THE POETIC OLD WOKLD L.H. HUMPHREY 5s THE POETIC OLD-WORLD UNIFORM WITH THE POETIC OLD-WORLD THE OPEN ROAD A little book for wayfarers. Compiled by E. V. Lucas. Some 125 poems from over 60 authors, including Fitzgerald. Shelley, Shakes- peare, Kenneth Grahame, Stevenson, Whitman, Browning, Keats, Wordsworth, Matthew Arnold. Tennyson, William Mor- ris, Maurice Hewlett, Isaak Walton, Wil- liam Barnes, Herrick, Lamb, etc. " A very charming book from cover to cover. " Dial. THE FRIENDLY TOWN A little book for the urbane. Compiled by E. V. Lucas. Over 200 selections in verse and prose from 100 authors, including James R. Lowell, Burroughs, Herrick, Thackeray, Scott, Vaughn, Milton, Cowley, Browning, Stevenson, Henley, Longfellow, Keats, Swift, Meredith, Lamb, Lang, Dobson, Pepys, Addison, Holmes, and Lovelace. "Would have delighted Charles Lamb." The Nation. Each, cloth, $1.50 net; leather, $2.50 net. HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK THE POETIC OLD-WORLD A Little Book for Tourists COMPILED BY LUCY H. HUMPHREY ' For wheresoe'er I turn my ravished eyes, Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise, Poetic fields encompass me around, And still I seem to tread on classic ground." Addison. NEW YORK HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 1908 COPYRIGHT, 1908, BY HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY. Published, June, 1908. PREFACE WHEN travelling in Europe, I have often longed for a small volume of the most famous poems associated with historic and classic localities. While it is a pleasure to read such poems at home after the journey is done, it is more of a joy to identify haunting lines and to refresh one's memory with familiar poems in the places them- selves and before impressions have become dim. With this thought, I have arranged the present book in the order of a possible itinerary, which brings together poems relating to places near each other. I did not know of Miss Du Bois's " Poems for Travelers" until "The Poetic Old-World" was practically completed. The two books, however, have only fifty poems in common, and cover ground so different that I suspect that the pos- sessor of either will be apt to want the other. I wish gratefully to acknowledge some valuable suggestions from Mr. Henry S. Pancoast, the well-known authority on English literature and also a compiler of a volume of " Standard Eng- lish Poems." 2046891 VI PREFACE Acknowledgment is also made to the following authors and publishers, who have kindly per- mitted the use of copyright poems in this volume : to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for two poems by Mr. William E. Henley and lines from Robert Louis Stevenson's Underwoods ; to Messrs. Dodd, Mead & Co. for Mr. Austin Dobson's sonnet Don Quixote and the translation of Carcassonne from The Bookman ; to the J. B. Lippincott Company for two poems of Thomas B. Read ; to Messrs. Macmillan & Co. for the sonnet from Mr. Andrew Lang's Odyssey; to The Century Company for Clovelly and Tintagel by Aubrey de Vere, and lines from Clevedon Church by Mr. Andrew Lang from The Centuiy Magazine ; to the family of the late William Allen Butler for his poem Vaucluse ; to Mr. William Butler Yeats for The Lake Isle of Innisfree ; and to Mr. Marion Mills Miller for lines from his translation of the eighth and ninth idyls of Theocritus (Badger, Boston). The poems by Longfellow, Aldrich, W. W. Story, and J. R. Lowell are used by permission of and by special arrangement with Messrs- Hough ton, Mifflin & Co., publishers of their works. L. H. H. TABLE OF CONTENTS THE VOYAGE PAGE EN ROUTE A. H. Clough . 3 I'M ON THE SEA . . . B. Cornwall . 4 To SEA, To SEA ! . . . T. L. Beddoes . 4 A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE . F.pes Sargent . 5 FROM PARACELSUS . . . A'. Browning . 6 IRELAND SILENT, O MOYLE . . . Thomas Moore . II Cork THE BELLS OF SHANDON . . rather Prout . 12 Lakes of Killarney SWEET INNISFALLEN . . . Thomas Moore . 14 Blarney BLARNEY CASTLE . . . Samuel Lover , 16 Tar a THE HARP THAT ONCE, THRO' TARA'S HALLS . . . Thomas Moore . 17 Innisfree, Lotigh Gill THE LAKE ISLE OF INNISFREE . W. B, Yeats , 18 viii TABLE OF CONTENTS Farewell to Ireland PAGE ON LEAVING IRELAND . . Colum Kill . . 19 ODE TO IRELAND . . . King Alfred . 20 ENGLAND English Lakes FROM AN EVENING WALK. . W. Wordsworth . 25 THERE WAS A BOY ... 25 ISLAND ON THE I.AKE . " 27 BRATHAY CHURCH ... " .28 I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD " .29 FROM How THE WATER COMES DOWN AT LODORE . . R. Southey . . 30 Coventry GODIVA A. Tennyson . 31 Warwick WARWICK G. Crabbe . . 34 Oxford OXFORD W. Wordsworth , 38 BEAUTIFUL CITY ! so VENERABLE Matthew Arnold . 38 THE SCHOLAR GYPSY ... " -39 Stratford- on- Avon SHAKESPEARE . . . . D. Garrick . . 50 EPITAPH John Milton . 51 GUILIELMUS REX . . . , T. B. Aldrich . 51 TABLE OF CONTENTS ix Cambridge PAGE WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL W, Wordsworth . 52 Ely CANUTE W. Wordsworth . 53 Stoke Pogis ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD .... Thomas Gray . 54 London A MIGHTY MASS OF BRICK . Lord Byron . . 59 To LIVE IN LONDON . . . R. Leighton . . 60 ST. MARGARET'S BELLS . . W. E. Henley . 60 UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE . W. Wordsworth . 62 ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY F. Beaumont . 62 IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY . . T. B. Aldrich . 63 THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF JOHN GILPIN . W. Cowper . . 64 LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS Matthew Arnold . 75 Canterbury FROM THE PROLOGUE TO THE CANTERBURY TALES . . G. Chaucer . . 77 Dover DOVER CLIFFS . . . . W. Shakespeare . 78 DOVER BEACH .... Matthew Arnold . 79 X TABLE OF CONTENTS Came lot PAGE LINES IV. Shakespeare . 81 Now FOR THE CENTRAL DIA- MOND . . . . . A.*Tennyson . 8 1 THE LADY OF SHALOTT . " .81 Farringford, Isle of Wight FROM To THE REV. F. D. MAURICE A. Tennyson . 88 Sarum Plain SARUM PLAIN . . . . C. Palmore . . 88 Glastonbury AT THE TOMB OF KING ARTHUR A. de Vere . . 92 Clovelly and Tintagel TENDEREST CLOVELLY . . A. de Vere . . 94 Clevedon FROM IN MEMORIAM . . A. Tennyson . 95 CLEVEDON CHURCH . . . Andrnv Lang . 96 The Wye TINTERN ABBEY . W. Wordsworth . 97 Caerleon-upon- Usk LINES M. Draylon . 103 FROM ENID . - . . . A. Tennyson . 104 TABLE OF CONTENTS SCOTLAND Af el rose Abbey PAGE FROM THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL .... Walter Scott . 107 Roslin Chapel ROSABELLE Walter Scott . 1 08 Edinburgh WRITTEN IN EDINBURGH . . A. H. Hallam . no FROM MARMIOX . . . . Walter Scott . no FROM A WINDOW IN PRINCES STREET W.E.Henley . 112 Scottish Lakes FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE Walter Scott . 113 THE TROSSACHS . . . . W. Wordsworth . 120 Ayr THE BANKS o' DOON . . . Robert Burns . 121 FROM THE BRIGS OF AYR . " . 121 TAM o' SHANTER ... " .124 FingaFs Cave FINGAL'S CAVE .... John Keats . . 131 HOLLAND Rotterdam ROTTERDAM .... Thomas Hood . 137 xii TABLE OF CONTENTS Leyden PAGE ROBINSON OF LEYDEN . . O. W. Holmes . 139 Amsterdam IN THE BELFRY OF THE NIEUWE KERK ..... T. B. Aldrich . 141 Dordrecht NIGHTFALL IN DORDRECHT . Eugene Field . 142 BELGIUM Antwerp and Bruges ANTWERP AND BRUGES . . D. G. Rossetti . 147 Bruges BRUGES W. Wordsworth . 148 THE BELFRY OF BRUGES -. . H. W. Longfellow 148 Brussels THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO Lord Byron . . 154 GERMANY DES DEUTSCHEN VATERLAND . . M. Arndt . 158 TRANSLATION . . . . /. Macray . .159 Aix-la-Chapelle AIX-LA-CHAPELLE . W. Wordsworth . 162 TABLE OF CONTENTS xiii Cologne PAGE LIED H. Heine . . 162 TRANSLATION . . . . E. A. Bowring . 163 The Rhine THE RHINE .... Lord Byron . . 164 A THOUGHT FROM THE RHINE . Charles Kingsley . 165 DIE LORELEI . . . . H. Heine . .166 TRANSLATION .... Edinburgh Review 167 GOD'S JUDGMENT ON HATTO . R. Southey . . 168 iingen BINGEN ON THE RHINE . . Hon. Mrs. Norton 171 Rudesheim RHEINSAGE . . . . . E. Geibel . .174 TRANSLATION . . . . W. W. Caldwell . 175 Wetzlar SORROWS OF WERTHER . . W. M. Thackeray 178 Strasburg TAULER /. G. Whittier . 178 Near Munich HOHENLINDEN . T. Campbell. . 182 Nuremberg NUREMBERG . . . . H. W. Longfellow 183 Wurtzburg WALTER VON DER VOGELWEID . H. W. Longfellow 187 XIV TABLE OF CONTENTS Harz Mountains PAGE HEINE Matthew Arnold . 190 DIE ILSE //. Heine . .192 TRANSLATION . . . ./,.//. Humphrey . 193 LINES WRITTEN AT ELBINGEROUE S. T. Coleridge . 194 Eisenach SAINT ELIZABETH . . . IV. IV. Story . 195 LUTHER IN THE WARTBURG . //. W. Longfellow 198 Ilmennu WANDRERS NACHTLIED . . J. IV. von Goethe 200 TRANSLATION . . . . H. W. Longfellow 201 Hameln THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN . R. Browning . 202 FRANCE Rotten PLACE DE LA PUCELLE . . Maria Lowell . 215 FROM JOAN OF ARC . . . T. De Quincey . 216 Paris FROM AURORA LEIGH . . E. B. Browning . 216 LEONARDO'S " MONA LISA " . E. Dowden . . . 217 SOUVENIR D'ENFANCE. . . Victor Hugo . 218 TRANSLATION .... Sir George Young 219 THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE W. M. Thackeray 228 TABLE OF CONTENTS XV Rheims PAGE FROM JOAN OF ARC . . . R. Southey . .231 Domremy FROM JOAN OF ARC . . . R. Southey . . 233 Chartres FROM THE CATHEDRAL . . /. R. Lowell . 235 Bourg THE CHURCH OF BROU . . Matthew Arnold . 235 Near Grenoble STANZAS FROM LA GRANDE CHARTREUSE . . . - . Matthew Arnold . 243 Chamouni HYMN, BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI . . S. T. Coleridge . 246 MONT BLANC . . . . . P. B. Shelley . 249 Vaitd use VAUCLUSE . -.''. . . Leigh Hunt . .255 VAUCLUSE IV. A. Butler , 256 THE FOUNTAIN AT VAUCLUSE . Sir W. Jones . 256 CANZONE XI ." ... .. F. Petrarca . . 258 TRANSLATION .... Leigh Hunt . . 259 SONETTO XII . . V -' . F. Petrarca . . 260 TRANSLATION .... Major MacGregor 261 SONETTO LI I . . . . F. Petrarca . . 262 TRANSLATION . . . . A. Banner/nan . 263 xvi TABLE OF CONTENTS Carcassonne PAGE CARCASSONNE .... G.Naudaud. . 264 TRANSLATION .... Bookman . . 265 SWITZERLAND Lake Geneva SONNET Lord Byron . . 271 Clarens CLARENS! SWEET CLARENS . Lord Byron . . 271 Chilian THE PRISONER OF CHILLON . Lord Byron . . 272 THE LAKE OF GENEVA . . Samuel Rogers . 284 Glion FROM OBERMANN ONCE MORE . Matthew Arnold . 285 Martigny MORNING IN MARTIGNY . . T. B. Read . . 287 St. Bernard Pass THE GREAT ST. BERNARD . . Samuel Rogers . 288 Lucerne THE COVERED BRIDGE AT LU- CERNE II. W. Longfellow 291 THE ALPS ... . . . W. Wordsworth . 296 TABLE OF CONTENTS xvii Engelberg PAGE ENGELBERG W. Wordsworth . 296 Pilatus MOUNT PILATE .... Edwin Arnold . 297 Lake Lucerne FROM WILHELM TELL . . F. von Schiller . 298 TRANSLATION . . . . C. T. Brooks . 299 Kiissnacht FROM WILHELM TELL . . F. von Schiller . 300 TRANSLATION . . . . C. T. Brooks . 301 Simplon Pass THE SIMPLON PASS . W. Wordsworth . 308 ITALY ITALY SWEET Too! . . . John Keats . -3" AM I IN ITALY? .' . . Samuel Rogers . 312 Lake Conio CADENABBIA . . . . H. W. Longfellow 312 FROM COMO .... Samuel Kogers . 314 Milan THE LAST SUPPER, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI . . . . W. Wordsworth . 315 xviii TABLE OF CONTENTS Lake Garda PAGE FROM L' INKERNO . . . Dante . . .316 TRANSLATION . . . . J. A. Carlyle . 317 Verona FROM ROMEO AND JULIET. . W. Shakespeare . 318 DANTE AT VERONA . . . D. G. Rossetti . 320 Padua FROM TAMING OF THE SHREW . W. Shakespeare . 324 Asolo FROM PIPPA PASSES . . . R. Browning . 324 Venice VENICE . . . . . /. A. Symonds . 325 FROM JULIAN AND MADDALO . P. B. Shelley . 326 I STOOD IN VENICE, ON THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS . . . Lord Byron . . 326 THE PIAZZA OF ST. MARK AT MIDNIGHT . ... . T. B. Aldrich . 330 Ravenna SONETTO CVIII . . . . . G. Boccaccio . 332 TRANSLATION . . . . F. C. Gray . . 333 FROM RAVENNA .... Lord Byron . . 332 Fano THE GUARDIAN ANGEL . . R. Browning . 333 TABLE OF CONTENTS XIX Florence PAGE FRI IM CASA GUIDI WINDOWS . E. B. Browning . 336 ANDREA DEL SARTO . . . R. Browning . 339 THE OLD BRIDGE AT FLORENCE //. W. Longfellow 348 GIOTTO'S TOWER ... " 349 THE STATUE AND THE BUST . K. Browning . 350 Vallombrosa THICK AS AUTUMNAL LEAVES . John Milton . 360 Pisa EVENING. PONTE A MARE . P. B. Shelley . 361 Siena FROM SIENA . . . . A. C.Swinburne. 362 Assisi THE SERMON OF ST. FRANCIS . //. W. Longfellow 363 Alban Hills THE VILLA. ... . W. IV. Story . 365 Saline Hills FROM EPISTOLA XVI . . . Horace . . 366 TRANSLATION . . .:. . . W. C. Lawton . 367 Rome FROM HORATIUS AT THE BRIDGE T. B. Macaulay . 368 FROM THE RING AND THE BOOK R. Browning . 373 THE BISHOP ORDERS HIS TOMB . R, B> owning . 374 XX TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE THE COLISEUM .... Lord Byron . 379 THE SHADOW OF THE OBELISK T. IV. Parsons . 381 THE ARCH OF TITUS . . . A. de Vere . . 385 ST. PETER'S BY MOONLIGHT . " 386 THREE FLOWERS . . . T. B. Aldrich . 387 Monte Cassino MONTE CASSINO . . . . H. IV. Longfellow 388 Terracina FOREIGN TRAVEL . . . Samuel Rogers . 391 Naples STANZAS, WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES . . . . P. B. Shelley . 392 DRIFTING . . . . '/'. B. Read . . 394 Pompeii POMPEII ..... Samuel Rogers . 397 Vesuvius VESUVIUS Martial . . 400 TRANSLATION . . . . J. Addison . .401 Sorrento FROM THE ODYSSEY . . . Homer . . . 400 TRANSLATION . . . . W*C. Bryant . 401 THE ENGLISHMAN IN ITALY . R. Browning . 406 Amalfi. AMALFI . , . . . If. IV. Longfellow 416 Paeslum FROM PAESTUM .... Samuel Rogers . 419 TABLE OF CONTENTS SICILY PAGE FROM /ENEIS .... Virgil . . 420 TRANSLATION .... C P. Cranch 421 MORNING ON ETNA . Matthew Arnold . 422 CALLICLES' SONG OF APOLLO " . 422 FROM yNEis . . . Virgil . . 424 TRANSLATION . . C P Cranch 4.2? ARETHUSA . . . P. B. Shelley T"^J 424 PALERMO H. E. King . . 428 FOR A COPY OF THEOCRITUS . A its tin Dobson . 429 FROM IDYL VIII Theocritus . 430 TRANSLATION . M. M. Miller 431 FROM IDYL IX . . . Theocritus . 432 TRANSLATION .. M. M. Miller 433 SPAIN HOME-THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA R. Browning 437 SPAIN ...... George Eliot 437 CASTLES IN SPAIN H. W. Longfello 439 DON QUIXOTE Austin Dobson . 442 GIBRALTAR . ... W. S. Blunt 443 Granada LE SOUPIR DU MORE. T. Gautier . . 444 TRANSLATION * . C. F. Bates . 445 THE MULETEERS OF GRANADA . T. Moore . 446 FROM THE ALHAMBRA W. Irving . . 448 Seville IN SEVILLE Lord Byron 449 xxii TABLE OF CONTENTS Cordova PACE ALMANSOR //. Heine . .450 TRANSLATION . . . . C. G. Leland . 451 Ateca FROM POEMA DEL ClD 460 TRANSLATION , .. . . /. //. Frere . .461 Toledo FROM TOLEDO . . . . Walter Scott . 468 La Coruna THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE Charles Wolfe . 469 GREECE THE ODYSSEY . . . . Andrew iMng . 473 FROM ULYSSES . . . . -A. Tennyson . 473 ODE ON A GRECIAN URN . . John Keats . . 474 THE ISLES OF GREECE . . Lord Byron . 476 Corfu FROM THE ODYSSEY . . . Homer. . . 480 TRANSLATION . . . . W. C. Bryant . 481 Ithaca ( Thiaki) FROM THE ODYSSEY . . . Homer . . . 486 TRANSLATION . . . . \V. C.Bryant . 487 Lettcadia {Santa Maura) LEUCADIA Lord Byron . . 488 TABLE OF CONTENTS xxiii Zacynthus (^Zante) PAGE To ZANTE E. A. Poe . . 490 Athens ATHENS . . - . . . John Milton . 490 THE MAID OF ATHENS . . Lord Byron . . 492 ACADEME ..... Edwin Arnold . 493 FROM CEoipus AT COI.ONUS . Sophocles . . 494 TRANSLATION . " < . , . p. ColeriJge . 495 Salamis {Kolourf) FROM THE PERSIANS . . . ALschylus . . 500 TRANSITION . . . . /. S. Blackie . 501 Corinth To CORINTH . . . . W. S. Lane/or . 506 Parnassus PARNASSUS Lord Byron . . 509 Thessalia ( Thessaly} THE SHEPHERD OF KING AD- METUS ..... J.R.Lowell . 510 THE RETURN FROM SONGS IN ABSENCE . . A. H. dough . 512 WHERE LIES THE LAND ? . " " . 512 THE VOYAGE And when, in other climes, we meet Some isle or vale enchanting, Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, And nought but love is wanting; We think how great had been our bliss If heaven had but assign 'd us To live and die in scenes like this, With some we've left behind us ! Thomas Moore En Route ^> ^> ** (From Amours de Voyage) the great windy waters, and over the clear-crested summits, Unto the sun and the sky, and unto the perfecter earth, Come, let us go, to a land wherein gods of the old time wandered, Where every breath even now changes to ether divine. Come, let us go; though withal a voice whisper, " The world that we live in, Whithersoever we turn, still is the same narrow crib; 'Tis but to prove limitation, and measure a cord, that we travel; Let who would 'scape and be free go to his chamber and think; 'Tis but to change idle fancies for memories wil- fully falser; 'Tis but to go and have been." Come, little bark ! let us go. Arthur Hugh Clough. 3 THE VOYAGE From The Sea T'M on the sea ! I'm on the sea ! -* I am where I would ever be; With the blue above, and the blue below, And silence wheresoe'er I go; If a storm should come and awake the deep, What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. I love, O, how I love to ride On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, When every mad wave drowns the moon Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, And tells how goeth the world below, And why the sou'west blasts do blow. Barry Cornwall. To Sea, To Sea <^ ^ *^ '"PO sea,, to sea ! The calm is o'er ; The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly shore ; The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort, And unseen Mermaids' pearly song Conies bubbling up, the weeds among. Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: To sea, to sea ! the calm is o'er. To sea, to sea ! our wide-wing'd bark Shall billowy cleave its sunny way, And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the cav'd Tritons' azure day, ON THE OCEAN Like mighty eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height. The anchor heaves, the ship swings free, The sails swell full. To sea, to sea ! Thomas Lovell Beddoes. A Life on the Ocean Wave ^> *^y A LIFE on the ocean wave, "*^ A home on the rolling deep, Where the scattered waters rave, And the winds their revels keep ! Like an eagle caged, I pine On this dull, unchanging shore; Oh ! give me the flashing brine, The spray and the tempest's roar ! Once more on the deck I stand Of my own swift-gliding craft: Set sail ! farewell to the land ! The gale follows fair abaft. We shoot through the sparkling foam Like an ocean-bird set free ; Like the ocean-bird, our home We'll find far out on the sea. The land is no longer in view, The clouds have begun to frown; But with a stout vessel and crew, We'll say, Let the storm come down ! 