IliffliWMfflSllfiiiWilBililiSli^ ■m^^^ Ov- hi< * 1 ^J^ 55«^-^lB!!^. r.^-S'' •.r;?/' ■v^» MI??J- ^Mifi KSv'-- • .^. *^Hd4 : Vfr^-Hj 1 A • . i iK PR 1175 L53 1880 ^mmes i*"j|';' ■■■'■■< 3 1822 01130 3062 Central University Library University of California. San Diego Please Note: This Item is subject to recall after two weeks. Date Due I '^< W^" :».J 1 CI 39 (1/90) UCSDUb. LIBRARY ^ CALIPO'^N'* SAN DIEGO His pleasure in the Scottish woods Three summer's days to take." — Frontispiece. f. f»*i:s'»?saia4r;^?\r'~ BALLADS AND LYRICS. SELECTED AND ARRANGED BY HENRY CABOT LODGE. BOSTON: HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET, NEW ^ORK. Copyright, 1880, By HOUGHTON, OSGOOD & CO. All rights reserved. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE : STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. 0. HOUGHTON AND COMPANT. PEEFACE. The favor with which this collection has been received has seemed to its publishers to warrant a new edition in a different form. In thus offering it to a wider public than that for which it was in- tended, a few words are necessary to explain its original purpose, in order to account for both omis- sions and insertions which would otherwise appear inexplicable. The collection was designed for the use of boys and girls between the ages of twelve and eighteen in our public and private schools. This class of readers, I need hardly say, covers not only a wide variety of age, capacity, and disposition, but a still wider range of opportunity and association, from children who have every advantage, both at home and in school, to obtain books and know about lit- erature, to those who unfortunately have books only in school and must go, for more extended reading, without a guide to our public libraries. The poem which will appeal without explanation to one child is dumb to another, and it is for this ii PREFACE. reason that this collection ranges from the " Sol- dier from Bingen " and the " Old Sergeant " to Milton's "L'i^llegro" and the Songs of Shake- speare. If children will read the former, or can be induced to do so, there is no reason why they can- not be led on through all the intervening stages to tlie highest kind of poetry. The main purpose of the book, therefore, was of course educational. It was desioned to breed a lik- ing for good poetry, and to suggest more extended reading in the works, both in prose and in verse, of the best authors. With these objects, and for this class of readers, my choice was somewhat limited, and the rules which I followed in makino- tlie se- lection, although few, required strict observance. The first essential point was to awaken interest, without which all attempts to teach are vain, and this will explain the variety in the style of the poems and in their arrangement. Simplicity of thought and diction was required in every poem which was admitted, and this led to the introduc- tion of a large proportion of narrative poems or ballads, which were also, as it seemed to me, best fitted to interest children. The lyrics which were selectet friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly! This life is most jolly. Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, That dost not bite so nigh As benefits forgot : Though thou the waters warp. Thy sting is not so sharp As friend remember' d not. Heio-h-ho ! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly: Most friendship is feigning, most loving mere folly: Then, hei;j;h-ho, the holly ! This life is most jolly. William Siiakespeaue. As You Like It. 36 BALLADS AND LYRICS. SONG. Fear no more the heat o' the sun, Nor the furious winter's rages ; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages: Golden lads and girls all must. As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. Fear no more the frown o' the great ; Thou art past the tyrant's stroke ; Care no more to clothe and eat ; ,To thee, the reed is as the oak : The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this, and come to dust. Fear no more the lightninij-flash, Nor the all-dreaded thunder- stone ; Fear not slander, censure rash ; Thou hast finish'd joy and moan : All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee, and come to dust. No exorciser harm thee! Nor no witchcraft charm thee ! Ghost unlaid forbear thee I Nothing ill come near thee! Quiet consummation have ! And renowned be thy grave ! William Shakespeare. Cymbelint mm THE NOBLE NATURE. 37 SONG. How should I your true love know From another one ? By Ills cockle hat and staff, And his sandal shoon. lie is dead and gone, lady. He is dead and gone ; At his head a grass-green turf. At his heels a stone. "NMiite his shroud as the mountain snow Larded with sweet flowers ; AVhich bcwept to the grave did go With true-love showers. William Shakespeare. Hamlet. THE NOBLE NATURE. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere : A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night — It was the ])lant and flower of Light. In small proportions we just beauties see ; And in short measures hfe may perfect be. Ben Jonson.* I Ben Joxson was born in Westminster in 1573. His family 38 BALLADS AND LYRICS. VIRTUE. Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky, The dew shall weep thy fall to-night ; For thou must die. Sweet Rose, whose hue angry and brave Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in its grave. And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes. And all must die. was of humble condition and he appears to have been taught the trade of a bricklaj'er. He received his education at Westminster School, and then went to Cambridge. He did not remain at the university, however, more than a month, but turned soldier in his sixteenth year and served in the wars in the Low Countries, where lie gained distinction by his bravery. When he was nineteen he returned to England, married, and became an actor, and then a playwright. He was a friend of Shakespeare, and next to him, though at long distance, the most famous of the brilliant school of Elizabethan dramatists. In 1616 he was made poet- laureate of England, and died in 1637. He wrote many plays, of which the best and most famous are his early comedies. He was a witty, agreeable man, hot-tempered and quarrelsome, and always in conflict with his literary brethren. He was also a free liver, jovial and extravagant, and given to a profuse hospitality, so that despite his position as poet-laureate, and the success of his plays, he was always in money difficulties, and died in ex- treme poverty. Besides liis plays, he wrote many short poems of great beauty of thought, language, and expression, of which the one given in this collection is an admirable example. .L i i TO BLOSSOMS. 39 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, Like season'd timber, never gives ; But, though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives. Geouge Herbert.! TO BLOSSOMS. Fair pledges of a fruitful tree. Why do ye fall so fast ? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here a while. To blush and gently smile; And go at last. What, were ye bom to be An hour or half's delight; And so to bid <>;ood-nio;lit ? 'T was pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we i; May read how soon things have Thuir end, though ne'er so brave: ! George Herbert was a descendant of the Earls of Pem- broke and younger brother of the famous Lord Herbert of Cher- bury. He was born at Montgomery Castle in Wales, in 1593, nnd was educated at Westminster School and at Trinity College, Cambridge. After graduation he took hoh' orders, became a minister of the Established Church and prebendary of Layton. In 1630 he was presented by King Charles I. to tiie living of Bemerton, and died while still a young man, in 1G32. lie wrote a great deal, both prose and verse, but always on religious and moral subjects, and was a man of gentle and devout nature and Dure life. 40 BALLADS AND LYRICS. And after they have shown their pride, Like you, a while, they glide Into the grave. Robert Hekrick.^ TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS Tell me not. Sweet, I am unkind, That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, To war and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, The first foe in the field ; And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. Yet this inconstancy is such As you too shall adore; I could not love thee, Dear, so much. Loved I not Honor more. Richard Lovelace. ^ 1 Robert Herrick was born in London in 1591. He was a student at Cambridge, took orders, and was presented by Charles I. to the living of Dean Prior in Devonshire in 1G29. He was deprived of his living by Cromwell in 1648. He then returned to London and lived in retirement, believing his connection with the church to be wholh' severed, but on the restoration of Charles n. in 1G60 he was reinstated in his living, which he held until his death, about the year 1674- He was eminent both as a divine and as a poet. His poems are chieflj^ secular and man}' very liglit, but it is as the author of them that he is chiefly remem- bered, although he wrote some verses on sacred subjects. Almost all his poems are very short, but they are very perfect and highly finished and many are among the very best of their kind. 2 Richard Lovelace, the son of Sir William Lovelace, of TO DAFFODILS. 41 TO DAFFODILS. Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon: As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song ; And, having prayed together, we Will go with you along. "We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or any tiling. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick. Woolwich, Kent, was born in 1618. He came of age just at the outbreak of the civil war between king and Parliament. He at once embraced the royal cause, and after its defeat took service with the king of France and commanded a regiment when he was wounded at Dunkirk. He returned to England only to be thrown into prison, and after his release lingered in London in obscurity and poverty, and died tiiere in 1G58, a vic- tim to the pdlitical troubles of the time. He was a handsome, gallant caviilier, and a good soldier as well as a poet. Most of nis poems have little merit, but there are one or two besides that ^iven here which have preserved his name from oblivion. + 42 BALLADS AND LYRICS. GO, LOVELY ROSE. Go, lovely Rose! Tell her, that wastes lier time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee. How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that 's young And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee: How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair ! Edmund Waller.^ 1 Edmund Waller was born in 1605. He was of good fam- fly, a connection of both John Hampden and Oliver Cromwell, nnd was a man of property. He was educated at Eton and Cam- bridge, entered Parliament in 1G21, and. with occasional inter- vals, continued there through life, being elected the last time in 1685, as member for Saltash in the only Parliament of James II. In 1643 he was discovered in a plot against the Long Par- liament, made abject submission, was fined ^10,000, and forced into exile. He returned in 1053, and made terms with Crom- Go, lovely Rose." See p. 42- "I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE." 43 "I'LL NEVER LOVE THEE MORE." I. My dear and only love, I pray That little world of thee Be governed by no other sway Than purest monarchy; For if confusion have a part, Which virtuous souls abhor, And hold a synod in thine heart, I '11 never love thee more. II. As Alexander I will reign. And I will reign alone; My thoughts did evermore disdain A rival on my throne. He either fears his fate too much, Or his deserts are small, That dares not put it to the touch, To gain or lose it all. III. But I will reig;n and Kovern still. And always give the law, And have each subject at my will, And all to stand in awe; But 'gainst my batteries if I find Thou kick, or vex me sore. As that thou set me up a blind, I '11 never love thee more. well, by whom he was protected. On the Restoration he again changed sides, and made his peace with Charles II., during whose reign he continued to flourish. He died in 1087. As a politician he was sharp, mean, and time-servin;;; as a poet, graceful and witty. He wrote much, both prose and verse. 44 BALLADS AND LYRICS. IV. And in the empire of thine heart, Where I should solely be, If others do pretend a part, Or dare to vie with me, Or if committees thou erect, And go on such a score, I '11 laugh and sing at thy neglect. And never love thee more. V. But if thou wilt prove faithful, then, And constant of thy word, I '11 make thee glorious by my pen, And famous by my sword ; I '11 serve thee in such noble ways Was never heard before ; I '11 crown and deck thee all with bays, And love thee more and more. Marquis of Montrose.' L'ALLEGRO. Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnio-ht born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 1 James Grahame, Marquis of Montrose, was born at Edin- burgh in 1612. He took up arms for the king in the civil wars, and was made commander-in-chief of the Scottish forces by Charles I. in 1644. After a campaign of great brilliancy he was finally defeated by the Covenanters under Leslie at Philip- haugh, in 1645. He fled to the Continent, but soon returned to Scotland and again took arras. He was defeated, taken prisoner, and executed at Edinburgh in May, 1650. He was the most re- markable and the most successful of the Cavalier generals. L'ALLEGRO. 45 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights un- holy ! Find out some uncouth cell Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heaven yclep'd Eui)hrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more To ivy-crownfed Bacchus bore: Or whether (as some sa"-er sino") The frolic wind that breathes the spring, Zephyr, with Aurora playing. As he met her once a-Maying, There on beds of violets blue And fresh-blown roses wasli'd in dew Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair. So buxom, blithe, and debonaii*. Haste thee. Nymph, and bring with thee Jest, and youthful jollity, Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nod^, and becks, and wreathed smiles Such as hang on Hebe's cheek And love to live in dimple sleek ; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides, — Come, and trip it as you go On the light fantastic toe ; And in thy right hand lead with thee 1:6 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The mouiitain-nyinph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirth, achnit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreprovfed pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight And singins; startle the dull niwht From his watch-tower in the skies Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; Then to come, in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good -morrow Through the sweet-briar, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar hill, Throuffli the high wood echoins: shrill. Sometime walking, not unseen. By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate Where the great Sun begins his state Kobed in flames and amber light. The clouds in thousand livei'ies dight; While the ploughman, near at hand, Whistles o'er thefurrow'd land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe. And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the Jiawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the landscape round it measures; L'ALLEGRO. 47 Russet lawns, and fallows gray, | Where the nibbling flocks do stray; I IVIountains on whose barren breast \ The laboring clouds do often rest; I Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom'd high in tufted trees. Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes. Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes From betwixt two aged oaks, Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met. Are at their savory dinner set Of herbs and other country messes Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her bower she leaves With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead. To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure delight Tlie upland hamlets will invite. When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecks sound To many a youth and many a maid. Dancing in the chequer'd shade; And young and old come forth to play On a sun-shine holy-day, Till the live-long daylight fail ; Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. With stories told of many a feat. How faery Mab the junkets eat; She was pinch'd and pull'd, she said ; And he, by friar's lantern led. Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 48 . BALLADS AND LYRICS. To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn That ten day-laborers could not end; Then lies him down the lubber fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length. Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings. Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, By whispering winds soon luU'd asleep. Tower'd cities please us then. And the busy hum of men. Where throngs of knights and barons bold In weeds of peace high triumphs hold. With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win lier grace, whom all commend. There let Hymen oft appear In saffron robe, with taper clear. And pomp, and feast, and revelry; With mask, and antique pageantry; Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon. If Jonson's learned sock be on. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs Married to immortal verse. Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, L' ALLEGRO. 4:9 With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The meUing voice through mazes running, Untwistino- all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony, That Orpheus' self may heave his head From golden sslumbcr on a bed Of lieap'd Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the ear Of Pluto, to have quite set free His half-regained Eurydice. These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live. John MiltonJ i John Milton, the son of a scrivener of the same name, wuf born in London, in Bread Street, December 9, 1608. He was edu Gated by Dr. Young, a famous Puritan divine, then at St. Paul': School, and finally at Christ's College, where he first wrote verse: in Latin and English. After a brief .^tay at his father's, whet were written some of his more famous short poems, including tlu- two given here, he travelled in Italy, where he met Galileo. In 1639 he returned to England and soon drifted into the great struggle between king and Parliament then just beginning He soon won the foremost place as a writer on political and religious questions, and in 1649 was made Latin Secretary of the Common- wealth, a post which he continued to hold under Cromwell. He was the chief defender, with the pen, of the Connnonwealth and the Protector. About 1653 he became totally blind, owing to in- cessant work, made necessary by his continual controversies. At the Restoration his life was spared, but he was obliged to live in obscurity. It was at this period that he returned to poetry and wrote Paradise Lost and Paradise Regained, the greatest epic poems in the English language, and which have caused him to be ranked next to Shakespeare among English poets. He was a :nan of profound learning and a womk'rful linguist. His prose writings were voluminous and chiefly controversial. The style seems heavy and involved, if judged by the standard of the pres- ent day, but it is nevertheless magnificent, rich, and powerful. It is as the great literary genius ot Puritan Eiiglaml, and as the 4 1 50 BALLADS AND LYRICS. IL PENSEROSO. Hence, vain deluding joys, The brood of Folly without father bred I IIow little you bestead Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys I Dwell in some idle brain, And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, Or likest hovering dreams. The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, Hail, divinest Melancholy 1 Whose saintly visage is too bright To hit the sense of human sight, And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that Starr' d Ethiop queen that strove To set her beauty's praise above The sea-nymphs, ajid their powers offended: Yet thou art higher far descended: Thee bright-haired Vesta, long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she; in Saturn's reign Such mixture was not held a stain: Oft in glimmering bowers and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. popt of Puritanis-m, that Milton is most interesting. He died iu Movember, 1674, at his home in Bunliill Fields. IL PENSEROSO. 51 Come, pensive nun, devout and pure, Sober, steadfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain Flowing with majestic train, And sable stole of cypres lawn Over thy decent shoulders drawn: Come, but keep thy wonted state, AYith even step, and musing gait, And looks commei'cing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: There, lield in holy passion still. Forget thvself to marble, till AVith a sad leaden downward cast Thou fix them on the earth as fast: And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring Aye round about Jove's altar sing: And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: But first, and chiefest, with thee bring Him that yon soars on golden wing. Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The cherub Contemplation; And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song In her sweetest, saddest plight. Smoothing the rugged brow of night, WTiile Cynthia checks her dragon yoke Gently o'er the accustom'd oak. Sweet bird, that shunn st the noise of folly, Most musical, most nu'lanclKjly ! Thee, chantress, oft, the woods among, I woo, to hear thy even- song; And missing thee, I walk unseen 1)2 BALLADS AND LYRICS. On the dry, smooth-shaven green, To behold the wanderins moon Ridino; near her highest noon, Like one that had been led astray Through the heavens' wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfeu sound Over some wide-water'd shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar: Or, if the air will not permit. Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; Far from all resort of mirth. Save the cricket on the hearth, Or the bellman's drowsy charm To bless the doors from nightly harm. Or let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes, or unsjihere The sph'it of Plato, to unfold What worlds or what vast regions hold The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those demons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under-ground. Whose power hath a true consent With planet, or with element. Some time let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by. Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine; IL PENSEROSO. 53 Or what (tliough rare) of later age Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musa;us from his bower. Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string. Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek And made Hell grant what Love did seekl Or call up him that left half-told The story of Cambuscan bold, Of Camball, and of Algarsife, And who had Canace" to wife That own'd the virtuous ring and glass; And of the wondrous horse of brass On which the Tartar king did ride: f And if aught else great bards beside h In sage and solemn tunes have sung i Of turneys, and of trophies hung, 3 Of forests, and enchantments drear, i Where more is meant than meets the ear. ' Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, | Till civil-suited Morn appear, I Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont With the Attic Boy to hunt. But kerchieft in a comely cloud. While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still. When the gust hath blown his fill, Endino- on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me, Goddess, l)ring To arched walks of twilight groves. And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, Of pine, or monumental oak. 51 BALLADS A^D LYRICS. ^\ here the nide axe, with heaved stroke, Was never heard the nymphs to daunt Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt; There in close covert by some brook Where no prof an er eye may look, Hide me from day's garish eye. While the bee with honey'd thigh That at her floweiy Avork doth sing, And the waters riiurmuring. With such concert as they keep, Entice the dewy-feather 'd Sleep; And let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display'd. Softly on my eyelids laid: And, as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or the unseen genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high-embowed roof. With antique pillars massy proof, And storied widows richly dight, Castiuij a dim religious lio-ht: There let the pealing organ blow To the full-voiced quire below In service high and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies And bring all heaven before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell. Where I may sit and rightly spell " Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind To wave the azure main." See p. 53. " TO ALL YOU LADIES NO \V ON LAND." 55 Of every star that heaven doth show, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, I And I with thee will choose to live. : John Miltox. "TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW ON LAND." SONG WRITTEN AT SEA. To all you ladies now on land, We men at sea indite ; But first would have you understand How hard it is to write : The Muses now, and Neptune too, We must implore to write to you. I For tho' the Muses should prove kintl, l And fill our empty brain ; I Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind, i To wave the azure main, Our paper, pen, and ink, and we i Roll up and down our ships at sea. Tlien, if we write not by each post, Think not we are unkind ; Nor yet conclude our ships are lost By Dutchmen or by wind ; Our tears we '11 send a speedier way : The tide shall bring them twice a day. The king, with wonder and surprise, Will swear the seas grow bold ; To pass our tedious hours away, We throw a merry main : Or else at serious ombre play ; But why should we in vain Each other's ruin thus pursue ? We were undone when we left you. But now our fears tempestuous grow And cast our hopes away ; Whilst you, regardless of our wo, Sit careless at a play : Perhaps permit some happier man To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan. When any mournful tune you hear, That dies in every note, i>6 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old : But let him know it is our tears Brino- floods of arief to Whitehall-stairs. Should foggy Opdam chance to know Our sad and dismal story. The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe, And quit their fort at Goree ; For what resistance can they find From men who 've left their hearts behind 1 Let wind and weather do its worst, Be you to us but kind ; Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse. No sorrow we shall find : 'T is then no matter how things go, Or who 's our friend, or who 's our foe. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 57 As if it sigh'd with each man's care For being so remote : Think then how often love we 've made To you, when all those tunes were play'd. In justice, you cannot refuse To think of our distress, When we for hopes of honor lose Our certain happiness ; All these designs are but to prove Ourselves more worthy of your love. And now we 've told you all our loves, And likewise all our fears, In hopes this declaration moves Some pity for our tears ; Let 's hear of no inconstancy, We have too much of that at sea. Charles Sackvillk, Earl of Dorset.'^ SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 1687. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal fi-ame began : When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay 1 Charles Sackvilt^e, Viscount Buckhurst, and afterwards Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637. In his youth he was one of the wildest and most debauched of all the courtiers who sur- rounded CimilL's II., but he was always a man of refined tastes, «nd a ])atron of literature. He died in 1706. This song, the best known of his poems, Avas written on board the English fleet *t the time of the first war between Charles II. and the Dutch, and on the eve of battle. .L 58 BALLADS AND LYRICS. And could not heave lier head, The tuneftd voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more than dead! Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order (o their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began : From Harmony to Harmony Throuoh all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in man. What passion cannot Music raise and quell ? When Jubal struck the chorded shell His listeninor brethren stood around. And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that cele^al sound. Less than a God they thought there could not dwel. Within the hollow of that shell That spoke so sweetly and so well. VVhat passion cannot Music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms, The double double double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, " Hark! the foes come; Char<'e, charge, 't is too late to retreat I " The soft complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hopeless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. SONG FOR SAINT CECILIA'S DAY. 59 Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains and height of passion For the fair disdainful dame. But O ! what art can teach , ^Yhat human voice can reach. The sacred organ's praise? Notes inspiring holy love, Notes that wing their heavenly ways To mend the choirs above. Orpheus could lead the savage race, And trees uprooted left their place Sequacious of the lyre: But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher : When to her organ vocal breath was given An Angel heard, and straight appear'd — Mistaking Earth for Heaven! GRAND CHORUS. As from the power of sacred lays ( The spheres began to move. And sung the great Creator's praise To all the blest above; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die. And music shall untune the sky. John Dryden.^ 1 John Dryden, the most famous of the poets of the Restora- tion, was bf)rn in 1G31, and educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge. He was bred a Puritan, but went 4- ■m 60 BALLADS AND LYRTCS. VERSION OF THE NINETEENTH PSALM. The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim: Th' unwearied sun from day to day Does his Creator's power display. And publishes to every land The work of an Almighty hand. II. Soon as the evening shades prevail, The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the list'ning earth Repeats the story of her birth: Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets, in their turn. Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. III. What though, in solemn silence, all ]\Iove round the dark terrestrial ball? What tho' nor real voice nor sound Amid their radiant orbs be found ? over to Charles II. at the Restoration and became a playwright, essayist, and poet. He was received into favor at court, and was made poet-laureate in 1G68. He wrote many plays, all of which are now deservedly forgotten, and some prose essays. His fame rests on his shorter poems, his satires of great force and brilliancy, and his translation of Virgil. He died May 1, 1700 »nd was buried in Westminster Abbey. DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 61 In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a jjlorious voice. Forever sini^ing, as they shine, " The hand that made us is divine." Joseph Addison.* THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital Spark of heavenly flanie, Quit, O quit this mortal frame! Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying! Cease, fond nature, cea.se thy strife, And let me languish into life! Hark! they whisper; angels say. Sister spirit, come away. What is this absorbs me quite. Steals ray senses, shuts my sifht, 1 JosKi-H AnnisoN, the eldest son of Lancelot Addison, Dean of Lifhtield, was boi'n at Milston, Wiltsiiire, in 1G72. lie was educated at the Charter House, and afterwards at Oxford, where he had a high reputation for classical scholarship. He at once ventured into literature, and a successful poem gained liini a pension from Kin;;- William. He then travelled abroad, and on his return in 171)4 attracted the notice of Queen Anne's govern- ment by a jxiem on the battle of Blenheim, entitled The Cam- paign. The favor thus gained soon bore fruit. He was made Commissioner of Appeals and under Secretary of State, and al)ly defended with his pen the AVhig ministry. In 1716 he married the Countess of Warwick, and died at Holland House, London, in the forty-eighth year of his age. Addison wrote the tragedy of Crt-. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay, Till loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung, A bottle swinging at each side As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screaiii'd. 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 weight, he rides a race, 'Tis for a thousand pound. TEE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 91 And still as fast as he drew near, 'T was wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike-men Their gates wide open threw. And now as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shatter'd 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 bad basted been. But still he seem'd to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced, For all might see the bottle-necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through nierrv Islington These gambols he did play, And till he came into the Wash Of Edmonton so gay. And there he threw the Wash about Oil 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. 92 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! — Here's the house They all at once did cry, The dinner waits, and we are tired : Said Gilpin — so am I. 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's the Callender's His horse at last stood still. The Callender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim. Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him — What news? what news? your tidings tell, Tell me you must and shall — Say why bare-headed you are come, Or why you come at all ? Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit And loved a timely joke, And thus unto the Callender In merry guise he spoke — THE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 93 I came because your horse would come ; And if I well forebode, My bat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road. The Callender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Return'd him not a single word, But to the house went in. Whence straisfht he came with hat and wif^, A wig that flow'd behind, A hat not much the worse for wear. Each comely in its kind. He held them up and in his turn Thus show'd 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 tlie 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, 'T was for your pleasure you came here, You shall go back for mine. mtm 94 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 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 gallop'd 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 puU'd out half a crown; And thus unto the youth she said That drove them to the Boll, This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well. The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain. Whom in a trice he tried to stop By catching at his rein. But not performing what he meant. And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run. ^> '>ifi ':ii:;c;r C/5 ■J.l ^'5 » I THE HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN. 95 Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at bis beels, Tbe post-boy's horse right ghid 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 I Not one of them Avas mute, And all and each that pass'd that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space. The toll men thinking as before That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town. Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, Loni; live the kino-. And Gilpin, long live he. And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see! William Cowpkr. <4 96 BALLADS AND LYRICS. MY BONNIE MARY. Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonnie lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick-law, And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. The trumpets sound, the banners fly. The glittering spears are ranked ready ; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it 's not the war o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that 's heard afar — It 's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. Robert Burns. thp: sleeping beauty. Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile Tho' shut so close thy laughing eyes. Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs! Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks And mantle o'er her neck of snow: Ah, now she murmurs, now she speaks What most I wish — and fear to know! JmmmiBiimm JOHiv ANDERSON. 97 She starts, she trembles, and she weeps! Her fair hands folded on her breast: — And now, how like a saint she sleeps! A seraph in the realms of rest! Sleep on secure! Above control Thy thoughts belong to Heaven and thee: And maj the secret of thy soul Remain within its sanctuary! Samuel Rogebs.^ JOHN ANDERSON. John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John. Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill theo-ither : 1 Samuel Rogers was the son of a London banker and born in 1763. He succeeded to his father's business in 1793, but nfter ;i few j^ears retired with a sufficient fortune to live a life of leisure, and gratify his litei-ary tastes and the love of poetry, wliieli he had sliowu from his earliest years. He published a long descrip- tive poem, Italy, and a volume of short poems. He was besi known, however, during his long life, as a wit and man of soci- ety, and was for two generations one of the most conspicuous figures in London life. He died in 1855. 7 ■ ■-— n 98 BALLADS AND LYRICS. I \ And mony a canty day, John, '; We 've had wi' ane anither: t Now we maun totter down, John, • But hand in hand we '11 go, f And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo. Robert Burns. BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN.' Scots, 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 lour: See approach proud Edward's pow'r — Chains and t^laverie! 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! Wha for Scotland's King and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand or freeman fa' ? Let him follow me ! 1 The battle of Bannockburn was fought on June 24, 1314, be- tween the Scotch, under Robert Bruce, and tlie English, under Edward 11. It resulted in the total defeat of the English. BRUCE AND THE ABBOT. 99 By oppression's woes and pains! By our 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*. BRUCE AND THE ABBOT.i The Abbot on the threshold stood, And in his hand the holy rood. Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal. Proud Lorn first answered the appeal: " Thou comest, O holy man, True sons of blessed Church to greet, But little deeming here to meet A wretch, beneath the ban Of Pope and Church, for murder done E'en on the sacred altar stone! Well may'st thou wonder we should know Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce. With excommunicated Bruce! Yet well I grant to end debate. Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 1 This is an extract from the Lord of the Isles, one of Scott's longer poems. 100 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The Abbot seemed with eye severe The hardy chieftain's speecli to hear; Then on King Robert turned the monk, — But twice his courage came and sunk, Confronted with the hero's look ; Twice fell his eye, his accents shook. Like man by prodigy amazed, Upon the King the Abbot gazed ; Then o'er his pallid features glance Convulsions of ecstatic trance ; His breathing came more thick and fast, And from his pale blue eyes were cast Strano-e ravs of wild and wandering; lisrht: Uprise his locks of silver white, Flushed is his brow; through every vein In azure tide the currents strain. And undistinguished accents broke The awful silence ere he spoke. " De Bruce I I rose with purpose dread To speak my curse upon thy head. And give thee as an outcast o'er To him who burns to shed thy gore ; But, like the Midianite of old. Who stood on Zophim, Heaven-controlled; I feel within mine aged breast A power that will not be repressed ; It prompts my voice, it swells my veins, It burns, it maddens, it constrains! De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blovv Hath at God's altar slain thy foe: O'ermastered yet by high behest, I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed! " He spoke, and o'er the astonished throng "Was silence, awful, deep, and long. BRUCE AND THE ABBOT. 101 Again that light has fired his eye, Again his form swells bold and high, The broken voice of age is gone, 'T is vigorous manhood's lofty tone: Thrice vanquished on the battle plain, — Thy followers slaughtered, fled, or ta'en, — A hunted wanderer on the wild, On foreifrn shores a man exiled. Disowned, deserted, and distressed, — I bless thee, and thou shalt be blessed! Blessed in the hall and in the field. Under the mantle as the shield. Avenger of thy country's shame. Restorer of her injured fame. Blessed in thy sceptre and thy sword, — De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord, Blessed in thy deeds and in thy fame, What lengthened honors wait thy namel In distant ages, sire to son Shall tell thy tale of freedom won. And teach his infants, in the use Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. Go, then, triumphant ! sweep along Thy course, the theme of many a song! The Power, whose dictates swell my breast, Hath blessed thee, and thou shalt be blessed! " Sir Waltkr Scott.^ 1 Sir Walter Scott, the greatest, perhaps, of all modern Lnglish writers, was the son of Walter Scott, a writer to the. Signet, and was born in Edinburgh in 1771. Although his health in childhood was delicate, he displayed extraordinary talents at a very early age. He was educated at the high school and University of Edinburgh, was adniiltcd to the bar, Hiid held several profitable and important legal appointments He was married in 1797, and soon after published his lirsi a-E»s;,-:a»>.-u L ; la.-.T.ij .TT' - . -^r-cv: Ti^c^t j-rt 102 BALLADS AND LYRICS. CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG, Farewell to Nortlimaven, Gray Hilbwioke, farewelll To the calms of thy haven, The storms on thy fell ; To each breeze that can vary The mood of thy main, And to thee, bonny Mary ! We meet not again. Farewell the wild ferry. Which Hacon could brave, When the peaks of the Skerry AVere white in the wave. volume of poems and translations. These were followed by his longer poems, such as Marmion and the Lady of the Lake, which gave him a wide reputation. In 1814 he published, anon- ymousl}-, Waverley, the first of the great series of novels bear- ing that name, and which gave him world-wide renown and a foremost place in English literature, and which have never been surpassed. He wrote much and well on other subjects also, and was a man of great learning in our older literature. He had an almost superhuman power of production, and made vast sums by his novels. But the money thus gained was wasted, and a partnership with his publishers ended in finan- cia. ruin. He finally extricated himself from his most pres.«- ing difficulties, but never regained his wealth. He died in 1832. No biographical paragraph can do justice to his vast and versatile genius, or even give anj' idea of it. In poetry and romance alike he achieved a success which it is given to few men to attain in either. The lyrics in this collection are taken from the longer poems, and from the novels through which they were scattered with a lavish hand. Th.ey are among the most beautiful in the whole range of English litera< ture. " Farewell to North-ma\ en Gray Hillswicke, farewell!" See p. i02. 1 *7 .i SONG OF HAROLD HARFAGER. 103 Thei'e 's a maid may look over These wild waves in vain, For the skiff of her lover — f He comes not ao;ain! S The vows thou hast broke, On the wild currents fling them ; On the quicksand and rock Let the mermaidens sing thena ; New sweetness they '11 give her Bewildering strain; '^ But there 's one who will never i Believe them again. i. O were there an island. Though ever so wild, i Where woman could smile, and No man be befruiled — Too tempting a snare To poor mortals were given; And the hope would fix there. That should anchor in heaven. Sir Walter Scott. The Pirate. THE SONG OF HAROLD HARFAGER.i The sun is rising dimly red. The wind is wailing low and dread; From his cliff the eagle sallies, Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; - Harold Iliirfascr or Harold Fair Hair, the most famous oi (lie tarly kings of Norway, 885-8'J4. 104 BALLADS AND LYRICS. In the mist the ravens hover, Peep the wild clogs from the cover, Sfreaming, croaking, baying, yelling. Each in his wild accents telling, " Soon we feast on dead and dying, Fair-haired Harold's flag is flying." Many a crest on air is streaming, Many a helmet darkly gleaming, Many an arm the axe uprears, Doomed to hew the wood of spears. All along the crowded ranks Horses neigh and armor clanks; Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, Louder still the bards are singing: " Gather, footmen! gather, horsemen! To the field, ye valiant Norsemen! " Halt ve not for food or slumber. View not vantage, count not number; Jolly reapers, forward still. Grow the crop on vale or hill. Thick or scattered, stiff or lithe. It shall down before the scythe. Forward with your sickles bright, Reap the harvest of the fight ; Onwai-d, footmen! onward, horsemen! To the charge,ye gallant Norsemen! Fatal choosers of the Slaughter, O'er you hovers Odin's daughter; Hear the choice she spreads before ye, Victory, and wealth, and glory; Or old Valhalla's roaring hail. Her ever-circling mead and ale, BUM TING SONG. 105 Where for eternity unite The joys of wassail and of fight. Headlong forward, foot and horsemen, Charge and fight, and die like Norsemen!" Sir Walter Scott. The Pirate. HUNTING SONG. Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear Hounds are in their couples yelling. Hawks are whistling, horns are knellins: Merrily, merrily, mingle they, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming. Diamonds on the brake are o-leaminw; And foresters have busy been. To track the buck in thicket green: Now we come to chant our lay, " AVaken, lords and ladies gay." Waken, lords and ladies gay. To the greenwood haste away; We can show you where he lies. Fleet of foot, and tall of size; We can show the marks he made, When 'gainst the oak his antlers traysd 106 BALLADS AND LYRICS. You shall see him brought to bay, " Waken, lords and ladies gay." Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay ! Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk; Think of this, and rise with day. Gentle lords and ladies gay. Sir Walter Scott. SONG: COUNTY GUY. Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea. The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trilled all day. Sits hushed his partner nigh ; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade, Her shepherd's suit to hear; To beauty shy, by lattice high, Sings hioh-born Cavalier. The star of Love, all stars above. Now reigns o'er earth and sky; And high and low the influence know — But where is County Guy? Siu Wat.ter Scott. Qiieniin Diinrnrd MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. 107 MACPHERSON'S FAREWELL. Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, The wretch's destiiiie! Macpherson's time "will not be long On yonder gallows-tree. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he; He play'd a spring, and dano'd it round, Below the gallows-tree. O, what is death but parting breath? On many a bloody plain I 've dar'd his face, and in this place I scorn him yet again ! Untie these bands from off my hands, And bring to me my sword; And there 's no a man in all Scotland, But I '11 brave him at a word. I 've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; I die by treacherie: It burns my heart I must depart, And not avenijM be. Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright, And all beneath the sky! May coward shame distain his name, The wretch that dares not die! Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, etc. Robert Burns. 108 BALLADS AND LYRICS. THE POPLAR FIELD. The poplars are fell'd, farewell to the shade And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives. Twelve years have elapsed since I last took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank Avhere they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade. The blackbird has fled to another retreat Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat ; And the scene where his melody charm'd me before Resounds with his sweet- flowing ditty no more. My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must erelong lie as lowly as they. With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead. 'T is a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see, Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we. William Cowpkr. A WISH. Mine be a cot beside the hill ; A bee -hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near. THE BANKS 0' DOON. 109 The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her cla}-- built nest; Oft shall the pilgrm lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that di-inks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The villao;e church among the trees. Where first our marriage vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven. Samufx Rogkrs. THE BANKS O' DOON. I. Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds. And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn : Thou minds me o' departed Joys, Departed — never to return ! II. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve. And fondly sae did I o' mine. * 110 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Wi' lightsome heart I pn'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its tliornv tree; And my fause huer stole my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me. RoBKRT Burns. EVENING. The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their son"-, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide, In the calm sunset may repair Each to the loved one's side. The noble dame on turret hio-h. Who waits her gallant knio-ht. Looks to the western beam to spy The flash of armor bright. The village maid, with hand on brow The level ray to shade. Upon the footpath watches now For Colin's darkening plaid. Now to their mates the wild swans row, By day they swam apart, And to the thicket wanders slow The hind beside the hart. The woodlark at his partner's side Twitters his closing songr — All meet whom day and care divide, But Leonard tarries long ! Sir Walter Scott. " The sun upon the lake is low." See p. no. SONG. Ill SONG. There is mist on the mountain and night on the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. A stranger commanded — it sunk on the land, It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every liand! The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust: On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear, It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer. The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone. That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, The morn on our mountains is dawning at last; Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays, And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze. O high-minded Moray! — the exiled — the dear! In the blush of the dawning the Standard uprear! Wide, wide to the winds of the norih let it fly. Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nighi Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake ? That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye, But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die. O sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state, Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and Sleatl 112 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, And resistless in union rush down on the foe! True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! Rough Kcppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell, Till far Coryarrick resound to tlie knell! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free, Remember Glenlivet, Harlaw, and Dundee! Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring has given Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, Unite with the race of renowned Rori More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar! How Mac-Shiinei will joy when their chief shall display The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray! How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe! Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! Mac-Neil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake! Awake on your hills, on your islands awake! Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lakft! 'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not to the hall Tis the suiniuons of heroes for conquest or death. When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath; r GLENARA. 113 They call to the diik, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge. Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fii-r! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of }'ore! Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more! Sir Waltfr Scott. Waverley. GLENARA. HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale. Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail ? 'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear; And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; Her kinsmen they foUow'd, but mourned not aloud: Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around: They march'd all in silence, — they looked on tht ground. In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar: '• Now here let us place the gray stone of her cain-n; Why speak ye no word ? " said Glenara the stern. " And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows? " So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd. r 114 BALLADS AND LYRICS. " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud; " And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem: Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream! " 0! pale grow the cheek of that chieftain, I ween. When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen; When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn, 'T was the youih who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn : " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief: On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem; Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!" In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground, And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found ; From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne, — Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn ! Thomas Campbell.* 1 Thosias CajipbelIv, born in Glasgow in 1777, graduated at the university of his native town, and made an early reputation as a poet by the publication of his Pleasures of Hope. After a journey on the Continent, where he witnessed the battle of Hohenlinden, he returned to London, where he passed the rest of his life. His prose writings, which were extensive and profita- ble, and gained for him a pension from the government, are uow forgotten, but his Ij-ric poetry holds a high place. He died in 1844. LOCHINVAR. 115 LOCHINVAR. O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out o£ the West, Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword he weapons had none, He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knig-ht like the voung Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none ; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate. The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby hall. Among bride's-men, 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, voung Lord Lochinvar? " "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit yon denied; Love swells like the Sol way, but ebbs like its tide; And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, That would gladlv be bride to tlie vuung Lochin- var." Tlie bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up. He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. ^116 BALLADS AND LYRICS. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — " Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely his 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 Loch- 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 cronpe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ; They '11 have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan ; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran : There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvai-; Sir Waltek Scott. I 1 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 117 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry ! And I '11 give thee a silver pound, To row us o'er the ferry." " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water? " " O I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle. J And this Lord Ullin's daughter. " His horsemen liard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover. Then who will cheer my bonny bride AVhen they have slain her lover? " Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, " I '11 go, my chief — I 'm ready : It is not for your silver bright. But for your winsome lady : " And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ; So, though the waves arc raging white, I 'U row you o'er the ferry." By this the storm grew loud apace. The water-wraith 1 was shrieking; 1 The evil spirit of the waters. " And fast before her father's men - | Three days we 've fled together, i For should he find us in the glen, f My blood would stain the heather. i 118 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 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 ^len rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer. " O haste thee, haste! " the lady cries, " Though tempests round us gather; I '11 meet the raginsr 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 gather'd o'er her. And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing : Lord Ullin reach 'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailinjr. For sore dismay'd, 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 '11 forgive your Highland chief, My daughter ! — O my daughter I " 'T was vain; the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing : i THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 119 The waters wild went o'er his child, — And he was left lamenting. Thomas Campbell. THE CRUSADER'S RETURX. \ High deeds achieved of knightly fame, >_ From Palestine the champion came ; J The cross upon his shoulders borne ;. Battle and blast had dimmed and torn ; ' Each dint upon his battered shield Was token of a foughten field; And thus, beneath his lady's bower, i He sunof as fell the twilight hour: II. K " Joy to the fair ! — thy knight behold, i Returned from yonder land of gold; r No wealth he brings, nor wealth can need, ? Save his good arms and battle-steed ; His spurs to dash against a foe, 5 His lance and sword to lay him low; Such all the trophies of his toil, t Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile I » III. 5 " Joy to the fair! whose constant knight t Her favor fired to feats of might ! ? Unnoted shall she not remain t Where meet the bright and noble train; S Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — i ^Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 120 BALLADS AND LYRLCS. 'Tis she foi- whose bright eyes was won The listed field of Ascalon! IV. •' ' Note well her smile ! — it edged the blade Which fifty wives to widows made, When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell, looiuum's turbancd Soldan fell. Seest thou her locks, whose sunny glow Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow? Twines not of them one golden thread, But for its sake a Payniui bled 1 ' •'Joy to the fair! — My name unknown. Each deed, and all its praise, thine own; Then, O I unbar this churlish gate. The nioht-dew falls, the hour is late. Inured to Syria's glowing breath, I feel the north breeze chill as death ; Let grateful love quell maiden shame. And grant him bliss who brings thee fame." Sir Walter Scott. Ivnnhoe. ELSPETH'S BALLAD. Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, And listen great and sma'. And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl That fought on the red Harlaw. The cronach's cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a', ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 121 And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be For the sair field of Harlaw. They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse's head, And a good knight upon his back. They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile but barely ten. When Donald came branking down the brae Wi' twenty thousand men. Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ve to hear. The great Earl in his stirrups stood, That Highland host to see: " Now here a kniirht that 's stout and sood May prove a jeopardie: " Wiiat wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, Tliat rides be?ide my rein, — Were ye Glenallim's Enrl the day. And I were Roland Cheyne ? " To turn the rein were sin and shame. To fight were wondrous peril, — What would ye do now, Rolaiul Cheyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl? " " Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, 122 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The spur should be in my horse's side, And the bridle upon his mane. " If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men. " My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, As through the moorland fern, — Then ne'er let the gentle Norman bliide Grow cauld for Highland kerne." Sir Walter Scott. The Antiquary. HOHENLINDEN.i On Linden, when the sun was low. All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, AVhen the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd. Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 1 The battle of Hohenlinden was fought between the French and Bavarians, under Moreau, and the Austrians, under the Archduke John, December 3, 1800, and resulted in the defeat of the Austrians. HOHENLTNDEN. 123 \ And furious every charger neigh'd, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash 'd the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow. On Linden's hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 'T is morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich I all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part where many meet I The snow shall be their winding-sheet. And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Thomas Campbell. 124 BALLADS AND LYRICS. SONG: THE CAVALIER. While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted liis steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o'er dale and o'er down; Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown! He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down. Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown ! For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws. Her king is his leader, her church is his cause; His watch- word is honor, his pay is renown, — God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown! They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster-hall; Rut tell these bold traitors of London's proud town. That the spears of the north have encircled the crown. There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There 's Pyrin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Mont- rose! Would you match the base Skippon, and Massy, and Brown, With the barons of England that fight for the crown? Unng the bosW v\bicli you boast." See p. 123. GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 12.") Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier! Be his banner unconquered, rt'sistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown! Sir Walter Scott. GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; 'T is to him we love most. And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up. And avaunt, ye base carles! Were there death in the cup, Here 's a Health to King Charlesi Though he wanders through dangers, Unaided, unknown, Dependent on strangers. Estranged from his own; Though 't is under our breath, Amidst forfeits and perils. Here 's to honor and faith. And a Health to King Charles! Let such honors abound As the time can afford. The knee on the ground, And the hand on the sword ; l)Ut (he time shall eonie round. When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 126 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The loud trumpet shall sound, Here 's a Health to Kinp; Charles! Sir Walter Scott. Woodstock. THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. Our bugles sang truce — for the night-cloud had lower'd, And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morninjf I dreamt it again. Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array, Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track; 'T was autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; ROSABELLE. 127 My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. • Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; — But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Thomas Campbell. ROSABELLE. O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay. That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. " IMoor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle lady, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravenslieuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. " The blackenins wave is edo;ed with white: To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the water- sprite. Whose screams forebode that wreck is nijrh, " Last ni(;ht the jjiftcd seer did view A wet shroud swathed round lady gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravenslieuch: AVhy cross the gloomy llrth to-day? " " 'T is not because Lord Lindcsay's heir To-niirht at Roslin leads the ball, 128 BALLADS AND LYRICS. But that my lady-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall. " 'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide, Jf 'tis not filled by Rosabelle." O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam: 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It orlared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from caverned Hawthornden. Seemed all on fire that chapel proud. Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie; Each baron, for a sable shroud. Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seemed all on fire, within, around, Deep sacristry and altar's pale: Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmered all the dead men's mail. o Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair. So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high St. Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle: PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 129 Each one the holy vault doth hold, — But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each St. Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. Sir Walter Scott. PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array. Gentles and commons. Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy: Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; 9 130 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes. Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended; Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded; Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster. Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come ; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set ! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset ! Sir Walter Scott. LOVE OF COUNTRY.i Breathes there the man, with soul so dead. Who never to himself hath said. This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned. As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand? y This is an extract from the Lay of the Last Minstrel. LIFE AND DEATH. 131 I£ 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, Livinf the day nio-st famous in politics and literature. His most ambitious work was Lalla Boolk, but his fame rests chiefly on his songs and lyrics. He died in 1852. THE INCH CAPE ROCK. 147 IV. The kirk was decked at morning- tide, The tapers glimmered fair; Tlie priest and bridegroom wait the bride, And dame and knight were there. They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; The ladie was not seen! She 's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. Sill Walter Scott. THE INCHCAPE ROCK. No stir in the air, no stir in the sea. The ship was 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 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 warnins; runo^. When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning bell ; Ami then they knew the perilous Rock, And l)lest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. The sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day; 148 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 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 he fixed his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring ; It made him whistle, it made him sing: His heart was mirthful to excess, But the 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 '11 plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok." The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go ; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat. And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float. Down sunk the Bell with a gurfflino- 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 tlie sun on high: MHM THE INC HC APE ROCK. 149 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. Quoth Sir Ralph, " It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn o£ the rising moon." o " Canst hear," said one, " the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." " Now where we are I cannot tell. But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell." They hear no sound ; the swell is strong ; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: " O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock! " Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He cursed himself in his despair: The waves rush in on every side ; The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound conld the Rover hear, — • A sound as if, with the Inchcape Bell, The Devil below was ringing his knell. Robert Southey.