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 LIBRARY 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
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 SANTA BARBARA 
 
 FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 MRS. H, RUSSELL AMORY. 
 
 GIFT OF HER CHILDREN 
 R. W. AND NINA PARTRIDGE 
 
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 AN 
 
 ^OLD SCRAP-BOOK. 
 
 WITH ADDITIONS. 
 
 Printed, but not Published, for Distribution, as a passing 
 Token to Personal Friends. 
 
 . . . '-that music to whose tone 
 
 Tlie common pulse of man keeps time, 
 
 In cot or castle, mirth or moan, 
 
 In cold or sunny clime." 
 
 Halleck. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 Febkuary 8, 
 1891.
 
 Copyright, 1S91, 
 By J. M. FoKBEs. 
 
 A LEAF 
 DROPPED OUT FROM A BUSY LIFE. 
 
 The leaf JJoats by upon the stream. 
 Unheeded in its sileiit path : 
 
 The vision of a shadowy dream 
 A similar remembrance hath. 
 
 WILLIS. 
 
 JEnifatrsitg JPrtss: 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridok.
 
 V.I 
 
 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 A CALL from young friends for more copies of the Old Scrap 
 Book has led me, at the end of seven years, to reprint it with 
 some omissions and some additions. 
 
 Of these last, the most important are those which the kind- 
 ness of Dr. Holmes and of Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin, & Co. 
 has allowed me now to introduce, especially a few pen-and- 
 ink sketches of the members of our grand old Saturday 
 Club. I only wish the sketches could have been extended 
 by the same or some other such master-hand, especially during 
 the stormy scenes of the Eebellion. What pictures would 
 arise of the blue-coats passing our windows bound for South- 
 ern shores, only too many of them never to return ! Then 
 at our table, who of us can forget the officers on leave, with 
 their stories of camp-life and battle-field, some of them with 
 names which have helped to make history, and will live in the 
 story of our war when it comes to be told. 
 
 Tlie shadows rise up in memory, of our members and of our 
 guests, — men known in literature, art, science, and war : such 
 men as Agassiz, Wyman, Gray, Gurney, Emerson, Longfellow, 
 Sumner, Andrew, with Grant, Fox, Stanton, and a long array 
 of others. They rise in memory, but where is the hand 
 to give them shape ? Eyes and thoughts grow dim at the
 
 iv PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 
 
 attempt at retrospection ; and so I refer my readers to the 
 admirable, though too limited sketches whicli Dr. Holmes 
 has given, with the hope that at some future day the omissions 
 may be supplied with sketches of some of those now living 
 who rank with the best of those who have gone ahead. 
 
 J. M. F. 
 
 Fkb. 8, 1891.
 
 PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 
 
 This volume is built up from the nucleus of an old scrap-book 
 begun about 1830, and from a few old verses which had been 
 either copied or impressed upon the memory much earlier. 
 The original leaves still hold a few flowers, pressed fifty years 
 ago, and a good many newspaper cuttings of various periods. 
 To these last have been added contributions from friends, both 
 in print and manuscript, many songs and gleanings from the 
 then current literature of England and America, while some 
 living authors, and the representatives of others, have gener- 
 ously permitted the free use of their treasures.* 
 
 If I were to catalogue in a rough way the patchwork now 
 printed, it would read something thus : — 
 
 Nursery hymns, having the tones of voices long silent, still 
 ringing in one's ears with the distinctness of yesterday. 
 
 Stealings, from school and other books, accumulated in the 
 desultory reading of a lifetime ; and, especially, large extracts 
 from those poets who were universally recognized fifty years 
 ago, and whom it seems to be the fashion of young America 
 to forget or ignore. 
 
 Songs of the hunt, the yacht, the Indiaman's cabin or deck 
 through trade-winds and Cape of Good Hope storms, or the 
 
 * Messrs. Houghton, MilTliii, & Co. have been particularly obliging.
 
 vi PREFACE TO FIIIST EDITION. 
 
 coming typhoon, — some having for an accompaniment the rush- 
 ing tide of Wood's Holl, or the squall hurrying down the sides 
 of 8t. ^Michael's, or Teneriffe's mountains ; the ripple of the 
 ^liami lliver pushing out of the Everglades, the foam along the 
 Florida reefs, or the "burr" of the hurricane among the pines 
 of the St. John's Eiver. 
 
 Songs of the concert room, theatre, and opera, — from the days 
 of ]\Iario and Grisi, Jenny Lind and Rachel (if the snake-like 
 hissing of Eachel's " Marseillaise " can be called singing), down 
 to the sturdy Badialli with his three encores of " Suoni la 
 Tromba." 
 
 National, political, and war songs, — from the days of the 
 Free Soil Campaign of 1856, up to those which rang through 
 the camps of Grant, Sherman, and Sheridan, carrying the 
 undertone which so many of the verses got from the outgoing 
 regiments under Gordon, Lee, Williams, Shaw, Lowell, and 
 Hallowell, and from the sadder march when they returned 
 with thinned ranks and tattered flags. 
 
 In short, to paraphrase Halleck, — 
 
 *' Songs of the peasant and the peer, 
 Songs of the bridal ami the hier, 
 The welcome and farewell." 
 
 Poems of the parlor, beginning under the low ceiling of the 
 old Milton House, then through Pearl Street and Pine Bank, 
 reaching over to Russell Sturgis's pleasant quarters on the Praya 
 Grande of Macao, and onward still to my little ranche of Mt. 
 Saint George in California, — by no means forgetting Naushon 
 and Swan Island. 
 
 Poems heard from the lips of Emerson, Lowell, Poe, Holmes, 
 Fanny Kemble, and the beautiful Catherine Sedgwick, after- 
 wards Mrs. Heine.
 
 PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. vii 
 
 All these and a thousand more such threads run through 
 the memory like echoes from the past, when one tries to string 
 together the rhymes which have been floating in the mind 
 through over half a century. 
 
 This crude medley of Poem and Song, Epigram and Charade, 
 is offered with some hesitation as a token of remembrance to 
 the few old friends who still surround me^ and to the many 
 younger ones who are so rapidly taking our places. 
 
 If it saves some eyes from straining over faded manuscript 
 and line print, or recalls scenes and tones of voice or of music 
 connected with its verses, it will have answered the rather 
 vague purpose with which it has been so loosely thrown 
 together. 
 
 J. M. r. 
 
 Feb. 8, 1884.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Adams, Sarah Flower. 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 124. 
 
 Addison, Joseph. 
 Au Ode : The spacious firmament, 499. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 About that brow, 6. 
 A Charade: Sir Hilary charged, 223. 
 Address to my Washerwoman, 78. 
 A Fragment : Couie take the harp, 650. 
 Ah, Mr. B., 76. 
 A Letter of Advice from Miss M. T. 
 
 to Araminta, 7. 
 Away, away we bound o'er the deep, 
 
 26. 
 A Woman's Ideal, 622. 
 Begone I dull care, 253. 
 Bridal Serenade, 65. 
 Clear-sighted, yet blind, 53. 
 Come, brave with me the sea, 239. 
 Day breaks on the mountain, 49. 
 Drinking-Soug : Banish sorrow, 34. 
 Epitaph on Napoleon's Tomb at St. 
 
 Helena, 86. 
 Epitaph on Timothy John, 1S8. 
 For thee, Love, — for thee. Love, 9. 
 Gathering of Athol, 232. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, 299. 
 Hail, chariniiig power, 38. 
 Home by the Sea, 241. 
 How gaily rows the gondolier, 61. 
 How stands the glass around ? 71* 
 
 Hymn : The dead are like the stars by 
 day, 13. 
 