6 THE VOYAGE And the song of our hearts shall be, While the winds and the waters rave, A home on the rolling sea ! A life on the ocean wave ! Epes Sargent. From Paracelsus <^ <^> /'"^VER the sea our galleys went, ^""^ With cleaving prows in order brave To a speeding wind and a bounding wave A gallant armament: Each bark built out of a forest-tree Left leafy and rough as first it grew. And nailed all over its gaping sides, W r ithin and without, with black bull-hides, Seethed in fat and suppled in flame, To bear the playful billows' game: So, each good ship was rude to see, Rude and bare to the outward view, But each upbore a stately tent Where cedar pales in scented row Kept out the flakes of the dancing brine, And an awning drooped the mast below, In fold on fold of the purple fine, That neither noontide nor starshine Nor moonlight cold which maketh mad, Might pierce the regal tenement. When the sun dawned, oh, gay and glad We set the sail and plied the oar; ON THE OCEAN 7 But when the night-wind blew like breath, For joy of one day's voyage more, We sang together on the wide sea, Like men at peace on a peaceful shore ; Each sail was loosed to the wind so free, Each helm made sure by the twilight star, And in a sleep as calm as death, We, the voyagers from afar, Lay stretched along, each weary crew In a circle round its wondrous tent Whence gleamed soft light and curled rich scent, And with light and perfume, music, too: So the stars wheeled round, and the darkness past, And at morn we started beside the mast, And still each ship was sailing fast. Now, one morn, land appeared a speck Dim trembling betwixt sea and sky: "Avoid it," cried our pilot, "check The shout, restrain the eager eye !" But the heaving sea was black behind For many a night and many a day, And land, though but a ruck, drew nigh; So, we broke the cedar pales away, Let the purple awning flap in the wind, And a statue bright was on every deck ! We shouted, every man of us, And steered right into the harbor thus, With pomp and paean glorious. Robert IRELAND The groves of Blarney they look so charming, Down by the purlings of sweet silent brooks All decked by posies, that spontaneous grow there, Planted in order in the rocky nooks. R. A. Milliken. ! was I but so fortunate As to be back in Munster, 'Tis I'd be bound that from that ground 1 never more would once stir. For there St. Patrick planted turf, And plenty of the praties, With pigs galore, ma gra, ma 'store, And cabbages and ladies ! Then my blessing on St. Patrick's fist, For he's the darling saint O I Henry Bennett, Silent, O Moyle <^ o o o (Tara. A place in County Meath, famous in the early history oj Ireland as a royal residence.) T^HE harp that once, thro' Tara's halls, * The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute, on Tara's walls, As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more. No more, to chiefs and ladies bright, The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells : Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that she still lives. Thomas Moore. I 8 IRELAND The Lake Isle of Innisfree ^> (Innisfree, Lough Gill) T WILL arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, - 1 - And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made; Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee, And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where . the cricket sings; There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet's wings. I will arise and go now, for always, night and day, I hear lake-water lapping with low sounds by the shore ; While I stand on the roadway or on the pavements gray, I hear it in the heart's deep core. William Butler Yeats. IRELAND 19 On Leaving Ireland l ^r -^ *z> ^> \~\TE are rounding Moy-n-Olurg, we sweep by * its head and We plunge through the Foyle, Whose swans could enchant with their music the dead and Make pleasure of toil. . . . Oh, Erin, were wealth my desire, what a wealth were To gain far from thee, In the land of the stranger, but there even health were A sickness to me ! Alas for the voyage, oh, high King of Heaven, Enjoined upon me, For that I on the red plain of bloody Cooldrevin Was present to see. How happy the son is of Dima; no sorrow For him is designed, He is having this hour, round his own Kill in Dur- row, The wish of his mind. The sound of the wind in the elms, like the strings of A harp being played, The note of the blackbird that claps with the wings of Delight in the glade. ' From Ireland: Historic and Picturesque, by Charles Johnston. 20 IRELAND With him in Ros-grenca the cattle are lowing At earliest dawn, On the brink of the summer the pigeons are cooing And doves on the lawn. . . . Colum Kill, "St. Colum of the Churches." From An Ode to Ireland 1 *z> *z> z> <^> T TRAVELLED its fruitful provinces round, -* And in every one of the five I found, Alike in church and in palace hall, Abundant apparel and food for all. Gold and silver I found and money, Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey; I found God's people rich in pity ; Found many a feast and many a city . . . I found in each great church, moreo'er, Whether on Ireland or on shore, Piety, learning, fond affection, Holy welcome and kind protection . . . I found in Munster unfettered of any Kings and queens and poets a many, Poets well skilled in music and measure; Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. I found in Connacht the just, redundance Of riches, milk in lavish abundance ; Hospitality, vigor, fame, From Ireland: Historic and Picturesque, by Charles Johnston. ;. Winston Co., Publishers. Philadelphia. By permission of the John C. IRELAND 21 In Cruacan's land of heroic name . . . I found in Ulster, from hill to glen, Hardy warriors, resolute men, Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone, And strength transmitted from sire to son . . . I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, From Dublin to Slewmargy's peak, Flourishing pastures, valor, health, Song-loving worthies, commerce, wealth . . . I found in Meath's fair principality Virtue, vigor, and hospitality; Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity Ireland's bulwark and security. I found strict morals in age and youth, I found historians recording truth. The things I sing of in verse unsmooth I found them all; I have written sooth. King Alfred travelled for several years in Ireland and wrote this on his departure. ENGLAND This precious stone set in the silver sea, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England. William Shakespeare. A ripple of land; such little hills the sky Can stoop to tenderly, and the wheatfields climb; Such nooks of valleys lined with orchises, Fed full of noises by invisible streams; The open pastures where you scarcely tell White daisies from white dew; at intervals The mythic oaks and elm trees standing out Self-poised upon their prodigy of shade, I thought my father's land was worthy too Of being my Shakespeare's. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And one, an English home gray twilight pour'd On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace. Alfred Tennyson. From An Evening Walk -^ ^> x ^ (English Lakes) T7AR from my dearest Friend, 'tis mine to rove -*- Through bare gray dell, high wood, and pastoral cove; His wizard course where hoary Derwent takes, Thro' crags and forest glooms and opening lakes, Staying his silent waves, to hear the roar That stuns the tremulous cliffs of high Lodore; Where peace to Grasmere's lonely island leads, To willowy hedge-rows and to emerald meads: Leads to her bridge, rude church, and cottaged grounds, Her rocky sheepwalks, and her woodland bounds; Where, bosom'd deep, the shy Winander peeps 'Mid clustering isles, and holly-sprinkled steeps : Where twilight glens endear my Esthwaite's shore, And memory of departed pleasures more. William Wordsworth. There was a Boy ^^ ^ ^> ^ ^ (English Lakes) HTHERE was a boy; ye knew him well, ye cliffs . And islands of Winander ! Many a time, At evening, when the earliest stars began 25 26 ENGLAND To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone, Beneath the trees, or by the glimmering lake; And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Press'd closely palm to palm, and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him. And they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos, and screams, and echoes loud Redoubled and redoubled ; concourse wild Of mirth and jocund din ! And, when it chanced That pauses of deep silence mock'd his skill, Then, sometimes, in that silence, while he hung Listening, a gentle shock of mild surprise Has carried far into his heart the voice Of mountain torrents; or the visible scene Would enter unawares into his mind With all its solemn imagery, its rocks, Its woods, and that uncertain heaven, received Into the bosom of the steady lake. This boy was taken from his mates, and died In childhood, ere he was full twelve years old. Fair are the woods, and beauteous is the spot, The vale where he was born; the Churchyard hangs Upon a slope above the village school; ENGLISH LAKES 27 And there, along that bank, when I have pass'd At evening, I believe that oftentimes A long half-hour together I have stood Mute looking at the grave in which he lies ! William Wordsworth. Island on the Lake ^ ^ ^ <^ (From The Excursion, Book IX) (English Lakes) /^RATEFUL task ! to me V* Pregnant with recollections of the time When on thy bosom, spacious Windermere ! A Youth, I practised this delightful art ; Tossed on the waves alone, or 'mid a crew Of joyous comrades. Now the reedy marge Cleared, with a strenuous arm I dipped the oar Free from obstruction ; and the boat advanced Through crystal water, smoothly as a hawk That, disentangled from the shady boughs Of some thick wood, her place of covert, cleaves With corresponding wings the abyss of air. "Observe," the vicar said, "yon rocky isle With birch trees fringed; my hand shall guide the helm, While thitherward we bend our course; or while We seek that other, on the western shore, Where the bare columns of those lofty firs, 28 ENGLAND Supporting gracefully a massy dome Of sombre foliage, seem to imitate A Grecian temple rising from the Deep." William Wordsworth. Brathay Church ^* <^ <^ ^y ^ (From The Excursion, Book V) (English Lakes) SO we descend, and winding round a rock, Attain a point that showed the valley stretched In length before us; and, not distant far, Upon a rising ground a gray Church-tower, Whose battlements were screened by tufted trees. And towards a crystal Mere, that lay beyond Among steep hills and woods embosomed, flowed A copious stream with boldly-winding course ; Here traceable, there hidden there again To sight restored, and glittering in the sun. On the stream's bank, .and everywhere, ap- peared Fair dwellings, single, or in social knots; Some scattered o'er the level, others perched On the hillsides, a cheerful quiet scene, Now in its morning purity arrayed. William Wordsworth. ENGLISH LAKES 29 I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud (English Lakes') (Written at Town-end, Grasmere. The daffodils grew and still grow on the margin of Ullswater, and probably may be seen to this day as beautiful in the month of March, nodding their golden heads beside the dancing and foaming waves. Wordsworth.) T WANDERED lonely as a cloud -^ That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay : Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced ; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee : A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company ; I gazed and gazed but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought ; For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, 30 ENGLAND They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills And dances with the daffodils. William Wordsworth. From How the Water comes down at Lodore (English Lakes) TTERE it comes sparkling, * -* And there it lies darkling, Here smoking and frothing, Its tumult and wrath in. It hastens along conflicting strong; Now striking and raging, As if a war waging, Its caverns and rocks among ; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and flinging, Showering and springing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting Around and around, Collecting, disjecting, With endless rebound ; Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in, COVENTRY 3! Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening The ear with its sound. Robert Southey. Godiva, '^^ "-^ "c^ / ^> ^y < ci (Coventry) T WAITED for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend intojhis : Not only we, the latest seed of Time, New men, that in the flying of a wheel Cry down the past, not only we, that prate Of rights and wrongs, have loved the people well, And loathed to see them overtax 'd; but she Did more, and underwent, and overcame, The woman of a thousand summers back, Godiva, wife to that grim Earl, who ruled In Coventry : for when he laid a tax Upon his town, and all the mothers brought Their children, clamoring, "If we pay, we starve ! " She sought her lord, and found him, where he strode About the hall, among his dogs, alone, His beard a foot before him, and his hair A yard behind. She told him of their tears, And pray'd him, "If they pay this tax they starve." Whereat he stared, replying, half-amazed, "You would not let your little finger ache 32 ENGLAND For such as these?" "But I would die," said she. He laugh'd, and swore by Peter and by Paul : Then fillip'd at the diamond in her ear ; "O, ay, ay, ay, you talk !" "Alas!" she said, "But prove me what it is I would not do." And from a heart as rough as Esau's hand, He answer'd, "Ride you naked thro' the town, And I repeal it; " and nodding, as in scorn, He parted, with great strides among his dogs. So left alone, the passions of her mind, As winds from all the compass shift and blow, Made war upon each other for an hour, Till pity won. She sent a herald forth, And bade him cry, with sound of trumpet, all The hard condition, but that she would loose The people; therefore, as they loved her well, From then till noon no foot should pace the street, No eye look down, she passing; but that all Should keep within, door shut, and window barr'd. Then fled she to her inmost bower, and there Unclasp'd the wedded eagles of her belt, The grim Earl's gift ; but ever at a breath She linger'd, looking like a summer moon Half-dipt in cloud : anon she shook her head, And shower'd the rippled ringlets to her knee; Unclad herself in haste; adown the stair Stole on; and, like a creeping sunbeam, slid From pillar unto pillar, until she reach'd The gateway; there she found her palfrey trapt In purple blazon'd with armorial gold. COVENTRY 33 Then she rode forth, clothed on with chastity. The deep air listen 'd round her as she rode, And all the low wind hardly breathed for fear. The little wide-mouth'd heads upon the spout Had cunning eyes to see ; the barking cur Made her cheek flame; her palfrey's footfall shot Light horrors thro' her pulses ; the blind walls Were full of chinks and holes; and overhead Fantastic gables, crowding, stared; but she Not less thro' all bore up, till, last, she saw The white-flower'd elder-thicket from the field Gleam thro' the Gothic archway in the wall. Then she rode back, clothed on with chastity. And one low churl, compact of thankless earth, The fatal byword of all years to come, Boring a little auger-hole in fear, Peep'd but his eyes, before they had their will, Were shrivell'd into darkness in his head, And dropt before him. So the Powers, who wait On noble deeds, cancell'd a sense misused; And she, that knew not, pass'd ; and all at once With twelve great shocks of sound, the shameless noon Was clash'd and hammer'd from a hundred towers, One after one; but even then she gain'd Her bower, whence reissuing, robed and crown'd, To meet her lord, she took the tax away And built herself an everlasting name. Alfred Tennyson. 34 ENGLAND Lines written at Warwick ^> ^> ^> (Warwick) TUT AIL! centre-county of our land, and known For matchless worth and valor all thine own, Warwick ! renowned for him who best could write, Shakespeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight, Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly, And giants fall, who has not heard of Guy ? Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms, To gain immortal glory by his arms, Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintained, The prize of beauty over Venus gained ; For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot That marred some beauty, which our nymph had not: But this apart, for in a favorite theme Poets and lovers are allowed to dream, Still we believe the lady and her knight Were matchless both, he in the glorious fight, She in the bower by day, and festive hall by night. Urged by his love, the adventurous Guy proceeds, And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds; Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, However weak, the certain conquest gains; On every side the routed legions fly, Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy: WARWICK 35 To him the injured make their sufferings known, And he relieved all sorrows but his own; Ladies who owed their freedom to his might Were grieved to find his heart another's right. The brood of giants, famous in those times, Fell by his arm, and perished for their crimes. Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought, When he the crown of good Athelstan sought, Fell by the prowess of our champion brave, And his huge body found an English grave. But what to Guy were men or great or small, Or one or many? he despatched them all; A huge dun cow, the dread of all around, A master-spirit in our hero found : 'Twas desolation all about her den, Her sport was murder, and her meals were men. At Dunmore Heath the monster he assailed, And o'er the fiercest of his foes prevailed. Nor feared he lions, more than lions fear Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear; A fiery dragon, whether green or red The story tells not, by his valor bled : What more I know not, but by these 'tis plain That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain. When much of life in martial deeds was spent, His sovereign lady found her heart relent, 36 ENGLAND And gave her hand. Then all was joy around, And valiant Guy with love and glory crowned; Then Warwick castle wide its gate displayed, And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made. Alas ! not long, a hero knows not rest; A new sensation filled his anxious breast. His fancy brought before his eyes a train Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain ; His dreams presented what his sword had done; He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run, And dying men, with every ghastly wound, Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground. Alarmed at this, he dared no longer stay, But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray, With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray. In vain his Felice sighed, nay, smiled in vain; With all he loved he dare not long remain, But roved he knew not where, nor said, "I come again." The widowed countess passed her years in grief, But sought in alms and holy deeds relief; And many a pilgrim asked, with many a sigh, To give her tidings of the wandering Guy. WARWICK 37 Perverse and cruel ! could it conscience ease, A wife so lovely and so fond to tease ? Or could he not with her a saint become, And, like a quiet man, repent at home? How different those who now this seat possess ! No idle dreams disturb their happiness : The lord who now presides o'er Warwick's towers To nobler purpose dedicates his powers ; No deeds of horror fill his soul with fear, Nor conscience drives him from a home so dear: The lovely Felice of the present day Dreads not her lord should from her presence stray; He feels the charm that binds him to a seat Where love and honor, joy and duty meet. But forty days could Guy his fair afford; Not forty years would weary Warwick's lord : He better knows how charms like hers control All vagrant thoughts, and fill with her the soul; He better knows that not on mortal strife Or deeds of blood depend the bliss of life, But on the ties that first the heart enchain, And every grace that bids the charm remain : Time will, we know, to beauty work despite, And youthful bloom will take with him its flight; But love shall still subsist, and, undecayed, Feel not one change of all that time has made. George Crabbe. 38 ENGLAND Oxford <^ ^> x ^> ^> *^ o \/"E sacred nurseries of blooming youth ! * In whose collegiate shelter England's flowers Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth; Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth, Yet, O ye spires of Oxford ! domes and towers ! Gardens and grove ! your presence overpowers The soberness of reason; till, in sooth, Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange, I slight my own beloved Cam, to range Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet, Pace the long avenue, or glide adown The stream-like windings of that glorious street, An eager novice robed in fluttering gown ! William Wordsworth. Oxford ^y ^> *o x ^ <^y (Straiford-on-A von) *T^HOU soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream *- Of things more than mortal sweet Shake- speare would dream, The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain, Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain; The sweet bud of beauty no blight here shall dread, For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. Here youth shall be famed for their love and their truth, And cheerful old age feel the spirit of youth ; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallowed the turf is that pillowed his head. Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow ! Be the swans on thy borders still whiter than snow! Ever full be thy stream, like his fame may it spread ! And the turf ever hallowed which pillowed his head. David Garrick. STRATFORD-ON-AVON 51 An Epitaph on the Admirable Dramatic Poet, W. Shakespeare x ^ -^ ^> "Cy (Stralford-on-Avon) A 1 /"HAT needs my Shakespeare for his honored bones, The Labor of an age in piled stones ? Or that his hallowed relics should be hid Under a star-y pointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name ? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst to the shame of slow-endeavoring art Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book Those Delphic lines with deep impression took, Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And so sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. John Milton. Guilielmus Rex ^> ^> ^> ^> (Slral ford-on- A von) HTHE folk who lived in Shakespeare's day -* And saw that gentle figure pass By London Bridge, his frequent way They little knew what man he was. 52 ENGLAND The pointed beard, the courteous mien, The equal port to high and low, All this they saw or might have seen But not the light behind the brow. The doublet's modest gray or brown, The slender sword-hilt's plain device, What sign had these for prince or clown ? Few turned or none to scan him twice. Yet 'twas the king of England's kings ! The rest with all their pomp and trains Are mouldered, half -remembered things 'Tis he alone that lives and reigns. Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge (Cambridge) '"PAX not the royal saint with vain expense, *- With ill-match 'd aims the Architect who plann'd (Albeit laboring for a scanty band Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence ! Give all thou canst ; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely calculated less or more : So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof ELY 53 Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering and wandering on as loath to die ; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. William Wordsworth. Canute <^ <> ^y (Ely) A PLEASANT music floats along the mere, From monks in Ely chanting service high, While as Canute the king is rowing by. "My oarsmen," quoth the mighty king, "draw near, That we the sweet song of the monks may hear." He listens (all past conquests and all schemes Of future vanishing like empty dreams), Heart-touched and haply not without a tear. The royal minstrel ere the choir is still, While his free barge skims the smooth flood along, Gives to that rapture an accordant rhyme. O suffering Earth ! be thankful ; sternest clime And rudest age are subject to the thrill Of heaven-descended piety and song. William Wordsworth. 54 ENGLAND Elegy written in a Country Churchyard ^> (Stoke Pogis) HPHE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, -*- The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me. Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, And alt the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign. Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care : STOKE POGIS 55 No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield ! How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Await alike th' inevitable hour : The paths of glory lead but to the grave. Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. Can storied urn or animated bust Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death ? 56 ENGLAND Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul. Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air. Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade thro' slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; STOKE POGIS 57 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride, With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn 'd to stray; Along the cool, sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, The place of fame and elegy supply: And many a holy text around she strews That teach the rustic moralist to die. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing, anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 58 ENGLAND For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonor'd dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn ; "There at the foot of yonder nodding beech That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by. "Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rave; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn, Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. "One morn I miss'd him on the custom 'd hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; "The next with dirges due in sad array Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." LONDON 59 THE EPITAPH Here rests his head upon the lap of earth A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; Fair science frown 'd not on his humble birth, And melancholy mark'd him for her own. Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere ; Heaven did a recompense as largely send : He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God. Thomas Gray. London ^^ *^ *o ^^ ^>- ^v A MIGHTY mass of brick, and smoke, and ^ shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tip-toe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head, and there is London .Town ! Lord Byron. 60 ENGLAND London <^>. ^x *o ^> ^v ^> HPO live in London was my young wood- dream London, where all the books come from, the lode That draws into its centre from all points The bright steel of the world; where Shakespeare wrote, And Eastcheap is, with all its memories Of gossip Quickly, Falstaff, and Prince Hal; Where are the very stones that Milton trod And Johnson, Garrick, Goldsmith, and the rest, Where even now our Dickens builds a shrine That pilgrims through all time will come to see, London ! whose street names breathe such home to all : Cheapside, the Strand, Fleet Street, and Ludgate Hill, Each name a very story in itself. To live in London ! London, the buskined stage Of history, the archive of the past, The heart, the centre of the living world ! Wake, dreamer, to your village and your work. Robert Leighton, St. Margaret's Bells ^ ^ ^ ^ CT. MARGARET'S bells, ^ Quiring their innocent, old-world canticles, Sing in the storied air All rosy-and-golden, as with memories LONDON 61 Of woods at evensong, and sands and seas Disconsolate for that the night is nigh. Oh, the low, lingering lights ! The large last gleam (Hark ! how those brazen choristers cry and call !) Touching these solemn ancientries, and these, The silent River ranging tide-mark high And the callow, gray-faced Hospital, With the strange glimmer and glamour of a dream ! The Sabbath peace is in the slumbrous trees, And from the wistful, the fast-widowing sky (Hark ! how those plangeant comforters call and cry!) Falls as in August plots late rose leaves fall. The sober Sabbath stir Leisurely voices, desultory feet ! Comes from the dry, dust-colored street, Where in their summer frocks the girls go by, And sweethearts lean and loiter and confer, Just as they did an hundred years ago, Just as an hundred years to come they will : When you and I, dear Love, lie lost and low, And sweet-throats none our welkin shall fulfil, Nor any sunset fade serene and slow; But, being dead, we shall not grieve to die. W. E. Henley. 62 ENGLAND Upon Westminster Bridge ^y -o ^ (London) "HEARTH has not anything to show more fair: -* ' Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky, All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; And all that mighty heart is lying still ! William Wordsworth. On the Tombs in Westminster Abbey ^ (Lonion) TV/TORTALITY, behold and fear *** What a change of flesh is here ! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones ; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." LONDON 63 Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest, royalest seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried, "Though gods they were, as men they died! " Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruin'd sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate. Francis Beaumont. In Westminster Abbey ^> -^ o ^> (London) TREAD softly here ; the sacredest of tombs Are those that hold your Poets. Kings and queens Are facile accidents of Time and Chance. Chance sets them on the heights, they climb not there ! But he who from the darkling mass of men Is on the wing of heavenly thought upborne To finer ether, and becomes a voice For all the voiceless, God anointed him: His name shall be a star, his grave a shrine ! Oh, ever hallowed spot of English earth ! If the unleashed and happy spirit of man 64 ENGLAND Have option to revisit our dull globe, What august shades at midnight here convene In the miraculous sessions of the moon, When the great pulse of London faintly throbs, And one by one the stars in heaven pale ! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. The Diverting History of John Gilpin (London) JOHN Gilpin was a citizen Of credit and renown; A trainband captain eke was he, Of famous London town. John Gilpin's spouse said to her dear, "Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we No holiday have seen. "To-morrow is our wedding day, And we will 'then repair Unto the Bell at Edmonton All in a chaise and pair. "My sister and my sister's child, Myself and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride On horseback after we." LONDON 65 He soon replied, "I do admire Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear; Therefore it shall be done. "I am a linendraper bold, As all the world doth know; And my good friend, the calender, Will lend his horse to go." Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, "That's well said; And, for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own, Which is both bright and clear." John Gilpin kissed his loving wife ; O'er joyed was he to find That, though on pleasure she was bent, She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought: But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed Where they did all get in Six precious souls, and all agog To dash through thick and thin. 66 ENGLAND Smack went the whip, round went the wheels Were never folks so glad; The stones did rattle underneath, As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse's side Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride But soon came down again: For saddletree scarce reached had he, His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw Three customers come in. So down he came: for loss of time, Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, Would trouble him much more. 'Twas long before the customers Were suited to their mind; When Betty, screaming, came down stairs "The wine is left behind!" "Good lack!" quoth he; "yet bring it me, My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword When I do exercise." LONDON 67 Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul !) Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved, And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear, Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side, To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat, He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o'er the stones, With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot, Which galled him in his seat. So, "Fair and softly," John he cried, But John he cried in vain; The trot became a gallop soon, In spite of curb and rein. 68 ENGLAND So stooping down; as needs he must Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands, And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought; Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out, Of running such a rig. The wind did blow the cloak did fly, Like streamer long and gay; Till, loop and button failing both, At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern The bottles he had slung A bottle swinging at each side, As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed, Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, "Well done!" As loud as he could bawl. LONDON 69 Away went Gilpin who but he ? His fame soon spread around "He carries weight! he rides a race! 'Tis for a thousand pound ! " And still as fast as he drew near, 'Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike men Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road, Most piteous to be seen, Which made his horse's flanks to smoke As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight, With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle necks Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington These gambols did he play, Until he came unto the Wash Of Edmonton so gay; 70 ENGLAND And there he threw the wash about On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop, Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much To see how he did ride. " Stop, stop, John Gilpin ! here's the 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 the calender's His horse at last stood still. LONDON 71 The calender, amazed to see His neighbor in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, And thus accosted him: "What news? what news? your tidings tell; Tell me you must and shall Say why bareheaded you are come, Or why you come at all?" Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender In merry guise he spoke : "I came because your horse would come; And, if I well forbode, My hat and wig will soon be here, They are upon the road." The calender, right glad to find His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word, But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig: A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear Each comely in its kind. 72 ENGLAND He held them up, and in his turn Thus showed his ready wit "My head is twice as big as yours, They therefore needs must fit. "But let me scrape the dirt away That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may Be in a hungry case." Said John, "It is my wedding day, And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton, And I should dine at Ware." So turning to his horse, he said, "I am in haste to dine; 'Twas for your pleasure you came here You shall go back for mine." Ah, luckless speech, and bootless boast, For which he paid full dear ! For, while he spake, a braying ass Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might, As he had done before. LONDON 73 Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin 's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why ? they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pulled out half a crown; And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours when you bring back My husband safe and well." The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein; But not performing what he meant But gladly would have done, The frightened steed he frightened more, And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away Went post-boy at his heels, The post-boy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels. 74 ENGLAND Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With post-boy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry: "Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!" Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short space; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up He did again get down. Now let us sing, long live the king ! And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see ! William Cowper. LONDON 75 Lines written in Kensington Gardens ^y (London) TN this lone open glade I lie, * Screened by deep boughs on either hand; And as its head, to stay the eye, Those black-crowned, red-boled pine trees stand. Birds here make song, each bird has his, Across the girdling city's hum. How green under the boughs it is ! How thick the tremulous sheep cries come ! Sometimes a child will cross the glade To take his nurse his broken toy; Sometimes a thrush flits overhead Deep in her unknown day's employ. Here at my feet what wonders pass, What endless, active life is here ! What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. Scarce fresher is the mountain sod Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, And, eased of basket and of rod, Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. In the huge world which roars hard by Be others happy, if they can ! 76 ENGLAND But in my helpless cradle I Was breathed on by the rural Pan. I, on men's impious uproar hurled, Think often, as I hear them rave, That peace has left the upper world, And now keeps only in the grave. Yet here is peace forever new ! When I, who watch them, am away, Still all things in this glade go through The changes of their quiet day. Then to their happy rest they pass; The flowers close, the birds are fed, The night comes down upon the grass, The child sleeps warmly in his bed. Calm soul of all things ! make it mine To feel, amid the city's jar, That there abides a peace of thine Man did not make and cannot mar! The will to neither strive nor cry, The power to feel with others give ! Calm, calm me more ! nor let me die Before I have begun to live. Matthew Arnold. CANTERBURY 77 The Canterbury Tales ^> o ^y -cv (Canterbury) (From the Prologue) A ~\ 7"HANNE that April with his shoures sote * The droughte of March hath perced to the rote, And bathed every veine in swiche licour, Of whiche vertue engendred in the flour; Whan Zephirus eke with his sote brethe Enspired hath in every holt and hethe The tender croppes, and the young sonne Hath in the Rain his halfe cours yronne, And smale foules maken melodic, That slepen alle night with open eye, So priketh him nature in his corages; That longen folk to go on pilgrimages, And palmeres for to seken strange strondes, To serve halwes couthe in sondry londes; And specially, from every shires ende Of Englelond, to Canterbury they wende, The holy blissful martyr for to seke, That hem hath holpen, what that they were seke. Befelle, that, in that season on a day, In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage To Canterbury with devoute corage, At night was come into that hostelrie Wei nine and twenty in a compagnie 78 ENGLAND Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle In felawship, and pilgrimes were they alle, That toward Canterbury wolden ride. The chambres and the stables weren wide, And wel we weren esed atte beste. And shortly, whan the sonne was gon to reste, So hadde I spoken with hem everich on, That I was of hir fellowship anon, And made forwold erly for to rise, To take oure way ther as I you devise. But nathless, while I have time and space, Or that I further in this tale pace, Me thinketh it accordant to reson, To tellen you all the condition Of eche of he^m, so as it semed me, And whiche they weren, and of what degree, And eke in what araie that they were inne: And at a knight than wol I first beginne. Geoffrey Chaucer. Dover Cliffs ^^ ^^ *^y ^> ^> *^> (Dover) (From King Lear) /^*OME on, sir; here's the place: stand still. V* How fearful And dizzy 'tis, to cast one's eye so low ! The crows and choughs, that wing the midway air, Show scarce so gross as beetles; halfway down DOVER 79 Hangs one that gathers samphire ; dreadful trade ! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head ; The fishermen, that walk upon the beach, Appear like mice; and yond' tall anchoring bark Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight ; the murmuring surge, That on the unnumber'd idle pebbles chafes, Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. William Shakespeare. Dover Beach ^ <^> ^> ^> *c (Dover) HPHE sea is calm to-night, * The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the Straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night -air ! Only from the long line of spray Where the ebb meets the moon-bleached sand. Listen ! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves suck back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence, slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. 8o ENGLAND Sophocles long ago Heard it on the JEgean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled; But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating to the breath Of the night-wind down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another ! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. Matthew Arnold. CAMELOT 8 1 Camelot ^y -<^y ^y ^^ Camelot was a legendary spot in England, where King Arthur was supposed to have had his court. Capell placed it near the present city of Winchester. Caxton locates it in Wales. (From King Lear) /^^OOSE, if I had you upon Sarum-plain, ^-* I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot. William Shakespeare. (From Elaine) Now for the central diamond and the last And largest, Arthur, holding then his court Hard on the river nigh the place which now Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust At Camelot. . ... , _ Aljrea 1 ennyson. The Lady of Shalott *^y *y -^y ^ (Camelot) PART I /^\N either side the river lie ^-^ Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And thro' the field the road runs by To many-tower'd Camelot; And up and down the people go, Gazing where the lilies blow Round an island there below, The island of Shalott. 82 ENGLAND Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver Thro' the wave that runs forever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls, and four gray towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott. By the margin, willow- veil 'd, Slide the heavy barges trail'd By slow horses; and unhail'd The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd Skimming down to Camelot : But who hath seen her wave her hand ? Or at the casement seen her stand ? Or is she known in all the land, The Lady of Shalott ? Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to tower'd Camelot: And by the moon the reaper weary, Piling sheaves in upland airy, Listening, whispers, " 'Tis the fairy Lady of Shalott." CAMELOT 83 There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott. And moving thro' a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near Winding down to Camelot: There the river eddy whirls, And there the surly village churls, And the red cloaks of market girls, Pass onward from Shalott. Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad, Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, Goes by to tower'd Camelot; And sometimes thro' the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two: She hath no loyal knight and true. The Lady of Shalott. 84 ENGLAND But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror's magic sights, For often thro' the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and lights, And music, went to Camelot: Or when the moon was overhead, Came two young lovers lately wed; "I am half sick of shadows," said The Lady of Shalott. PART III A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, He rode between the barley sheaves, The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, And flamed upon the brazen greaves Of bold Sir Lancelot. A red-cross knight forever kneel'd To a lady in his shield, That sparkled on the yellow field, Beside remote Shalott. The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, Like to some branch of stars we see Hung in the golden Galaxy. The bridle bells rang merrily As he rode down to Camelot: And from his blazon 'd baldric slung A mighty silver bugle hung, And as he rode his armor rung, Beside remote Shalott. CAMELOT 85 All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burn'd like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. As often thro' the purple night, Below the starry clusters bright, Some bearded meteor, trailing light, Moves over still Shalott. His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; From underneath his helmet flow'd His coal-black curls as on he rode, As he rode down to Camelot. From the bank and from the river He flash 'd into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces thro' the room, She saw the water lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror crack'd from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott. 86 ENGLAND In the stormy east-wind straining, The pale yellow woods were waning, The broad stream in his banks complaining, Heavily the low sky raining Over tower'd Camelot; Down she came and found a boat Beneath a willow left afloat, And round about the prow she wrote The Lady of Shalott. And down the river's dim expanse Like some bold seer in a trance, Seeing all his own mischance With a glassy countenance Did she look to Camelot. And at the closing of the day She loosed the chain, and down she lay; The broad stream bore her far away, The Lady of Shalott. Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right The leaves upon her falling light Thro' the noises of the night She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. CAMELOT 87 Heard a carol, mournful, holy, Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, Till her blood was frozen slowly, And her eyes were darken 'd wholly, Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; For ere she reach'd upon the tide The first house by the water-side, Singing in her song she died, The Lady of Shalott. Under tower and balcony, By garden-wall and gallery, A gleaming shape she floated by, A corse between the houses high, Silent into Camelot. Out upon the wharfs they came, Knight and burgher, lord and dame, And round the prow they read her name, . The Lady of Shalott. Who is this? and what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer; And they cross'd themselves for fear, All the knights at Camelot : But Lancelot mused a little space; He said, "She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott." Alfred Tennyson. 88 ENGLAND From To the Rev. F. D. Maurice *z> <^y (Farringford, Isle of Wight) ERE, far from noise and smoke of town, I watch the twilight falling brown All round a careless-order'd garden Close to the ridge of a noble down. You'll have no scandal while you dine, But honest talk and wholesome wine, And only hear the magpie gossip Garrulous under a roof of pine: For groves of pine on either hand, To break the blast of winter stands; And further on, the hoary Channel Tumbles a breaker on chalk and sand. Alfred Tennyson. Sarum Plain ^ ^x ^ -o> -o "DREAKFAST enjoy'd, 'mid hush of boughs And perfumes thro' the windows blown; Brief worship done, which still endows The day with beauty not its own; With intervening pause, that paints Each act with honor, life with calm SARUM PLAIN 89 (As old processions of the Saints At every step have wands of palm), We rose; the ladies went to dress, And soon return'd with smiles; and then, Plans fix'd, to which the Dean said, "Yes," Once more we drove to Salisbury Plain. We past my house (observed with praise By Mildred, Mary acquiesced), And left the old and lazy grays Below the hill, and walk'd the rest. The moods of love are like the wind, And none knows whence or why they rise: I ne'er before felt heart and mind So much affected through mine eyes. How cognate with the flatter'd air, How form'd for earth's familiar zone, She moved; how feeling and how fair For others' pleasure and her own ! And, ah, the heaven of her face ! How, when she laugh 'd, I seem'd to see The gladness of the primal grace, And how, when grave, its dignity! Of all she was, the least not less Delighted the devoted eye ; No fold or fashion of her dress Her fairness did not sanctify. I could not else than grieve. What cause ? 90 ENGLAND Was I not blest ? Was she not there ? Likely my own? Ah, that it was: How like seem'd " likely " to despair ! And yet to see her so benign, So honorable and womanly, In every maiden kindness mine, And full of gayest courtesy, Was pleasure so without alloy, Such unreproved, sufficient bliss, I almost wish'd, the while, that joy Might never further go than this. So much it was as now to walk, And humbly by her gentle side Observe her smile and hear her talk, Could it be more to call her Bride? I feign'd her won; the mind finite, Puzzled and fagg'd by stress and strain To comprehend the whole delight, Made bliss more hard to bear than pain. All good, save heart to hold, so summ'd And grasp'd, the thought smote, like a knife, How laps'd mortality had numb'd The feelings to the feast of life ; How passing good breathes sweetest breath ; And love itself at highest reveals More black than night, commending death By teaching how much life conceals. SARUM PLAIN But happier passions these subdued, When from the close and sultry lane, With eyes made bright by what they view'd, We emerged upon the mounded Plain. As to the breeze a flag unfurls, My spirit expanded, sweetly embraced By those same gusts that shook her curls And vex'd the ribbon at her waist. To the future cast I future cares; Breathed with a heart unfreighted, free, And laugh'd at the presumptuous airs That with her muslins folded me; Till, one vague rack along my sky, The thought that she might ne'er be mine Lay half forgotten by the eye So feasted with the sun's warm shine. 5 By the great stones we chose our ground For shade; and there, in converse sweet, Took luncheon. On a little mound Sat the three ladies; at their feet I sat; and smelt the heathy smell, Pluck'd harebells, turn'd the telescope To the country round. My life went well, For once, without the wheels of hope; And I despised the Druid rocks That scowl'd their chill gloom from above, 92 ENGLAND Like churls whose stolid wisdom mocks The lightness of immortal love. And, as we talk'd, my spirit quaff' d The sparkling winds; the candid skies At our untruthful strangeness laugh'd; I kiss'd with mine her smiling eyes; And sweet f ami Harness and awe Prevail'd that hour on either part, And in the eternal light I saw That she was mine; though yet my heart Could not conceive, nor would confess Such contentation ; and there grew More form and more fair stateliness Than heretofore between us two. Coventry Patmore. At the Tomb of King Arthur *o ^ (Glaslonbwy) 'T'HROUGH Glastonbury's cloister dim -* The midnight winds were sighing; Chanting a low funereal hymn For those in silence lying, Death's gentle flock mid shadows grim Fast bound, and unreplying. Hard by the monks their mass were saying; The organ evermore Its wave in alternation swaying On that smooth swell upbore GLASTONBURY The voice of their melodious praying Toward heaven's eternal shore. 93 Erelong a princely multitude Moved on through arches gray Which yet, though shattered, stand where stood (God grant they stand for aye !) Saint Joseph's church of woven wood On England's baptism day. The grave they found; their swift strokes fell, Piercing dull earth and stone. They reached erelong an oaken cell, And cross of oak, whereon Was graved, "Here sleeps King Arthur well, In the isle of Avalon." The mail on every knightly breast, The steel at each man's side, Sent forth a sudden gleam; each crest Bowed low its plumed pride; Down o'er the coffin stooped a priest, But first the monarch cried: "Great King! in youth I made a vow Earth's mightiest son to greet; His hand to worship; on his brow To gaze; his grace entreat. Therefore, though dead, till noontide thou Shalt fill my royal seat !" 94 ENGLAND Away the massive lid they rolled, Alas ! what found they there ? No kingly brow, no shapely mould; But dust where such things were. Ashes o'er ashes, fold on fold, And one bright wreath of hair. Genevra's hair! like gold it lay; For Time, though stern, is just, And humbler things feel last his sway, And Death reveres his trust. They touched that wreath; it sank away From sunshine into dust ! Then Henry lifted from his head The Conqueror's iron crown; That crown upon that dust he laid, And knelt in reverence down, And raised both hands to heaven, and said, "Thou God art King alone!" Aubrey de Vere. Clovelly and Tintagel x o ^^ ^^ <^x *T^ENDEREST Clovelly, sweet of name and * face, Nursling flower-soft of Devon's balmiest airs, CLEVEDON 95 With what a womanly port and witching grace O'er those rich lawns remote from jars and cares Thou look'st far forth! How well those rocky stairs Descend that gorge ! With what a soft em- brace Those pendant woods shadow yon cliff's gray base, Yon sea that woos the rose, the myrtle spares ! Westward, Tintagel's keep of Arthur's might Bears record stern. Beauty holds banquet here: Yon azure bay so gladdening and so bright Smiles on us as with eyes of Guinevere Ere yet her queenly front, a realm's delight, Had known a guilty shade, her cheek a tear. Aubrey de Vere. Clevedon ^>- *^- ^> <^y ^^ ^> (From In Memoriam) LXVI TT7HEN on my bed the moonlight falls, I know that in thy place of rest, By that broad water of the west, There comes a glory on the walls: g6 ENGLAND Thy marble bright in dark appears, As slowly steals a silver flame Along the letters of thy name And o'er the number of thy years. The mystic glory swims away; From off my bed the moonlight dies; And, closing eaves of wearied eyes, I sleep till dusk is dipt in gray: And then I know the mist is drawn A lucid veil from coast to coast, And in the dark church, like a ghost, Thy tablet glimmers to the dawn. Alfred Tennyson. Clcvedon Church (Clevtdon) "They laid him by the And in the hearin of . In Memoriam, XIX. "They laid him by the pleasant shore, And in the hearing of the wave." WESTWARD I watch the low blue hills of Wales, The low sky silver-gray; The turbid Channel, with the wandering sails, Moans through the winter day. There is no color, but one ashen light On shore and lonely tree; The little church upon the grassy height Is gray as sky or sea. THE WYE, TINTERN ABBEY 97 But there hath he who won the sleepless love Slept through these fifty years; There is the grave that hath been wept above With more than mortal tears. And far below I hear the Severn sweep, And all his waves complain, As Hallam's dirge through all the years must keep Its monotone of pain ! ****** Andrew Lang. Lines -^ ^^ ^y o ^v <^* <^y (The Wye, T intern Abbey) Composed a few miles above Tinlern Abbey, on rei'isitin'g the banks of the Wye during a tour. TI^IVE years have past; five summers, with * the length Of five long winters ! and again I hear These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs With a sweet inland murmur. Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion ; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under this dark sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard- tufts, 98 ENGLAND Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedgerows, hardly hedgerows, little lines . Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms, Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke Sent up, in silence, from among the trees ! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire The Hermit sits alone. These beauteous Forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing, even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration : feelings too Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight THE WYE, TINTERN ABBEY 99 Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened : that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul : While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, oh ! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye ! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee ! And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought, With many recognitions dim and faint, And somewhat of a sad perplexity, The picture of the mind revives again : While here* I stand, not only with the sense Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts That in this moment there is life and food For future years. And so I dare to hope, Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first 100 ENGLAND I came among these hills ; when like a roe I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, Wherever nature led: more like a man Flying from something that he dreads, than one Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days, And their glad animal movements all gone by) To me was all in all. I cannot paint What then I was. The sounding cataract Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock, The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood, Their colors and their forms, were then to me An appetite ; a feeling and a love, That had no need of a remoter charm, By thought supplied, or any interest Unborrowed from the eye. That time is past, And all its aching joys are now no more, And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur ; other gifts Have followed, for such loss, I would believe, Abundant recompense. For I have learned To look on nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue. And I have felt A presence that disturbs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts : a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, THE WYE, TINTERN ABBEY ioi Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the blue sky, and in the mind of man : A motion and a spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought, And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still A lover of the meadows and the woods And mountains; and of all that we behold From this green earth ; of all the mighty world Of eye and ear, both what they half create, And what perceive; well pleased to recognize, In nature and the language of the sense, The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse, The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul Of all my moral being. Nor perchance, If I were not thus taught, should I the more Suffer my genial spirits to decay: For thou art with me, here, upon the banks Of this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend, My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catch The language of my former heart, and read My former pleasures in the shooting lights Of thy wild eyes. Oh ! yet a little while May I behold in thee what I was once, My dear, dear Sister ! and this prayer I make, Knowing that Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform 102 ENGLAND The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon Shine on thee in thy solitary walk; And let the misty mountain winds be free To blow against thee: and in after years, When these wild ecstasies shall be matured Into a sober pleasure, when thy mind Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, Thy memory be as a dwelling place For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then, If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief, Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts Of tender joy wilt thou remember me, And these my exhortations ! Nor, perchance If I should be where I no more can hear Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams Of past existence, wilt thou then forget That on the banks of this delightful stream We stood together; and that I, so long A worshipper of Nature, hither came Unwearied in that service: rather say With warmer love, oh ! with far deeper zeal Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget, CAERLEON-UPON-USK 103 That after many wanderings, many years Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs, And this green pastoral landscape, were to me More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake ! William Wordsworth. Caerleon-upon-Usk ^> -o> ^> ^> ^> HTHEN sing they how he first ordained the *- circled board, The knights whose martial deeds far famed that Table Round; Which, truest in their loves, which, most in arms renowned : The laws which long upheld that order, they report ; The Pentecosts prepared at Carleon in his court, That table's ancient seat; her temples and her groves, Her palaces, her walks, baths, theatres, and stoves ; Her academy, then, as likewise they prefer: Of Camilot they sing, and then of Winchester. Michael Drayton. 104 ENGLAND From Enid o ^> -^> -<^> (Catrkon-upon-Usk) NOW thrice that morning Guinevere had climbed The giant tower, from whose high crest, they say, Men saw the goodly hills of Somerset, And white sails flying on the yellow sea; But not to goodly hill or yellow sea Looked the fair Queen, but up the vale of Usk, By the flat meadow. Alfred Tennyson. SCOTLAND Wi' whatna joy I hailed them a' The hilltaps standin' raw by raw, The public house, the Hielan' birks, And a' the bonny U. P. kirks ! Robert Louis Stevenson. O Caledonia ! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child ! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood; Land of the mountain and the flood. Sir Walter Scott. From The Lay of the Last Minstrel (Melrose Abbey) CANTO SECOND TF thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, -*- Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. When the broken arches are black in night, And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; When the cold light's uncertain shower Streams on the ruin'd central tower; When buttress and buttress, alternately, Seem framed of ebon and ivory; When silver edges the imagery, And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die; When distant Tweed is heard to rave, And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave, Then go but go alone the while Then view St. David's ruined pile; And, home returning, soothly swear, Was never scene so sad and fair ! Sir Waller Scott. 107 108 SCOTLAND Rosabelle *o ^> ^y ^> <^y <: (Rodin Chapel) S~\ LISTEN, listen, ladies gay ! ^^ No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. "Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. "The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. "Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?" " 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-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 If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle." ROSLIN CHAPEL 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 glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse- wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply. Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold - Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle. 109 110 SCOTLAND And each Saint 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 Scolt. Written in Edinburgh ^> -0* *o -o (Edinburgh) TI^VEN thus, methinks, a city reared should be, * ' Yea, an imperial city, that might hold Five times a hundred noble towns in fee, And either with their might of Babel old, Or the rich Roman pomp of empery Might stand compare, highest in arts enrolled, Highest in arms; brave tenement for the free, Who never crouch to thrones, or sin for gold. Thus should her towers be raised, with vicinage, Of clear bold hills, that curve her very streets, As if to vindicate, 'mid choicest seats Of art, abiding nature's majesty, And the broad sea beyond, in calm or rage Chainless alike, and teaching Liberty. Arthur Henry Hallam. Edinburgh ^ ^ <> o ^> ^> (From Marmion, Canto IV) OTILL on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, *^ For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. When sated with the martial show EDINBURGH III That peopled all the plain below, The wandering eye could o'er it go, And mark the distant city glow With gloomy splendor red; For on the smoke-wreaths, huge and slow, That round her sable turrets flow, The morning beams were shed, And tinged them with a lustre proud, Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, Where the huge Castle holds its state, And all the steep slope down, Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, Piled deep and massy, close and high, Mine own romantic town ! But northward far, with purer blaze, On Ochil mountains fell the rays, And as each heathy top they kiss'd, It gleam'd a purple amethyst. Yonder the shores of Fife you saw; Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law: And, broad between them roll'd, The gallant Firth the eye might note, Whose islands on its bosom float, Like emeralds chased in gold. Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent; As if to give his rapture vent, The spur he to his charger lent, And raised his bridle hand, And, making demi-volte in air, 112 SCOTLAND Cried, "Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?" The Lindesay smiled his joy to see; Nor Marmion's frown repress'd his glee. Sir Walter Scott. From a Window in Princes Street ^y -cy -o ^ (Scottish Lakes) T^HERE'S not a nook within this solemn Pass, A But were an apt confessional for One Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That life is but a tale of morning grass Wither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than Untouch'd, unbreathed upon: Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May), The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares to rest ! William Wordsworth. -AYR 121 The Banks o' Boon ^> ^> *o -QV (Ayr) "Y/'E 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'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ! Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return. 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. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ! And my fause luver staw my rose, But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. Robert Burns. From The Brigs of A yr ^> ^> ^y (Ayr) ****** 'T^WAR when the stacks get on their winter hap, And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; 122 SCOTLAND Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith O' coming winter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils Unnumbered buds an' flowers delicious spoils, Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles Are doomed by man, that tyrant o'er the weak, The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : The thundering guns are heard on ev'ry side, The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : (What warm, poetic heart but inly bleeds, And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) Nae mair the flower in field or meadow springs; Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, Except perhaps the robin's whistling glee, Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree ; The hoary morns precede the sunny days ; Mild, calm, serene, widespreads the noontide blaze, While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 'Twas in that season, when a simple Bard, Unknown and poor simplicity's reward ! Ae night, within the ancient burgh of Ayr, By whim inspired, or haply prest wi' care, He left his bed, and took his wayward route, And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about (Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, To witness what I after shall narrate ; Or whether, rapt in meditation high, AYR 123 He wander'd forth, he knew not where nor why) : The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two, And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was true ; The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen-sounding roar, Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore ; All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e; The silent moon shone high o'er tower and tree; The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, Crept, gently-crusting, o'er the glittering stream. When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, Swift as the gos drives on the wheeling hare; Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears, The ither flutters o'er the rising piers; Our warlock rhymer instantly descried The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. (That bards are second-sighted is nae joke, And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk; Fays, spunkies, kelpies, a', they can explain them, And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face; He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; ****** Robert Burns, 124 SCOTLAND Tarn o' Shanter <^> (Ayr) Of Brownys and of Bogilis full is this Buke. Gawin Douglass. ~V\ 7"HEN chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, An' folk begin to tak' the gate; While we sit bousing at the nappy, An' getting fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, That lie between us and our hame, Where sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. This truth fand honest Tarn o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses). O Tarn ! hadst thou but been sae wise As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bleth'ring, blust'ring, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder, wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That every naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; AYR 125 That at the L d's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday. She prophesy'd that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drowned in Boon; Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet To think how monie counsels sweet,. How monie lengthened sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises ! But to our tale: Ae market night Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, souter Johnny, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better. The landlady and Tam grew gracious, Wi' favors, secret, sweet, and precious; The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus; The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drowned himself amang the nappy; As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure; 126 SCOTLAND Kings may be blest, but Tarn was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious. But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white then melts forever ; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide; The hour approaches Tarn maun ride That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane, That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he takes the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed; Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellowed; That night a child might understand The Deil had business on his hand. Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg (A better never lifted leg), Tarn skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind, and rain, and fire Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares; AYR Kirk- Allo way was drawing nigh, Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry. By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoored; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane ; And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murdered bairn ; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods : The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole; Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing. Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquabae we'll face the Devil ! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na Deils a bodle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish 'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventured forward on the light; And, now ! Tarn saw an unco sight Warlocks and witches in a dance: Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 127 128 SCOTLAND But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock-bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick, in shape o' beast A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl. Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantrips sleight, Each in its cauld hand held a light By which heroic Tarn was able To note upon the haly table, A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted fra a rape, Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red rusted; Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter which a babe had strangled; A knife a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft The gray hairs yet stack to the heft; Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout; And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck, Lay stinking, vile, in every neuk: Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. AYR I2 9 As Tammie glowr'd, amazed and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew; The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, And coost her duddies to the wark, And linket at it in her sark. Now Tam, O Tarn ! had they been queans A' plump and strapping in their teens : Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white sevehteen-hunder linen; This breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair, I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonny burdies ! But withered beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping an' flinging on a crummock I wonder did na turn thy stomach. But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie. There was ae winsome wench and walie, That night inlisted in the core (Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ! For monie a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd monie a bonnie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear), Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn 130 SCOTLAND In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah ! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang (A souple jad she was, and strang) ; And how Tarn stood, like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enriched. Ev'n Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main; Till first ae caper, syne anither Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, Weel done, Cutty-sark ! And in an instant a' was dark; And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied. As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When, Catch the thief ! resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. Ah, Tam ! ah, Tam ! thou'll get thy fairin' In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'. AYR 131 In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin' Kate soon will be a wofu' woman ! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig; Then at them thou thy tail may toss A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake; For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tarn wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclined, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tarn o' Shanter's mare. Robert Burns. Fingal's Cave ^> -^ *c> -^ ^y NOT Aladdin magian Ever such a work began ; Not the wizard of the Dee Ever such a dream could see; 132 SCOTLAND Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, In the passion of his toil, When he saw the churches seven, Golden aisled, built up to heaven, Gazed at such a rugged wonder ! As I stood its roofing under, Lo ! I saw one sleeping there, On the marble cold and bare; While the surges washed his feet, And his garments white did beat, Drenched about the sombre rocks; On his neck his well-grown locks, Lifted dry above the main, Were upon the curl again. "What is this? and what art thou?" Whispered I, and strove to kiss The spirit's hand, to wake his eyes. Up he started in a trice: "I am Lycidas," said he, "Famed in fun'ral minstrelsy! This was architectured thus By the great Oceanus ! Here his mighty waters play Hollow organs all the day; Here, by turns, his dolphins all, Finny palmers, great and small, Come to pay devotion due, Each a mouth of pearls must strew ! Many a mortal of these days Dares to pass our sacred ways; FINGAL'S CAVE 133 Dares to touch audaciously This cathedral of the sea ! I have been the pontiff-priest, Where the waters never rest, Where a fledgy sea-bird choir Soars forever ! Holy fire I have hid from mortal man, Proteus is my sacristan ! But the dulled eye of mortal Hath passed beyond the rocky portal. So forever will I leave Such a taint, and soon unweave All the magic of the place." So saying, with a spirit's glance He dived ! John Keats. HOLLAND the pent ocean, rising o'er the pile, Sees an amphibious world beneath him smile. The slow canal, the yellow-blossomed vale, The willow-tufted bank, the gliding sail, The crowded mart, the cultivated plain Oliver Goldsmith. At Rotterdam, with reverence due; Erasmus my attention drew; Then Delft, where thy proud tomb, Nassau, Claims equal reverence, equal awe ! Tr. from Bishop Hurst. A country which, between its carillons and its canals, might be described by a punster as ringing wet. Thomas Hood. Rotterdam T GAZE upon a city, A city new and strange; Down many a wat'ry vista My fancy takes a range; From side to side I saunter, And wonder where I am, And can you be in England, And I at Rotterdam ! Before me lie dark waters, In broad canals and deep, Whereon the silver moonbeams Sleep, restless in their sleep: A sort of vulgar Venice Reminds me where I am, Yes, yes, you are in England, And I'm at Rotterdam. Tall houses, with quaint gables, Where frequent windows shine, And quays that lead to bridges, And trees in formal line, And masts of spicy vessels, '37 138 HOLLAND From distant Surinam, All tell me you're in England, But I'm at Rotterdam. Those sailors how outlandish The face and garb of each ! They deal in foreign gestures, And use a foreign speech; A tongue not learned near Isis, Or studied by the Cam, Declares that you're in England, But I'm at Rotterdam. And now across a market My doubtful way I trace, Where stands a solemn statue, The Genius of the place; And to the great Erasmus I offer my salam, Who tells me you're in England, And I'm at Rotterdam. The coffee-room is open, I mingle with the crowd; The dominoes are rattling, The hookahs raise a cloud; A flavor, none of Fearon's, That mingles with my dram, Reminds me you're in England, But I'm in Rotterdam. LEYDEN 139 Then here it goes, a bumper, The toast it shall be mine, In Schiedam or in Sherry, Tokay, or Hock of Rhine; It well deserves the brightest Where sunbeams ever swam, "The girl I love in England," I drink at Rotterdam. Thomas Hood. Robinson of Leyden <^x o ^y (Leyden) T_IE sleeps not here; in hope and prayer -* His wandering flock had gone before, But he,- the shepherd, might not share Their sorrows on the wintry shore. Before the Speedwell's anchor swung, Ere yet the Mayflower's sail was spread, While round his feet the Pilgrims clung, The pastor spake, and thus he said : "Men, brethren, sisters, children dear! God calls you hence from over sea; Ye may not build by Haerlem Meer, Nor yet along the Zuyder-Zee. "Ye go to bear the saving word To tribes unnamed and shores untrod: 140 HOLLAND Heed well the lessons ye have heard From those old teachers taught of God. "Yet think not unto them was lent All light for all the coming days, And Heaven's eternal wisdom spent In making straight the ancient ways: "The living fountain overflows For every flock, for every lamb, Nor heeds, though angry creeds oppose With Luther's dike or Calvin's dam." He spake: with lingering, long embrace, With tears of love and partings fond, Then floated down the creeping Maas, Along the isle of Ysselmond. They passed the frowning towers of Briel, The "Hook of Holland's" shelf of sand, And grated soon with lifting keel The sullen shores of Fatherland. No home for these ! too well they knew The mitred king behind the throne ; The sails were set, the pennons flew, And westward ho ! for worlds unknown. And these were they who gave us birth, The Pilgrims of the sunset wave, AMSTERDAM 141 Who won for us this virgin earth, And freedom with the soil they gave. The pastor slumbers by the Rhine, In alien earth the exiles lie, Their nameless graves our holiest shrine, His words our noblest battle-cry ! Still cry them, and the world shall hear, Ye dwellers by the storm-swept sea ! Ye have not built by Haerlem Meer, Nor on the land-locked Zuyder-Zee ! Oliver Wendell Holmes. In the Belfry of the Nieuwe Kerk -^> ^> (Amsterdam) TVTOT a breath in the stifled, dingy street ! * - On the Stadhuis tiles the sun's strong glow Lies like a kind of golden snow. In the square one almost sees the heat. The mottled tulips over there By the open casement pant for air. Grave, portly burghers, with their vrouws, Go hat in hand to cool their brows. But high in the fretted steeple, where The sudden chimes burst forth and scare 142 HOLLAND The lazy rooks from the belfry beam, And the ring-doves as they coo and dream On flying-buttress or carven rose Up here, mein Gott t a tempest blows ! Such a wind as bends the forest tree, And rocks the great ships out at sea. Plain simple folk, who come and go On humble levels of life below, Little dream of the gales that smite Mortals dwelling upon the height! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. Nightfall in Dordrecht ^> <^ <^v o (Dordrecht) HPHE mill goes toiling slowly round, -* With steady and solemn creak, And my little one hears in the kindly sound The voice of the old mill speak. While round and round those big white wings Grimly and ghost-like creep, My little one hears that the old mill sings: "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" The sails are reefed and the nets are drawn, And over his pot of beer The fisher against the morrow's dawn Lustily maketh cheer. 1 From With Trumpet and Drum, copyright, 1892, by Mary French Field. Published by Charles Scribner's Sons. DORDRECHT 143 He mocks at the winds that caper along, From the far-off clam'rous deep; But we, we love their lullaby song, Of "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" Old dog Fritz in slumber sound Groans of the stony mart : To-morrow how proudly he'll trot you round, Hitched to the new milk-cart ! And you shall help me blanket the kine And fold the gentle sheep, And set the herring a-soak in brine, And now, little tulip, sleep ! A Dream-one comes to blanket the eyes, That wearily droop and sink; While the old mill buffets the frowning skies, And scolds at the stars that blink. Over your face the misty wings Of that beautiful Dream-one sweep, And rocking your cradle, she softly sings : "Sleep, little tulip, sleep!" Eugene Field. BELGIUM When I may read of tilts in days of old, And tourneys graced by chieftains of renown, Fair dames, grave citizens, and warriors bold, If fancy would portray some stately town, Which for such pomp fit theatre should be, Fair Bruges, I shall then remember thee. Robert Southey. Antwerp and Bruges ^> o *o - T CLIMBED the stair in Antwerp church, What time the circling thews of sound At sunset seem to heave it round. Far up, the carillon did search The wind, and the birds came to perch Far under, where the gables wound. In Antwerp harbor on the Scheldt I stood along, a certain space Of night. The mist was near my face; Deep on, the flow was heard and felt. The carillon kept pause, and dwelt In music through the silent place. John Memmeling and John van Eyck Hold state at Bruges. In sore shame I scanned the works that keep their name. The carillon, which then did strike Mine ears, was heard of theirs alike : It set me closer unto them. I climbed at Bruges all the flight The belfry has of ancient stone. 148 BELGIUM For leagues I saw the east wind blown; The earth was gray. The sky was white. I stood so near upon the height That my flesh felt the carillon. Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Bruges -o <^ *Sx ^> ^ HPHE spirit of antiquity enshrined -- In sumptuous buildings, vocal in sweet song, In picture, speaking with heroic tongue, And with devout solemnities entwined, Strikes to the seat of grace within the mind : Hence forms that glide with swan-like ease along; Hence motions, even amid the vulgar throng, To a harmonious decency confined; As if the streets were consecrated ground, The city one vast temple dedicate To mutual respect in thought and deed; To leisure, to forbearances sedate; To social cares from jarring passions freed; A nobler peace than that in deserts found. William Wordsworth. The Belfry of Bruges ^ ^> ^> (Bruges) CARILLON TN the ancient town of Bruges, ^ In the quaint old Flemish city, BRUGES 149 As the evening shades descended, Low and loud and sweetly blended, Low at times and loud at times, And changing like a poet's rhymes, Rang the beautiful wild chimes From the Belfry in the market Of the ancient town of Bruges. Then with deep sonorous clangor Calmly answering their sweet anger, When the wrangling bells had ended, Slowly struck the clock eleven, And, from out the silent heaven, Silence on the town descended. Silence, silence everywhere, On the earth and in the air, Save that footsteps here and there Of some burgher home returning, By the street lamps faintly burning, For a moment woke the echoes Of the ancient town of Bruges. But amid my broken slumbers Still I heard those magic numbers, As they loud proclaimed the flight And stolen marches of the night; Till their chimes in sweet collision Mingled with each wandering vision, Mingled with the fortune-telling Gypsy-bands of dreams and fancies, 150 BELGIUM Which amid the waste expanses Of the silent land of trances Have their solitary dwelling; All else seemed asleep in Bruges, In the quaint old Flemish city. And I thought how like these chimes Are the poet's airy rhymes, All his rhymes and roundelays, His conceits, and songs, and ditties, From the belfry of his brain, Scattered downward, though in vain, On the roofs and stones of cities! For by night the drowsy ear Under its curtains cannot hear, And by day men go their ways, Hearing the music as they pass, But deeming it no more, alas ! Than the hollow sound of brass. Yet perchance a sleepless wight, Lodging at some humble inn In the narrow lanes of life, When the dusk and hush of night Shut out the incessant din Of daylight and its toil and strife, May listen with a calm delight To the poet's melodies, Till he hears, or dreams he hears, Intermingled with the song, Thoughts that he has cherished long: BRUGES 151 Hears amid the chime and singing The bells of his own village ringing, And wakes, and finds his slumbrous eyes Wet with most delicious tears. Thus dreamed I, as by night I lay In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-Ble, Listening with a wild delight To the chimes that, through the night, Rang their changes from the Belfry Of that quaint old Flemish city. 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. At my feet the city slumbered. From its chimneys here and there, Wreaths of snow-white smoke, ascending, vanished, ghost-like, into air. 152 BELGIUM Not a sound rose from the city at that early morn- ing hour, But I heard a heart of iron beating in the ancient tower. From their nests beneath the rafters sang the swal- lows wild and high; And the world, beneath me sleeping, seemed more distant than the sky. 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 chanting 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 Dampierre. BRUGES 153 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 argosies ; 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 unsheathed 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. 154 BELGIUM And again the whiskered Spaniard all the land with terror smote; And again the wild alarum sounded from the tocsin's throat; Till 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 Wadsivorth Longfellow. The Night before Waterloo ^> *o ^ (From Childe Harotd, Canto III) (Brussels) * I ""HERE was a sound of revelry by night, * And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when BRUSSELS 155 Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell; But hush ! hark ! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell ! Did ye not hear it? No; 'twas but the wind, Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined ; No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. But Hark ! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat; And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before ! Arm ! arm ! it is it is the cannon's opening roar ! Lord Byron. GERMANY 2>eutfd)e SBorte pr' id) timber @ei gegnifjt mit erj itnb anb. Sanb ber greube, ?anb ber SHeber, @d)bne, heit'veS Stetevtanb ! gvof)Hd) fe^r' id) nun $uriicf, 2)eutj(^lanb, bu mein Xroft, mein liidt ! H. von Fallersleben. Let others therefore goe according to their affections whither they list, let them travell into England, remaine and dye in Italy, let them waxe tawnie in Portingall, and be dyed with the Sunne and soile of Spaine, let them travell into France, saile into Scotland, and let others again goe to other places ; for mine owne part I have resolved that I will never alter my opinion, but will ever thinke that the travell of Germany is to be pre- ferred before all others. Coryat. Des Deutfcfyen Patcrlanb <^ ^y ^> 28a3 ift be $eutfd)en SSaterlanb? Sft'S ^reuBenlanb? 3ft'3 djwabentanb? 100 om Difjein bit 9iebe blii^t? mo am 93elt bie Sflotoe siett? D nein, netn, nein! ein SSatevIanb mu^ grower fetn! SSa ift be 35eutf(^en SBaterfonb? 3ft'8 Saierlonb? 3ft'8 teierlonb? 3ft', wo be TOorfen 9?inb fid) ftvecft? 3ft'8 f too ber SKSrfer ifen rerft? D nein, nein, nein ! 6ein SSotevtanb nntfe grower fein! 3So ift be Seutfdjen SSotcrlanb? 3ft' ^ommerlanb? 28eftfalen(anb? 3ft', wo ber (5anb ber Siinen 3ft', too bie $>onau braufenb ge^t? O nein, nein, nein ! @ein SSaterlanb ntu^ grower jein! SSa ift be 2)eutfd)en 5Saterlanb? <5o nenne mir ba grofje 2anb! Sft'8 Sonb ber Sdjioeijer? 