and beautiful results — the fragrance of celes- tial flowers — to the daily life of others. The Old Manse! — we had almost forgotten it; but will return thither through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man for planting trees from which he could have no pros- pect of gathering fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better motive for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting his successors — an end so seldom achieved by more am- bitious efforts. But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety, ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver and gold to his annual stipend by disposing of the super- fluity. It is pleasant to think of him, walking among the trees in the quiet afternoons of early autumn, and picking up here and there a wind-fall ; while he ob- serves how heavily the branches are weighed down, and computes the number of empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their burden. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child. An orchard has a relation to' mankind, and readily connects itself with matters of the heart. The tree possesses a do- mestic character ; they have lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by re- ceiving the care of man, as well as by contributing to his wants. I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world, as that of finding myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman's wealth of fruits. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 283 Throughout the summer, there were cherries and cur- rants ; and then came autumn, with his immense bur- den of apples, dropping them continually from his overladen shoulders as he trudged along. In the still- est afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that flung down bushels upon bushels of heavy pears ; and peach-trees, which, in a good year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor, without labor and perplexity, to be given away. The idea of an infinite generosity and inexhaustible bounty, on the part of our mother nature, was well worth obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be enjoyed in perfection not only by the natives of summer islands, where the bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously, and hold forth the ever-ready meal ; but, likewise, almost as well, by a man long habituated to city life, who plunges into such a solitude as that of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not plant ; and which, therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closer resemblance to those that grew in Eden. Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requi- site to cultivate a moderately sized garden imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables as is never found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they would know something of tlie bliss of paternity, should plant a seed — be it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower, or worthless weed — should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy to maturity, altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest. My garden, tliat skirted the avenue of the Manse was of precisely the right extent. An hour or two of morn- ing labor was all that it required. But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny, with a love that nobody could share or conceive of, who had never taken part in the process of creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green. Nathaniel Hawthorne, THE DEATH OF ABSALOM. "HE waters slept. Night's silvery veil hung low On Jordan's bosom, and the eddies curled Their glassy rings beneath it, like the still, "^ Unbroken beating of the sleeper's pulse. The reeds bent down the stream ; the willow leaves, With a soft cheek upon the lulling tide, Forgot the lifting winds ; and the long stems. Whose flowers the water, like a gentle nurse. Bears on its bosom, quietly gave way. And leaned, in graceful attitudes, to rest. How strikingly the course of nature tells, By its light heed of human suffering. That it was fashioned for a happier world ! King David's limbs were weary. He had fled From far Jerusalem ; and now he stood. With his faint people, for a little rest Upon the shores of Jordan. The light wind Of morn was stirring, and he bared his brow To its refreshing breath ; for he had worn The mourner's covering, and he had not felt That he could see his people until now. They gathered round him on the fresh green bank. And spoke their kindly words ; and, as the sun Rose up in heaven, he knelt among them there, And bowed his head upon his hands to pray. Oh ! when the heart is full — when bitter thoughts Come crowding thickly up for utterance, And the poor common words of courtesy Are such an empty mockery — how much The bursting heart may pour itself in prayer ! He prayed for Israel — and his voice went up Strong and fervently. He prayed for those Whose love had been his shield — and his deep tones Grew tremulous. But, oh ! for Absalom — For his estranged, misguided Absalom — The proud, bright being, who had burst away In all his princely beauty, to defy The heart that cherished him — for him he poured, In agony that would not be controlled. Strong supplication, and forgave him there. Before his God, for his deep sinfulness. The pall was settled. He who slept beneath Was straightened for the grave ; and, as the folds Sank to the still proportions, they betrayed The matchless symmetry of Absalom. His hair was yet unshorn, and silken curls Were floating round the tassels as they swayed To the admitted air, as glossy now As when, in hours of gentle dalliance, bathing The snowy fingers of Judaea's daughters. His helm was at his feet ; his banner, soiled With trailing through Jerusalem, was laid. Reversed, beside him ; and the jeweled hilt, Whose diamonds lit the passage of his blade, Rested, like mocker>', on his covered brow. The soldiers of the king trod to and fro. Clad in the garb of battle ; and their chief, The mighty Joab, stood beside the bier, And gazed upon the dark pall steadfastly. As if he feared the slumberer might stir. A slow step startled him. He grasped his blade As if a trumpet rang ; but the bent form Of David entered, and he gave command. In a low tone, to his few followers. And left him with his dead. The king stood still Till the last echo died ; then, throwing off" The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back 284 CROWN JEWELS. The pall from the still features of his child, He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth In the resistless eloquence of woe : — "Alas ! my noble boy ! that thou shouldst die ! Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair ! That death should settle in thy glorious eye. And leave his stillness in this clustering hair ! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb ! My proud boy, Absalom ! "Cold is thy brow, my son ; and I am chill. As to my bosom I have tried to press thee ! How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill, Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee. And hear thy sweet ' My father ! ' from these dumb And cold lips, Absalom ! " But death is on thee. I shall hear the gush Of music, and the voices of the young ; And life will peiss me in the mantling blush, And the dark tresses to the soft winds flung ; But thou no more, with thy sweet voice, shalt come To meet me, Absalom ! "And oh ! when I am stricken, and my heart. Like a bruised reed, is waiting to be broken, How will its love for thee, as I depart. Yearn for thine ear to drink its last deep token ! It were so sweet, amid death's gathering gloom, To see thee, Absalom ! " And now, farewell ! 'Tis hard to give thee up, With death so like a gentle slumber on thee ; — And thy dark sin !— Oh ! I could drink the cup. If from this woe its bitterness had won thee. May God have called thee, like a wanderer, home, My lost boy, Absalom !" He covered up his face, and bowed himself A moment on his child ; then, giving him A look of melting tenderness, he clasped His hands convulsively, as if in prayer ; And, as if strength were given him from God, He rose up calmly, and composed the pall Firmly and decently — and left him there — As if his rest had been a breathing sleep. Nathaniel Parker Willis. CLAUDE MELNOTTE'S APOLOGY AND DEFENSE. FROM "the lady of LYONS." PAULINE, by pride Angels have fallen ere thy time ; by pride — That sole alloy of thy most lovely mould — The evil spirit of a bitter love And a revengeful heart, had power upon thee. From my first years my soul was filled with thee • I saw thee midst the flowers the lowly boy Tended, unmarked by thee — a spirit of bloom, And joy and freshness, as spring itself Were made a living thing, and wore thy shape ! I saw thee, and the passionate heart of man Entered the breast of the wild-dreaming boy ; And from that hour I grew— what to the last I shall be— thine adorer ! Well, this love. Vain, frantic— guilty, if thou wilt — became A fountain of ambition and bright hope ; I thought of tales that by the winter hearth Old gossips tell — how maidens sprung from kings Have stooped from their high sphere ; how love, like death, Levels all ranks, and lays the shepherd's crook Beside the scepter. Thus I made my home In the soft palace of a fairy future ! My father died ; and I, the peasant-born. Was my own lord. Then did I seek to rise Out of the prison of my mean estate ; And, with such jewels as the exploring mind Brings from the caves of knowledge, buy my ransom From those twin jailers of the daring heart — Low birth and iron fortune. Thy bright image, Glassed in my soul, took all the hues of glory, And lured me on to those inspiring toils