 I '11 haste to quaff my wine, 104. 
 
 " 11 passato e passato," 662. 
 
 "1 number none but the cloudless 
 hours," 210. 
 
 Know ye the land ? 25. 
 
 Leezie Lindsay, 261. 
 
 Life, 3. 
 
 Lutzow's Wild Hunt, 183. 
 
 Mahabharata, 366. 
 
 Maternal Atfectiou, 86. 
 
 " Merry England," 84. 
 
 O'er the water to Charlie, 233. 
 
 Oh, bid your faithful Ariel ily, 255. 
 
 On a Miser, 33. 
 
 One still lingered, 56. 
 
 On the Death of a beautiful Young 
 Girl, 54. 
 
 O pescator dell' onde, 210. 
 
 Receipt to make a Man of Conse- 
 quence, 40. 
 
 Reproach, 638. 
 
 Shan Van Vocht, 149. 
 
 Should he upbraid, 253. 
 
 Spirits -which hover round, 250. 
 
 Tell her I'll love her, 247- 
 
 Tlie Banks of the blue Moselle, 255. 
 
 The Barring o' the Door, 614. 
 
 The Braggart, 58. 
 
 The Campbells are comin', 270. 
 
 Tlie Captain : A Fragment, 672. 
 
 The Cathedral, 73.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 The Change, 231. 
 
 The Despairing Lover, 613. 
 
 The Disaster, 2\i). 
 
 Tlie Don to Nausliou, 600. 
 
 Tiie five Dreams, 30. 
 
 The Gathering of the Hays, 228. 
 
 The Gipsy Laddie, U2. 
 
 The Grave, 56. 
 
 The Grave of Bonaparte, 189. 
 
 The Jaeobite's Pledge, 230. 
 
 The hite Deputation to Paris, 101. 
 
 Tiie light Bark, 02. 
 
 The moon is up, the evening star, 14. 
 
 Tlie Nation's Dead, 310. 
 
 Tlic soldier, tired of war's alarms, 270. 
 
 The Song of the Forge, 87- 
 
 Titauia's Song, 256. 
 
 To • , 41. 
 
 To a newly opened Oyster, 15. 
 When shall we all meet again ? 617. 
 Wilt thou tempt the waves with me ? 
 
 650. 
 W. M. Hunt's French Song, 105. 
 Wonders eease, 4S. 
 
 Aytoun, William EDiioNDSTOUNE. 
 Courtship of our Cid, 396. 
 
 Baillie, Joanna. 
 The Bonny Boat, 131. 
 
 Barbauld, Anna L.etitia. 
 Life and Death, 575. 
 The Sabbath of the Soul, 457. 
 
 Barker, David. 
 Two Kinds of Piety, 146. 
 
 B.vYLY, Thomas Haynes. 
 Gavly the Troubadour, 251. 
 Isle of Beauty, 61. 
 
 Bkaumont and Fletcher. 
 Take, oh, take those lips away, 543. 
 
 Beers, Ethel Lynn. 
 
 On the Shores of Tennessee, 292. 
 The Picket-Guard, 294. 
 
 Bliss, Daniel. 
 
 Epitaph on a Slave in "Old Burial 
 Hill," Concord, Mass., 99. 
 
 Bradford, Joseph. 
 Dolce far Nieute, 147. 
 
 Browne, William. 
 
 The Sirens' Song, 628. 
 Whom I love, 621. 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett. 
 My Kate, 397. 
 
 Browning, Robert. 
 
 Cavalier's Song, 589. 
 
 How they brought the good News from 
 
 Ghent to Aix, 603. 
 Incident of the French Camji, 273. 
 The Lost Leader, 515. 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen. 
 
 A Forest Hymn, 637. 
 Green River, 361. 
 Thanatopsis, 494. 
 The Damsel of Peru, 357- 
 The Death of the Flowers, 469. 
 Wooing-Time, 60. 
 
 BuLWER (Sir Edward Bllwer 
 Lytton). 
 Extract : We believe that fate, 78. 
 On English Travellers, 55. 
 To the dim and gloomy shore, 72. 
 
 Burgoyne, General. 
 The dashing white Sergeant, 266.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XI 
 
 Burns, Robert. 
 
 Address to the unco Guid, ortlic rigidly 
 
 Righteous, 428. 
 A Highland lad my love was born, 402 
 A red, red Rose, 542. 
 Rannockburn, 504. 
 Bonnie Lesley, 401. 
 For a' that and a' that, 484. 
 Green grow the rashes, 23. 
 I am a son of Mars, 425. 
 Jean, 541. 
 
 John Anderson, 539. 
 Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn, 
 
 455. 
 My heart 's in the Highlands, 56G. 
 The Deil 's awa' wi' the Exciseman, 
 
 429. 
 The first Kiss of Affection, 393. 
 The winsome Wee Thing, 75. 
 To the Devil, 002. 
 Wandering Willie, 404. 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 
 242. 
 
 Butler, Samuel. 
 The Stratagem, GIG. 
 
 Byron, George Gordon (Loi'd) 
 An Ode : From the French, 444. 
 Apostrophe to the Ocean, 420. 
 A sail ! a sail ! 4G7. 
 A Sketch, 426. 
 Bring forth the horse, 468. 
 Death of Major Howard, 54. 
 Elegiac Stanzas on the Death of Sir 
 
 Peter Parker, Bart., 458. 
 Fare thee well, 403. 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer, 455. 
 Fill the goblet again, 52. 
 He that hath sailed, 77. 
 Jephtha's Daughter, 500. 
 Maid of Athens, 410. 
 My boat is on the shore, 27. 
 My tent on shore, mv galley on the sea, 
 '77. 
 
 Ode to Napoleon Bonaparte, 39. 
 
 O'er the glad water.s, 472. 
 
 Oil Jordan's banks, 421. 
 
 On the Star of the "Legion of Honor," 
 
 415. 
 She walks in beauty, 477. 
 Song of the Greek Poet, 582. 
 Tlie Banks of Rhine, 399. 
 The Destruction of Sennacherib, 522. 
 The Helen of Canova, 28. 
 The Immortal Mind, 498. 
 The Land of the Sun, 414. 
 There is a light cloud by the moon, 521. 
 The Wild Gazelle, 419. 
 Vision of Belshazzar, GOl. 
 Waterloo, 510. 
 What ails thee, Dervise ? 450. 
 
 Calvert, George H. 
 Woman's Love, 149. 
 
 Campbell, Thomas. 
 Battle of the Baltic, 505. 
 Exile of Erin, 2. 
 " Gertrude of Wyoming," Extract 
 
 from, 435. 
 Glenara, 528. 
 Ilohenlinden, 509. 
 Hope, 57. 
 
 In vain, alas I in vain, 26. 
 Ijochiel's Warning, G05. 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter, 570. 
 ]\Ien of England, 41G. 
 O'Connor's Child, 437. 
 Song : Drink ye to her, 465. 
 Song : Withdi-aw not yet, 456. 
 The Beech-Tree's Petition, 418. 
 The Soldier's Dream, 272. 
 The Turkish Lady, 411. 
 What's hallowed' ground? 459. 
 Ye mariners of England ! 507- 
 
 Capkx, Edward. 
 Shall we ever meet again ? 107-
 
 XII 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Carew, Thomas. 
 He that loves a rosy check, 625. 
 
 Clarke, Captain. 
 Our Island Cliristmas Eve, 227. 
 
 Clougii, Arthur Hugu. 
 Quii Cursum Ventus, 137. 
 
 Time, 12. 
 
 C, M. A. 
 
 Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. 
 Genevieve, 31. 
 Let us love, 453. 
 The Devil's Thoughts, 430. 
 