3ft'8 Xnrol? The German Fatherland ^ ^ <^ VXTHICH is the German's fatherland ? * * Is't Prussia's or Swabia's land? Is't where the Rhine's rich vintage streams? Or where the Northern sea-gull screams ? Ah, no, no, no ! His fatherland's not bounded so ! Which is the German's fatherland ? Bavaria's or Styria's land? Is't where the Marsian ox unbends? Or where the Marksman iron rends ? Ah, no, no, no ! His fatherland's not bounded so ! Which is the German's fatherland? Pomerania's or Westphalia's land? Is it where sweep the Dunian waves ? Or where the thundering Danube raves ? Ah, no, no, no ! His fatherland's not bounded so ! Which is the German's fatherland? O, tell me now the famous land ! Is't Tyrol, or the land of Tell? 160 GERMANY $>o 2anb unb SSot! gefiel inir ivo D nein, nein, nein ! eutfd)en SSatcrfonb? @o nenne enblict) miv ba Sanb! (So toeit bie beutfcfje 3 un fl e flingt! Unb ott im itnmel Sieber ftngt, S)a fott e fein, S)o, warf'rer eutfc^er nennc betn. 3)a ift be $eutfcf)en SSatertanb, 5So Cibe fdjtoort ber 3)rucf bev 3So Sveue ^efl com 5tuge bli^t, Unb 2iebe luavm im ^erjen ftt, 5)o fofl e fein, 3)a, tmcf'rer S)eutfd)er nenne bein. 5)a ift be 3)eutf(^en SSaterlanb, 5Bo 3 orn bertitgt ben nmlfcijen Sanb, 28o jebev fyranjinann ^eifeet ^einb, 2Bo jeber S)eutfd)e Ijetfjet greunb 3)ag fott e fein, $>a ganje ^eulfc^Ianb foil e fein. GERMANY 161 Such lands and people please me well. Ah, no, no, no ! His fatherland's not bounded so ! Which is the German's fatherland? Come, tell me now the famous land. Doubtless, it is the Austrian state, In honors and in triumphs great. Ah, no, no, no ! His fatherland's not bounded so ! Which is the German's fatherland ? So tell me now at last the land ! As far's the German accent rings And hymns to God in heaven sings, That is the land, There, brother, is thy fatherland ! There is the German's fatherland, Where oaths attest the grasped hand, Where truth beams from the sparkling eyes, And in the heart love warmly lies ; That is the land, There, brother, is thy fatherland ! That is the German's fatherland, Where wrath pursues the foreign band, Where every Frank is held a foe, And Germans all as brothers glow; That is the land, All Germany's thy fatherland! Tr. by J. Macray. 1 62 GERMANY Aix-la-Chapelle ^> <^y *cv *^> <^ TIT' AS it to disenchant, and to undo, ' * That we approached the seat of Charle- maine ? To sweep from many an old romantic strain That faith which no devotion may renew ! Why does this puny church present to view Its feeble columns ? and that scanty chair ! This sword that one of our weak times might wear ; ieb *^x ^> ^> ^x> x o (Cologne) $m 9?ljetn, tm fd)i>nen 3trome, S)a fptegelt ftcf) in ben 9)iit feinem gvofeen S)ome, S)o grofee, fcilige totn. 3m 2)om, ba fte^t ein 3luf golbenem Seber gemalt; 3n meine 2eben S&tlbmS freunbtic^ ( fdjroefcn Sfuinen unb ngletn llm nnfere fiebe ?rrau; 2)te 9(ugen, bte Sippen, bie 5Sang(ein, 5)te gleic^en ber Siebften genau. Heinrich Heine. COLOGNE 163 Objects of false pretence, or meanly true ! If from a traveller's fortune I might claim A palpable memorial of that day, Then would I seek the Pyrenean breach Which Roland clove with huge two-handed sway, And to the enormous labor left his name, Where unremitting frosts the rocky crescent bleach. William Wordsworth. Song (Cologne) "N the Rhine, that beautiful river, The sacred town of Cologne, With its vast cathedral, is ever Full clearly mirror'd and shown. I A picture on golden leather In that fair cathedral is seen; On my life, so sad altogether, It hath cast its rays serene. The flowers and angels hover Round our dear Lady there; Her eyes, lips, cheeks, all over Resemble my mistress fair. Tr. by E. A. Bo-wring, C.B. 164 GERMANY The Rhine -^ ' -QV ^> ^> ^> < (From Childe Harold, Canto III) HTHE castled crag of Drachenfels * Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossomed trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scattered cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine, Have strewed a scene, which I should see With double joy, wert thou with me. And peasant-girls, with deep-blue eyes, And hands which offer early flowers, Walk smiling o'er this paradise; Above the frequent feudal towers Through green leaves lift their walls of gray, And many a rock which steeply lowers, And noble arch in proud decay, Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers. But one thing want these banks of Rhine, Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! Lord Byron. THE RHINE 165 A Thought from the Rhine *o ^> -^> (The Rhine) T HEARD an eagle crying all alone Above the vineyards through the summer night, Among the skeletons of robber towers, The iron homes of iron-hearted lords, Now crumbling back to ruin year by year, Because the ancient eyry of his race Is trenched and walled by busy-handed men, And all his forest-chace and woodland wild, Wherefrom he fed his young with hare and roe, Are trim with grapes, which swell from hour to hour And toss their golden tendrils to the sun For joy at their own riches : so, I thought, The great devourers of the earth shall sit, Idle and impotent, they know not why, Down-staring from their barren height of state On nations grown too wise to slay and slave, The puppets of the few, while peaceful love And fellow-help make glad the heart of earth, With wonders which they fear and hate, as he The eagle hates the vineyard slopes below. Charles Kingsley. 166 GERMANY Die Corelei ^^ ^> x ^> *o (The Rhine) %d) tt>ei& nitfit, nwS foil e bebeuten, $cifj id) fo traurig bin; Gin Warden au3 alien 3 e iten, 2)a fomnxt mir nid)t ou bent r golbne efcfimeibe 6ie tfimmt itjr golbeneS @ie fammt e ntit golbenem Santme, llnb [tngt ein Steb babet; $>a b,at eine tuunbevfame, eroalttge 9Kelobei. 3)en Differ im fleinen @d)iffe Grgreift e mit roilbem 58ef); Gr j^aut nic^t bte ftelfenriffe, 6r fdf)aut nur ^inauf in bie feoty. 3c^ glaube, bie SSeflen bei-fdjlingen 9lm (Snbe djiffer unb 5?a^n; Unb ba ^at mit i^rem ingen 2)ie fiorelei getan. Heinrich Heine. THE RHINE 167 The Lorelei ^> ^> ^> ^ *o *o (The Rhine) T KNOW not whence it rises, -* This thought so full of woe; But a tale of times departed Haunts me, and will not go. The air is cool and it darkens, And calmly flows the Rhine; The mountain peaks are sparkling In the sunny evening-shine. And yonder sits a maiden, The fairest of the fair, With gold in her garment glittering, As she combs her golden hair; With a golden comb she combs it, And a wild song singeth she, That melts the heart with a wondrous And powerful melody. The boatman feels his bosom With a nameless longing move; He sees not the gulfs before him, His gaze is fixed above; Till over the boat and boatman The Rhine's deep waters run : And this, with her magic singing, The Lorelei has done. Tr. in Edinburgh Review. 1 68 GERMANY God's Judgment on Hatto *^ ^ *o (Bingen) A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, * r ~ There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life- blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land: Take a message, and a token to some distant friends of mine; For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around, To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vine- yard ground, That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done 172 GERMANY Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun; And mid the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars; And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline, And one had come from Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age; For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage. For my father was a soldier, and even as a child My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild; And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard, I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword ! And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine, On the cottage wall at Bingen, calm Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head, When the troops come marching home again, with glad and gallant tread, BINGEN 173 But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye, For her brother was a soldier, too, and not afraid to die; And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name, To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame, And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine), For the honor of old Bingen, dear Bingen on the Rhine. "There's another, not a sister; in the happy days gone by You'd have known her by the merriment that sparkled in her eye, Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning, friend ! I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning! Tell her the last night of my life (for ere the moon be risen My body will be out of pain, my soul be out of prison), 1 dreamed I stood with her, and saw the yellow sun- light shine On the vine-clad hills of Bingen, sweet Bingen on the Rhine. "I saw the blue Rhine sweep along, I heard, or seemed to hear, 174 GERMANY The German songs we used to sing in chorus sweet and clear; And down the pleasant river, and up the slanting hill, The echoing chorus sounded through the evening calm and still; And her glad blue eyes were on me, as we passed, with friendly talk, Down many a path beloved of yore, and well- remembered walk ! And her little hand lay lightly, confidingly in mine, But we meet no more at Bingen, loved Bingen on the Rhine." His trembling voice grew faint and hoarse, his grasp was childish weak, (Rudesheim) 9lm SRfjein, am griitten Sljeine, a ift fo milb bie 9?arf)t, $)te Steknfjugd tiegen $n golbner SJJonbenpradjt. Itnb an ben itgeln roanbelt (Sin fjofyer fatten Ijer 5DJit @d)>t)ert unb ^urpurmantel $>ie fttone. toon olbe fdjinev. RUDESHEIM 175 His eyes put on a dying look, he sighed and ceased to speak; His comrade bent to lift him, but the spark of life had fled, The soldier of the Legion in a foreign land was dead! And the soft moon rose up slowly, and calmly she looked down On the red sand of the battle-field, with bloody corses strown; Yes, calmly on that dreadful scene her pale light seemed to shine, As it shone on distant Bingen, fair Bingen on the Rhine. The Hon. Mrs. Norton. A Rhine Legend ^> ^^ -cv (Riidesheim) ID Y the Rhine, the emerald river, How softly glows the night ! The vine-clad hills are lying In the moonbeams' golden light. And on the hillside walketh A kingly shadow down, With sword and purple mantle, And heavy golden crown. 176 GERMANY $>ci3 ift ber Sari, ber $atfer, 2)er mit geroalt'ger anb SSor trielen Ijunbert 3af)ren im beutfrfjen 2anb. (r tft ^erauf geftiegen 3u Macfyen au ber vitft Unb jegnet |"eine 9teben Unb atmet Xraubenbuft. 93et 9fJiibes^eim ba funfelt $>er ?D?onb in SSaffev ^inein Unb baut eine golbite 93riide iiber ben gritnen 9t^etn. er $aifer ge^t ^initber Unb fi^reitet lancjfam fort, Unb fegnet ISng bem trome 3)ie 9teben an jebem Drt. 2)ann fe^rt er Ijeim nod) ?(acf)en Unb frfilaft in jetner vuft, S3iS i^n im neiten Dative Grraecft ber rauben 2)uft. 3Bir aber fiiflen bie bonier Unb trinfen im golben aft Un beutfd)e efbenfeuer Unb beutfdje e(benfraft. Emanuel Geibel. RUDESHEIM 177 'Tis Charlemagne, the emperor, Who, with a powerful hand, For many a hundred years Hath ruled in German land. From out his grave in Aachen He hath arisen there, To bless once more his vineyards, And breathe their fragrant air. By Riidesheim, on the water, The moon doth brightly shine, And buildeth a bridge of gold Across the emerald Rhine. The emperor walketh over, And all along the tide Bestows his benediction On the vineyards far and wide. Then turns he back to Aachen In his grave-sleep to remain, Till the New Year's fragrant clusters Shall call him forth again. Then let us fill our glasses, And drink, with the golden wine, The German hero-spirit, And its hero-strength divine. Tr. by W. W. Caldwell. 178 GERMANY Sorrows of Werther x o* *o (Wetzlar) TIT ERTHER had a love for Charlotte Such as words could never utter ; Would you know how first he met her? She was cutting bread and butter. Charlotte was a married lady, And a moral man was Werther, And for all the wealth of Indies, Would do nothing for to hurt her. So he sighed and pined and ogled, And his passion boiled and bubbled, Till he blew his silly brains out, And no more by it was troubled. Charlotte, having seen his body Borne before her on a shutter, Like a well-conducted person, Went on cutting bread and butter. William Makepeace Thackeray. Tauler <^y ^y ^> *o <^y <^ (Strasburg) 'T^AULER, the preacher, walked, one autumn 1 day, Without the walls of Strassburg, by the Rhine, Pondering the solemn miracle of Life; As one who, wandering in a starless night, STRASBURG 179 Feels, momently, the jar of unseen waves, And hears the thunder of an unknown sea, Breaking along an unimagined shore. And as he walked he prayed. Even the same Old prayer with which, for half a score of years, Morning and noon and evening, lip and heart Had groaned: "Have pity upon me, Lord! Thou seest, while teaching others, I am blind. Send me a man who can direct my steps ! " Then, as he mused, he heard along his path A sound as of an old man's staff among The dry, dead linden-leaves; and, looking up, He saw a stranger, weak and poor and old. "Peace be unto thee, father!" Tauler said, " God give thee a good day ! " The old man raised Slowly his calm blue eyes. "I thank thee, son; But all my days are good, and none are ill." Wondering thereat, the preacher spake again, "God give thee happy life." The old man smiled, "I never am unhappy." Tauler laid His hand upon the stranger's coarse gray sleeve: "Tell me, O father, what thy strange words mean. Surely man's days are evil, and his life Sad as the grave it leads to." "Nay, my son, l8o GERMANY Our times are in God's hands, and all our days Are as our needs: for shadow as for sun, For cold as heat, for want as wealth, alike Our thanks are due, since that is best which is; And that which is not, sharing not his life, Is evil only as devoid of good. And for the happiness of which I spake I find in it submission to his will, And calm trust in the holy Trinity Of Knowledge, Goodness, and Almighty Power." Silently wondering, for a little space, Stood the great preacher; then he spake as one Who, suddenly grappling with a haunting thought Which long has followed, whispering through the dark Strange terrors, drag it, shrieking, into light : "What if God's will consign thee hence to Hell?" "Then," said the stranger, cheerily, "be it so. What Hell may be I know not ; this I know, I cannot lose the presence of the Lord: One arm, Humility, takes hold upon His dear Humanity; the other, Love, Clasps his Divinity. So where I go He goes; and better fire-walled Hell with Him Than golden-gated Paradise without." Tears sprang in Tauler's eyes. A sudden light, Like the first ray which fell on chaos, clove STRASBURG l8l Apart the shadow wherein he had walked Darkly at noon. And, as the strange old man Went his slow way, until his silver hair Set like the white moon where the hills of vine Slope to the Rhine, he bowed his head and said: "My prayer is answered. God hath sent the man Long sought, to teach me, by his simple trust, Wisdom the weary schoolmen never knew." So, entering with a changed and cheerful step The city gates, he saw, far down the street, A mighty shadow break the light of noon, Which tracing backward till its airy lines Hardened to stony plinths, he raised his eyes O'er broad facade and lofty pediment, O'er architrave and frieze and sainted niche, Up the stone lace-work chiselled by the wise Erwin of Steinbach, dizzily up to where In the noon-brightness the great Minster's tower, Jewelled with sunbeams on its mural crown, Rose like a visible prayer. "Behold!" he said, "The stranger's faith made plain before mine eyes. As yonder tower outstretches to the earth The dark triangle of its shade alone Where the clear day is shining on its top, So, darkness in the pathway of Man's life Is but the shadow of God's providence, By the great Sun of Wisdom cast thereon; But what is dark below is light in Heaven." John Greenleaf Whittier. 1 82 GERMANY Hohenlinden -cy ^^ ^x -^y (Near Munich) jN Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. O T But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 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 flashed 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. 'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, NUREMBERG 183 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye Brave Who rush to glory, or the grave ! Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry ! Few, few shall part, where many meet ! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. Thomas Campbell. Nuremberg *^ x ^ x o -o *o *cv TN the valley of the Pegnitz where across broad -*- meadow-lands Rise the blue Franconian mountains, Nuremberg, the ancient, stands. 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 throng: Memories of the Middle Ages, when the emperors, rough and bold, Had their dwelling in thy castle, time-defying, cen- turies old : 184 GERMANY And thy brave and thrifty burghers boasted, in their uncouth thyme, That their great imperial city stretched its hand through every clime. In the courtyard 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. In the church of sainted Sebald sleeps enshrined his holy dust, And in bronze the Twelve Apostles guard from age to age their trust: NUREMBERG 185 In the church of sainted Lawrence stands a pix of sculpture rare, Like a foamy sheaf of fountains, rising through the painted air. Here, when Art was still religion, with a simple, reverent heart, Lived and labored Albrecht Diirer, the Evangelist of Art : Hence in silence and in sorrow, toiling still with busy hand, Like an emigrant he wandered, seeking for the Better Land. Emigravit 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 obscure and dismal lanes, Walked of yore the Mastersingers, chanting rude poetic strains. 1 86 GERMANY From remote and sunless suburbs, came they to the friendly guild, Building nests in Fame's great temple, as in spouts the swallows build. As the weaver plied the shuttle, wove he too the mystic rhyme, And the smith his iron measures hammered to the anvil'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 huge folios sang and laughed. But his house is now an alehouse, 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. WURTZBURG 187 And at night the swart mechanic comes to drown his cark and care, Quaffing ale from pewter tankards, in the master's antique chair. 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 courtyards, sang in thought his careless lay. Gathering from the pavement's crevice, as a floweret of the soil, The nobility of labor, the long pedigree of toil. Henry Wads-worth Longfellow. Walter von der Vogelweid -cy ^> -^y (Wiirtzburg) WOGELWEID the Minnesinger, V When he left this world of ours, Laid his body in the cloister, Under Wiirtzburg's minster towers. 