By which man masters men ! For thee, I grew A midnight student o'er the dreams of sages ! For thee, I sought to borrow from each grace And every muse such attributes as lend Ideal charms to love. I thought of thee, And passion taught me poesy — of thee, And on the painter's canvas grew the life Of beauty ! — Art became the shadow Of the dear starlight of thy haunting eyes ! Men called me vain — some, mad — I heeded not ; But still toiled on, hoped on — for it was sweet, If not to win, to feel more worthy, thee ! At last, in one mad hour, I dared to pour The thoughts that burst their channels into song, And sent them to thee — such a tribute, lady. As beauty rarely scorns, even from the meanest. The name — appended by the burning heart That longed to show its idol what bright things It had created — yea, the enthusiast's name. That should have been thy triumph, was thy scorn ' That very hour — when passion, turned to wrath. Resembled hatred most ; when thy disdain Made my whole soul a chaos — in that hour The tempters found me a revengeful tool For their revenge ! Thou hadst trampled on the worm- It turned, and stung thee ! Lord Lvtton. THE SHADED WATER. HEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise And bustle of the crowd I feel rebuke, I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys And sit me down beside this little brook , The waters have a music to mine ear It glads me much to hear. itJ SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 285 It is .1 quiet glen, as you may see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees. That spread their giant branches, broad and free. The silent growth of many centuries ; And make a hallowed time for hapless moods, A Sabbath of the woods. Few know its quiet shelter — none, like me, Do seek it out with such a fond desire. Poring in idlesse mood on flower and tree, And listening as the voiceless leaves respire — When the far-traveling breeze, done wandering. Rests here his weary wing. And all the day, with fancies ever new, And sweet companions from their boundless care Of merry elves bespangled all with dew. Fantastic creatures of the old-time lore, Watching their wild but unobtrusive play, I fling the hours away. A gracious couch — the root of an old oak Whose branches yield it moss and canopy — Is mine, and, so it be from woodman's stroke Secure, shall never be resigned by me ; It hangs above the stream that idly flies, Heedless of any eyes. There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, Sweetly I muse through many a quiet hour, While every sense on earnest mission sent. Returns, thought-laden back with bloom and flower ; Pursuing, though rebuked by those who moil, A profitable toil. And still the waters trickling at my feet Wind on their way with gentlest melody. Yielding sweet music, which the leaves repeat, Above them, to the gay breeze gliding by — Yet not so rudely as to send one sound Through the thick copse around. Sometimes a brighter cloud than all the rest Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, Breaking the spell that, like a slumber, pressed On my worn spirit its sweet luxuries — And, with awakened vision upward bent, I watch the firmament. How like — its sure and undisturbed retreat, Life's sanctuary at last, secure from storm — To the pure waters trickling at my feet, The bending trees that overshade my form>. So far as sweetest things of earth may seem Like those of which we dream. Such, to my mind, is the philosophy The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight Sails far into the blue that spreads on high. Until I lose him from my straining sight — With a most lofty discontent to fly, Upward, from earth to sky. William Gilmore Simms. COMING AND GOING NCE came to our fields a pair of birds that had never built a nest nor seen a winter. O, how beautiful was everything ! Tlie fields were full of flowers, and the grass was growing tall, and the bees were humming everywhere. Then one of the birds fell to singing ; and the other bird said, " Who told you to sing?" And he answered, "The flowers told me, and the bees told me, and the winds and leaves told me, and the blue sky told me, and you told me to sing." Then his mate answered, "When did I tell you to sing?" And he said, " Every time you brought in tender grass for the nest, and every time soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feathers to line the nest." Then his mate said, "What are you singing about?" And he answered, "I am singing about everythmg and nothing. It is because I am so happy that I sing." By and by, five little speckled eggs were in the nest ; and his mate said, " Is there anything in all the world as pretty as my eggs? " Then they both looked down on some people that were passing by, and pitied them because they were not birds, and had no nests with eggs in them. Then the father-bird sang a melancholy song because he pitied folks that had no nests, but had to live in houses. In a week or two, one day, when the father-bird came home, the mother-bird said, " O, what do you think has happened ? " "What?" " One of my eggs has been peeping and moving ! " Pretty soon another egg moved under her feathers, and then another, and an- other, till five little birds were born. Now the father-bird sung louder and louder than ever. The mother-bird, too, wanted to sing ; but she had no time, so she turned her song into work. So hungry were these little birds, that it kept both parents busy feeding them. Away each one flew. The mo- ment the little birds heard their wings fluttering again among the leaves, five yellow mouths flew open so wide that nothing could be seen but five yellow mouths. "Can anybody be happier?" said the father-bird to the mother-bird. " We will live in this tree always ; for there is no sorrow here. It is a tree that always bears joy." The very next day one of the birds dropped out of the nest, and a cat ate it up in a minute, and only four remained ; and the parent-birds were very sad, and there was no song all that day, nor the next. Soon the little birds were big enough to fly ; and great was their parents' joy to see them leave the nest, and sit crumpled up upon the branches. There was then a great time. One would have thought the two old birds were two French dancing-masters, talking and chattering, and scolding the little birds to make them go alone. The first bird that tried flew from one branch to another, and the parents praised him ; and the other little birds wondered how he did it. And he was so vain of it that he tried again, and fiew and 286 CROWN JEWELS. flew, and couldn't stop flying, till he fell plump down by the house-door ; and then a little boy caught him and carried him into the house, and only three birds were left. Then the old birds thought that the sun was not as bright as it used to be, and they did not sing as often. In a little time the other birds had learned to use their wings ; and they flew away and away, and found their own food, and made their own beds ; and their parents never saw them any more. Then the old birds sat silent, and looked at each other a long while. At last the wife-bird said — ' ' Why don't you sing ? ' * And he answered — " I can't sing : I can only think and think." " What are you thinking of ? " " I am thinking how everything changes. The leaves are falling down from off" this tree, and soon there will be no roof over our heads ; the flowers are all gone, or going ; last night there was a frost ; almost all the birds are flown away, and I am very uneasy. Something calls me, and I feel restless as if I would fly far away." " Let us fly away together ! " Then they rose silently ; and, lifting themselves far up in the air, they looked to the north : far away they saw the snow coming. They looked to the south : there they saw green leaves. A\) day they flew, and all night they flew and flew, till they found a land where there was no winter; where there was summer all the time; where flowers always blossom, and birds always sing. But the birds that staid behind found the days shorter, the nights longer, and the weather colder. Many of them died of cold ; others crept into crevices and holes, and lay torpid. Then it was plain that it was better to go than to stay. Henry Ward Beecher. ffi THE PORTRAIT. IDNIGHTpast! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers, I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman up stairs. A night of tears ! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet ; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet. Nobody with me my watch to keep But the friend of my bosom, the man I love : And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above. Nobody else in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside. But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died. That good young priest is of gentle nerve. And my grief had moved him beyond control, For his lips grew white as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul. I sat by the dreary hearth alone ; I thought of the pleasant days of yore ; I said, " The staff" of my life is gone, The woman I loved is no more. " On her cold dead bosom my portrait lies. Which next to her heart she used to wear — Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there. " It is set all around with rubies red, And pearls which a peri might have kept ; For each ruby there my heart hath bled. For each pearl my eyes have wept." And I said, " The thing is precious to me ; They will bury her soon in the churchyard clay ; It lies on her heart, and lost must be If I do not take it away." I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked for fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white. The moon shone over her winding sheet ; There stark she lay on her carven bed ; Seven burning tapers about her feet. And seven about her head. As I stretched my hand I held my breath ; I turned as I drew the curtains apart : I dared not look on the face of death : I knew where to find her heart. I thought at first as my touch fell there It had warmed that heart to life, with love ; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move. 