 Collins, William. 
 How sleep the brave, 551. 
 
 CoLMAN, George. 
 Nursery Rhyme : Wheu the Moorish 
 cymbals, 183. 
 
 CoNYGHAM, Mrs. 
 From " The Dream," 658. 
 
 CowPER, "William. 
 
 Boadicea, 502. 
 
 Ou the Loss of the " Koyal George," 
 552. 
 
 Craig, Isa. 
 The Ballad of the Brides of Quair, 599. 
 
 Cunningham, Allan. 
 Sea Song : A wet sheet, 470. 
 
 Cutler, E. J. 
 Poem read before the Phi Beta Kappa 
 Socictv at Cambridge, July IS, 1861, 
 651. 
 
 De Lisle, Pouget. 
 Hymne des Marseillais, 274. 
 
 DiEDiN, Charles. 
 Tom Bowling, 267. 
 
 Dickens, Charles. 
 The Ivy Green, 036. 
 
 Dimond, William. 
 The Mariner's Dream, 16. 
 
 Doddridge, Philip. 
 
 Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve, 
 123. 
 
 Douglas of Fingland. 
 Annie Laurie, 238. 
 
 Drake, Joseph Rodman. 
 The American Flag, 300. 
 
 Dumas, Alexandre. 
 Mourir pour la patrie, 276. 
 
 DURIYAGE, A. E. 
 
 Address to the Birch, 38. 
 
 Dyer, Sir Edward. 
 My minde to me a kingdom is, J 91. 
 
 Eliot, George. 
 Boat Song, 448. 
 
 Emerson, Ralph Waldo. 
 Boston, 319. 
 Brahma, 366. 
 Each and All, 368. 
 Fable, 377. 
 Forbearance, 378. 
 Give all to love, 628. 
 Hymn sung at the Completion of the 
 
 Concord Monument, 594. 
 Maiden Speech of the ^olian Harp, 
 
 643. 
 Saadi and the Dervish, 339. 
 Terminus, 380.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 xiu 
 
 The Apology, 626. 
 
 The Rliodora, 385. 
 
 Tlie Siiow-Srorm, 358. 
 
 The Visit, 618. 
 
 Thiue eyes still shone, 627. 
 
 "Threiiodv," Extract from, 387. 
 
 To tiie liuinble-Bec, 324. 
 
 Voluntaries, 346. 
 
 Waldeiusamkeit, 640. 
 
 Everett, Edwakd. 
 Dirge ol'Alaric, the Visigoth, 110. 
 
 E., W. E. 
 
 Birthday Verses, 670. 
 
 Faxsiiawe, Catherine. 
 A Riddle : 'T was whispered in heaven, 
 395. 
 
 E., C. F. 
 There was a listening fear, 104. 
 
 F., S. J. 
 A Rhapsody, 659. 
 
 Foster, Mrs. 
 To the First of the Seraphim, — 
 Death, 94. 
 
 Foster, Steriien Collins. 
 Old Folks at Home, 235. 
 
 Franklin, Benjamin. 
 A Letter of Benjamin Franklin to Mr. 
 Strahan, 249. 
 
 Gakrick, David. 
 Thou soft-flowing Avon, 258. 
 
 Garrison, William Lloyd. 
 Freedom of the Mind, 246. 
 
 Garrison, William Lloyd, Jr. 
 To ,658. 
 
 Gibbons, . 
 
 We are coming, Father Abra'am, 302. 
 
 Gillespie, William. 
 The Highlander, 133. 
 
 Goethe, Joiiann Wolfgang von. 
 The Erl King, 196. 
 The Fortunate Land, 164. 
 
 Goldsmith, Oliver. 
 An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 
 
 565. 
 The Deserted Village, 633. 
 
 Gordon, Maria W. 
 On the Death of E. P., 646. 
 
 Gould, Miss H. F. 
 The ship is ready, 29. 
 
 Gray, Thomas. 
 
 Elegy written in a Country Church- 
 yard, 496. 
 The Bard, 561. 
 
 Halleck, Fitz-Greene. 
 
 Alnwick Castle, 69. 
 
 Burns, 331. 
 
 Connecticut, 363. 
 
 Magdalen, 359. 
 
 Marco Bozzaris, 355. 
 
 On the Death of Joseph Rodman 
 
 Drake, 129. 
 On the Death of William Howard 
 
 Allen, 351. 
 Red Jacket, 338. 
 
 The Field of the Grounded Arms, 350. 
 The Rhyme of the Ancient Coaster, 
 
 391. 
 To Eliza, 387. 
 To my Yacht, 74. 
 Woman, 388.
 
 XIV 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 II.VKTE, BUET. 
 
 Cliiquita, 555. 
 
 J'laiu Laiiguitgc from Truthful James, 
 
 o57. 
 Tlie Society upon the Stanislaus, 390. 
 
 H., A. S. 
 
 An Opal Gem, 213. 
 
 Soft gleams the October sun, 217. 
 
 Hay, Colonel Joijx. 
 On A. B., 218. 
 
 Hebek, Reginald. 
 Missionary Hymn, 19. 
 The Moonlight March, 20. 
 
 Hemans, Felicl\ Dorothea. 
 Casablanca, 134. 
 Hymn to the Virgin, 188. 
 The Bell at Sea, 59. 
 Tlie Hour of Death, 67. 
 The Hour of Prayer, 312. 
 The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers 
 
 in New England, 3. 
 The Recall, 25. 
 
 Herbert, George. 
 The Parish Priest to his Successor, 
 271. 
 
 Herrick, Robert. 
 The Night-Piece: To Julia, 545. 
 
 II., E. S. 
 Answer to "Love not," 379. 
 Better a sin which purposed wrong 
 
 to none, 378. 
 Cry of each Planet's Night, 3G4. 
 Epitaph: Stranger, thou readest, 336. 
 I slept and dreamed, 385. 
 My Thoughts, 367. 
 On a Child Drowned, 38G. 
 Sleep, 370. 
 
 The Nobly Born, 559. 
 
 The Wood Fire, 199. 
 
 To R. W. E., 323. 
 
 VViiat strange, deep secret, 96. 
 
 Hill, Aaron. 
 Stroke a nettle, 38. 
 
 Hillhouse, James A. 
 Percy claiming his Own, 607. 
 
 Hoar, Elizabeth. 
 Story of a Bridge, 310. 
 
 Hoffman, Charles Fenno. 
 Sparkling and bright, 237. 
 
 Hogg, James, 
 A National Song of Triumph, 225. 
 Kilmeny, 485. 
 The Lark, 263. 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell. 
 A Farewell to Agassiz, 335. 
 A Song of other Days, 654. 
 At the Saturday Club, 665. 
 From " The Stability of Science," 257 
 Hunting-Song, 1857, 212. 
 HLiuting-Song for 1839, 206. 
 Lexington, 286. 
 
 Never or Now : An Appeal, 135. 
 Never or Now, 517. 
 No more the summer floweret charms, 
 
 215. 
 Old Ironsides, 516. 
 Questions and Answers, 375 
 Song : The stars their early vigils, 330. 
 Sun and Shadow, 225. 
 The Last Look : W. W. Swain, 644. 
 The Pilgrim's Vision, 589. 
 To Governor Swain, 648. 
 
 Hood, Thomas. 
 I remember, I remember, the house, 
 584.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XV 
 
 HoPKiNSOX, Judge JosErn. 
 Hull, Columbia ! 2S3. 
 
 Houghton (Richard Monckton 
 MiLNEs), Lord. 
 
 The Brookside, 417. 
 