^ 1 Robert Southey, the son of a linen draper of Bristol, was ^t. 11 in 1774, educated .at Bristol and Westminster, and at Ba- j\ol College, Oxford. He tried the law, held a few otHces, and then betook himself to literature, to which he devoted his life. He was made poet-laureate in 1813, and held this post until his d^ath, in 1843. His worlvs, both in prose and in verse, are very ;iumerous, and are nearly all unread at the present day. 150 BALLADS AND LYRICS. THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred , At twilight, at the Vega-gate, there is a trampling heard ; There is a trampling beard, as of horses treading slow, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe " What tower is fallen, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing? " " A tower is fallen, a star is set! — Alas! alas for Celin!" Three times they knock, three times they cry, — and wide the doors they throw; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath the hol- low porch, Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flam- ing torch ; Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wail- ing. For all have heard the misery. — ' ' Alas ! alas for Celin!" Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, — 'Twas at the solemn jousting — ai'ound the nobles stood; The nobles of the land were by, and ladies bright and fair Looked fi-om their latticed windows, the haughty sight to share ; THE LAMENTATION FOR CELIN. 151 But now the nobles all lament — the ladies are bewail- ing — For he was Granada's darling knight. — "Alas! alas for Celin!" Before him ride his vassals, in order two by two, With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view ; Behind him his four sisters, each wrapped in sable veil, Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale; When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their bi'other- less bewailing. And all the people, far and near, cry — "Alas! alas for Celin ! " O ! lovely lies he on the bier, above the purple pall, The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all; His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale. The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his bur- nished mail ; I And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in upon their I wailing, Its sound is like no earthly sound — "Alas! alas for Celin 1 " The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door; One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weep- ing sore; Down to the dust men bow their heads, and asln-s black they strew Upon their broidered garments, of crimson, green, and blue; MM ■ 152 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Before each gate the bier stands still, — then bursts the loud bewailing, From door and lattice, high and low — "Alas! alas forCelin!" An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the jjeople cry, — Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed eye: 'T was she that nursed him at her breast, that nursed him long; aijo : She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall know ! With one deep shriek, she thro' doth break, when her ears receive their wailing — "Let me kiss my Celin ere I die — Alas! alas for Celin!" J. G. LOCKHART.I Spanish Ballads. 1 John Gibson Lockhaet, born in 1794, in Lanarkshire, Scotland, was educated at Glasgow, and admitted to the Scotch bar in 181G. He contributed to the magazines of the day, and his literary propensities were confirmed by his marriage, in 1820, witli Sophia, the eldest daughter of Sir Walter Scott. In 1826 he removed to London and accepted the editorship of the London Quarterly Review, a position which he retained until 1853. He wrote many essays, and some biographical and historical works as well as romances. His best works are his life of Scott and his translations of the ancient Spanish ballads He died in 1854. tmti " She that nursed him lung ago." See p. 152- SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 153 THE PRIDE OF YOUTH. Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walkings so earlv; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. " Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me ? " " When six braw o-entlemen Kirk ward shall carry ye." " Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?" *' The gray -headed sexton That delves the grave duly. " The glow-worm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady ; The owl from the steeple sing, Welcome, proud lady." Sir Walter Scott. Heart of Mid-Lothian. SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starrv skies; And all that's best of dai'k and ])riglit Meets in her aspect and her eves: Thus mellow'd to that tender liidit Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 154 BALLADS AND LYRICS. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impair'd the nameless grace Which w;vves iu every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; ^yiiere thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent I Lord Byron. ^ SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. She was a phantom of delight When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 1 George Gokdox, Lord Byron, the descendant of a very old, noble, and distinguished family, of which he was the last representative, was born in 1788, and educated at Harrow and at Trinity College, Cambridge. He had a head and face of great beauty, and an athletic frame, but he was deformed and incura- bly lame.- His first verses were a failure; but on his return from travelling in the East, in 1811, he published the first two cantos of Chikle Harold, and sprang at once into world-wide reputation. He married Miss Millbanke in 1815, and in the fol- lowing year they separated. Lord Byron returned to voluntar}' exile on the Continent, and never came back to Enghnid. He headed an expedition for the liberation of Greece in 1823, and died at Jlissolonghi in 1824. He wrote many poems, and both the longer ones, like Childe Harold, and the short lyrics and songs, are among the gi-eatest works of English poetry. His career was tarni^hed and liis great genius sullied by reckless dissipation, by a bitter temper, and by an arrogant and vain dis- •wsition. SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 155 A lovely apparition, sent To be a moment's ornament ; Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; But all things else about her drawn From May-time and the cheerful dawn ; A dancing shape, an image gay, To haunt, to startle, and waylay. I saw her upon nearer view, A spirit, yet a woman too ! Her household motions, light and free, And steps of virgin liberty; A countenance in which did meet Sweet records, promises as sweet; A creature not too bright or good For human nature's daily food. For transient sorrows, simple wiles. Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. And now I see with eye serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller between life and death ; The reason firm, the temperate will. Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly plann'd To warn, to comfort, and command ; And yet a spirit still, and bright With something of an angel-light. William Wokdsworth.^ 1 William Wordsworth was born in Cumberland in 1770, and was educated at St. John's College, Cambridge. He inlier- ted sufficient pro])erty to render him independent, and after liv- uig for a time in Dorsetshire, he liiially e.stabiislied himself at 156 BALLADS AND LYRICS. HYMN FOR THE DEAD.' That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth ghall pass away, What power shall be the sinner's stay? How shall he meet that dreadful day? When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll ; When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead ! O ! on that day, that wrathful day. When man to judgment wakes from clay, Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! Sir Walter Scott. Eydal Mount, among the English Lakes, where he remained until his death. He had a sinecure position under government, and subsequently a pension, and in 1843 he was made poet- laureate, on the death of Southey. He died in 1850. He was a prolific writer of verse, much of which is esteemed of great beauty, and he is considered by his admirers to hold the next place to Shakespeare and Milton, an opinion from which many persons dissent. He was the most famous of the " Lake School " of poets, and represented, perhaps, better than any one else, the reaction of the nineteenth century against the school of Pope, and the change from the highly artificial to the simple and natural in poetry. 1 This is a translation of a portion of the Dies free, the mo^^t famous hymn of the early church. Macaulay has translated the whole hymn, and other versions, including an excellent one by the late General Dix, are to be found in a little volume entitled The Seven Great Hymns of the Mediaeval Church. DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. 157 THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen : Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown, That host on the morrow lay wither'd and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his Avings on the blast, And breath'd in the face of the foe as he pass'd. And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heav'd, and forever gi'ew still I And there lay the steed with his noi^tril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf. And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider, distorted and pale. With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone. The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail. And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord I LoKD Bykox. 158 BALLADS AND LYRICS. REBECCA'S HYMN. When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonished lands, The cloudy pillar glided slow ; Bv nioht, Ai'abia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. There rose the choral hymn of praise. And trump and timbrel answered keen. And Zion's daughters poured their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone : Our fathers would not know Thy ways. And Thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen ! When brightly shines the prosperous day, Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And O, when stoops on Judah's path In shade and storm the frequent night, Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, A burning: and a shining; light ! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn : No censer round our :dtar beams. And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. VISION OF BELSHAZZAE. 159 But Thou hast said, " The blood of goat, The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice." Sir Walter Scott. Ivanhoe. VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. The King was on his throne. The satraps throng'd the hall; A thousand bright lamps shone O'er that high festival. A thousand cups of gold, In Judah deem'd divine, — Jehovah's vessels hold The godless Heathen's wine! In that same hour and hall, The fingers of a hand Came forth against the wall. And wrote as if on sand: The fingers of a man; — A solitary hand Along the letters ran, And traced them like a wand. The monarch saw and shook, And bade no more rejoice; All bloodless wax'd his look. And tremulous his voice. " Let the men of lore appear The wisest of the earth, I 160 BALLADS AND LYRICS And expound the words of fear, Which mar our royal mirth." Chaldea'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 pass'd away. He, in the balance weigh'd, 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. THE BRIDAL OF ANDALL^ 161 THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA. " Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion down ; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing. And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing, And banners bright from lattice light are waving every- where. And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air: Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town ! " Arise, arise, Xarifa! I see Andalla's face, — He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace ; Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadal- quiver Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely, never. Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple mixed with white, I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night! Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down; Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town! " What aileth thee, Xarifa? what makes thine eyes look down ? 11 162 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town? 1 've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth, Andalla rides without a peer, among all Granada's youth. Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go. Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow: Then rise — O! rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down ; Unseen here through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town! " The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down, Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town; But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove. And though her needle pressed the silk, no flower Xarifa wove; One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nio'h; That boiiiiy bud a tear effaced, slow drooping from her eye. "No — no!" she sighs, "bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town! " " Why rise ye not, Xarifa, — nor lay your cushion down ? Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, — with all the gazing town? Hear, hear the trumpet, how it swells, and how the people cry! CORONACH. 163 He stops at Zara's palace-gate — why sit ye still — O, why?" " At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I dis- cover The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover? I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down, To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town! " J. G. LOCKHART. Sjjanish Ballads. CORONACH. He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a sunmier-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest. The fount, reappearing, From the raindrops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow! The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary; But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing Waft the leaves that are searest ; But our flower was in flushing Wlien blifrhtingr was nearest. Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, 164 BALLADS AI\D LYRICS. Red hand in the foi-ay, How sound is thy slumber! LiJce the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain. Thou art gone, and forever! Sir Walter Scott. HELVELLYN. I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and •wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain- heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay. Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. ^r^^ :i-^^/i. " Lakes, mountains beneath me gleamed misty aud weird." See p. 164. HELVELLYN. 165 How lone didst thou think that his silence was slum- ber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? How many long days and long weeks didst thou num- ber, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? And O, was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er him. No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him — Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart? When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded. The tapestry waves dark round the dim-li The ocean-eagle soared I From his nest by the white wave's foam, i And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — ; This was their welcome home ! There were men with hoary hair Amidst that pilgrim band, — EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE. 183 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? 1'hey sought a faith's pure shrine ! Ay, call it holy ground. The soil where first they trod ! They have left unstained what there they found — Freedom to worship God ! Felicia Hemans. rO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE. 1 O FOR the voice of that wild horn, | On Fontarabian echoes borne. The dying hero's call. That told imperial Charlemagne, How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain Had wrought his champion's fall. Sad over earth and ocean sounding, And Engrlaiid's distant cliffs astounding. Such are the notes should say 184 BALLADS AND LYRICS. How Britain's hope and France's fear, Victor of Cressy and Poitier, In Bourdeaux dying lay. " Raise my faint head, my squires," he said, " And let the casement be displayed, That I may see once more The splendor of the setting sun Gleam on thy mirrored wave, Garonne, And Blaye's empurpled shore. " Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, His fall the dews of evening steep. As if in sorrow shed. So soft shall fall the trickling tear, When Eno-land's maids and matrons hear Of their Black Edward dead. " And though my sun of glory set, Nor France nor England shall forget The terror of my name ; And oft shall Britain's heroes rise, New planets in these southern skies. Through clouds of blood and flame." Sir Walter Scott. Rob Riiy. THE ISLES OF GREECE. The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece ! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace. Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung ! THE ISLES OF GREECE. 185 Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set. The Scian and the Teian muse, The hero's harp, the lover's lute, Have found the fame your shores refuse; Their place of birth alone is mute To sounds which echo further west Than your sire's " Islands of the Blest." The mountains look on Marathon, — And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dream'd that Greece might still be free; For stand in cr- on the Persians' grave, I could not deem myself a slave. A King sate on the rocky brow Which looks o'er sea-born Salamis; And ships, by thousands, Iny below, And men in nations, — all were his! He counted them at break of day, — And when the sun set where were they ? And where are they ? and where art thau, My country ? On thy voiceless shore, The heroic lay is tuneless now, The heroic bosom beats no more! And must thy lyre, so long divine, Den 1834. mtTema&MM^-^nam i90 BALLADS AND LYRICS. TO THOMAS MOORE. ]My boat is on the shore, And my bark is on the sea; But before I go, Tom Moore, Here 's a double health to thee! Here 's a sigh to those who love me, And a smile to those who hate; And, whatever sky 's above me, Here 's a heart for evei'v fate. Though the ocean roar around me, Yet it still shall bear me on ; Though a desert should surround me, It hath sj^rings that may be won. Were 't the last drop in the well. As I gasp'd upon the brink, Ere my fainting spirit fell, 'T is to thee that I would drink. With that water, as this wine, The libation I would pour Should be — peace with thine and mine. And a health to thee, Tom Moore. Lord Byron. BONNY DUNDEE. 191 BONNY DUNDEE. 1 To the Lords of Convention, 't was Claver'se who spoke, " Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke ; So let each cavalier who loves honor and me Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses and call up your men ; Come open the West Port and let me gang free, And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee." 1 .John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, was born about the year tOaO. He was distinguislied by his military tal- ents and dashing exploits, but was a man of hard and cruel temper. He served in the Dutch army, and returned to Scot- land in 1677, where he engaged in the work of suppressing the Covenanters. When .Tames II. tied, Dundee espoused his cause against William of Orange. He was in Edinburgh, not having yet declared himself, and complained to the Convention then sit- ting there, that he was in danger of assassination by the Cov- enanters. The Duke of Hamilton, anxious to be rid of him, treated him with contempt. Dundee thereupon left the Conven- tion in a rage, and, gathering some tifty horsemen, rode through the city, passing by tlie Grassmarket, where executions took place previous to 1784. He stopped at the castle and had a conference with the Duke of Gordon, but could not persuade that nobleman to join him. Meantime the Whig followers of Hamilton and Sir John Dalrymple, from the western counties, poured into the streets. Dundee, with his troopers, leaving the castle, dashed through the crowd, got out of the city unopposed, and made his way to the Highlands, whore he raised the clans. With these forces he relurned and defeated the English at Killie- crankie, where he fell in the moment of victory. This ballad describes his departure from Edinburgh, and the next poem nar- rates the circumstances of his victory and death. 192 BONNY DUNDEE. Dundee he is -mounted, he rides up the street, Tlie bells are rung backward, tlie drums they are beat; But the Provost, douee man, said, " Just e'en let him be, Tlie gude town is wcel quit of that Deil of Dundee." As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow ; But the young plants of grace they look'd couthie and slee. Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee ! With sour - featured Whigs the Grassmarket was cramm'd, As if half the West had set tryst to be hang'd. There was spite in each look, there was fear in each ee, As they walch'd for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; But they shrunk to close-heads and the Causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. He spurr'd to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke ; " Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three. For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee." The (iordon demands of him which way he goes — " Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. BONNY DUNDEE. 192a " There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth, If there 's Loi'ds in the Lowlands, there 's Chiefs in the North ; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three, Will cry hoif/h! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. " There 's brass on the tarjxet of barken'd bull-hide, There 's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. " Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks — Ere I own an usurper, I '11 couch with the fox ; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me. to' ) J He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clash'd, and the horsemen rode on. Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee, Died away the wild war notes of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can. Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it 's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee. Sir Waltku Scott. § The Doom of Devorgoil. 192^ BALLADS AND LYRICS. THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE.^ I. Sound the fife, and cry the slogan; Let the pibroch shake the air With its wild triumphal music, Worthy of the freight we bear. Let the ancient hills of Scotland Hear once more the battle-song Swell within their glens and valleys As the clansmen march along! Never from the field of combat, Never from the deadly fray, Was a nobler trophy carried Than we bring with us to-day ; Never, since the valiant Douslas On his dauntless bosom bore Good King Robert's heart — the priceless — To our dear Kedeeiner's shore! 1 After leaving Edinburgh, Dundee betook himself to his own house, and thence to the mountains. The clans flocked to his staiulard, and Geueral Mackay, commanding the forces of the Prince of Orange and of the Convention, advanced against him. The armies met just outside the dangerous pass of Killiecrankie. When the word was given to advance, the clans rushed forward with headlong impetuosity. They received the fire of the reg- ular troops witlidut tiinciiing, poured in a volley, threw away their muskets, and fell upon the English forces with their broad- swords. Their victory was immediate, and the English gave way in utter confusion. Dundee was separated in some way from his cavalry, and was last seen standing up in his stirrups waving his sword, and with about sixteen gentlemen following him, disappeared in the smoke, leading the clans. When the Highlanders returned from the pursuit, they found him lying on the lield, fatally wounded. The death of Dundee was the downfall of all the hopes of James II. in Scotland. THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 193 Lo ! we bring with us the hero ; Lo ! we bring the conquering Graeme, Crowned as best beseems a victor From the aUar of his fame; Fresh and bleeding from the battle Whence his spirit took its flight, Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, And the thunder of the fight ! Strike, I say, the notes of triumph. As we march o'er moor and lea ! Is there any here will venture To bewail our dead Dundee ? Let the widows of the traitors Weep until their eyes are dim ! Wail ye may full well for Scotland, — Let none dare to mourn for hiin! See ! above his glorious body Lies the royal banner's fold ; See 1 his valiant blood is mingled With its crimson and its gold ; See how calm he looks, and stately. Like a warrior on his shield, Waiting till the flush of morning Breaks along the battle-field! See — O never more, my comrades, Shall we see that falcon eye Redden with its inward liwhtnino;, As the hour of fight drew nigh! Kever shall we hear the voice that, Cleai'er than the trumpet's call, Bade us strike for King and country, Bade us win the field, or fall! 13 194 BALLADS AND LYRICS. IT. On the heights of Killiecrankie Yester-morn our army lay : Slowly rose the mist in columns From the river's broken way; Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent, And the pass was wrapt in gloom, When the clansmen rose too^ether From their lair amidst the broom. Then we belted on our tartans, And our bonnets down we drew, And we felt our broadswords' edges, And we proved them to be true ; And we prayed the prayer of soldiers, And we cried the gathering-cry, And we clasped the hands of kinsmen And we swore to do or die! Then our leader rose before us On his war-horse black as nio-ht, — Well the Cameronian rebels Knew that charger in the fio-ht! — And a cry of exultation From the bearded warriors rose; For we loved the house of Claver'se, And we thought of good Montrose. But he raised his hand for silence : " Soldiers! I have sworn a vow : Ere the evenino; star shall irlister On Schehallion's lofty brow, Either we shall rest in triumph, Or another of the Graemes Shall have died in battle-harness For his country and King James! Tiiiiik upon the Royal Martyr — 'J'hiuk of what his race endure — .. H^r»-.-VTO THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 195 Think of him whom butchers murdered On the field of Magus Muir: By his sacred blood I charge ye, By the ruined hearth and shrine, Bv the blighted hopes of Scotland, By your injuries and mine, Strike this day as if the anvil Lay beneath your blows the while, Be they covenanting traitors, Or the brood of false Argyle ! Strike ! and drive the trembling rebels Backwards o'er the stormy Forth ; Let them tell their pale Convention How they fared within the North. Let them tell that Highland honor Is not to be bought nor sold, That we scorn their prince's anger As we loathe his foreign gold. Strike ! and when the fight is over, If ye look in vain for me, Where the dead are lying thickest, Search for him that was Dundee ! " III. Loudly then the hills reechoed With our answer to his call, But a deeper echo sounded In the bosoms of us all. For the lands of wild Breadalbane, Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion, And they harder drew their breath ; For their souls were strong within them, 196 BAI.rADS AND LYRICS. Stronger than the grasp of death. Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet Sounding in the pass below, And the distant tramp of horses, And the voices of the foe : Down we crouched amid the bracken. Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Panting like the hounds in summer, When the}' scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emersino;, Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum ; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, ^VouIld the lono; battalion slowlv. Till they gained the plain beneath ; Then we bounded from our covert. Judge how looked the Saxons then, When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armfed men ! Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel, Rose the slogan of Macdonald, Flashed the broadsword of Lochiell ! Vainly sped the withering volley 'Mongst the foremost of our band ; On we poured until we met them. Foot to foot, and hand to hand. Horse and man went down like drift-wood When the floods are black at Yule, And their carcasses are Avhirliiig In the Garry's deepest pool. Horse and man went down before us, — Livinn; foe there tarried none THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE. 197 On the field of Killiecrankie, When that stubborn fight was done 1 IV. And the evening star was shininsr On Schehallion's distant head, \ When we wiped our bloody broadswords, I And returned to count the dead. I There we found him gashed and gory, J Stretched upon the cumbered plain, As he told us where to seek him, J Tn the thickest of the slain. I And a smile was on his visage, For within his dying ear Pealed the joyful note of triumph, I And the clansmen's clamorous cheer : ! So, amidst the battle's thunder. Shot, and steel, and scorching flame, In the glory of his manhood Passed the spirit of the Graeme ! V. Open wide the vaults of Atholl, W^here the bones of heroes rest ; Open wide the hallowed portals To receive another guest I Last of Scots, and last of freemen, Last of all that dauntless race Who would rather die unsullied Than outlive the land's disgrace! O thou lion-hearted warrior I Reck not of thu after- time: Honor may be deemed dishonor, Loyalty be called a crime. Sleep in peace witli kindred ashes 198 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Of tlie noble and the true, Hands tbat never failed tbeir country, Hearts that never baseness knew. Sleep! — and till the latest trumpet Wakes the dead from earth and sea, Scotland shall not boast a braver Chieftain than our own Dundee! William Edmondstoune Aytoun. I remember, I remember The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups — Those flowers made of listht! ? 1 William Edmondstoune Aytoun, born in 1813, was a ,' member of the Edinburgh bar. He became professor of liter- ij ature and belles-lettres in the University of Edinburgh, and i editor of Blackwood's Magazine. Besides his fine Lays of the I Scottish Cavaliers, from which the two poems given in this col- ,: lection are taken, he wrote a number of clever parodies under ■^ the name of "Bon Gaultier." He has also written on history f and literature. He died in 18G5. PAST AND PRESENT. } ' I I I REMEMBER, I remember ij I The house where I was born, n The little window where the sun 5 Came peeping in at morn; . He never came a wink too soon, i Nor brought too long a day, S But now, I often wish the night | Had borne my breath away. PAST AND PRESENT. 199 ' 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 j Where I was used to swing- [ And thouojht the air must rush as fresh ' To swallows on the wing; | My spirit flew in feathers then That is so heavy now, And sununer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow. 1 remember, I remember i The fir trees dark and high; ' I used to think their slender tops i Were close against the sky: I It was a childish ignorance, But now 't is little joy To know I 'm farther off from Heaven Than when I was a boy. Thomas Hood.* 1 Tho.mas Hood, the famous humorist, was born in 1798. He was placed at an early age in a merchant's counting-house, but soon abaiuloued it for literature. He wrote for and edited magazines, and was an early contributor to Punch. His life was a hard struggle with poverty and ill-health. He wrote much botli in verse and in prose. His writings are chiefly hu- morous, but he had a strong pathetic vein, and some of his seri- ous poems have attained an almost unbounded popularity. He iied in 1845. 200 BALLADS AND LYRICS. THE LOST LEADER. Just for ews, what news, old Anthony? " " The field is lost and won ; The ranks of war are melting as the mists beneath the sun ; And a wounded man speeds hither, — I am old and cannot see. Or sure T am that sturdy step my master's step should be." " I bring thee back the standard from as rude and rough a fray, As e'er wns proof of soldier's thews, or theme for minstrel's lay. Bid Hubert fetch the silver bowl, and liquor quantum svjf; I '11 make a shift to drain it, ere I part with boot and buff; 220 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Though Guy through man}- a gaping wound is breath- ing out his life, And I come to thee a landless man, my fond and faith- ful wife! " Sweet, we will fill our money-bags and freight a ship for France, And niourn in merry Paris for this poor realm's mis- chance; Or, if the worst betide me, why, better axe or rope, Than life with Lenthal for a king, and Peters for a pope ! Alas, alas, my gallant Guy! — out on the crop-eared boor, That sent me with my standard on foot from Marston Moor!" WiNTHROP MaCKWORTH PrAED.^ THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE.^ Come hither, Evan Cameron! Come, stand beside my knee; I hear the river roaring down Towards the wintry sea. There 's shouting on the mountain side, There 's war within the blast; 1 WiNTHROP Mackworth Praed, bom in London in 1802, was educated at Eton and Cambridge, where he was distiu- Ruished as a scholar and orator. He was called to the bar in 1829, and entered Parliament in the following year. He rost rapidh' both in politics and in literature, but died, while still •"ery young, in 1839. His poems are light and graceful. 2 James Graham, Marquis of Montrose. See page 44. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 221 Old faces look upon me, Old forms go trooping past: I hear the pibroch wailing Amidst the din of fight, And my dim spirit wakes again Upon the verge of night. 'T was I that led the Hin-hland host Through wild Lochabcr's snows What time the plaided clans came down To battle with Montrose. I 've told thee how the Southrons fell Beneath the broad claymore, And how we smote the Campbell clan By Inverlochy's shore. I 've told thee how we swept Dundee, And tamed the Lindsays' pride ; But never have I told thee yet How the Great Marquis died. A traitor sold him to his foes; O deed of deathless shame! I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet With one of Assynt's name, — Be it upon the mountain's side, Or yet within the o-len. Stand he in martial gear alone, Or backed by armed men, — Face him, as thou wouldst face the man Who wronged thy sire's renoAvn ; Remember of what blood thou art, And strike the caitiff down ! They brought him to the Watergate, Hard bound with hempen span. 222 BALLADS AND LYRICS. As though they held a lion there, And not a fenceless man. They set him high upon a cart, — The hangman rode below, — They drew his hands behind his back, And bared his noble brow. Then, as a hound is slipped from leash, They cheered, the common throng. And blew the note with yell and shout, And bade him pass along. It would have made a brave man's heart Grow sad and sick that day, To watch the keen malignant eyes Bent down on that array. There stood the Whig west-country lords In balcony and bow; There sat their gaunt and withered dames, And their daughters all a-row. And every open window Was full as full might be With black-robed Covenanting carles, That goodly sport to see! But when he came, though pale and wan, He looked so great and high. So noble was his manly front. So calm his steadfast eye. The rabble rout forbore to shout. And each man held his breath. For well they knew tlie hero's soul Was face to face with death. And then a mournful shudder Through all the people crept. And some that came to scoff at him Now turned aside and wept. THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 223 Had I been there with sword in hand, And fifty Camerons by, That day through high Dunedin's streets Had pealed the slogan-cry. Not all their troops of trampling horse, Xor might of mailed men, — Not all the rebels in the south Had borne us backwards then I Once more his foot on Highland heath Had trod as free as air, Or I, and all who bore my name, Been laid around him there! It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall, Where once the Scottish kings were throned Amidst their nobles all. But there was dust of vulgar feet On that polluted floor, And perjured traitors filled the place Where good men sate before. With savage irlee came Warristoun To read the murderous doom; And then uprose the great Montrose In the middle of the room. ' Now, by my faith as belted knight. And by the name I bear, And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross That waves above us there, Yea, by a greater, mightier oath, — And O, that such should be! — By that dark stream of royal blood That lies 'twixt you and me, I have not sought in battle-field 224 BALLADS AND LYRICS. A wreath of such renown, Nor dared I hope on my dying day To win the martyr's crown! ' ' There is a chamber far away Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have named for me Than by my father's grave. For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might, This hand hath always striven. And ve raise it up for a witness still In the eye of eartli and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower — Give every town a limb — And God who made shall gather them : I go from you to Him ! ' ' The morning dawned full darkly. The rain came flashing down. And the iaoged streak of the levin-bolt Lit up the gloomy town : The thunder crashed across the heaven, The fatal hour was come; Yet aye broke in with muffled beat The 'larum of the drum. There was madness on the earth below, And anger in the sky. And young and old, and rich and poor, Came forth to see him die. Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet! How dismal 'tis to see The great tall spectral skeleton, The ladder and the tree! Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms — THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE. 225 The bells begin to toll — " He is cominor! he is coming! God's mercy on his soul! " One last long peal of thunder — The clouds are cleared away, And the trlorious sun once more looks down Amidst the dazzling day. " He is comincr! he is cominof! " Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye. And he never walked to battle More proudly than to die: There was color in his visasje, Though the cheeks of all were wan. And they marvelled as they saw him pass, That great and goodly man ! He mounted up the scaffold, And he turned him to the crowd; But they dared not trust the people, So he might not speak aloud. But he looked upon the heavens. And they were clear and blue, And in the liquid ether The eve of God shone through! Yet a black and murky battlement Lay resting on the hill. As though the thunder slept within, — All else was calm and still. 13 ■22e BALLADS AND LYRICS. The grim Geneva ministers With anxious scowl drew near, As you have seen the ravens flock Around the dying deer. He would not deign them word nor sign, But alone he bent the knee ; And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace, Beneath the gallows-tree. Then radiant and serene he rose, And cast his cloak away: For lie had ta'en his latest look Of earth and sun and day. A beam of light fell o'er him, Like a glory round the shriven, And he climbed the lofty ladder As it were the path to heaven. Then came a flash from out the cloud, And a stunning thunder-roll; And no man dared to look aloft, For fear was on evei'y soul. There was another heavy sound, A hush and then a groan; And darkness swept across the sky, — The work of death was done. William Edmondstoune Aytoun. THE DREAM OF ARGYLE. 227 THE DREAM OF ARGYLE.^ Earthly arms no more uphold him, On his prison's stony floor, Waiting death in his last slumber, Lies the doomed MacCallum More. And he dreams a dream of boyhood ; Rise again his heathery hills, Sound again the hound's long baying, Cry of moor-fowl, laugh of rills. Now he stands amidst his clansmen In the low, long banquet-hall,' Over ^rim, ancestral armor Sees the ruddy firelight fall. t Once again, with pulses beating, Hears the wandering minstrel tell How Montrose on Inverary Thief-like fi'om his mountains fell. Down the glen, beyond the castle. Where the linn's swift waters shine, Round the youthful heir of Argyle Shy feet glide and white arms twine. 1 Archibald Campbell, ninth Earl of Argyle. He fought for the royal cause at Dunbar in 1650, and in 1GG3 was restored \o his earldom and estates. Being required to take the " Test " in 1681 he declined unless he could make a reservation in favor of the Protestant faith. For this he was condemned to death and obliged to flee the country. He returned in J685, was taken prisoner and executed, as iiis fatlier had been befoie him. He is said to have slept soundly a few hours bef(U'e his e.xecution. 228 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Fairest of the rustic dancers, Blue-eyed Effie smiles once more, Bends to him her snooded tresses, Treads with him the grassy floor. Now he hears the pipes lamenting, Harpers for his mother mourn, Slow, with sable plume and pennon, To her cairn of burial borne. Then anon his dreams are darker. Sounds of battle fill his ears. And the pibroch's mournful wailing For his father's fall he hears. Wild Lochaber's mountain echoes Wail in concert for the dead, And Loch Awe's deep watei's murmur For the Campbell's glory fled! ^ Fierce and strong the godless tyrants Trample the apostate land, While her poor and faithful remnant Wait for the avenger's hand. Once again at Inverary, Years of weary exile o'er, Armed to lead his scattered clansmen, Stands the bold Mac Galium More. Once again to battle calling Sound the war-pipes through the glen; And the court-yard of Dunstaffnage Rings with tread of armed men. BOOT AND SADDLE. 229 All is lost! the godless triumph, And the faithful ones and true Froni the scaffold and the prison Covenant with God anew. On the darkness of his dreaminof Great and sudden glory shone; Over bonds and death victorious Stands he by the Father's throne From the radiant ranks of martyrs Notes of joy and praise he hears, Songs of his poor land's deliverance Sounding from the future years. Lo, he wakes! but airs celestial Bathe him in immortal rest, And he sees with unsealed vision Scotland's cause with victory blest. Shining hosts attend and guard him As he leaves his prison door; And to death as to a triumph Walks the great MacCalkun More I Elizabeth H. Whittier.^ BOOT AND SADDLE. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away I Rescue my castle before the hot day Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. Chorus. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! ' Elizabkth H. Wiuttier, sister of tlie poet, John (i. IVIiitlier. See page 322. 230 BALLADS AND LYRICS. ■s Kide past the suburbs, asleep as you 'd say ; Many 's the friend there will listen and pray, '• God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay, — Chorus. " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! " Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: Who laughs, " Good fellows ere this, by my fay, Chorus. " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ? " Who? my wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, " Nay! " ' I 've better counsellors ; what counsel they? Chorus. " Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! " Robert Browning. THE NORMAN BARON. In his chamber, weak and dying, Was the Norman baron lying; Loud, without, the tempest thundered, And the castle-turret shook. In this fio-ht was Death the gainer, Spite of vassal and retainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, Written in the Doomsday Book. By his bed a monk was seated, Who in humble voice repeated Many a prayer and pater-noster, From the missal on his knee; THE NORMAN BARON.- 231 And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing. Bells, that from the neighboring kloster Rang for the Nativity. In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits ; And so loud these Saxon gleemen Sang to slaves the songs of freemen, That the storm was heard but faintly, Knocking at the castle-gates. Till at length the lays they chanted Reached the chamber terror-haunted, Where the monk, with accents holy. Whispered at the baron's ear. Tears upon his eyelids glistened, , As he paused a while and listened, And the dying baron slowly Turned his weary head to hear. " Wassail for the kingly stranger Born and cradled in a manger! King, like David, priest, like Aaron, Christ is born to set us free ! " And the lightning showed the sainted Figures on the casement painted, And exclaimed the shuddering baron, " Miserere, Dominel " 232 BALLADS AND LYRICS. In that hour of deep contrition He beheld, with clearer vision, Through all outward show and fashion, Justice, the Avenger, rise. All the pomp of earth had vanished, Falsehood and deceit were banished, Reason spake more loud than passion, And the truth wore no disguise. Every vassal of his banner. Every serf born to his manor, All those wronged and wretched creatures, By his hand were freed again. And, as on the sacred missal He recorded their dismissal. Death relaxed his iron features, And the monk replied, " Amen! " Many centuries have been numbered Since in deatli the baron slumbered By the convent's sculptured portal, Mino-lino- with the common dust : But the good deed, through the ages, Living in historic pages. Brighter grows, and gleams immortal, Unconsumed by moth or rust. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. 