1 88 GERMANY And he gave the monks his treasures, Gave them all with this behest: They should feed the birds at noontide Daily on his place of rest; Saying, "From these wandering minstrels I have learned the art of song; Let me now repay the lessons They have taught so well and long." Thus the bard of love departed; And, fulfilling his desire, On his tomb the birds were feasted By the children of the choir. Day by day, o'er tower and turret, In foul weather and in fair, Day by day, in vaster numbers, Flocked the poets of the air. On the tree whose heavy branches Overshadowed all the place, On the pavement, on the tombstone, On the poet's sculptured face, On the cross-bars of each window, On the lintel of each door, They renewed the War of Wartburg, Which the bard had fought before. WURTZBURG 189 There they sang their merry carols, Sang their lauds on every side; And the name their voices uttered Was the name of Vogelweid. Till at length the portly abbot Murmured, "Why this waste of food? Be it changed to loaves henceforward For our fasting brotherhood." Then in vain o'er tower and turret, From the walls and woodland nests, When the minster bells rang noontide, Gathered the unwelcome guests. Then in vain, with cries discordant, Clamorous round the Gothic spire, Screamed the feathered Minnesingers For the children of the choir. Time has long effaced the inscriptions On the cloister's funeral stones, And tradition only tells us Where repose the poet's bones. But around the vast cathedral, By sweet echoes multiplied, Still the birds repeat the legend, And the name of Vogelweid. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. IQO GERMANY Heine ^QV ^> <^x *^y ^y (Harz Mountains') OEE ! in the May afternoon, ^ O'er the fresh short turf of the Hartz, A youth, with the foot of youth, Heine ! thou climbest again. Up, through the tall dark firs Warming their heads in the sun, Checkering the grass with their shade, Up, by the stream with its huge Moss-hung boulders and thin Musical water half hid, Up, o'er the rock-strewn slope, With the sinking sun, and the air Chill, and the shadows now Long on the gray hillside, To the stone-roofed hut at the top. Or, yet later, in watch On the roof of the Brocken tower Thou standest, gazing ! to see The broad red sun, over field, Forest and city and spire, And mist-tracked stream of the wide, Wide German land, going down In a bank of vapors, again Standest ! at nightfall, alone. Or, next morning, with limbs Rested by slumber, and heart HARZ MOUNTAINS Freshened and light with the May, O'er the gracious spurs coming down Of the Lower Hartz, among oaks, And beechen coverts, and copse Of hazels green in whose depth Use, the fairy transformed, In a thousand water-breaks light Pours her petulant youth, Climbing the rock which juts O'er the valley, the dizzily perched Rock ! to its Iron Cross Once more thou cling'st; to the Cross Clingest ! with smiles, with a sigh. Goethe, too, had been there. In the long-past winter he came To the frozen Hartz, with his soul Passionate, eager, his youth All in ferment ; but he Destined to work and to live Left it, and thou, alas! Only to laugh and to die. Matthew Arnold. 191 1 92 GERMANY Die 3lfc ^ ^ ^ ^ (Ilsenburg) 3d) bin bie en, ( ftirren bie Gijenjporn, 2>ie groerge trompeten unb pauten, llnb fiebeln unb blafen bo orn. 3)od) bid) fofl mem 5trtn umfdjltngen, 28te er Saifer einvid) umfdjlang ; $d) ^telt i^m ju bie Ofjren, Senn bie Srompet' erflang. Heinrich Heine. Lines o -Qy ^ ^> -^ ^> ^> Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Harz Forest T STOOD on Brocken's sovran height, and saw ^ Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, The sweet bird's song became an hollow sound: And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct From many a note of many a waterfall, And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet-stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat Sat, his white beard slow waving. Samuel Taylor Coleridge. EISENACH 195 The long silken trains will rustle, The spurs of iron will clash; The pygmies with trumpet and drumming, And fiddling and horns will crash. But my arm shall safe embrace thee, As it once Kaiser Heinrich bound. I put my hands over his ears, At the trumpet's sound. Tr. by L. H. Humphrey. Saint Elizabeth ^ ^> -^y *o "o (Eisenach) the private gateway stealing, - Timidly, with cautious care, In her hood her face concealing, Glancing round her everywhere, Where the narrow pathway leadeth To the wood beyond the heath, On her pious errand speedeth Hungary's Elizabeth. In her mantle she hath hidden Bread to carry to the poor; Yet her mission is forbidden, And she cannot feel secure, Trembling lest the hunt be over, And returning with his band, Full of wrath, her lord discover She hath broken his command. 196 GERMANY Only yesterday he swore it, Should she dare to disobey, She should bitterly deplore it Ere the closing of the day. Yet one thought her bosom saddens, Till it makes her heart to bleed, And the flower that sunshine gladdens Pities the neglected weed. Pity for the starving pleadeth Ever in her gentle heart, From the table luxury spreadeth She would give to them a part; Vain and wicked seems the splendor That she daily round her sees, If to them she may not tender Even life's necessities. Not a single eye hath seen her Since she left the postern gate, None but his whose hand can screen her From the barbed shaft of fate. On she goes, a thoughtful beauty Sleeps within her serious face, And the inward sense of duty Lends her an angelic grace. Suddenly she stops and listens, For a rustling step is near, And the glancing sunlight glistens On a hunter's brandished spear. EISENACH 197 As in trembling fear she pauses, Like a ship before it strands, Suddenly her path he crosses, And her lord before her stands. Fiercely then his dark eyes lowered, And her very heart grew weak, As before his glance she cowered, Daring not a word to speak; As the hawk upon the heron, Ere he stoopeth down the air, On the lady gazed the Baron, And he said, "What have you there?" Then she stood, all unresistant, Knowing hope from earth was vain, And the heavens to her seemed distant In that hour of bitter pain. For a moment, bowed with sadness, Prayed she to herself alone, Then a smile of holy gladness Over all her features shone. Passed the pain of her endurance, But it left a pensive grace, And a look of sweet assurance Through it gleamed upon her face, As the twilight's serious splendor Looks through fading summer showers, And she said, in accents tender, "Pardon they are only flowers." 198 GERMANY "Silly lie!" he muttered, sneering, As with sudden grasp he tore From her hands the mantle, bearing All its charitable store, When, in fragrant showers escaping, Roses strewed the greensward there, And the curse his lip was shaping Changed into a silent prayer. Down before her then he bended, And the miracle confessed, And the hand that she extended Humbly to his lips he pressed, Saying, '"Tis the will of Heaven, And I can oppose no more, Half my wealth henceforth be given To relieve the sick and poor." William Wetmore Story. Luther in the Wartburg ^ ^y ^> (Eisenach) SAFE in this Wartburg tower I stand Where God hath led me by the hand, And look down, with a heart at ease, Over the pleasant neighborhoods, Over the vast Thuringian woods, With flash of river, and gloom of trees, With castles crowning the dizzy heights, And farms and pastoral delights, And the morning pouring everywhere EISENACH Its golden glory on the air. Safe, yes, safe am I here at last, Safe from the overwhelming blast Of the mouths of Hell, that followed me fast, And the howling demons of despair That hunted me like a beast to his lair. ****** Yesterday in an idle mood, Hunting with others in the wood, I did not pass the hours in vain, For in the very heart of all The joyous tumult raised around, Shouting of men, and baying of hound, And the bugle's blithe and cheery call, And echoes answering back again, From crags of the distant mountain chain, In the very heart of this I found A mystery of grief and pain. It was an image of the power Of Satan, hunting the world about, With his nets and traps and well-trained dogs, His bishops and priests and theologues, And all the rest of the rabble rout, Seeking whom he may devour ! Enough have I had of hunting hares, Enough of these hours of idle mirth, Enough of nets and traps and gins ! The only hunting of any worth Is where I can pierce with javelins The cunning foxes and wolves and bears, 199 200 GERMANY The whole iniquitous troop of beasts, The Roman Pope and the Roman priests That sorely infest and afflict the earth ! Ye nuns, ye singing birds of the air ! The fowler hath caught you in his snare, And keeps you safe in his gilded cage, Singing the song that never tires, IPanbrers Hacfytlieb ^> -o ^ (Ilmenau) j 2>er bu toon bent .>tmmef bi|t, 9((Ie 2eib unb Sdjmevjen fttdeft, 3)en, ber boppelt elenb ift, 20ppelt mit Grquicfung fiidci't, 2(c^, id) bin be Jveiben^ miibe! 28a fott a a ber Sdimer^ unb 2uft? iifeer .^rricbe, , ad) fomm in meine II iibev alien (Sipfeln 3ft 9tuf), 3n alien SBtpfeln piire|"t bu &aum einen iaud); 3)ie Sbgeletn jdjiueigen im 28albe. SBnvte nur, balbe bit aud). Johann Woljgang von Goethe. ILMENAU 201 To lure down others from their nests; .How ye flutter and beat your breasts, Warm and soft with young desires, Against the cruel, pitiless wires, Reclaiming your lost heritage ! Behold ! A hand unbars the door, Ye shall be captives held no more. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Wanderer's Night Songs "^ ^> ^> *^ (llmenau) . -r HTHOU that from the heavens art, -* Every pain and sorrow stillest, And the doubly wretched heart Doubly with refreshment fillest, I am weary with contending ! Why this rapture and unrest? Peace descending, Come, ah, come into my breast! II . O'er all the hill-tops Is quiet now, In all the tree-tops Hearest thou Hardly a breath; The birds are asleep in the trees: Wait; soon like these Thou too shall rest. Tr. by H. W. Longfellow. 202 GERMANY The Pied Piper of Hamelin ^^ ^y < (Hanteln) TTAMELIN Town's in Brunswick, * By famous Hanover City ; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its walls on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity. Rats! They fought the dogs, and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats, And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats. At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: '"Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation, shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine HAMELN 203 What's best to rid us of our vermin ! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease ? Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation. An hour they sat in counsel. At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence ! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain, I'm sure my poor head aches again I've scratched it so, and all in vain. O for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little, though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous.) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat ! " 204 GERMANY "Come in!" the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure ! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red; And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek, nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in, There was no guessing his kith and kin ! And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone ! " He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honors," said he, "I'm able By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me, so as you never saw ! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the selfsame check; And at the scarf's end hung a pipe ; HAMELN 205 And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) "Yet," said he, "poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham Last June from his huge swarms of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: And, as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the .pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 206 GERMANY Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives, Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished, Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary, Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe; And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks; And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery Is breathed) called out, O rats, rejoice ! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon ! And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone HAMELN 207 Glorious, scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, Come, bore me ! I found the Weser rolling o'er me." You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple; "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats ! " when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders !" A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; So did the Corporation, too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gypsy coat of red and yellow ! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; 208 GERMANY But, as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty; A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait! beside, I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the head cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor, With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe to another fashion." "How?" cried the Mayor, "d'ye think I'll brook Being worse treated than a cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst ! " Once more he stept into the street; And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air) HAMELN 20 9 There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling; Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping, and little tongues chatter- ing; And, like fowls in a farmyard when barley is scat- tering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter. The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by, And could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! However, he turned from south to west, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast. "He never can cross that mighty top! 2 TO GERMANY He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop ! " When, lo ! as they reached the mountain's side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed ; And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain side shut fast. Did I say all ? No ! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say, "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me; For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, HAMELN 211 Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more ! " Alas ! alas for Hamelin ! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says, that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in ! The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south, To offer the Piper by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, And Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six": And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it the Pied Piper's Street, Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 212 GERMANY To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away; And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago, in a mighty band, Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand. So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men, especially pipers; And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise. Robert Browning. FRANCE ' Non, France, 1'univers a besoin que tu vives ! Je le redis, la France est un besoin des hommes." Victor Hugo. J'ai voulu voir Paris; les fastes de 1'histoire Celebrent ses plaisirs, et consacrent sa gloire. Voltaire. Que j'aime a voir, dans la vallee Desolee, Se lever comme un mausolee Les quatres ailes d'un noir moutier ! Que j'aime a voir, pres de 1'austere Monastere, Au seuil du baron feudataire, La croix blanche et le benitier ! Que j'aime a voir, dans les respre'es Empourprees, Jaillir en veines diaprees Les rosaces d'or des couvents ! Oh, que j'aime aux voutes gothiques Des portiques, Les vieux saints de pierre athletiques Priant tous bas pour les vivants ! Alfred de Mussel. Place de la Pucelle *o ^o ^> *^ (Rouen) HERE blooms the legend, fed by Time and Chance, Fresh as the morning, though with centuries old, The whitest lily on the shield of France, With heart of virgin gold. Along the square she moved, sweet Joan of Arc, With face more pallid than a daylit star, Half seen, half doubted, while before her dark Stretched the array of war. Swift passed the battle-smoke of lying breath From off her path, as if a wind had blown, Showing no faithless king, but righteous Death, On the low wooden throne. He would reward her: she who meekly wore Alike the gilded mail and peasant gown, As meekly now received one honor more, The formless fiery crown. A white dove trembled up the heated air, And in the opening zenith found its goal ; Soft as a downward feather, dropped a prayer For each repentant soul. Maria Lowell. 215 2l6 FRANCE From Joan of Arc ^> ^> *^ ^> ^> (Rouen) /^REAT was the throne of France even in those \^- days, and great was he that sat upon it ; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she was for them; not she by them, but they by her should rise from the dust. Gorgeous were the lilies of France, and for centuries had the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until, in another century, the wrath of God and man com- bined to wither them ; but well Joanna knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower nor bud, bell nor blossom, would ever bloom for her! Thomas De Quincey. From Aurora Leigh ^> x o ^> <^y (Paris) CO, I mused ^ Up and down, up and down, the terraced streets, The glittering boulevards, the white colonnades, Of fair fantastic Paris who wears trees Like plumes, as if man made them, spire and tower As if they had grown by nature, tossing up Her fountains in the sunshine of the squares, As if in beauty's game she tossed the dice, Or blew the silver down-balls of her dreams To sow futurity with seeds of thought, And count the passage of her festive hours. PARIS 217 The city swims in verdure, beautiful As Venice on the waters, the sea swan. What bosky gardens, dropped in close-walled courts, As plums in ladies' laps, who start and laugh ; What miles of streets that run on after trees, Still carrying the necessary shops, Those open caskets, with the jewels seen ! And trade is art, and art's philosophy, In Paris. Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" ^>. ^