 Howe, Julia Ward. 
 
 Balaklava, 278. 
 
 Battle Hymn of the Republie, 298. 
 Seasons have passed away, 224. 
 The Flag, 29(3. 
 
 Hunt, Leigu. 
 Abou Ben Adlicin, 493. 
 Jeuiiy kissed me, 182. 
 
 H., W. H. 
 
 The Bugle-Horii, 207- 
 
 James, Paul Moon. 
 The Lighthouse, 184. 
 
 JoNSON, Ben. 
 Epitaph: Underneath this stone, 426. 
 Freedom iu Dress, 482. 
 To Celia, 544. 
 
 Kemble, Frances Anne. 
 
 Absence, 205. 
 
 Expostulation, 28. 
 
 Faith, 187. 
 
 Impromptu, 195. 
 
 Lines for Music : sunny love, 189. 
 
 Lines in Answer to a Question, 90. 
 
 Song of the Spirit of Dawn, 1G8. 
 
 Song : When you mournfully rivet, 186. 
 
 Sonnets on the American War, 308. 
 
 The Fall of Richmond, 306. 
 
 Key, Francis Scott. 
 The Star-spangled Banner, 287- 
 
 Landon, Miss L. E. 
 The Lake of Windermere, 30. 
 
 Larcom, Lucy. 
 A Loyal Woman's No, 518. 
 
 Leigh, Henry S. 
 The Twins, 268.- 
 
 LocKHART, John Gibson. 
 
 Song of the Galley, 152. 
 The Bridal of Audalla, 548. 
 
 Longfellow, Henry Wadswortit. 
 
 A Psalm of Life, 373. 
 
 Footsteps of Angels, 376. 
 
 Hymn of the Moravian Nuns ol' Belli- 
 
 leliem, 592. 
 Hymn to the Night, 365. 
 The Arrow and the Song, 379. 
 The Children's Hour, 475. 
 The Cumberland, 608. 
 Tiie Happiest Land, 597. 
 The Light of Stars, 372. 
 The Skeleton in Armor, 585. 
 The Warden of the Cinque Ports, 512. 
 
 Lovelace, Sir Richard. 
 
 To Althea, 619. 
 To Lueasta, 478. 
 
 Lowell, James Russell. 
 
 Auf Wiedersehen, 593. 
 
 Commemoration Ode, 328. 
 
 Jonathan to John, 595. 
 
 June, 381. 
 
 Mason and Slidell, 612. 
 
 The Beggar, 367. 
 
 The wisest man could ask uo more, 382. 
 
 LuNT, George. 
 Requiem for a Young Soldier, 271.
 
 XVI 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Lytlk, William Haines. 
 Ant oil}' and Cleopatra, 28-i. 
 
 Macaulay, Thomas Babington. 
 
 Horatius Codes, 179. 
 Ivry, 155. 
 
 Mackay, Cuarles. 
 Some love to roam, 178. 
 
 Marlowe, Christopher. 
 Live with me aud be my love, 262. 
 
 Mason, William. 
 Epitaph on Mrs. Mason in the Cathe- 
 dral at Bristol, 632. 
 
 MicKLE, William Julius. 
 Cumuor Hall, 42. 
 
 Milton, John. 
 Mortal, 63. 
 
 Mitc^jell, S. Weir, M.D. 
 
 Kearsarge, 630. 
 
 The Quaker Graveyard, 631. 
 
 Mitchell, Walter. 
 Tacking Ship off Shore, 473. 
 
 Montgomery, James. 
 What is Prayer ? 1 20. 
 
 Montrose, James Grahame, Mar- 
 quis OP. 
 I 'II never love thee more, 478. 
 
 Moore, Thomas. 
 
 A Canadian Boat-Song, 537. 
 Araby's Daughter, 535. 
 Ballad Stanzas, 195. 
 
 Before the Battle, 162. 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing 
 
 young charms, 180. 
 Come, ye disconsolate, 636. 
 Drink to her, 140. 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 138. 
 Fly to the desert, 163. 
 How shall 1 woo ? 62 1 . 
 I saw from the beach, 176. 
 It is this, it is this, 163. 
 Love's young Dream, 546. 
 Oft in the stilly night, 536. 
 Oh, ever thus, 187. 
 Oh, had we some bright litlle i^Ie of 
 
 our own, 141. 
 Bich and rare were the gems she wore, 
 
 182. 
 She is far from the land, '107. 
 Song: Row gently here, 132. 
 Song : When Time, who steals, 24. 
 Sound the loud timbrel, 202. 
 St. Seuauus and the Lady, 148. 
 The Conflict, 175. 
 The Ghebers' Fight, 611. 
 The harp that once through Tara's 
 
 halls, 539. 
 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp, 525. 
 The Leaf and Fountain, 408. 
 The Legacy, 154. 
 The Meeting of the Ships, 130. 
 The Meeting of the Waters, 153. 
 The Minstrel Boy, 156. 
 The Peri at the Gate, 181. 
 The Steersman's Song, 198. 
 The time I've lost in wooing, 177- 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine, 
 
 203. 
 The Vale of Cashmere, 160. 
 The young May Moon, 198. 
 This world is all a fleeting show, 204. 
 Those Evening Bells, 18. 
 To sigh, yet feel no pain, 194. 
 When twilight dews, 193. 
 You remember Ellen, 197.
 
 INDEX OF A UTHORS. 
 
 XVll 
 
 Motherwell, William. 
 Jeanie Morrison, 40. 
 The Cavalier's Sou-, 151. 
 The Sword-Chaut of Thorsteiu Raiidi, 
 1C9. 
 
 MouLTOx, Louise Ciiandlee,. 
 Jolm A. Andrew, 309. 
 
 Muhlenbekg, William Augustus. 
 I would not live alway, 320. 
 
 Nairn, Lady Caroline. 
 The Land o' the Leal, G20. 
 
 Neal, John. 
 The American Eagle, 113. 
 
 Norton, Caroline. 
 A Health to the Outward Bound, C42. 
 Love not 1 58. 
 
 Norton, Charles E. 
 To R. W. Emerson, on his Seventieth 
 Birthday, 640. 
 
 O'Keeee, John. 
 I am a friar of orders gray, 524. 
 
 Parker, Martyn. 
 Ye gentlemen of England, 204. 
 
 Payne, John Howard. 
 Home, Sweet Home, 234. 
 
 Percival, James Gates. 
 New England, 115. 
 The Coral Grove, 471. 
 The Greek Emigrant's Song, 118. 
 The Language of Flowers, 041. 
 
 Perkins, James Handasyd. 
 Home, 248. 
 It is a beautiful belief, 219. 
 
 To S. S. F., 047. 
 Why? 100. 
 
 Pickering, A. L. 
 The Dead Dog, 97. 
 
 PiERPONT, John. 
 
 Hymn for the two hundredth Anniver- 
 sary of the Settlement of Charles- 
 town, 5. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, 128. 
 
 Pindar, Peter. 
 On a stone thrown that missed a thick 
 head, 44. 
 
 Pinkney, Edward Coate. 
 A Health, 107. 
 
 Pitt, William. 
 The Sailor's Consolation, 35. 
 
 Planche, J. 11. 
 Love's Ritornella, 259. 
 
 Poe, Edgar Allan. 
 The Fire-Fiend, 103. 
 
 Pope, Alexander. 
 The Dying Christian to his Soul, 125. 
 The Universal Prayer, 402. 
 
 Praed, Winthrop Mackworth. 
 I remember, I remember, liow my 
 childhood, 257. 
 
 Procter, Adelaide Anne. 
 
 Now, 91. 
 
 One by One, 92. 
 