233 THE WARDEN OF THE CINQUE PORTS. A MIST was driving down the British Channel, The day was just begun, And through the window-panes, on floor and panel, Streamed the red autumn sun. It glanced on flowing flag and rippling pennon, And the white sails of ships; And, from the frowning rampart, the black cannon Hailed it with feverish lips. Sandwich and Romney, Hastings, Hithe, and Dover Were all alert that day, To see the French war-steamers speeding over, When the fog cleared away. Sullen and silent, and like couchant lions. Their cannon, through the night, Holding their breath, had watched, in grim defiance, The sea-coast opposite. And now they roared at drum-beat from their stations, On every citadel; Each answering each, with morning salutations, That all was well. And down the coast, all taking up the burden, Replied the distant forts. As if to summon from his sleep the Warden And Lord of the Cinque Ports. Him shall no sunshine from the fields of azwre, No drum-beat from the wall. 234 BALLADS AND LYRICS. No morning-gun from the black fort's embrasure, Awaken with its call ! No more, surveying with an eye impartial The lono- line of the coast, Shall the gaunt figure of the old Field Marshal Be seen upon his post! For in the night, unseen, a single warrior, In sombre harness mailed, Dreaded of man, and surnamed the Destroyer, The rampart wall had scaled. He passed into the chamber of the sleeper, The dark and silent room. And as he entered, darker grew, and deeper, The silence and the gloom. He did not pause to parley or dissemble. But smote the Warden hoar; Ah! what a blow! that made all England tremble And groan from shore to shore. Meanwhile, without, the surly cannon waited, The sun rose bright o'erhead ; Nothing in Nature's aspect intimated That a great man was dead. Henky Wadswokth Longfellow. HOW THEY BROUGHT THE NEWS. 235 HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. [16-.] I SPRANG to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; "Good speed!" cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew; " Speed! " echoed the wall to us galloping through; Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, And into the midnight we galloped abreast. Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace Neck by 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, Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew ne.ir Lokeren, the coc»ks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see-; At Diiflield, 't was morning as plain as could be; And frotn Mcchein church-steeple we heard the half- chime, So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time! " At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun. And against him the cattle stood black every one, To stare thro' 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 : 236 BALLADS AND LYRICS. And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back For ray 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, his own master, askance! And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault 's not in her. We '11 remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. So we were left galloping, Joris and T, Past Looz and pnst 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 Dalhem a dome-spire sprung wliite. And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight! " " How they '11 greet us! " — and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone ; And there was my Roland, to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate. With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. "In the market-place of Bruges stands The belfry old and brown." See p. 237. THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 237 Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boot«, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet name, my horse withont peer; Clapped my hancls, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I ronifmber is, friends flockino- round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the oround And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine. As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brouo^ht orood news from Ghent. Robert Browning. THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. In the market-place of Bruges stands the belfry old and brown; Thrice consumed and thrice rebuilded, still it watches o'er the town. As the summer morn was breaking, on that lofty tower I stood, And the world threw off the darkness, like the weeds of widowhood. Thick with towns and hamlets studded, and with streams and vapors gray, Like a shield embossed with silver, round and vast the landscape lay. 238 BALLADS AND LYRICS. At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys, here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. Not a sound rose from the city at that early morning hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swallows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more dis- tant than the skv. Then most musical and solemn, bringing back the olden times, With their strange, unearthly changes rang the melancholy chimes, Like the psalms from some old cloister, when the nuns sing in the choir; And the great bell tolled among them, like the chant- ing of a friar. Visions of the days departed, shadowy phantoms filled my brain ; They who live in history only seemed to walk the earth again; All the Foresters of Flanders, — mighty Baldwin Bras de Fer, Lyderick du Bucq and Cressy, Philip, Guy de Dam- pierre. THE BELFRY OF BRUGES. 239 I beheld the pageants splendid that adorned those days of old; Stately dames, like queens attended, knights who bore the Fleece of Gold. Lombard and Venetian merchants with deep-laden ar- gosies ; Ministers from twenty nations; more than royal pomp and ease. I beheld proud Maximilian, kneeling humbly on the ground ; I beheld the gentle Mary, hunting with her hawk and hound; And her lighted bridal-chamber, where a duke slept with the queen, And the armed guard around them, and the sword un- sheathed between. I beheld the Flemish weavers, with Namur and Juliers bold. Marching homeward from the bloody battle of the Spurs of Gold. Saw the fight at Minnewater, saw the White Hoods moving west. Saw great Artevelde victorious scale the Golden Dragon's nest. And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat . MO BALLADS AND LYRICS. Fill the bell of Ghent responded o'er lagoon and dike of sand, I am Roland ! I am Roland ! there is victory in the land!" Then the sound of drums aroused me. The awakened city's roar Chased the phantoms I had summoned back into their graves once more. Hours had passed away like minutes; and, before I was aware, Lo! the shadow of the belfry crossed the sun-illumined square. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. HORATIUS, Lars Porsf.na of Clusium By the Nine Gods he swore That the jjreat house of Tarquin Should suffer wrono; no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it And named a trysting day. And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array. East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast. And 'tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet's blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, HORATIUS. 24i When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome. And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting day. For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally : And with a mio-hty followino- To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name. But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flioht. A mile around the city The throng stopped up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days. To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dnvo-cote In Crustumeriuni stands. Verbenna down to Ostia 16 242 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain. I wis, in all the Senate, There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all ; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. They held a council standing Before the Kiver-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: " The bridge must straight go down ; For, since Janiculum is lost, Nought else can save the town." Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: " To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here ! " On the low hills to westward ' The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come ; And louder still and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, HORATIUS. 243 Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, The trampling and the hum. And plainly and more plainly' Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears. Fast by the royal standard, O'erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. ^ But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, | I A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat towards him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses. And shook its little fist. But the Consul's brow was sad, And the Consul's speech was low. And darkly looked he at the wall. And darkly at the foe. »* Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down ; And if they once may win the bridge. What hope to save the town ? " 4 244 BALLADb- AND LYRICS Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: " To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his Gods, " And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame ? *' Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me. Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand. And keep the bridge with me ? " Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: " Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee." And out spake strong Hcrminius; Of Titian blood was he: *' I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee." HORATIUS. 245 " Horatius," quoth the Consul, '' As thou sayest, so let it be." Anil straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome's quarrels Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state ; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great; Then lands were fairly portioned ; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe. And the Tribunes beard the high. And the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction. In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their baeks, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe: And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow. And smote upon the planks above. And loosed the props below. 246 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Ritrht o-lorious to behold, Come flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that (Treat host with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread. Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head, Where stood the dauntless Three. The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes. And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrow way ; Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of "Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva's mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war. Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O'er the pale waves of Nar. Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath ; HORATIUS. 247 Herminius struck at Seius And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian's gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Ur^'o, The rover of the sea ; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great' wild boar, — The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia's shore. Herminius smote down Aruns; Lartius laid Ocnus low ; Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. Lie there," he cried, " fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale. From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania's hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accursed sail." But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathfid clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears' length from the entrance 248 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. But hark I the cry is Astur: And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high ; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, " The she-wolf's litter Stand savagely at bay : But will yc dai-e to follow, If Astur clears the way ? " Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh ; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space ; HORATIUS. 249 Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur's face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet, So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan's head. And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder-smitten oak. Far o'er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread ; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. On Astur's throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain. Ere he wrenched out the steel. "And see," he cried, "the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here ! What noble Lucunio comes next To taste our Roman cheer ? " But at his haughty challenge A sullen murmur ran. Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, Along that glittering van. o o o There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race ; For all Etruria's noblest Were round the fatal place. But all Etruria's noblest Felt their hearts sink to see 250 BALLADS AND LYRICS. On the earth the bloody corpses, Tn ihe path the dauntless Three : And, from the ghostly entrance Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranoin"- the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack ; But those behind cried " Forward 1 " And those before cried " Back I " And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array ; And on the tossing sea of steel, To and fro the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away. Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd ; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. "Now welcome, welcome, Sextus ! Now welcome to thy home I Why dost thou stay, and turn away ? Here lies the road to Rome. ' ' Thrice looked he at the city ; Thrice looked he at the dead ; And thrice came on in fury. And thrice turned back in dread ; And, white with fear and hatred. Scowled at the narrow way HO RAT I us. 251 Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied ; And now the bridge bnngs tottering Above the boiling tide. " Come back, come back, Horatius !" Loud cried the Fathers all. "Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius ! Back, ere the ruin fall ! " Back darted Spurius Lartius ; Herminius darted back : And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. But with a craj-h like thunder Fell every loosened beam. And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream ; And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam. And, like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious i-iver struo-o-led hard. And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb, and bounded, 252 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Rejoicing to be free, And, whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind ; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. " Down with him ! " cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. "Now yield thee," cried Lars Porsena, " Now yield thee to our grace." Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see ; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home ; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. " O Tiber ! father Tiber ! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, Take thou in charge this day ! " So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side. And, with his harness on his back, Plun He stood, in the last moon of flowers, i And thirty snows had not yet shed i Their glory on the warrior's head; I But, as the summer fruit decays. So died he in those naked days. A d;irk cloak of the roebuck's skm Covered the warrior, and within Its heavy folds the weapons, made For the hard toils of war, were laid; i J 256 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The cuirass, woven of plaited reeds, And the broad belt of shells and beads. Before, a dark-haired virgin train Chanted the death-dirge of the slain; Behind, the long procession came li Of hoary men and chiefs of fame, (With heavy hearts, and eyes of gi'ief, Leading the war-horse of their chief. Stripped of his proud and martial dress, Unciu'bed, unreined, and riderless, With darting eye, and nostril spread. And heavy and impatient tread. He came; and oft that eye so proud Asked for his rider in the crowd. They buried the dark chief; they freed Beside the grave his battle-steed; And swift an arrow cleaved its way To his stern heart! One piercing neigh Arose, and. on the dead man's plain. The rider grasps his steed again. Henry Wadsworth Longfellov THE PH^GRIM'S VISION. In the hour of twilight shadows The Pilgrim sire looked out; He thought of the " bloudy Salvages That lurked all round about. Of Wituwamet's ])ictured knife And Pecksuot's whooping shout; THE PILGRIM'S VISION. '2.b1 j i For the baby's limbs were feeble, Though his father's arms were stout. o His home was a freezing cabin, Too bare for the hungry rat, Its roof was thatched with ragged grass. And bald enough of that; The hole that served for casement Was glazed with an ancient hat; And the ice was gently thawing From the log whereon he sat. Along the dreary landscape His eyes went to and fro, The trees all clad in icicles, The streams that did not flow ; A sudden thought flashed o'er him, — A dream of long: ago, — He smote his leathern jerkin. And murmured, " Even so!" " Come hither, God-be-Glorified, And sit upon my knee, Behold the dream unfolding. Whereof I spake to thee By the winter's hearth in Leyden And on the stormy sea; True is the dream's beginning, — So may its ending be! " I saw in the naked forest Our scattered remnant cast, A scret-n of shivering brandies Between them and the bhist; The snow was falling round them, 17 »■■ t 258 BALLADS AND LYRICS , The dying fell as fast; I looked to see them perish, When lo, the vision passed. " Again mine eyes were opened, — The feeble had waxed strong, The babes had grown to sturdy men, The remnant was a throng; By shadowed lake and winding stream, And all the shores along, The howling demons quaked to hear The Christian's godly song. " They slept, — the village fathers, — By river, lake, and shore, When far adown the steep of Time The vision rose once more; I saw alono; the winter snow A spectral column pour. And hich above their broken ranks A tattered flag they bore. " Their Leader rode before them. Of bearing calm and high. The light of Heaven's own kindling Throned in his awful eye, These were a Nation's champions Her dread appeal to try ; God for the right! I faltered. And lo, the ti-ain passed by. " Once more, — the strife is ended, The solemn issue tried, The Lord of Hosts, his mighty arm Has helped our Israel's side; THE PILGRIM'S VISION. 259 Gray stone and grassy hillock Tell where our martyrs died, But peaceful smiles the harvest, And stainless flows the tide. *' A crash, — as when some swollen cloud Cracks o'er the tangled trees! With side to side, and spar to spar, Whose smoking decks are these? I know Saint George's blood-red cross. Thou Mistress of the Seas, — But what is she, whose streaming bars Roll out before the breeze ? " Ah, well her iron I'ibs are knit. Whose thunders strive to quell The bellowing thi'oats, the blazing lips, That pealed the Armada's knell ! The mist was cleared, a wreatli of stars Rose o'er the crimsoned swl'U, And, wavering from its haughty peak. The* cross of England fell! " O trembling Faith ! though dark the morn, A heavenly torch is thine ; While feebler races melt away. And paler orbs decline. Still shall the fiery pillar's ray Along thy pathway shine. To light the chosen tribe that sought This Western Palestine! " I see the livins: tide roll on: It crowns with flaming towers The icy capes of Labrador, 260 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The Spaniard's ' land of flowers ' ! It streams beyond the splintered ridge That parts the nortliern showers; From eastern rock to sunset wave The continent is ours ! " He ceased, — the grim old soldier-saint, — Then softly bent to cheer The pilgrim-child, whose wasting face Was meekly turned to hear; And drew his toil-worn sleeve across, To brush the manly tear From cheeks that never changed in woe, And never blanched in fear. The weary pilgrim slumbers, His resting-place unknown; His hands were crossed, his lids were closed. The dust was o'er him strewn; The drifting soil, the mouldering leaf, Alonjr the sod were blown; His mound lias melted into earth, His memory lives alone. So let it live unfading, Tlie memory of the dead. Long as the pale anemone Springs wliere their tears were shed, Or, raining in the summer's wind In flakes of burning red. The wild rose sprinkles with its leaves The turf where once they bled! Yea, when the frowning bulwarks That guard this holy strand -r I J| »y.M.,.»»sr^- m \ i— — — ^BMJ— — iM •-"^***°li' PAUL RE VE RE'S RIDE. 261 Have sunk beneath the trampling surge In beds of sparkling sand, ^^lile in the waste of ocean One hoar)' rock shall stand, Be this its latest legend, Here was the Pilgrim's land! Oliver Wendell Holmes. PAUL REVERE'S RTDE. Listen, my children, and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Wlio remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, " If the British march By land or sea from the town to-niMit, II Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light, — One, if by land, and two, if by sea ; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every INIiddlesex villa«m8. THE RAVEN. 315 And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled nie — filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before ; So that now, to still the beating of mv heart, I stood n-peating, " 'Tis some visitor, entreating entrance at my chamber door — Some late visitor, entreating entrance at mv 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 gontly you came rapping. And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cham- ber 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, Doubtinsr, dreaminor dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, A.nd the only word there spoken was the whispered word, " Lenore? " This I whi;ipered, and an echo murmui-ed back the word " Lenore! " Merely this, and nothing more. 316 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping something 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 ex- plore : — 'T is the wind, and nothing more." Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he ; not a minute 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," said I, " arc sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly shore — Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plu- tonian shore." Quoth the Raven, " Nevermore." THE RAVEN. 317 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 uo living human be- ing 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 that 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 befoi'e." Then the bird said, "Nevermore." Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, •'Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful Disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore — Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore Of ' Never — Nevermore.' " 318 BALLADS AND LYRICS. But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and Lust and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fanc) 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 ex- pressing 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 lamp-light gloated o'er. But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er She shall press ^ ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose 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, O quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore ! ' ' Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." THE RAVEN. 