'Twas the hand of a man that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead — from the other side — And at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse? " I cried. Opposite me, by the taper's light. The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse and all as white. And neither of us moved. " What do you here my friend ? " The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead. " There is a portrait here," he began : " There is. It is mine," I said. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 287 Said tlie friend of my bosom, " Yours no doubt The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know." "This woman, she loved me well," said I. " A month ago," said my friend to me : "And in your throat," I groaned, " you lie !" He answered, " Let us see." " Enough ! let the dead decide ; And whosesoever the portrait prove. His shall it be, when the cause is tried — Where death is arraigned by love." We found the portrait there in its place, We opened it by the tapers' shine. The gems were all unchanged ; the face Was — neither his nor mine. " One nail drives out another, at last ! The face of the portrait there," I cried, " Is our friend's the Raphael-faced young priest Who confessed her when she died." The setting is all of rubies red. And pearls which a peri might have kept — For each ruby she my heart hath bled. For each pearl my eyes have wept. Robert Bulwer Lytton [Owen Meredith). THE HERO OF THE DUTCH REPUBLIC. O man— not even Washington — has ever been inspired by a purer patriotism than that of William of Orange. Whether originally of a timid temperament or not, he was certainly possessed of perfect courage at last. In siege and* battle, in the deadly air of pestilential cities, in the long exhaustion of mind and body which comes from unduly protracted labor and anxiety, amid the countless con- spiracies of assassins, he was daily exposed to death in every shape. Within two years five different attempts against his life had been discovered. Rank and for- tune were offered to any malefactor who would com- pass the murder. He had already been shot through the head, and almost mortally wounded. He went through life bearing the load of a people's sorrows upon his shoulders with a smiling face. Their name was the last word upon his lips, save the simple affirmative with which the soldier who had been battling for the right all his lifetime commended his soul, in dying, "to the great Captain, Christ." The people were grateful and affectionate, for they trusted the character of their " Father William," and not all the clouds which cal- umny could collect ever dimmed to their eyes the radiance of that lofty mind to which they were accus- tomed, in their darkest calamities, to look for light. As long as he lived he was the guiding-star of a whole brave nation, and when he died the little children cried in the streets. John Lothrop Motley. f|l A MOTHER'S WAIL Y babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! My single rose-bud in a crown of thorns 1 My lamp that in that narrow hut of life, Whence I looked forth upon a night of storm, Burned with the luster of the moon and stars J My babe ! my tiny babe ! my only babe ! Behold, the bud is gone ! the thorns remain ! My lamp hath fallen from its niche — ah, me ! Earth drinks the fragrant flame, and I am left Forever and forever in the dark ! My babe ! my babe ! my own and only babe ! Where art thou now ? If somewhere in the sky An angel hold thee in his radiant arms, I challenge him to clasp thy tender form With half the fervor of a mother's love ! Forgive me. Lord ! forgive my reckless grief! Forgive me that this rebel, selfish heart Would almost make me jealous for my child, Though Thy own lap enthroned him. Lord, thou hast So many such ! — I have — ah ! had — but one ! O yet once more, my babe, to hear thy cry ! — Yet once more, my babe, to see thy smile 1 yet once more to feel against my breast Those cool, soft hands, that warm, wet, eager mouth, With the sweet sharpness of its budding pearls ! But it must never, never more be mine To mark the growing meaning in thine eyes, To -watch thy soul unfolding leaf by leaf. Or catch, with ever fresh surprise and joy. Thy dawning recognitions of the world ! Three different shadows of thyself, my babe, Change with each other while I weep. The first. The sweetest, yet the not least fraught with pain. Clings like my living boy around my neck. Or purs and murmurs softly at my feet ! Another is a little mound of earth ; That comes the oftenest, darling ! In my dreams, 1 see it beaten by the midnight rain, Or chilled beneath the moon. Ah ! what a couch For that which I have shielded from a breath That would not stir the violets on thy grave ! The third, my precious babe ! the third, O Lord I Is a fair cherub face beyond the stars, Wearing the roses of a mystic bliss, Yet sometimes not unsaddened by a glance Turned earthward on a mother in her woe ! This is the vision, Lord, that I would keep Before me always. But, alas ! as yet, It is the dimmest and the rarest too ! O touch my sight, or break the cloudy bars That hide it, lest I madden where I kneel ! Henry Timrod. 288 CROWN JEWELS. A COMMON THOUGHT. This little poem, written several years before the poet's death, was prophetic. He died at the very hour here predicted. The wliisper, " He is gone," went forth as the day was purpling in the zenith, on that October morning of 1867. 'OMEWHERE on this earthly planet In the dust of flowers to be, In the dew-drop in the sunshine, Sleeps a solemn day for me. At this wakeful hour of midnight I behold it dawn in mist, And I hear a sound of sobbing Through the darkness — hist ! O, hist ! In a dim and musky chamber, I am breathing life away ; Someone draws a curtain softly And I watch the broadening day. As it purples in the zenith. As it brightens on the lawn, There's a hush of death about me, And a whisper, " He is gone !" Henry Timrod. GOOD-BY, PROUD WORLD! , OOD-BY, proud world ! I'm going home ; Thou art not my friend ; I am not thine; Too long through weary clouds I roam — A river ark on the ocean brine, Too long I am tossed like the driven foam ; But now, proud world, I'm going home. Good-by to flattery's fawning face ; To grandeur with his wise grimace ; To upstart wealth's averted eye ; To supple office, low and high ; To crowded halls, to court and street. To frozen hearts, and hasting feet, To those who go, and those who come, Good-by, proud world, I'm going home. I go to seek my own hearth-stone, Bosomed in yon green hills alone ; A secret lodge in a pleasant land. Whose groves the frolic fairies planned, Where arches green, the livelong day, Echo the blackbird's roundelay. And evil men have never trod, A spot that is sacred to thought and God. O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, I mock at the pride of Greece and Rome ; And when I am stretched beneath the pines, Where the evening star so holy shines, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man, At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all in their high conceit, When man in the bush with God may meet ? Ralph Waldo Emerson. NATURE'S ARTISTIC POWER. "*^ ATURE has a thousand ways and means o» y^t rising above herself, but incomparably the no- J Z^ blest manifestations of her capability of color are in the sunsets among the high clouds. I speak especially of the moment before the sun sinks, when his light turns pure rose-color, and when this light falls upon a zenith covered with countless cloud- forms of inconceivable delicacy, threads and flakes of vapor, which would in common daylight be pure snow-white, and which give therefore fair field to the tone of light. There is then no limit to the multitude, and no check to the intensity, of the hues assumed. The whole sky from the zenith to the horizon becomes one molten, mantling sea of color and fire ; every black bar turns into massy gold, every ripple and wave into unsullied, shadowless crimson, and purple, and scarlet, and colors for which there are no words in language and no ideas in the mind — things which can only be conceived while they are visible — the in- tense hollow blue of the upper sky melting through it all — showing here deep and pure and lightless, there modulated by the filmy, formless body of the trans- parent vapor, till it is lost imperceptibly in its crimson and gold. John Ruskin. THE DESERTED VILLAGE. WEET Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain. Where health and plenty cheered the labor- ing swain. Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed ; Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, where every sport could please ; How often have I loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene ; How often have I paused on every charm — The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, The hawthome bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made 1 How often have I blest the coming day. When toil remitting lent its turn to play. And all the village train, from labor free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree. While many a pastime circled in the shade. The young contending as the old surveyed ; And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground. And sleights of art and feats of strength went round ; And still as each repeated pleasure tired, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired. The dancing pair that simply sought renown, By holding out, to tire each other down ; The swain mistrustless of his smutted face. While secret laughter tittered round the place ; SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 289 The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove — These were thy charms, sweet village ! sports like these, With sweet succession, taught even toil to please ; These round thy bowers thtir cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms. — But all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn ; Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen. And desolation saddens all thy green : One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stmts thy smiling plain ; No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, * But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; • Along thy glades, a solitary' guest. The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass o'ertops the moldering wall ; And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey. Where wealth accumulates, and men decay ; Princes and lords may flourish or may fade ; A breath can make them, as a breath has made ; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride. When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was, ere England's griefs began. When every rood of ground maintained its man ; For him light labor spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more ; His best companions, innocence and health. And his best riches, ignorance of wealth. . But times are altered ; trade's unfeeling train Usurp the land, and dispossess the swain ; Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose : ^ And every want to luxury' allied. And every pang that folly pays to pride. Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that asked but little room, Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene. Lived in each look, and brightened all the green ; These, far departing, seek a kinder shore. And rural mirth and manners are no more. Oliver Goldsmith. LITTLE NED. aLL that is like a dream. It don't seem true ! Father was gone, and mother left, you see, To work for little brother Ned and me ; And up among the gloomy roofs we grew — Locked in full oft, lest we should wander out, With nothing but a crust o' bread to eat, (19) While mother charred for poor folk round about. Or sold cheap odds and ends from street to street Yet, Parson, there were pleasures fresh and fair, To make the time pass happily up there — A steamboat going past upon the tide, A pigeon lighting on the roof close by, The sparrows teaching little ones to fly. The small white moving clouds that we espied, And thought were living, in the bit of sky — With sights like these right glad were Ned and I ; And then we loved to hear the soft rain calling. Pattering, pattering upon ihe tiles, And it was fine to see the still snow falling. Making the house-tops white for miles on miles, And catch it in our little hands in play, And laugh to feel it melt and slip away ! But I was six, and Ned was only three. And thinner, weaker, wearier than me ; And one cold day, in winter-time, when mother Had gone away into the snow, and we Sat close for warmth, and cuddled one another. He put his little head upon my knee. And went to sleep, and would not stir a limb, But looked quite strange and old ; And when I shook him, kissed him, spoke to him, He smiled, and grew so cold. Then I was frightened, and cried out, and none Could hear me, while I sat and nursed his head, Watching the whitened window, while the sun Peeped in upon his face, and made it red. And I began to sob — till mother came. Knelt down, and screamed, and named the good God's name, And told me he was dead. And when she put his night-gown on, and, weeping. Placed him among the rags upon his bed, I thought that brother Ned was only sleeping. And took his little hand, and felt no fear. But when the place grew gray and cold and drear, And the round moon over the roofs came creeping. And put a silver shade All round the chilly bed where he was laid, I cried, and was afraid. Robert Buchanan. THE DANCE OF DEATH. HE warder looked down at the dead of night On the graves where the dead were sleep- ing, '^ And clearly as day was the pale moonlight O'er the quiet churchyard creeping. One after another the gravestones began • To heave and to open, and woman and man Rose up in their ghastly apparel ! Ho, ho, for the dance ! — and the phantoms outsprung. In skeleton roundel advancing, The rich and the poor, and the old and the youn^, But the winding-sheets hindered their dancing — 290 CROWN JEWELS. No shame had these revelers wasted and grim — So they shook off the cerements from body and limb, And scattered them over the hillocks. They crooked their thigh-bones, and they shook their long shanks, And wild was their reeling, and limber ; And each bone, as it crosses, it clinks and it clanks, Like the clapping of timber on timber. The warder he laughed, though his laugh was not loud ; And the fiend whispered to him : "Go steal me the shroud Of one of those skeleton dancers." He has done it ! and backward, with terrified glance. To the sheltering door ran the warder ; As calm as before looked the moon on the dance, Which they footed in hideous order. But one and another retiring at last, Slipped on their white garments, and onward they passed. And a hush settled over the greensward. Still one or them stumbles and tumbles along, And taps at each tomb that it seizes ; But 'tis none of its mates that has done it this wrong, For it scents its grave-clothes in the breezes. It shakes the tower gate, but that drives it away. For 'twas nailed o'er with crosses — a goodly array — And well it was so for the warder ! It must have its shroud — it must have it betimes — The quaint Gothic carving it catches ; And upwards from story to story it climbs, And scrambles with leaps and with snatches. Now woe to the warder, poor sinner, betides ! Like a spindle-legged spider the skeleton strides From buttress to buttress, still upward ! The warder he shook, and the warder grew pale. And gladly the shroud would have yielded ! The ghost had its clutch on the last iron rail. Which the top of the watch-tower shielded. When the moon was obscured by the rush of a cloud. One ! thunderedthe bell, and unswathed by a shroud, Down went the gaunt skeleton crashing. Translation from Goethe. By Theodore Martin. SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 'HE wo;nan was old and ragged and gray, And bent with the chill of the winter's day ; The street was wet with a recent snow. And the woman's feet were aged andslow. She stood at the crossing and waited long, Alone, uncared for, amid the throng Of human beings who passed her by, Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. Down the street, with laughter and shout. Glad in the freedom of "school let out," Came the boys, like a flock of sheep, Hailing the snow piled white and deep. Past the woman so old and gray Hastened the children on their way, Nor offered a helping hand to her, So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet Should crowd her down in the slippery street. At last came one of the merry troop — The gayest laddie of all the group ; He paused beside her, and whispered low, " I'll help you across, if you wish to go." Her aged hand on his strong young arm She placed, and so, without hurt or hai-m, He guided the trembling feet along:, Proud that his own were firm and strong Then back again to his friends he went. His young heart happy and well content. " She's somebody's mother, boys, you know. For all she's aged and poor and slow ; And I hope some fellow will lend a hand To help my mother, you understand. If ever she's poor and old and gray. When her own dear boy is far away." And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head In her home that night, and the prayer she said, Was, "God, be kind to the noble boy. Who is somebody's son and pride and joy ! " WEDDING BELLS. ANDERING away on tired feet. Away from the close and crowded street, Faded shawl and faded gown, Unsmoothed hair of a golden brown. Eyes once bright With joyous light. Away from the city's smoke and din. Trying to flee from it and sin. In shame cast down, 'Neath the scorn and frown Of those who had known her in days that were flown. The same blue eyes— the abode of tears, The once light heart — the abode of fears. While dark despair came creeping in, As she fled from the city's smoke and din. With a yearning sigh. And a heart-sick cr>' — SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 291 " Oh, to wander away and die ! God, let me die on my mother's grave, 'Tis the only boon I dare to crave ! " And she struggled on, With a weary moan, In the noon-day heat, From the dusty street ; And they turned to gaze on the fair young face, And marveled much at her beauty and grace. What cared they if her heart was aching ? How knew they that her heart was breaking ? Forth from the West the red light glowed, And the weary feet still kept on their road, Wand'ring on in the golden sheen, Where the country lanes were fresh and green. The red light gleamed on the village tower, And lit up the clock at the sunset hour ; And still her cry Was, "Oh, to die! God, let me die on my mother's grave, 'Tis the only boon I care to crave 1 " The sun uprose, and the light of day Brightly scattered the clouds of gray ; And the village was gay For a holiday. Merrily echoed the old church bells. Peal on peal, o'er the hills and dells ; Borne away on