 Sent to Heaven, 105. 
 
 Raleigh, Sir Walter. 
 
 Lines written the Night before liis 
 Execution, 186.
 
 XV HI 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Root, Geoiu;!', 1\ 
 The Battle-Cry of Froodoiu, 31.3. 
 Tramp, traiui), tramp, 318. 
 
 RoscoE, Miss. 
 Tlie Mourner, fiO. 
 
 Sargent, Epes. 
 A life oil tlic oceau wave, 236. 
 
 Saxe, John Godfrey. 
 Mourner a la Mode, COO. 
 
 SCUUECKENBURGER, MaX. 
 
 The Watch on the Rhine, 282. 
 
 Scott, Sir Walter. 
 
 Alice Brand, 488. 
 
 Allen-a-Dale, 433. 
 
 An hour with thee, 400. 
 
 Bonnv Dundee, 547. 
 
 Border Ballad, 580. 
 
 Briguall Banks, 243. 
 
 Cadyow Castle, 190. 
 
 Cavaher Song, 573. 
 
 Clan-Alpine Boat-Song, 578. 
 
 Cleveland's Song of Love, 409. 
 
 Cleveland's Song to ]\Iiiina, 50. 
 
 Coronach, 550. 
 
 County Guy, 59. 
 
 Death' of Oswald Wycliffe, 449. 
 
 Ellen before Fitz-Janies, 412. 
 
 Elspeth's Ballad, 568. 
 
 Glee for King Cliarlcs, 574. 
 
 Glenfinlas, 440 
 
 Hellvellyn, 10. 
 
 Ilunting-Song, 567- 
 
 Inscription for a Lighthouse, 477. 
 
 Jock of Hazeldeau, 394. 
 
 Lochinvar, 526. 
 
 Love of Country, 575. 
 
 Lucy Ashton's Song, 627. 
 
 Lullaby of an Infant Chief, 254. 
 
 MacGregor's Gathering, 436. 
 
 Merrily bounds the bark, 432. 
 
 Morton seeking the Blind Widow, 81. 
 
 Nora's Vow, 427. 
 
 Noma's Answer to the Dwarf, 456. 
 
 Noma's Proplicclcs, 41. 
 
 Pil)roch of Donuil Dhu, 21. 
 
 ilebccca's Hymn, 581. 
 
 Soldier, rest ! 260. 
 
 Song : A weary lot is thine, 572. 
 
 Sound, sound the clarion, 82. 
 
 The Bible, 634. 
 
 The Contest in Rokeby Hall, 445. 
 
 The Minstrel's Request, 263. 
 
 The Rover, 487. 
 
 Time, 452. 
 
 Twist ye, twine ye, 459. 
 
 Woman, 396. 
 
 Sears, Edmund Hamilton. 
 Calm on the listening ear of night, 635. 
 
 Sewall, Harriet Winslow. 
 Why thus longing ? 327. 
 
 Shakspeare, William. 
 
 Anne Hathaway, 45. 
 
 Ariel's Song, 538. 
 
 A Sea Dirge, 538. 
 
 Bid me discourse, 254. 
 
 Crabbed Age and Youth, 269. 
 
 "Hamlet," Extract from, 454. 
 
 Hotspur, 503. 
 
 Human Life, 560. 
 
 Lorenzo and Jessica, 413. 
 
 Portia's Charge to the Jew, 617. 
 
 Scene from " King John," 466. 
 
 Scene from "Macbeth," 466. 
 
 Sliakspeare's Epitaph, 247. 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, 269. 
 
 Song: Fear no more the heat, 551. 
 
 Song : Under the greenwood tree, 540. 
 
 Tell me, where is fancy bred, 541.
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 XIX 
 
 Shelley, Percy Byssue. 
 
 Aretliusa, 422. 
 Tlie Fugitives, 405. 
 
 Shirley, James. 
 Dcatli's Filial Conquest, 497. 
 
 Smith, Horace. 
 
 Address to tlie Egyptian Muiiiiiiy in 
 Belzoni's Exhibition, 116. 
 
 SoANE, George. 
 I 've oeen roaming, 252. 
 
 SouTUEY, Mrs. Caroline (Bowles). 
 
 Mariner's Hymu, 464. 
 On the Removal of some Family Por- 
 traits, 142. 
 Tlie Last Journey, 79. 
 The River, 96. 
 
 SouTHEY, Robert. 
 Man's Pilgrimage, 22. 
 The Inchcape Rock, 576. 
 
 Sprague, Charles. 
 
 Tlie Brothers, 172. 
 
 The Winged Worshippers, 201. 
 
 Stedman, Edmund Clarence. 
 John Brown of Osawatomie, 288. 
 Kearny at Seven Pines, 173. 
 
 Sternuold, Thomas. 
 Psalm XVIII., 501. 
 
 Stevens, George Alexander. 
 The Storm, 108. 
 
 Sullivan, Mrs. M. D. 
 The Blue Juniata, 245. 
 
 Swain, Charles. 
 Dryburgh Abboy, 220. 
 
 Swain, W. W. 
 
 Charade: A bark from Tagus', 216. 
 
 Come to the sports of our wave- 
 circled isle, 208. 
 
 Oh, let no change in after years, 209. 
 
 The Golden Wedding, 656. 
 
 The Storm Petrel, 217. 
 
 Welcome to a Supper given to Dr. 
 O. W. Holmes, 211. 
 
 Tannahill, Robert. 
 The Braes of Balquither, 51. 
 
 Taylor, Henry. 
 The Lay of Elena, 157. 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred. 
 
 Come not, when I am dead, 457. 
 Crossing the Bar, 673. 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vcre, 529. 
 Lady Clare, 532. 
 
 Tlie Charge of the Light Brigade at 
 Balaklava, 280. 
 
 Thomson, James. 
 Rule, Britannia, 277. 
 
 Timrod, Henry. 
 Ode: Sleep sweetly in your humble 
 graves, 523. 
 
 T., W. L. 
 
 Dorothy, 383. 
 
 Upton, George B. 
 Life, 521. 
 
 Wade, J. A. 
 Meet me by moonlight, 252. 
 
 W^ALLER, Edmund. 
 On a Girdle, 4S2.
 
 XX 
 
 INDEX OF AUTHORS. 
 
 Wastell, Simon. 
 Man's Mortality, 16i. 
 
 AVaterston, Mrs. 
 Together, 293. 
 
 Watts, Isaac. 
 Before Jehovah's awful throne, 57 
 From all that dwell below the skies, 
 
 63:^. 
 
 The Heavenly Land, 461. 
 
 Wedderburn, Mr. 
 On Franklin, 251. 
 
 Wesley, Charles. 
 Come, thou Almighty King, 121. 
 Servant of God, well done ! 122. 
 
 Weyman, Charles S. 
 Freraout and Victory, 321. 
 
 WniTTiER, John Greenleaf. 
 At Port Royal, 301-. 
 Barbara Frietchie, 315. 
 Gone, 165. 
 Ichabod, 513. 
 
 It may not be our lot to wield, 383. 
 My Playmate, 479. 
 My Psalm, 371. 
 The Angels of Buena Vista, 352. 
 
 WiLLAKn, Mrs. 
 Rocked in the cradle of the deep, 1. 
 
 Williams, Bishop John. 
 
 Charade ; My lirst, beloved of many, 
 225. 
 
 Williams, Helen Maria, 
 While Thee 1 seek, 245. 
 
 Willis, Nathaniel Parker. 
 Lines (o a Lady, 64. 
 The Burial of Arnold, 126. 
 
 Wilson, Mrs. C. B. 
 Gondola, 63. 
 