319 'Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil! Whether Tempter sent, or vehether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land en- chanted — On this home by Horror haunted — tell me truly, I im- plore — Is there — is there balm in Gilead ? — tell me — tell me, I implore! " Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore." "Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil — prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us — by that God we both adore — Tell this soul with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore — Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore." Quoth the Kaven, "Nevermore." " Be that word om .sign of parting, bird or fiend! " I shrieked, upstarting — " Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plu- tonian 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." 320 BALLADS AND LYRICS. 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's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light 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 Allan Poe.* IN SCHOOL-DAYS. Still sits the school-house by the road, A ragged beggar sunning; Around it still the sumachs grow. And blackberry-vines are running. Within, the master's desk is seen, Deep scarred by raps official; The warping floor, the battered seats, The jack-knife's carved initial ; 1 Edgar Allan Poe, born in Boston in 1809, was educated i„ Baltimore and in England, and studied at the University of Virginia, after which he passed a year in Europe. He wrote for and edited various magazines, and it was at this time he pro- duced his extraordinary stories. The Raven is the one work, however, which has attained world-wide popularity and given Poe enduring fame. His mind was of a gloomy and morbid cast, which was enhanced by a loose life and intemperate habits, ae died at Baltimore in 1849. IN SCHOOL-DAYS. 321 The charcoal frescos on its wall; Its door's worn sill, betraying The feet that, creeping slow to school, Went storming out to playing! Lonir years aijo a winter sun Slione over it at setting ; Lit up its western window-panes, And low eaves' icy fretting. It touched the tangled golden curls, And brown eyes full of grieving, Of one who still her steps delayed When all the school were leaving. For near her stood the little boy Her childish favor singled : His cap pulled low upon a face Where pride and shame were mingled. Pushintj with restless feet the snow To right and left he linirered; As restlessly her tiny hands The blue-checked apron fingered. He saw her lift her eyes ; he felt , The soft hand's light caressing, And heard the tremble of her voice, As if a fault confessing. " I 'm sorry that I spelt the word: I hate to f>;o above vou, Because," — the brown eyes lower fell, — " Because, you see, I love you! " 21 322 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Still memory to a gray-haired man That sweet child-face is showing. Dear girl ! the grasses on her grave Have forty years been growing ! He lives to learn, in life's hard school, How few who pass above him Lament their triumph and his loss, Like her, — because they love him. John Greenleaf Whittier.* ALADDIN. When I was a beggarly boy, And lived in a cellar damp, I had not a friend nor a toy, But I had Aladdin's lamp; When I could not sleep fpr cold, I had fire enough in my brain, And builded, with roofs of gold, My beautiful castles in Spain ! Since then I have toiled day and night, I have money and power good store, But I 'd give all my lamps of silver bright, For the one that is mine no more ; 1 John Greenleaf Whittiek was born at Haverhill, Mas- sachusetts, in 1808. He was brought up by his parents in the principles of the Quaker belief, to which he has always adhered. He never went to college. He edited the New England Bevietc, and afterwards the Pennsylvania Freeman, an organ of the anti-slavery party, of which he was a prominent member. He still lives in quiet retirement at Danvers, Massachusetts. "And there sot Huldy all alone." See p. 323. THE COURTIN'. 323 Take, Fortune, whatever you choose, You gave, and may snatch again ; I have nothing 'twould pain me to lose, For I own no more castles in Spain ! James Russell Lowell. THE COURTIN' God makes sech nights, all white an' still, Fur 'z you can look or listen, | Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, I All silence an' all glisten. ■ I Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown \ An' peeked in thru' the winder, 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'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. Aorin the chimbley crook-necks hung, An' in amongst 'em rusted Tlie ole queen 's-arm thet gran'thcr Young Filched back from Concord busted. 324 BALLADS AND LYRICS. The very room, coz she was in, Seemed 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 sech a blessed cretm*, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clear grit an' human natur'; None could n't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straitrhter. He 'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells, — All is, he could n'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 Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nio-her. An' she 'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, When her new meetin'-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upon it. THE COURTIN'. 325 Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some ! She seemed to 've gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, Down to her very shoe-sole. Slie heered a foot, an' knowed it lu, A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelins 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 hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jirk 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? " " Wal .... no .... I come dasignin' " — " To see my Ma? She 's sprinklin' clo'es Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." To say why gals acts so or so, Or don't, 'ould be presumiii'; Mebby to mean yes an' say no Comes nateral to women. He stood a spell on one foot fust. Then stoofl a spell on t' other, An' on which one he felt tlie wust He could n't ha' told ye nuther. mm 326 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Says he, "I 'd better call agin; " Says she, " Think likely, Mister: " Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' .... Wal, he up an' kist her. When Ma biineby 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', Tell mother see how metters stood. An' 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. NUREMBERG. is the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad mead- ow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. NUREMBERG. 327 Quaint old town of toil and traffic, quaint old town of art and song, Memories haunt thy pointed gables, like the rooks that round them thron"-; Memories of the Middle Ages, when the Emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, centu- ries old; And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth rhyme. That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the court-yard of the castle, bound with many an iron band. Stands the mighty linden planted by Queen Cuni- gunde's hand; On the square the oriel window, where in old heroic days Sat the poet Melchior, singing Kaiser Maximilian's praise. Everywhere I see around me rise the wondrous world of Art: Fountains wrought with richest sculpture standing in the common mart; And above cathedral doorways saints and bishops carved in stone. By a former age commissioned as apostles to our own. 328 BALLADS AND LYRICS. In the chnrcli of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust; In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like the foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted aii-. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simjjle, rev- erent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art; Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, r>ike an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigrant is the inscription on the tombstone where he lies; Dead he is not, but departed, — for the artist never dies. Fairer seems the ancient city, and the sunshine seems more fair, That he once has trod its pavement, that he once has breathed its air. Through these streets so broad and stately, these ob- scure and dismal lanes. Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude po etic strains. NUREMBERG. 329 From remote and sunless suburbs came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the sparrows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mys- tic rhyme. And the smith his iron measures hammered to the an- vil's chime; Thanking God, whose boundless wisdom makes the flowers of poesy bloom In the forge's dust and cinders, in the tissues of the loom. Here Hans Sachs, the cobbler-poet, laureate of the gentle craft, Wisest of the Twelve Wise Masters, in huo-e folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an ale-house, with a nicely sanded floor, And a garland in the window, and his face above the door; Painted by some humble artist, as in Adam Pusch- man's song. As the old man gray and dove-like, with his great beard white and long. And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quafling ale from pewter tankards, in the master's an- tique chair. 330 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Vanished is the ancient splendor, and before my dreamy eye Wave these mingling shapes and figures, like a faded tapestry. Not thy Councils, not thy Kaisers, win for thee the world's regard, But thy painter, Albrecht Diirer, and Hans Sachs thy cobbler-bard. Thus, O Nuremberg, a wanderer from a region far away. As he paced thy streets and court-yards, sang in thought his careless lay: Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil. The nobiUty of labor, — the long pedigree of toil. Henry Wadsworth Longfelloav. THE HIGH TIDE ON THE COAST OF LINCOLNSHIRE. The old mayor climbed the belfry tower. The ringers ran by two, by three; " Pull, if ye never pulled before; Good ringers, pull your best," quoth he. " Play up, play up, O Boston bells! Ply all your changes, all your swells. Play up ' The Brides of Enderby M " Men say it was a stolen tide, — The Lord that sent it, He knows all; '■ Pull if ye never pulled before" See p. 330. HIGH TIDE IN LINCOLNSHIRE. 331 But in mine ears dotli still abide The message that the bells let fall: And there was nou Then a booth of mountebanks. With its smell of tan and planks, And a girl poised high in air On a cord, in spangled dress, With a faded loveliness, And a weary look of care. Then a homestead among farms, And a woman with bare arms Drawing water from a well; As the bucket mounts apace. With it mounts her own fair face, As at some magician's spell. 850 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Then an old man in a tower, Ringino; loud the noontide hour, While the rope coils round and round Like a serpent at his feet, And again, in swift retreat. Nearly lifts him from the ground. Then within a prison-yard. Faces fixed, and stern, and hard, Laughter and indecent mirth: Ah! it is the gallows-tree ! Breatli of Christian charity, Blow, and sweep it from the earth! Then a school-boy, with his kite Gleaming in a sky of light. And an eager, upward look ; Steeds pursued through lane and field; Fowlers with their snares concealed ; And an angler by a brook. Ships rejoicing in the breeze, Wrecks that float o'er unknown seas, Ancliors dragfred through faithless sand ; Sea-fog drifting overhead. And, with lessening line and lead, Sailors feeling for the land. All these scenes do I behold, These and many left untold. In that building long and low ; While the wheel goes round and round, With a drowsy, dreamy sound, And the spinners backward go. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Ships rejoicing in the breeze." See p. 350- THE FORCED RECRUIT. 351 THE FORCED RECRUIT. SOLFERINO, 1859. In the ranks of tlie Austrian you found him, He died with his face to you all; Yet bury him here where around him You honor your bravest that fall. Venetian, fair- featured and slender. He lies shot to death in his youth, With a smile on his lips over-tender For any mere soldier's dead mouth. No stranger, and yet not a traitor, Thouo-h alien the cloth on his breast, Underneath it how seldom a greater Youns heart has a shot sent to rest! By your enemy tortured and goaded To march with them, stand in their file, His musket (see) never was loaded. He facing your guns with that smile! As orphans yearn on to their mothers, He yearned to your patriot bands: " Let me die for our Italy, brothers, If not in your ranks, by your hands! "Aim sh-aightly, fire steadily! spare me A ball in the body which may Deliver my heart here, and tear me This badge of the Austrian away! " 362 BALLADS AND LYRICS. So thought he, so died he this morning. What then ? many others have died. Ay, but easy for men to die scorning The death-stroke, who fought side by side, One tricolor floating above them; Struck down by triumphant acclaims Of an Italy rescued to love them And blazon the brass with their names. But be, without witness or honor, Mixed, shamed in his country's regard, With the tyrants who march in upon her, Died faithful and passive ; 't was hard. • 'T was sublime. In a cruel restriction Cut off from the guerdon of sons. With most filial obedience, conviction, His soul kissed the lips of her guns. That moves you? ]^ay, grudge not to show it, While difo^iuo- a fjrave for him here : The others who died, says your poet, Have glory, — let him have a tear. Elizabeth Baurett Browning.^ 1 Elizabeth Bareett Bhowning, the daughter of Mr Barrett, a wealthy London merchant, was born in Ledbury, about 1807. She began to write verses while still a child, and displayed strong literary tastes. She speedily acquired reputa- tion both for her learning and for her writings. In 1846 she married Robert Browning. She wrote many poems, both long and short, of varying merit, some of a very high order, and published some translations from the Greek. She died in Flor- eiici'. in 1861. THE CUMBERLAND. THE CUMBERLAND. At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay, On board of the Cumberland, sloop-of-war; And at times from the fortress across the bay The alarum of drums swept past, Or a bugle blast From the camp on the shore. Then far away to the south up rose A little feather of snow-white smoke. And we knew that the iron ship of our foes Was steadily steering its course To try the force Of our ribs of oak. Down upon us heavily runs, Silent and sullen, the floating fort; Then comes a puff of smoke from her guns, And leaps the terrible death, With fiery breath, From each open port. We are not idle, but send her straight Defiance back iu a full broadside! As hail rebounds from a roof of slate. Rebounds our heavier hail From each iron scale Of the monster's hide. " Strike your flag! " the rebel cries, In his arrogant old planlation strain. " Never! " our gallant Morris replies; " It is better to sink tliiui to yield!" 23 354 BALLADS AND LYRICS. And tte whole air pealed With the cheers of our men. Then, like a kraken huge and black, She crushed our ribs in her iron grasp! Down went the Cumberland all a wrack, With a sudden shudder of death, And the cannon's breath For her dying gasp. Next morn, as the sun rose over the bay. Still floated our flag at the mainmast head. Lord, how beautiful was Thy day! Every waft of the air Was a whisper of prayer, Or a dirge for the dead. Ho! brave hearts that went down in the seas! Ye are at peace in the troubled stream; Ho! brave land! with hearts like these. Thy flag, that is rent in twain, Shall be one again. And without a seam! Henky Wadsworth Longfellow. JONATHAN TO JO UN. 355 JONATHAN TO JOHN.i It don't seem hardly right, John, When both my hands was full, To stump me to a fight, John, — Your cousin, tu, John Bull! Ole Uncle S. sez he, " 1 guess We know it now," sez he, " The lion's paw is all the law, Accordin' to J. B., Thet 's fit for you an' me!" You wonder why we 're hot, John ? Your mark wuz on the guns, The neutral guns, thet shot, John, Our brothers an' our sous : Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess There 's human blood," sez he, " By fits an' starts, in Yankee hearts, Though 't may surprise J. B. More 'n it would you an' me." Ef / turned mad dogs loose, John, On your front-parlor stairs, 1 This poem refers to the period of our difficulties with Eng- land after what was known as the " Trent affair." November 19, 1861, Captain Wilkes, in command of the Federal war steamer San Jacinto, boarded the British mail packet Trent, and took out the ambassadors of the Soutlu^ni Confederacy, Mason and Slidell, who wore on their way to Euf^land. This was a gross infraction of neutral rights, and President Lincoln wisel}' gave up the prisoners. But the hostile attitude of Kng- land and her sympathy with the South excited just and deep in- dignation on the part of the United States. England, after the war, expiated her conduct by tiie treaty of Washington and by the award of the Geneva arbitration. 356 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Would it jest meet your views, John, To wait an' sue their heirs ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess, I on'y guess," sez he, " Thet ef Vattel on his toes fell, 'T would kind o' rile J. B., Ez wal ez you an' nie ! " Who made the law thet hurts, John, Heads I win, — ditto tails ? "/. 5." was on his shirts, John, Onless my memory fails. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess (I 'm good at thet)," sez he, " Thet sauce for goose nm^jest the jui(;8 For ganders with J. B., No more 'n with you an' me! " When your rights was our wrongs, John, You did n't stop for fuss, — Britanny's trident prongs, John, Was good 'nough law for us. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess. Though physic's good," sez he, " It does n't foUer thet he can swaller Prescriptions signed 'J. B.,' Put up by you an' me! " We own the ocean, tu, John: You mus' n' take it hard, Ef we can't think with you, John, It 's jest your own back-yard. Ole Uncle S. sez lie, " I guess, Ef thet 's his claim," sez he, " The fencin'-stuff Ml cost enough JONATHAN TO JOHN. 357 To bust up friend J. B. , Ez wal ez you an' me! " Why talk so dreffle big, John, Of honor, when it meant You did n't care a fig, John, But jest for ten per cent f Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess He 's like the rest," sez he: " When all is done it 's number one Thet 's nearest to J. B., Ez wal ez t' you an' me!" We give the critters back, John, Cos Abram thought 't was right; It warn't your bullyiu' clack, John, Provokin' us to fight. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess We 've a hard row," sez he, " To hoe jest now; but thet, somehow. May happen to J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me! " We ain't so weak an' poor, John, AVith twenty million people, An' close to every door, John, A school-house an' a steeple. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess It is a fact," sez he, " The surest plan to make a man Is, Think him so, J. B., Ez much ez you or me! " Our folks believe in Law, John; An' it's for her sake now. tmmmmm IBdc 358 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Tbey 've left the axe an' saw, John, The anvil an' the plough. Ole Uncle S. soz he, "I guess, Ef 't warn't for law," sez he, " There 'd be one shindy from here to Indy; An' thet don't suit J. B. (When 't ain't 'twixt you an' me!) " We know we 've got a cause, John, Thet 's honest, just, an' true; We thought 't would win applause, John, Ef nowheres else, from you. Ole Uncle S. sez he, " I guess His love of rights," sez he, " Hangs by a rotten fibre o' cotton: There's natur' in J. B., Ez wal ez you an' me!" The South says, " Poor folks down! " John, An' " All men up! ^' say we, — White, yaller, black, an' brown, John: Now which is your idee ? Ole Uncle S. sez he, "I guess, John preaches wal," sez he; *' But, sermon thru, an' come to du Why, there 's the old J. B. A crowdin' you an' me ! " Shall it be love, or hate, John ? It 's you thet 's to decide; Ain't youi- bonds held by Fate, John, Like all the world's beside? Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess Wise men forgive," sez he, " But not forget; an' some time yet BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 359 Thet truth may strike J. B., Ez wal ez jou an' me! " God means to make this land, John, Clear thru, from sea to sea, Believe an' understand, John, The icuth o' bein' fi-ee. Ole Uncle S., sez he, "I guess God's price is high," sez he; " But nothin' else than wut He sells Wears long, an' thet J. B. May lam, like you an' me 1 " James Russell Lowell. BARBARA FRIETCHIE. Up from the meadows rieh with corn, Clear in the cool September morn, The clustered spires of Frederick stand Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. Round about them orchards sweep, Apple and peach tree fruited deep, — Fair as the garden of the Lord To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, On that pleasant morn of the early lull When Lee marched over the mountain- wall. Over the mountains winding down. Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 360 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Forty flags witli their silver stars, Forty flags with their crimson bars, Flapped in the morning wind: the sun Of noon looked down, and saw not one. Up rose Barbara Frietchie then, Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; Bravest of all in Frederick town. She took up the flag the men hauled down ; In her attic window the staff she set, To show that one heart was loyal yet. Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. Under his slouched hat left and right He glanced : the old flag met his sight. " Halt I " — 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 will. *' Shoot, if you must, this old gray head. But spare your country's flag," she said. ■ She leaned i\r out on the window siil.'' See p. 360. BARBARA FRIETCUIE. 361 . 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 f»Tay head Dies like a dog ! March on ! " he said. All day long through Frederick street Sounded the tramp of marching feet : All day long that free flag tost Over the heads of the rebel host. Ever its torn folds rose and fell On the loyal winds that loved it well ; And through the hill-gaps sunset light Shone over it with a warm good-night. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er And the rebel rides on his raids no more. Honor to her I and let a tear Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, Flag of Freedom and Union, wave I 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 I John Greenlkaf Whittikk. 362 BALLADS AND LYRICS. THE OLD SERGEANT. JANUARY ], 1863. The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads AVith which he used to go, Rhyming the glad rounds of the happy New Years That are now beneath the snow: For the same awful and portentous Shadow That overcast the earth, And smote the land last year with desolation, Still darkens every hearth. And the Carrier hears Beethoven's mighty death-march Come up from every mart ; And he hears and feels it breathing in his bosom, And beating in his heart. And to-day, a scarred and weather-beaten veteran Again he comes along, To tell the story of the Old Year's struggles In another New Year's song. A.nd the song is his, but not so with the story ; For the story, you must know, Was told in prose to Assistant- Surgeon Austin, By a soldier of Shiloh: By Robert Burton, who was brought up on the Adams, With his death-wound in his side ; And who told the story to the Assistant-Surgeon, On the same night that he died. But the singer feels it will better suit the ballad, If all should deem it right. THE OLD SERGEANT. 