the morning breeze Over the moorland, over the leas ; Back again with a joyous clang ! Merrily, cheerily, on they rang ! But they woke her not, she slumbered on, With her head laid down on the cold gray stone. The village was bright In the gladsome light, And the village maidens were clad in white. As side by side They merrily hied, In gay procession, to meet the bride ; Strewing the path of the village street With choicest flowers for her dainty feet. A joyful chime of the bells again. To proclaim the return of the bridal train ; A louder peal from the old church-tower 'As the bride passes on through the floral bower, With the bridegroom happy, tender and gay), And the echoes are carried away, away ; But they linger awhile o'er the tombstones gray ; And the sleeper awakes with a yearning cry — "Oh, to die ! oh, to die ! God let me die on my mother's grave, 'Tis all my broken heart can crave ! " And she lays her head again on the stone. With a long-drawn breath and a sobbing moan ; While the bridal train (with many a thought Unspoken of omens witli evil fraught) Sweeps down the path from the old church door, And the bells' glad music is wafted once more Over the moorland, over the heath — But they wake her not, for her sleep is death ! Why does the bridegroom's cheek turn pale? Why in his eye such a look of bale? Why does he totter, then quicken his pace As he catches a glimpse of the poor dead face? Oh, woe betide, That so fair a bride As she who steps with such grace by his side, Should have faced grim death on her wcdding-day ! Did this thought trouble tiie bridegroom gay, And dash from his eye the glad light away ? I wist not; for never a word he spoke. And soon from his face the troubled look Was gone, and he turn-^d to his beautiful bride With a radiant smile and a glance of pride : And his eye was bright, And his step was light. As would beseem with her by his side. Oh, his smile is glad, and his heart is brave ! What cares he for the dead on the grave ? The faded shawl, and faded gown. And unsmoothed hair of golden brown? Why should the face on the tombstone gray Trouble him so on his wedding-day ? Fora:otten words that were long since spoken, Thoughts of vows that were made to be broken ? Fling them away ! Be joyous and gay ! Death will never a secret betray. Quaff the red wine, the glasses ring ; Drink ! till the gloomy thoughts take wing; Drink and be merry, merry and glad ! With a bride so lovely, who would be sad ? Hark ! the wedding bells are ringing-. Over the hills their echoes flinging ; Carried away on the morning breeze Over the moorland, over the leas, Riding back on the zephyr s wing, Joyously, merrily, on they ring ! But she will not wake, her sleep is deep. And death can ever a secret keep. Ah ! thy smile may be glad and thy heart may be brave, 'And the secret be kept betwixt thee and the grave; But shouldst thou fvjrget it for one short day, In the gloom of niglit, from the tombstone gray, Will come the sound of a wailing cry — "Oh, to die! oh, to die!" And the bride at thy bosom will raise her head In affright, as she hears thee call on the dead In a ghastly dream, on whose wings are borne The memories of thy wedding morn ! Oh, the woeful sight of the pale, dead face, With the cold, dank stone for its resting place ! 292 CROWN JEWELS. Oh, the mocking chime of the old church bell ! It shall seem to peal from the mouth of hell ; Into thy dreams its echoes bringing, Merrily, madly, ceaselessly ringing ! The white face shall haunt thee ! The bells they shall taunt thee ! Echoed and tossed on the withering breath Of a curse that shall cling round thy soul till death. Charlotte M. Griffiths. THE WEAVER. Q WEAVER sat by the side of his loom A-flinging the shuttle fast, And a thread that would last till the hour of doom Was added at every cast. His warp had been by the angels spun,* And his weft was bright and new. Like threads which the morning upraids from the sun. All jeweled over with dew. And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers In the rich soft web were bedded ; And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours. Not yet were Time's feet leaded. But something there came slow stealing by, And a shade on the fabric fell ; And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly ; For thought has a wearisome spell. And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain Was of a melancholy gray. And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain Where the flowers had fallen away. But still the weaver kept weaving on, Though the fabric all was gray ; And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone, And the gold threads cankered lay. And dark, and still darker, and darker grew Each newly woven thread, And some were of a death mocking hue. And some of a bloody red. And things all strange were woven in. Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears. And the web was broken, and poor and thin, And it dripped with living tears. And the weaver fain would have flung it aside, But he knew it would be a sin ; So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied, A-weaving those life-cords in. And as he wove, and weeping still wove, A tempter stole him nigh ; And with glowing words he to win him strove, But the weaver turned his eye — He upward turned his eye to heaven, And still wove on — on — on ! Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven. And the tissue strange was done. Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed. And about his grizzled head. And gathering close the folds of his shroud. Laid him down among the dead. And after, I saw, in a robe of light, The weaver in the sky ; The angels' wings were not more bright, And the stars grew pale, it nigh. And I saw mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers That beneath his touch had sprung. More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours, Which the angels have to us flung. And wherever a tear had fallen down Gleamed out a diamond rare. And jewels befitting a monarch's crown Were foot-prints left by care. And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh Was left a rich perfume, And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom. And then I prayed : "When my last work is done, And the silver cord is riven, Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one That I bear with me to heaven." THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VIN- DICATED. 'EAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate, All but the page prescribed, their present state ; From brutes what men, from men what spirits know. Or who could suffer being here below ? The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day. Had he thy reason, would he skip and play ? Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food. And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. O blindness to the future ! kindly given. That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven ; Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, A hero perish or a sparrow fall ; Atoms or systems into ruin hurled. And now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar ; Wait the great teacher, death ; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; Man never is, but always to be blest ; The soul, uneasy and confined from home. Rests and expatiates in a life to come. SENTIMENT AND REFLECTION. 293 Lo the poor Indian, whose untutored m'nd Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind ; His soul proud science never tauglit to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; Yet simple nature to his hope has given. Behind the cloud-toppt d hill, a humbler heaven ; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold. No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To BE, contents his natural desire. He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire : But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, His faithful dog shall bear him company. Go, wiser thou ! and in thy scale of sense Weigh thy opinion against Providence ; Call imperfection what thou fanciest such. Say, here he gives too little, there too much : Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust. Yet cry, if man's unhappy, God's unjust ; If man alone engross not Heaven's high care. Alone made perfect here, immortal there : Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod, Re-judge his justice, be the God of God. In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies ; All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. Pride still is aiming at tlie blest abodes. Men would be angels, angels would be Gods. Aspiring to be Gods, if angels fell. Aspiring to be angels, men rebel ; And who but wishes to revert the laws Of order sins against the Eternal Cause. Alexander Pope. THE BRIDGE. STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour ; And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church-tower ; And, like the waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me, That filled my eyes with tears — How often, oh ! how often. In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky ! How often, oh ! how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky ! How often, oh ! how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom, O'er the ocean wild and wide ! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care ; And the burthen laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear ; But now it has fallen from me It is buried in the sea. And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me ; Yet, whenever I cross the river, On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean, Come the thoughts of other years ; And for ever and for ever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions. As long as life has woes. The moon and its broken reflection. And its shadows shall appear As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here. iIj THE POLISH BOY. HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill That cut like blades of steel, the air. Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair ? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence came thej- ? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer. Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led. The dim funeral tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow. And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by. What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress ? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp ? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air. When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there. With pallid lip and stony brow She murmnrs forth her anguish now, But hark ! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street ; Nearer and nearer yet they come. With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep ; 294 CROWN JEWELS. The gate is burst ; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane The startled boy for exile's chain. *^-'. .. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child ; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, " Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead ; Nor touch the living boy — I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands. With Russia's heaviest iron bands. And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child ! " " Peace, woman, peace !" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from ht-r side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door. " One moment ! " shrieked the mother, "one ! Will land or gold redeem my son ? Take heritage, take name, take all. But leave him free from Russian thrall ! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there ; Her cross of blazing rubies last Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store. Upspringing from the marble floor, The mother with a cry of joy. Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no ! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony. But the brave child is roused at length. And breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands a giant in the strength Of his young spirit fierce and bold. Proudly he towers ; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky. So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks, With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band : " Ye hold me not ! no, no, nor can ! This hour has made the boy a man ! I knelt before my slaughtered sire. Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon a marble brow, Yes, wept 1 I was a child , but now — My noble mother on her knee Hath done the work of years for me ! " He drew aside his broidered vest. And there, like slumbering serpent's crest. The jeweled haft of poignard bright Glittered a moment on the sight. " Ha ! start ye back ! Fool ! coward I knave ! Think ye my noble father's glaive Would drink the life-blood of a slave ? The pearls that on the handle flame Would blush to rubies in their shame ; The blade would quiver in thy breast. Ashamed of such ignoble rest. No ! thus I rend the tyrant's chain, And fling him back a boy's disdain ! " A moment and the funeral light Flashed on the jeweled weapon bright; Another, and his young heart's blood Leaped to the floor, a crimson flood. Quick to his mother's side he sprang. And on the air his clear voice rang : " Up mother, up ! I'm free ! I'm free ! The choice was death or slavery. Up, mother, up ! Look on thy son I His freedom is forever won, And now he waits one holy kiss To bear his father home in bliss — One last embrace, one blessing — one ! To prove thou knowest, approvest thy son. What 1 silent yet? Canst thou not feel My warm blood o'er my heart congeal ? Speak, mother, speak I lift up thy head ! What ! silent still ? Then art thou dead ? Great God, I thank Thee ! Mother, I Rejoice with thee — and thus — to die ! " One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom — dead. Ann S. Stephens. LIBOR SND REFORM. WORK. WEET wind, fair wind, where have you been ? " I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky ; I've been grindinga grist in the mill hard by ; .I've been laughing at work while others sigh ; Let those laugh who win!" Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? "I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells ; I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells ; I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells ; Is that worth pursuing ? " Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done ? " I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep wiih a lullaby ; By and by I shall teach them to fly, Up and away, every one ! " Honey bee, honey-bee, where are you going ? "To fill my basket with precious pelf; To toil for my neighbor as well as myself; To find out the sweetest flower that grows. Be it a thistle or be it a rose — A secret worth the knowing ! " Each content with the work to be done. Ever the same from sun to sun : Shall you and I be taught to work By the bee and the bird, that scorn to shirk? Wind and rain fulfilling His word 1 Tell me, was ever a legend heard Where the wind, commanded to blow, deferred; Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, demurred ? Mary N. Prescott. THE THREE FISHERS. 'HREE fishers went sailing out into the West, Out into the West as the sun went down ; Each thought on the woman who loved him ■^ the best. And the children stood watching them out of the town ; For men must work, and women must weep, And there's little to earn, and many to keep. Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down. They looked at the squall, and they looked at ihe shower, And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown ! But men must work, and women must weep, Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, And the harbor bar be moaning. Three corpses lay out on the shining sands In the morning gleam as the tide went down. And the women are weeping and wringing their hands For those who will never come back to the town ; For men must work, and women must weep. The sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep — And good by to the bar and its moaning. Charles Kingsley. llJ THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. ITH fingers weary and worn. With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt ! " Work ! work ! work ! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work — work — work. Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O ! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work ! Work — work — work Till the brain begins to swim ! Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim ! Seam, and gusset, and band. Band, and gusset, and seam — Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream ! O, men, with sisters dear ! O, men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives ! (295) 296 CROWN JEWELS. Stitch — stitcli— stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt — Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt ! But why do I talk of death — That phantom of grisly bone? I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own Because of the fasts I keep ; O God ! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap ! Work — ^work — work ! My labor never flags ; And what are its wages ? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shattered roof— and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there ! Work — work — work ! From weary chime to chime ! Work— work — work — As prisoners work for crime ! Band, and gusset, and seam. Seam, and gusset, and band — Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. Work — work — work In the dull December light ! And work — work — work, When the weather is warm and bright ! — While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs. And twit me with the spring. Oh ! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head. And the grass beneath my feet 1 For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want. And the walk that costs a meal ! Oh ! but for one short hour — A respite however brief ! No blessed leisure for love or hope. But only time for grief! A little weeping would ease my heart ; But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread ! With fingers weary and worn, And eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags. Plying her needle and thread — Stitch ! stitch ! stitch ! In poverty, hunger, and dirt ; And still, with a voice of dolorous pitch — Would that its tone could reach the rich ! — She sang this " Song of the Shirt ! " Thomas Hood. llJ WHAT MIGHT BE DONE. HAT might be done if men were wise — What glorious deeds, my suflfering brother, Would they unite In love and right. And cease their scorn of one another? Oppression's heart might be imbued With kindling drops of loving-kindness ; And knowledge pour, From shore to shore, Light on the eyes of mental blindness. All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, All vice and crime, might die together ; And wine and corn, To each man born, Be free as warmth in summer weather. The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, Might stand erect In self-respect. And share the teeming world to-morrow. What might be done ? This might be done, And more than this, my suffering brother — More than the tongue E'er said or sung. If men were wise and loved each other, Charles Mackay. LABOR. FAUSE not to dream of the future before us ; Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven ! Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; Never the little seed stops in its growing ; More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing. Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. " Labor is worship !" the robin is singing; " Labor is worship !" the wild bee is ringing: Listen I that eloquent whisper, upspringing Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower ; Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. LABOR AND REFORM. 297 Labor is life ! — 'Tis the still water faileth ; Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ; Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune I Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us. Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill. Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow; Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow ; Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow ! Work with a stout heart and resolute will ! Labor is health ! — Lo ! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping 1 How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth — in the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Tempfle and statue the marble block hides. Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee ; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee : Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod ! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly : Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy ; Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. Frances Sargent Osgood. THE FACTORY GIRL'S LAST DAY. Robert Dale Owen, in one of the chapters of his autobiographyi reproduces the following poem, written many years ago to illus- trate an incident of English factory life. WAS on a winter morning, The weather wet and wild, Two hours before the dawning The father roused his child ; Her daily morsel bringing. The darksome room he paced, And cried, " The bell is ringing ; My hapless darling, haste ! " " Dear father, I'm so sorry ! I scarce can reach the door ; And long the way and dreary ; Oh, carry me once more ! " Her wasted form seems nothing ; The load is on his heart ; He soothes the little sufferer, Till at the mill they part. The overlooker met her As to her frame she crept ; And with his thong he beat her, And cursed her when she wept. It seemed, as she grew weaker. The threads the oftener broke , The rapid wheels ran quicker, And heavier fell the stroke. She thought how her dead mother Blessed with her latest breath. And of her little brother. Worked down, like her, to death ; Then told a tiny neighbor A half-penny she'd pay To take her last hour's labor, While by her frame she lay. The sun had long descended Ere she sought that repose ; Her day began and ended As cruel tyrants chose. Then home ! but oft she tarried ; She fell, and rose once more ; By pitying comrades carried. She reached her father's door. At night, with tortured feeling. He watched his sleepless child ; Though close beside her kneeling, She knew him not, nor smiled. Again the factory's ringing Her last perceptions tried ; Up from her straw-bed springing, " It's time ! " she shrieked, and died. That night a chariot passed her, While on the ground she lay ; The daughters of her master An evening visit pay. Their tender hearts were sighing. As negro's wrongs were told While the white slave was dying Who gained their father's gold. THE CORAL-INSECT. OIL on I toil on ! ye ephemeral train, Who build in the tossing and treacherous main ; "^ Toil on — for the wisdom of man ye mock. With, your sand-based structures and domes of rock : Your columns the fathomless fountains lave. And your arches spring up to the crested wave ; Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear. Ye bind the deep with your secret zone. The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone ; Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring. Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king ; i08 CROWN JEWELS. The turf looks green where the breakers rolled ; O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold ; The sea-snatched isle is the home of men, And the mountains exult where the wave hath been. But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark The wrecking reef for the gallant bark ? There are snares enough on the tented field, 'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield; There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up ; There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup ; There are foes that watch for his cradle breath ; And why need you sow the floods with death ? With mouldering bones the deeps are white, From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright ; The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold, And the gods of ocean have frowned to see The mariner's bed in their halls of glee ; Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread The boundless sea for the thronging dead ? Ye build — ye build — but ye enter not in, Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin • From the land of promise ye fade and die, Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye ; As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid. Their noteless bones in oblivion hid, Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main, While the wonder and pride of your works remain. LvDiA Huntley Sigournev. Ring in the love of truth and right. Ring in the common love of good. Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold, Ring out the thousand wars of old ; Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man, and free. The larger heart, the kindlier hand ; Ring out the darkness of the land ; Ring in the Christ that is to be. Alfred Tennyson. RING OUT, WILD BELLS! ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light; The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. Ring out the old, ring in the new — Ring, happy bells, across the snow ; The year is going, let him go ; Ring out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more ; Ring out the feud of rich and poor. Ring in redress to all mankind. Ring out a slowly dying cause. And ancient forms of paltry strife ; Ring in the nobler modes of life. With sweeter manners, purer laws. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times ; Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes. But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite ; THE GOOD TIME COMING. 'HERE'S a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : We may not live to see the day, But earth shall glisten in the ray Of the good time coming. Cannon balls may aid the truth, But thought's a weapon stronger ; We'll win our battle by its aid ; — VVait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The pen shall supersede the sword ; And right, not might, shall be the lord In the good time coming. Worth, not birth, shall rule mankind. And be acknowledged stronger ; The proper impulse has been given ; — Wait, a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : War in all men's eyes shall be A monster of iniquity In the good time coming. Nations shall not quarrel then. To prove which is the stronger ; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Hateful rivalries of creed Shall not make their martyrs bleed In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride. And flourish all the stronger ; And charity shall trim her lamp ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : And a poor man's family Shall not be h s misery In the good time coming. LABOR AND REFORM. 299 Every' child shall be a help To make his right arm stronger ; The happier he the more he has ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Little children shall not toil Under, or above, the soil In the good time coming; But shall play in healthful fields Till limbs and mind grow stronger ; And every one shall read and write ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : The people shall be temperate, And shall love instead of hate, In the good lime coming. They shall use, and not abuse. And make all virtue stronger ; The reformation has begun ; — Wait a little longer. There's a good time coming, boys, A good time coming : Let us aid it all we can. Every woman, everj' man, The good time coming. Smallest helps, if rightly given. Make the impulse stronger ; 'Twill be strong enough one day ; — Wait a little longer. Charles Mackay. Anon it faints and falls in deadly strife, Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and alone ; But ah ! we do not die with those we mourn — This, also, can be borne. Behold, we live through all things — famine, thirst. Bereavement, pain, all grief and misery. All woe and sorrow ; life inflicts its worst On soul and body — but we cannot die. Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn ; Lo ! all things can be borne. Elizabeth Akers Allen. ENDURANCE. ' OW much the heart may bear, and yet not break ! How much the flesh may suffer, and not die ! I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh. Death chooses his own time ; till that is worn. All evils may be borne. We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife ; Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel. Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life ; Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal That still, although the trembling flesh be torn. This, also, can be borne. We see a sorrow rising in our way. And try to flee from the approaching ill ; We seek some small escape— we weep and pray — But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still, Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, But that it can be borne. We wind our life about another life — We hold it closer, dearer than our own — LEARN TO SWEEP. NCE, in a city's crowded street. With broom in hand, an urchin stood ; No boots inclosed the little feet. Though winter chilled the infant blood ; And yet he worked, the little man. As only youthful heroes can, And as he toiled he cheerful sang : " The noblest oak was once a seed. The choicest flower was but a weed, Unpinioned once the eaglet's wing, The river but a trickling spring, The swiftest foot must learn to creep, The proudest man must learn to sweep." Anon some passing idlers sought The sweeper from his toil to shame. To scorn the noble worker's thought. And quench the young aspiring flame ; No answer gave the hero back. But to and fro he whisked the broom. And shouted as he cleared the track : " The noblest oak was once a seed. The choicest flower was but a weed, Unpinioned once the eaglet's wing, The river but a trickling spring. The swiftest foot must learn to creep, The proudest man must learn to sweep." H. S. Brooks. RHYMES FOR HARD TIMES. OURAGE, brother ! do not stumble. Though thy path be dark as night, There's a star to guide the humble ; " Trust in God, and do the right." Though the road be long and drear>'. And the end be out of sight ; Foot it bravely, strong or weary, " Trust in God, and do tlie right" Perish policy and cunning ; Perish all that fears the light, Whether losing, whether winning, " Trust in God, and do the right." 300 CROWN JEWELS. Shun all forms of guiltj^ passion, Fiends can look like angels bright. Heed no custom, school or fashion, " Trust in God, and do the right" Norman M'Leod. THE MINER. 'HE eastern sky is blushing red, The distant hilltop glowing ; The brook is murmuring in its bed, In idle frolics flowing ; 'Tis time the pickaxe and the spade, And iron "torn" were ringing. And with ourselves, the mountain stream, A song of labor singing. The mountain air is cool and fresh. Unclouded skies bend o'er us. Broad placers, rich in hidden gold, Lie temptingly before us ; We ask no magic Midas' wand, Nor wizard-rod divining. The pickaxe, spade and brawny hand Are sorcerers in mining. When labor closes with the day, To simple fare returning, We gather in a merry group Around the camp-fires burning; The mountain sod our couch at night, The stars shine bright above us, We think of home and fall asleep, To dream of those who love us. John Swift. A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY. Some cotton had lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills had been closed for a considerable time. The people, who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally satig the Doxology over them. ^ RAISE God from whom all blessings flow," Praise him who sendeth joy and woe. The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives, O, praise him, all that dies, and lives. Ours is no wisdom of the wise, We have no deep philosophies ; Childlike we take both kiss and rod, For he who loveth knoweth God. Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. ii F He opens and he shuts his hand, But why we cannot understand : Pours and dries up His mercies' flood, And yet is still All-perfect Good. We fathom not the mighty plan, The mystery of God and man ; We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb. And when, the tempest passing by. He gleams out, sunlike, through our sky. We look up, and through black clouds riven We recognize the smile of Heaven. THE DRUNKARD'S DAUGHTER. , O, feel what I have felt, Go, bear what I have borne ; Sink 'neath a blow a father dealt, And the cold, proud world's scorn ; Thus struggle on from year to year, Thy sole relief— the scalding tear. Go, weep as I have wept. O'er a loved father's fall, See every cherished promise swept — Youth's sweetness turned to gall ; Hope's faded flowers strewed all the way That led me up to woman's day. Go, kneel as I have knelt ; Implore, beseech, and pray. Strive the besotted heart to melt. The downward course to stay ; Be cast with bitter curse aside — Thy prayers burlesqued, thy tears defied. Go, stand where I have stood. And see the strong man bow ; With gnashing teeth, lips bathed in blood, And cold and livid brow ; Go, catch his wandering glance, and see There mirrored, his soul's misery. Go, hear what I have heard — The sobs of sad despair, As memory's feeling fount hath stirred, And its revealings tliere Have told him what he might have been, Had he the drunkard's fate foreseen. Go to my mother's side, And her crushed spirit cheer ; Thine own deep anguish hide. Wipe from her cheek the tear, Mark her dimmed eye, her furrowed brow, The gray that streaks her dark hair now ; Her toil-worn frame, her trembling limb, And trace the ruin back to him Whose plighted faith, in early youth, Promised eternal love and truth ; But who, forsworn, hath yielded up That promise to the deadly cup. And led her down from love and light. From all that made her pathway briglit, And chained her there 'mid want and strife. That lowly thing, a drunkard's wife ! And stamped on childhood's brow so mild. That withering blight, a drunkard's child ! LABOR AND REFORM. 301 Go, hear, and see, and feel, and know, All that my soul hath felt and known. Then look upon the wine-cup's glow ; See if its brightness can atone ; Think if its flavor you will trj', If all proclaimed, " 'Tis drink and die ! " Tell me I hate the bowl Hate is a feeble word : I loathe, abhor — my very soul With strong disgust is stirred When'er I see, or hear, or tell, Of the dark beverage of hell ! THE SONG OF STEAM. ' ARNESS me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein. For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As a tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight For many a countless hour. At the childish boasts of human might, And the pride of human power ! When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas. Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or wailing the wayward breeze ; When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil that he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, Or tugged at the weary oar ; When I measured the panting courser's speed. The flight of the carrier dove, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love, I could but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripped afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car. Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last. They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder blast, And laughed in my iron strength ! O, then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait lor wind nor tide ! Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er, The mountain's steep decline; Time — space — have yielded to my power : The world, the world is mine ! The rivers the sun hath earliest blest. Or those where his beams decline. The giant streams of the queenly West, Or the Orient floods divine. The ocean pales wherever I sweep To hear my strength rejoice. And monsters of the briny deep Cower trembling at my voice. I carry the wealth of the lord of earth, The thoughts of his god-like mind ; The wind lags after my going forth. The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine My tireless arm doth play. Where the rocks never saw the sun's decline. Or the dawn of the glorious day ; I bring earth's glittering jewels up From the hidden caves below. And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow. I blow the bellows, I forge the steel. In all the shops of trade ; I hammer the ore and turn the wheel Where my arms of strength are made ; I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint, I carry, I spin, I weave. And all my doings I put into print On every Saturday eve. I've no muscles to weary, no brains to decay. No bones to be laid on the shelf. And soon I intend you may go and play. While I manage the world myself But harness me down with your iron bands. Be sure of your curb and rein. For I scorn the strength of your puny hands As the tempest scorns the chain. George W. Cutter. DUTY. SLEPT and dreamed that life was beauty ; I woke and found that life was duty : Was then thy dream a shadowy lie ? Toil on, sad heart, courageously. And thou shalt find thy dream to be A noonday light and truth to thee. TRUE REST. ■ WEET is the pleasure Itself cannot spoil ! Is not true leisure One with true toil ? Thou that wouldst taste it. Still do thy best ; Use it, not waste it — Else 'tis no rest. Wouldst behold beauty " Near thee ? all round ? Only hath duty Such a sight found. 302 CROWN JEWELS. t,i:' Rest is not quitting The busy career ; Rest is the fitting Of self to its sphere. 'Tis the brook's motion, Clear without strife, Fleeing to ocean After its life. Deeper devotion Nowhere hath knelt ; Fuller emotion Heart never felt. *Tis loving and serving The highest and best ; 'Tis onwards ! unswerving — And that is true rest. John Sullivan Dwight. GOOD NIGHT. ,OOD night, To each weary, toil-worn wight ! Now the day so sweetly closes, Every aching brow reposes Peacefully till morning light. Good night ! Home to rest ! Close the eye and calm the breast ; Stillness through the streets is stealing, And the watchman's horn is pealing, And the night calls sofdy, " Haste ! Home to rest ! " Sweetly sleep ! Eden's breezes round ye sweep. O'er the peace-forsaken lover Let the darling image hover, As he lies in transport deep. Sweetly sleep ! So, good night ! Slumber on till morning light ; Slumber till another morrow Brings its stores of joy and sorrow; Fearless, in the Father's sight. Slumber on. Good night ! Charles T. Brooks.