 Wither, George. 
 The Manly Heart, 544. 
 
 Wolfe, Charles. 
 Burial of Sir John Moore, 554. 
 
 Woodworth, Samuel. 
 The Old Oaken Bucket, 362. 
 
 Wordsworth, William. 
 Rob Roy's Grave, 82. 
 She was a phantom of delight, 185. 
 Tiie Happy Warrior, 343. 
 
 Work, Henry C. 
 Marching through Georgia, 314. 
 
 WoTTON, Sir Henry. 
 The Good Man, 483. 
 
 Young, Edward. 
 The Archer, 657.
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A BARK, from Tagus' golden straud 216 
 
 A beggar tlirough the world am I 367 
 
 Abou Beu Adliem (may his tribe increase !) 493 
 
 About that brow 6 
 
 A boy sat at my feet 340 
 
 A brow austere, a circumspective eye 40 
 
 A chieftain to the Highlands bound 570 
 
 A famous man is Robin Hood 82 
 
 A foe is heard in every rustling leaf 350 
 
 Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh .... 59 
 
 A Highland lad my love was born 402 
 
 Ah, Mr. B., 't is half-past three 76 
 
 A life on the ocean wave 236 
 
 AUen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning 433 
 
 A lions, enfans de la patrie 274 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac, they say 294 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all deliglits 31 
 
 A mist was driving down the British Channel 512 
 
 And by the lonely shore they laid him 662 
 
 " And I could weej)," the Oneida chief 435 
 
 And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) 116 
 
 And tiiou, too, of the snow-white plume ! 444 
 
 And what is so rare as a day in June ? 381 
 
 An hour with thee when earliest day 400 
 
 Announced by all the trumpets of the sky 358 
 
 An opal gem, the island lies 213 
 
 Another hand is beckoning us 165 
 
 Arethusa arose 422 
 
 A roar like thunder strikes the ear 282 
 
 " A sail ! a sail ! " — a promised prize to Hope ! 467
 
 xxii jyiJEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PACK 
 
 As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green 225 
 
 Askest, " How long tliou slialt stay ? " . 618 
 
 As 'mid the storm-cloud's parting veil 211 
 
 As o'er the glacier's frozen sheet 65 !• 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 137 
 
 A steed — a steed of mat elilcss speed • 151 
 
 A stillness crept about the house 599 
 
 At anchor in Hampton Roads we lay 608 
 
 Ave Sauctissima 188 
 
 Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve ...... ..... 123 
 
 Away, away we bound o'er the deep 26 
 
 Away, o'er the wave to the Lome we are seeking 74 
 
 A weary lot is thine, fair maid 572 
 
 A wet sheet and a flowing sea 470 
 
 A world where there 's nothing to eat or drink 659 
 
 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 516 
 
 Banish sorrow, grief is folly 34 
 
 Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so 555 
 
 Before Jehovah's awful throne 57 
 
 Begone ! dull care 253 
 
 Behold — uot him we knew 644 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charms 180 
 
 Beside yon straggling fence that skirls the way 633 
 
 Better a sin which purposed wrong to none 378 
 
 Better trust all, and be deceived 187 
 
 Between the dark and the daylight . 475 
 
 Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear 254 
 
 Bird of the wilderness 263 
 
 Bird of untiring wing 217 
 
 Blest of the highest gods are (hey who die 646 
 
 Bonny Kilmeny gaed up the glen 485 
 
 Boot, saddle to horse and away ! 589 
 
 Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred . 426 
 
 Breathes there a man with soul so dead 575 
 
 Breathe, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest wailing 271 
 
 " Bring forth the horse ! " — the horse was brought 468 
 
 Bring tlie bowl which you boast 574 
 
 Bring the good old bugle, boys, we '11 have another song 314 
 
 Burly, dozing humble-bee ! . 324
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 But fare you weel, auld Nickie-beu ! 002 
 
 By the hope -withiu us springing 162 
 
 By the rude bridge that arched the flood 594 
 
 Calm on the listening ear of night 635 
 
 Can any mixture of earth's mould 63 
 
 Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind 57 
 
 Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! 108 
 
 Child, amidst the flowers at play 312 
 
 Child of earth with the golden hair 256 
 
 Clang, elang, — the massive anvils ring S7 
 
 Come boat me o'er, come row nie o'er 233 
 
 Come, brave with me the sea, love 239 
 
 Come live wilh me and be my love . 262 
 
 Come not, when 1 am dead 457 
 
 Come take the harp, my gentle one 650 
 
 Come, thou Almighty King 121 
 
 Come to the sports of our wave-circled isle 208 
 
 Come, ye disconsolate, where'er ye languish 636 
 
 Crabbed age and youth cannot live together 269 
 
 Dark are thy woods, and sevei'e 456 
 
 Day breaks ou the mountain 49 
 
 Dear Governor, if my skill might brave 648 
 
 Deep in the wave is a coral grove 471 
 
 Derriere chez vous il y a I'uu vert bocage 105 
 
 Distracted with care 613 
 
 Does woman always love where she is loved ? 149 
 
 Drink to her who long 140 
 
 Drink to me only with thine eyes 544 
 
 Drink ye to her that each loves best 465 
 
 " Dry-lighted soul," the ray that shines in thee 323 
 
 E'en such is time, which takes on trust 186 
 
 faintly as tolls the evening chime 537 
 
 I'alsest of womankind, canst thou declare 78 
 
 False wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalled my clan 605 
 
 Fare thee well ! and if forever 403 
 
 Fare thee well 1 the ship is ready 29
 
 xxiv INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear 50 
 
 Farewell, farewell to tliee, Araby's daughter ! 535 
 
 Farewell ! if ever fondest prayer 455 
 
 Far, far beyond the blazing wanderer's quest . . 364 
 
 Far in the bosom of the deep 477 
 
 Father of all ! in every age . . . . 462 
 
 Fear no more the heat o' the sun 551 
 
 Fierce the sea is, and fickle if fair 638 
 
 Fill, fill the sparkling brimmer ! 642 
 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 138 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 52 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with me 103 
 
 For he that thinks to slay the soul, or he that thinks the soul .... 36G 
 
 For thee. Love, — for thee, Love 9 
 
 Four hundred thousand men 310 
 
 Four straight brick walls, severely plain 631 
 
 From all that dwell below the skies 634 
 
 From distant isles a chieftain came 440 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains '. 19 
 
 From his brimstone bed at break of day 430 
 
 From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary 133 
 
 Full fathom five thy father lies 538 
 
 Gay, guiltless pair 201 
 
 Gayly the Troubadour touched his guitar 251 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile 69 
 
 Gentle Zitella, whither away ? 259 
 
 Give all to love 628 
 
 Good frend for Jesus' sake forbeare 247 
 
 Good people all, of every sort 565 
 
 Green be the turf above thee 129 
 
 Hail, cliarming power of self-opinion ! 38 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land 1 283 
 
 Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! 578 
 
 Hail to the land whereon we tread 115 
 
 Half a league, half a league 280 
 
 " Harper ! methinks thy magic lays " 445 
 
 Hast thou named all the birds without a gun ? 378 
 
 Hearken in your ear 012
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Hear what Highland Nora said 427 
 
 He asked me iiad 1 yet forgot 157 
 
 He hath been mourned as brave men mourn the brave 351 
 
 He is gone on the mountain 550 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, Ses poor Tom Bowling 267 
 