363 To tell the story as if what it speaks of Had happened but last night. " Come 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 us 372 BALLADS AND LYRICS. Good to mamma, and sweet. That is all. • ' Marguerite." Ah, if beside the dead Slumbered the pain ! Ah, if the hearts that bled Slept with the slain! If the grief died, — but no, — Death will not have it so. Austin Dobson.^ AN ENVOY TO AN AMERICAN LADY. Bkyond the vague Atlantic deep. Far as the farthest prairies sweep. Where forest-glooms the nerve appal, Where burns the radiant Western fall, One duty lies on old and young, — AVith filial piety to guard, As on its greenest native sward. The glory of the English tongue. That ample speech! that subtle speech! Apt for the need of all and each: Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend Wherever human feelings tend. Preserve its force, expand its powers; And through the maze of civic life, I Austin Dobson, born in 1840, is an English poet, who has recently come into notice and acquired reputation as the author of two or three volumes of graceful verses. THE END OF THE PLAY. 373 In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, Forget not it is vours and ours. Lord Houghton.^ THE END OF THE PLAY. The ]»liiy is done ; the curtain drops, Slow falling to the prompter's bell: A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. It is an irksome word and task; And, when he 's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that 's anything but gay. One word, ere yet the evening ends. Let 's close it with a parting rhyme. And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas time. On life's wide scene you, too, have parts. That Fate erelong shall bid you play; Good night ! with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway I Good-night ! — I'd say, the griefs, the joys. Just hinted in this mimic page, 1 RiCHAnu MoNCKTON MiLNES 18 an Englisli statesman iind writer. He was born in Yorkshire in 1809, and fjiadiiated •It Cambridge University in 1831. lie was elected to Parlia- ment in 1837 for Pontefract, wiiich lie continued to represent until 1863, when he was raised to the peerage as 15aron Hough- ton. t i 374 BALLADS AND LYRICS. X h The triumphs and defeats of boys, ■v Are but repeated in our age. I I'd say, your woes were not less keen, f Your hopes more vain, than those of men; Your pangs or pleasures of fifteen i At forty-five played o'er again. I I 'd say we suffer and we strive Not less nor more as men than bo} s ; With grizzled beards at forty-five. As erst at twelve in corduroys. And if, in time of sacred youth. We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early Love and Truth May never wholly pass away. And in the world, as in the school, I 'd say, how fate may change and shift ; The {jrize be sometimes with the fool, The race not always to the swift. The strong may yield, the good may fall. The great man be a vulsjar clown, The knave be lifted over all. The kind cast pitilessly down. Who knows the inscrutable design? Blessed be He who took and gave! Why should your mother, Charles, not mine, Be weeping at her darling's grave ? We bow to Heaven that will'd it so. That darkly rules the fate of all, That sends the respite or the blow. That 's free to give, or to recall. This ci'owns his feast with wine and wit: Who brought him to that mirth and state? THE END OF THE PLAY. 375 His betters, see, below biui sit, Or hunger hopeless at the gate. Who bade the mud from Dives' wheel To spurn the rags of Lazarus? Come, brother, in that dust we 'II kneel, Confessing Heaven that ruled it thus. So each shall mourn, in life's advance, Dear hopes, dear friends, untimely killed ; Shall grieve for many a forfeit chance, And longing passion unfulfilled. Amen! whatever fate be sent, Pray God the heart may kindly glow, Although the head with cares be bent, And whitened with the winter snow. Come wealth or want, come good or ill, Let young and old accept their part, And bow before the Awful Will, And bear it with an honest heart, Who misses or who wins the prize. Go, lose or conquer as you can ; But if you fail, or if you rise, Be each, pray God, a gentleman. A gentleman, or old or young! (Bear kindly with my humble lays); The sacred chorus first was sung Upon the first of Christmas days : The shepherds heard it overhead — The joyful angels raised it then: Glory to Heaven on high, it said, And peace on earth to gentle men. My song, save this, is little worth; I lay the weary pen aside, 576 BALLADS AND LYRICS. And wish you health, and love, and mirth, As fits the solemn Christmas-tide. As fits the holy Christmas birth, Be this, good friends, our carol still, — Be peace on earth, be peace on earth. To men of gentle will. William Makepeace Thackeray. SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT fl AVAILETH. Say not the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars ; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers. And, but for you, possess the field. For while the tired waves, vainly breaking. Seem here no painful inch to gain. Far back, through creeks and inlets making. Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light. In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly. But westward, look, the land is bright. Arthur Hugh ClougS. THE BALLAD OF AGIN COURT. 377 THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT.i Faik 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 Caux, the mouth of Seine, With all his martial train. Landed King Harry. And taking many a fort. Furnished in warlike sort, Marcheth tow'rds Ao-incourt In happy hour; Skirmishing day by day. With those that stopp'd his way, Where the French (jen'ral lay With all his power. Which in his might of pride, King Henry to deride, His ransom to provide To the kinsf sending. Which he neglects the while, As from a nation vile, Yet with an angry smile Their fall portending. 1 This jioera and the one which follows were, by the oversight of the Editor, omitted in preparing the first edition of this collec- tion, and are therefore added here instead of appearing in their proper places. I 378 BALLADS AND LYRICS. And turning to his men, Quoth our brave Henry then, Though they be one to 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, No 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 Frenchmen. Exeter had the rear. A braver man not there. Lord, how hot they were, On the false Frenchmen! ^amt0 THE BALLAD OF AGINCOURT. 379 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. I 5 Well it their age became, ■ O noble Erpingham, \ Which didst the signal aim \ To our hid forces; When from a meadow by, Like a storm suddenly. The English archery Stuck 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 billjos 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. 380 BALLADS AND LYRICS. This while our noble King, His broad sword brandishing, Down the French host did ding, As to o'erwhelm it, And many a deep wound lent, His arms with blood besprent, And many a <,-ruel dent Bruised his helmet. Gloucester, that duke so good, 1 f Next 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. f 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 English men, With such acts fill a pen, HYMN. 381 Or England breed again Such a King Harry ? Michael Drayton.* HYMN BUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE CONCORD MON- UMENT, APRIL 19, 1830. By the rude bridge that arched the Hood, Their flag to April's breeze unfurled. Here once the embattled farmers stood. And fired the shot heard round the world. The foe long since in silence slept ; Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ; And Time the ruined bridge has swept Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. On this green bank, by this soft stream, We set to-day a votive stone ; That memory may their deed redeem, When like our sires, our sons are gone. Spirit, that made those heroes dare To die, and leave their children free, 1 Michael Drayton was bom at HartshuII, Warwickshire, England, about the year 1593, and died in 1031. Me was a most voluminous and generally uninteresting verse writer. His most extensive work was an endless description of Kngland entitled the Polyolbion. That he was not, however, devoid of poetic fire »nd imagination is amply proved by this spirited ballad. 382 BALLADS AND LYRICS. . Bid Time and Nature gently spare The shaft we raise to them and thee. Ralph Waldo Emerson.* 1 Ralph Waldo Emeeson was born in Boston in 1803, grad- uated at Harvard College in 1821. He entered the ministry, be- ing the eighth of a consecutive line of clergymen iu his family. He was a Unitarian at the outset, but became the leader subse- quently among the New England Transcendentalists. He won his fame as an essayist and philosopher, writing and lecturing on matters of public and social interest as well as upon met- aphysical subjects. Besides several volumes of prose he pub- lished two volumes of poems. He achieved a wide reputation both at home and abroad, and a few years since was put forward as a candidate for the Rectorship of Glasgow University, and received a handsome vote. He lived in retirement at Concord, Massachusetts, where he died, April 27, 1882. INDEX OF AUTHORS. — f — Addison, Joseph. page Version of the Nineteenth Psalm 60 Anonymous. OldBallad. — Chevy Chase 13 " " Sir Patriclt Spans 22 Aytoun, William Edmondstoune. The Burial-March of Dundee 192 The Execution of Montrose 22C Barbauld, Anna L^titia. Life and Death 131 Browning, Elizabeth Bareett. The Forced Recruit 351 Browning, Robert. Boot and Saddle 229 Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 201 How they Brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix 235 Incident of the French Camp 278 The Lost Loader 200 Bryant, William Cullen. The Death of the Flowers 312 Burns, Robert. Bruce to his Men at Bannockburn .... 98 Is there, for Honest Poverty 82 John Anderson 97 Macpherson's Farewell ]07 My Bonnie Mary 96 My Heart 's in the Higlilands 86 The Banks o' Doon 109 Byron, George Gordon, Lord. She Walks in Beauty 153 The Destruction of Sennacherib .... 157 The Isles of Greece 184 To Thomas Moore 190 Vision of Belshazzar 159 384 INDEX OF AUTHORS. i PAGE \ Campbell, Thomas. \ Battle of the Baltic 139 ;; Glenara 113 Hohenlinden 122 Lord Ullin's Daughter 117 j The Soldier's Dream 126 \ Ye Mariners of England 141 J Clough, Arthur Hugh. j Green Fields of England 311 j Qua Cursura Ventus 336 Say not the Struggle Nought Availeth . . . 376 j The Ship 342 CoLKRiDGE, Samuel Taylor. KublaKhan 167 Collins, William. Ode written in MDCCXLVI 75 CowpER, William. Loss of the Eoyal George 80 The Diverting History of John Gilpin . . . .86 Tlie Poplar Field 108 The Solitude of Alexander Selkirk . . . .84 CUKNINGHAM, AlLAN. Sea-Song 135 DoBsoN, Austin. Before Sedan 371 Dorset, Charles Sackville, Earl of. Song written at Sea 55 Drayton, Michael. The Ballad of Agincourt 377 Dryden, John. f Song for Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687 .... 57 | Emerson, Ralph Waldo. HjTnn sung at the Completion of the Concord Mon- mnent 381 Goldsmith, Oliver. An Elegy on that Glory of her Sex, Mrs. Mary Blaize, 79 . Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog . . • .77 Gray, Thomas. Elegy written in a Country Churchyard ... 65 On a Favorite Cat drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes . 76 The Bard .... .... 70 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 385 PAOB Hemans, Felicia Dorothea. Bernardo del Carpio 172 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers .... 182 Herbert, George. Virtue 38 Herrick, Robert. To I'lossonns ^ ........ 39 To Daffodils 41 Heywood, Thomas. Song 28 HoLMKs, Oliver Wendell. A Rh^'ined Lesson 308 Dorothy Q.: a Family Portrait 297 Grandmother's Story of Bunker Hill Battle . . 267 Lexington . . . . ^ 265 Old Ironsides ........ 202 The Ballad of the Oysterman 302 The Deacon's Masterpiece 290 The Pilgrim's Vision 256 The Spectre Pig 304 Hood, Thosias. Past and Present 198 Houghton, Richard Monckton Milnes, Lord. An Envoy to an American Lady .... 372. Ingelow, Jean. The High Tide on the Coast of Lincolnshire . . 330 JoNsoN, Ben. The Noble Xature 37 Keats, John. To the Poets 176 ^.amb, Charles Hester 188 Lockhart, J. G. Bernardo and Alphonso 169 The Bridal of Andalla 161 The Lamentation for Celin ...... 150 The Lord of Butrago 166 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. A Psalm of Life 341 Burial of the ^linnisink ...... 255 n\inn of the Moravian Nuns of Bethlehem . . . 277 386 INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGE Nuremberg . • ^^6 Paul Revere's Ride 261 The Arsenal at Springfield 369 Tlie Belfry of Bruges 237 The Cumberland 353 The Fiftieth Birthday of Agassiz 337 The Happiest Land 346 The Norman Baron 230 The Old Clock on the Stairs ... • • .288 The Ropewalk 348 The Skeleton in Armor 206 The Warden of the Cinque Ports 233 The Wreck of the Hesperus 203 Victor Galbraith 282 Lovelace, Richard. To Lucasta, on going to the Wars .... 40 Lowell, James Russell. Aladdin ^22 Auf Wiedersehen 296 Jonathan to John 355 The Courtin' ^23 What Mr. Robinson thinks 300 Macaulay, Thomas Babington, Lokd. Horatius ' ' " pt^ The Armada, a Fragment 212 Valentine ^^'^ Milton, John. 50 II Penseroso L'Allegro ^ Montrose, James Grahame, Marquis of. "I'll never Love Thee more" . • • . . 43 Moore, Thomas. Pro Patria Mori .... . . 181 The Journey onwards Norton, Caroline E. S. The Soldier from Bingea 284 PoE, Edgar Allan. The Raven ^^* Pope, Alexander. Solitude °^ The Dying Christian to his Soul ^1 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 887 PAOB Pkaed, Win'throp Mackwoktti. Sir Nicholas at Marston Moor 217 Pkior, Matthew. To a Child of Quality 63 Rogers, Samuel. A Wish 108 The Sleeping Beauty 96 Scott, Sir Walter. Boat Song 133 Bonny Dundee 191 , Border Ballad 143 Bruce and the Abbot 99 Claud Halcro's Song 102 Coronach 103 ' Elspeth's Ballad 120 1 Evening 110 \ Glee for King Charles 125 [ Helvellyn 164 * Hunting Song 105 Hymn for the Dead 156 Jock of Hazeldean 146 t Lochinvar ......... 115 ' Love of Country 130 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu 129 | Rebecca's Hymn 153 \ Rosabelle 127 Song: County Guy 106 ' Song: The Cavalier 124 ; Song: "A Weary Lot is Thine, Fair Maid" . .133 \ Song: Brignal Banks 136 Song: "There is Mist on the Mountain" . . .111 The Crusader's Return 119 The Foray 143 The Pride of Youth 153 ,' The Song of Harold Ilarfager 103 To the Memory of r.dward, the Black Prince . . 133 Shakespeari:. William. Ariel's Song 27 Ariel's Song 28 A Sea Dirge 28 388 INDEX OF AUTHORS. PAGB Fairy's Song 32 Puck's Song 34 Song: " Blow, Blow, thou Winter Wind " ... 35 Song: " Fear no more the Heat o' the Sun" . . 36 j Song: "Hark, Hark, the Lark" . . . .34 Song: "How should I your True Love Know?" . 37 Song of the Fairies 33 Song: "Tell me, where is Fancy Bred" ... 32 Song: " Under the Greenwood Tree " . . . .29 Winter 3I * Shelley, Percy Bysshe. The Cloud 178 Winter I39 I" SouTHEY, Egbert. The Inchcape Rock I47 Tennyson, Alfred. Break, Break 34O I ■ New Year's Eve. From " In Memoriam " . . .339 } Saint Agnes' Eve 347 A Sir Galahad 343 I The Charge of the Light Brigade .... 280 ! Thackeray, William Makepeace. i The End of the Play 373 J The Rose upon my Balcony 31(, % Waller, Edmund. i Go, Lovely Rose 42 I Whittier, Elizabeth H. The Dream of Argyle 227 Whittier, John Greenleaf. Barbara Frietchie 359 In School-Daj-s 32o WiLLSON, FORCEYTHE. The Old Sergeant 362 Wolfe, Charles. Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna . . .132 Wordsworth, William. She was a Phantom of Delight I54 WoTTON, Sir Henry. Character of a Happy Life 3C INDEX OF FIRST LINES. A. chieftain to the Highlands bound .... Ah ! Count_v Guy, the hour is nigh .... A mist was driving down the British Channel A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers . As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay .... As slow our ship her foamy track At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay .... Attend, all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barred A wear}' lot is thine, fair maid A wet sheet and a flowing sea A widow bird sate mourning for her Love Ay, tear her tattered ensign down .... Bards of Passion and of Mirth Beyond the vague Atlantic deep ..... Blow, blow, thou winter wind ..... Boot, saddle, to horse, and away .... Break, break, break Breathes there the man, with soul so dead . Bring the bowl which you boast ..... B}' the rude bridge that arched the flood . . Come hither, Evan Cameron Come unto these yellow sands Deep on the convent-roof the snows .... Earthly arms no more uphold him Fair daffodils, we weep to see PAO« . 117 106 . 23-3 28-t . 330 144 . 353 212 . 150 138 . 135 189 . 202 176 . 372 35 . 220 340 . 130 125 . 981 . 220 27 . 347 227 . 41 390 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Fair pledges of a frnitful tree Fair stood the wind for France . Farewell to Northmaven .... Farewell, j-e dungeons dark and strong . Fear no more the heat o' the sun From Harmony, from heavenly Harmonj' Full fathom five thy father lies . God makes sech nights, all white an' still God prosper long our noble King Go fetch to me a pint o' wine . Go, lovely Rose ! Good people all, of every sort . Good people all, with one accord . Grandmother's mother : her age, I guess Green fields of England ! wheresoe'er Guvener B. is a sensible man . Hail, day of Music, daj^ of Love Hail to the chief who in triumph advances ! Half a league, half a league Happy the man whose wish and care Hark, hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay He is gone on the mountain .... Hence, loathed Melancholy Hence, vain deluding io5's .... Here, in this leafy place .... High deeds achieved of knightly fame How happy is he born and taught . How should I j'our true love know How sleep the Brave who sink to rest I am monarch of all I survey I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers I climbed the dark brow of the mightj' Helvellyn In his chamber, weak and dying In that building, long and low . In the hour of twilight shadows 'n tiie market-place of Bruges In the ranks of the Austrian j'ou found him PAOB . 39 377 . 102 107 . 36 57 . 28 323 . 13 96 . 42 77 . 79 297 . 311 300 . 294 133 . 280 62 . 34 290 . 163 44 . 50 371 . 119 30 . 37 75 . 84 178 . 164 230 . 348 256 . 237 351 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 391 river- side Id the valley of the Pegnitz, where across broad meadow lands ...... In Xanadu did Kubla Khan I remember, I remember I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he Is there, for honest poverty It don't seem hanlly ripht, John It is not growing like a tree It was a tall young oysterman lived by the It was fifty years ago .... It was the schooner Hesperus . It was the stalwart butcher man . John Anderson my jo, John .... John Gilpin was a citizen .... Just for a handful of silver he left us Lars Porsena of Clusium .... Life ! I know not what thou art . . . Listen, my children, and you shall hear Lords, knights, and squires, the numerous band March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale Mine be a cot beside the hill .... My boat is on the shore .... M}' dear and only love, I pray My good blade carves the casques of men . My heart 's in the Highlands .... PASB 326 1G7 Ui8 235 82 355 37 302 337 203 304 97 86 200 240 131 261 63 143 108 190 43 343 86 Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the northwest died away 201 Ko stir in the air, no stir in the sea .... 147 rxot a drum was heard, not a funeral note .... 132 Now baud your tongue, baith wife and carle . . . 120 Now the hungry lion roars 34 0, Brignal banks are wild and fair Of Nelson and the North .... for the voice of that wild horn heard ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale listen, listen, ladies gay . . . . 136 139 133 113 127 392 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. Once upon a midnight dreary On Linden, when the sun was low . On sunny slope and beechen swell ship, ship, ship Our bugles sang truce — for the night cloud had Over hill, over dale 0, young Lochinvar is come out of the West Pack, clouds, away, and welcome day . Pibroch of Donuil Dhu .... Proud Maisie is in the wood .... Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky . Rise up, rise up, Xarifa ! lay the golden cushion Ruin seize thee, ruthless King Say not the struggle nought availeth Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . She walks in beaut}', like the night Slie was a phantom of delight Sleep on, and dream of Heaven awhile . Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping Somewhat back from the village street . Some words on language may be well applied Sound the fife, and cry the slogan . Speak, speak, thou fearful guest Still sits the school-house by the road Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright Tell me not, ia mournful numbers . Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind Tell me where is fancy bred . That day of wrath, that dreadful day The abbot on the threshold stood The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold The breaking waves dashed high The Carrier cannot sing to-day the ballads . The curfew tolls the knell of parting day The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece The king sits in Dunfermline town . ower'd down PAGE . 314 122 . 255 342 . 126 32 . 115 28 . 129 153 . 339 161 . 70 376 . 98 153 , 154 96 , 265 288 , 308 192 , 206 320 , 38 341 40 32 156 99 157 182 362 65 184 22 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 393 The King was on his throne ..... The last of our steers on the board has been spread The little gate was reached at last .... The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year The old mayor climbed the belfry tower The play is done ; the curtain drops The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade There is mist on the mountain and night on the vale There sat one day in quiet The rose upon my balcony The spacious firmament on high . . ; . . The sun is rising dimly red The sun upon the lake is low ..... The warrior bowed his crested head This is the Arsenal. From floor to ceiling 'Tis like stirring living embers, when, at eighty, one members ....... To all you ladies now on land . .... 'I'o liorse, to horse, Sir JCicholas! .... Toll for the Brave ... .... To the Lords of Convention 't was Claver'se who spoke 'T was on a lofty vase's side Under the greenwood tree Under the walls of Monterey Up from the meadows rich with corn Vital spark of heavenly flame Waken, lords and ladief* gay When he who adores thee has left but the name . When icicles hang by the wall .... When Israel, of the Lord beloved .... When I was a beggarly boy ..... Wlicn maidens such as Hester die .... When the dying flame of day Where the bee sucks there suck I . . . . While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray Uli\ wtcp \e liv ihe tide. ladicV .... re- PAOE . 159 143 . 290 312 . 330 373 . 108 111 . 346 310 . 60 103 . 110 172 . 369 267 55 217 80 191 70 29 282 359 61 105 181 31 158 322 188 277 28 12-1 14G t 394 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. PAGl ii With some good ten of his chosen men, Bernardo hath ap- * peared 169 } Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon .... 109 ' Ye mariners of England 141 i You know, we French stormed Ratisbon .... 278 f ■; Your horse is faint, my King — my Lord! .... 166 t You spotted snakes with double tongue .... 33 I 18993 ms^m UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 273 298 o wrnrn^ wmm- .■>^ *,■?»"■ v •*<'nB ,:;i«(;'y^.-.c ^liS^Sjii^ s»i«(V3&i2oid ■x-»4S»iSsN!sJ!