 Here awa', there awa', waiideriug Willie 404 
 
 Here lies Boney, stout of heart and iimb 86 
 
 Here lies the body of John Jack 99 
 
 Here 's a health to them that 's awa' 230 
 
 Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee 545 
 
 Hers are not Tempe's nor Arcadia's spring 363 
 
 Her side is in the water 391 
 
 He that hath sailed upon the dark blue sea 77 
 
 He that loves a rosy cheek 625 
 
 He wandered through the briery woods 240 
 
 Higli walls and huge tlie bodj/ may confine 246 
 
 His own merits perceiving, sure S through the land 53 
 
 How dear to this heart are tlie scenes of my childhood 362 
 
 How gaily rows the gondolier 61 
 
 How happy is he born and tauglit 483 
 
 How loud amid these silent aisles 73 
 
 How sleep the brave who sink to rest 551 
 
 How stands the glass around ? 71 
 
 How the mountains talked together . . 335 
 
 Humid seal of soft affections 393 
 
 I am a friar of orders gray 524 
 
 I am a sou of Mars, who have been in many wars 425 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, dying 284 
 
 I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn 10 
 
 I do not count the liours I spend 640 
 
 If I had a beau 266 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up 167 
 
 If I speak to thee in friendship's name 624 
 
 If the pilgrim did not falter 646 
 
 If the red slayer think he slays 366 
 
 If thou dost find 271 
 
 I had a message to send her 105 
 
 I heard the trailing garments of the Night 365 
 
 I knew, by the smoke tliat so gracefully curled 195
 
 xxvi INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I'll tell tliee why tliis weary world ineseemetli 90 
 
 I mourn no more my vanished years 371 
 
 I'm wcariu' awa', Jean 620 
 
 In Eastern lands tliey talk in flowers 641 
 
 lu form and feature, face and limb 268 
 
 In Greece the brave heart's Holy Land 359 
 
 In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes 385 
 
 In olden time a Scottish elan 6G0 
 
 Insatiate archer ! could not one suffice ? 637 
 
 lu slumbers of midnight, the sailor boy lay 36 
 
 In the deepest death of midnight, while the sad and solemn swell . . 103 
 
 lu the prison cell I sit, thinking, mother dear, of you 318 
 
 lu this beloved marble view 28 
 
 lu vaiu, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few 26 
 
 In vain the common theme my tongue would shun 517 
 
 I remember, I remember, how my childhood fleeted by 257 
 
 I remember, I i-emember, the house where I was born 584 
 
 I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James .... 390 
 
 Iron was his chest 33 
 
 I saw from the beach, when the morning was shining 176 
 
 I saw her last night at a party 609 
 
 I saw in the naked forest 589 
 
 I see them on their winding way 20 
 
 I shot an arrow into the air 379 
 
 I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty 385 
 
 I sprang to the stirrup, anrl Joris, and he 603 
 
 Is the hope bright ? it should be so 656 
 
 Is there, for honest poverty 434 
 
 It don't seem hardly right, John 595 
 
 It fell about the Martinmas time 614 
 
 It is a beautiful belief 219 
 
 It is time to be old 380 
 
 It may not be our lot to wield 383 
 
 It was not that her radiant eyes ..." 658 
 
 It will not speak ; then I will follow it 454 
 
 I 've been roaming where the meadow dew is sweet 252 
 
 I 've wandered east, 1 've wandered west 46 
 
 I wandered by the brookside 417 
 
 I would I had a charmed boat 30 
 
 I would not live alway ; I ask not to stay 326
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxvii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Junuy kissed me when wc met 182 
 
 John Anderson my jo, Johu 539 
 
 Jolin Brown in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee fanner .... 288 
 
 John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave . 299 
 
 John puffs himself ; forbear to chide 58 
 
 Just for a handful of silver lie left us 515 
 
 Know'st thou the land where hangs the citron-flower 164 
 
 Know then 't was I 251 
 
 Know ye the land wliere the bamboo and queue are 25 
 
 Know ye the land where tlie cypress and myrtle 414 
 
 Lady, although we have not met 388 
 
 Lady Clara Vere de Vere 529 
 
 Launch thy bark, mariner ! 464 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall . 67 
 
 Let otliers laud the storm-defying oak 38 
 
 Let us gae, lassie, gae 51 
 
 Lie on, and my revenge shall be 41 
 
 Life ! I know not what thou art 575 
 
 Like as the dauiask rose you see 164 
 
 Listen, young heroes ! your country is calling ! 135 
 
 Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown 368 
 
 Look not thou on beauty's charming 627 
 
 Lord Ronald courted Lady Clare 532 
 
 Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 58 
 
 Love thou ! for though the thing thou lov'st must 6.h 370 
 
 Love wakes and weeps 409 
 
 Low and mournful be the strain f 346 
 
 MacGaradh ! MacGaradh ! red race of the Tay 228 
 
 Maid of Athens, ere we part 410 
 
 Man's is a weary pilgrimage 22 
 
 ^March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdiile ! 580 
 
 Maxwelton's braes are boniiic 238 
 
 Meet me by moonlight alone 252 
 
 Men of England ! who inherit 416 
 
 Men of the North, who remember 321 
 
 Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 432 
 
 " Merry England !" what a picture do these simple words recall ... 84
 
 xxviii INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Merry it is iu the good greenwood 488 
 
 'Mid pleasures aud palaces, though we may i-oani 234 
 
 Miue eyes have seeu the glory of the coming of the Lord 298 
 
 Move my armchair, faithful I'ompey 292 
 
 Mr. Strahau, — You are a member of Parliauieut 249 
 
 » My boat is on the shore 27 
 
 My dear and only love, I pray 478 
 
 My lirst, beloved of many'au ancient dame 225 
 
 My heart 's in the Highlauds, my heart is not here 566 
 
 My minde to me a kingdom is 491 
 
 My son, these maxims make a rule 428 
 
 My thoughts are bound within a cell of care 367 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee 124 
 
 No! is my answer from this colli, bleak ridge 518 
 
 No, it is not a poet's dream 248 
 
 No martial project to surprise 616 
 
 No more the summer floweret charms 215 
 
 No stir in the air, no stir in the sea 576 
 
 Not a buck was shot, nor a doe, nor a fawn 212 
 
 Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note 554 
 
 Not by thy bed of tedious, lingering pain 386 
 
 Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw 226 
 
 Now, dear old friend of many a year 658 
 
 Now, glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are .... 155 
 
 Now, baud your tongue, baith wife and carle 568 
 
 Now launch the boat upon the wave 118 
 
 Now, on theii- couch of I'est 168 
 
 O child of paradise «i87 
 
 O'er the far blue mountain, o'er the white sea-foam • . 25 
 
 O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea 472 
 
 O fair-haired Northern hero 293 
 
 Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 541 
 
 " Off," said the stranger, " off, off, aud away !"....*...• 62 
 
 Of Nelson aud the North 505 
 
 Oft in tlie stilly night 536 
 
 O gentle Sleep, who oft hast cradled me ^^70 
 
 Oh ! a dainty plant is the Ivy green 6'^6 
 
 Oh, bid your faithful Ariel fly 255
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Oh, Briguall banks arc wild tiiid fair 243 
 
 Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour 187 
 
 Oh, give me a home by the sea 241 
 
 Oh, had we some bright little isle of our own ] 41 
 
 Oh, haste and leave this sacred isle . 148 
 
 Oh, heard ye you pibroch sound sad in the gale 523 
 
 Oh, hush thee, my babio, thy sire was a kniglit 254 
 
 Oh, leave this barren spot to me 418 
 
 Oil, let no change in after years 209 
 
 Oh, my luve's like a red, red rose 542 
 
 Oh, saw ye bonuie Lesley 401 
 
 Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light 287 
 
 Oh, swiftly glides the bonny boat 131 
 
 Oh, the days arc gone when beauty bright 546 
 
 Oh, the French are on the say 149 
 
 Oh, who does not love the bugle-horn ? 207 
 
 Oil, young Lochinvar is come out of the West 526 
 
 large of heart, and grand, and calm 309 
 
 On a lone barren isle where the wide-rolling billow 189 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing 92 
 
 One morn a Peri at the gate 181 
 
 One night came on a hurricane 35 
 
 One still lingered, pale and last 56 
 
 On Jordan's banks the Arab's camels stray 421 
 
 Ou knottiest points with ease debate 55 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low 509 
 
 O pescator dell' onde Pidelin 240 
 
 sunny Love ! 189 
 
 Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud had lowered 272 
 
 Our revels now are ended. These our actors 500 
 
 O wedding-guest, this soul hath been 453 
 
 woman ! in our hours of case 396 
 
 Par la voix du canon d'alarnie . 276 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dim 21 
 
 Prayer is the soul's siucere desire 120 
 
 Push off the boat 448 
 
 Rich and rare were the gems she wore 182 
 
 Rise ! for the day is passing 91
 
 XXX INDEX OF FIRST LIXES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Rise up, rise up, Xarilu ! hiy tlic golden cusliiou down 548 
 
 lliver, river, little river 96 
 
 Rocked iu the cradle of the deep 1 
 
 Roll not a drum, sound not a clarion note 306 
 
 Row gcMitly here 132 
 
 Ruin seize thee, ruthless king ! 561 
 
 Sacred to the memory of Timothy John 188 
 
 Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 504 
 
 Seasons have passed away 224 
 
 Send danger from the east unto the west 503 
 
 Servant of God, well done ! 122 
 
 Shades of evening, close not o'er us 61 
 
 Shall I tell you whom I love ? 621 
 
 Shall I, wasting iu despair 544 
 
 Shall we ever meet again 107 
 
 She bends above me like a night 147 
 
 She flung her white anus around him : " Thou art all 66 
 
 She has gone down, they shout it from afar 308 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing 75 
 
 She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps 407 
 
 She walks in beauty like the night 477 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 185 
 
 She was not as pretty as women I know 397 
 
 Should he upbraid, I '11 own that he prevail 253 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more ! 269 
 
 Silent friends, fare ye well ! 142 
 
 Since our country, our God, O my sire ! 500 
 
 Sir Hilary charged at Agineourt 223 
 
 Sleep, sleep to-day, tormenting cares 457 
 
 Sleep sweetly in your humble graves 523 
 
 Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was creeping 286 
 
 Slowly with measured tread . 79 
 
 So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdrawn 513 
 
 Soft and softlier hold me, friends ! 643 
 
 Soft gleams the October sun 217 
 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er 260 
 
 Solemn he paced upon that schooner's deck 672 
 
 So let them ease their hearts with prate 77 
 
 Some love to roam o'er the dark sea-foam 178
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 So that soldierly legend is sl ill Oil its journey 173 
 
 Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 82 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea 202 
 
 Sparkling and briglit in liquid light 237 
 
 Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away .... 352 
 
 Speak! speak! fiiou t'eaiiul guest ! 585 
 
 Spirits which hover round me, ye whose wings 250 
 
 Star of the brave, whose beam hath shed 415 
 
 Star of the twilight gray 231 
 
 Stars, — radiant stars 94 
 
 Steer hither, steer your winged pines 628 
 
 Still to be neat, still to be drest 4S2 
 
 Stranger, thou readest carelessly 386 
 
 Summer eve is gone and past 263 
 
 Sunday in Old England 630 
 
 Sunset and evening star 673 
 
 Take, holy earth, all that my soul liolds dear 632 
 
 Take, oh, take those lips away •* 543 
 
 Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head 44 
 
 Tell her I '11 love her while the clouds drop rain 217 
 
 Tell me, kind Seer, I pray thee 408 
 
 Tell me not, in mournful numbers 373 
 
 Tell me not, sweet, I am unkind 478 
 
 Tell me, where is fancy bred 541 
 
 Tender-handed stroke a nettle 38 
 
 That which her slender waist confined 482 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold 522 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck 134 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 3 
 
 The bridegroom may forget the bride 455 
 
 The Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! 270 
 
 The castled crag of Drachenfels 399 
 
 The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 496 
 
 The dead are like the stars by day 13 
 
 The Deil cam fiddling through the town 429 
 
 The Dervish whined to Said 339 
 
 The dews of summer night did fall 42 
 
 The drum's wild roll awakes the land ; the fife is calling shrill .... 651 
 
 The feeble sea-birds, blinded iu the storms 257
 
 xxxii INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The first was a visi(Mi willi flaxen liair 36 
 
 The gipsies cam to our Laird's yett 142 
 
 The glories of our birth and state 497 
 
 The grave is but a calmer bed 5G 
 
 The groves were God's first temples 0157 
 
 Tlie hand of religion is potent to save 1 IC) 
 
 The harp that once through Tara's halls 539 
 
 Their praise is hymned bj loftier harps tliau mine 54 
 
 The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece ! oS2 
 
 The king was on his throne (JOl 
 
 Tiie leaf floats by upon the stream 01 
 
 Tiie little gate was reached at last 593 
 
 The Lord descended from above 501 
 
 The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year 409 
 
 The Merchant Prince of England 101 
 
 The Minstrel boy to the war is gone 156 
 
 The moon is up, the evening star 14 
 
 The moon shines bright in such a night as this 413 
 
 The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae 436 
 
 The mountain and the squirrel 377 
 
 The music clamors shrill and loud 218 
 
 The night is come, but not too soon 372 
 
 The outmost crowd have heard a sound 449 
 
 The Pilgrim Tathers, — where are they ? 128 
 
 The pines were dark on Ramoth hill 479 
 
 The prophet Balaam was in wonder lost 48 
 
 The quality of mercy is not strained 017 
 
 There came, one twilight, midst the falling snows 670 
 
 There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin 2 
 
 There is a land of pure delight 461 
 
 There is a light cloud by the moon 521 
 
 There is a pleasure in the pathless woods 420 
 
 There is a tear for all that die 458 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet . 153 
 
 'J'here is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of maaiiood . 86 
 
 There's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told 163 
 
 There 's a bower of roses l)y Bendemeer's stream 1/3 
 
 There 's a fierce gray bird, witli a bending beak 113 
 
 Tiiere 's a flag hangs over my threshold, whose folds 296 
 
 There sat one day in quiet 597
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxiii 
 
 PAGE 
 
 There's nouglit but care ou ev'ry Imu' 23 
 
 Tliere stands, iu t.lic garden of old St. Mark 210 
 
 There was a deep ravine that lay Gil 
 
 There was a listening fear in her regard 104 
 
 There was a sound of revelry by night 5 10 
 
 The rocky nook with hill-tops three 319 
 
 The scene was more beautiful far to my eye ISi 
 
 The soldier tired of war's alarms 270 
 
 The song bird has flown from our sea-girded isle 227 
 
 The spacious firmament on high 499 
 
 The stars their early vigils keep 330 
 
 The tent-lights glimmer on the land 304 
 
 The time 1 've lost in wooing 177 
 
 The track of the road followed the course of the brook ...... 81 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine 203 
 
 The waters are flashing 405 
 
 The weather-leech of the topsail shivers 473 
 
 The wild gazelle on Judah's hills 419 
 
 The wisest man could ask no more of fate 382 
 
 The world is bright before thee 387 
 
 They fought — like brave men, long and well 355 
 
 They gave the fatal order, — Charge ! 278 
 
 They made her a grave, too cold and damp 525 
 
 The young May moon is beaming, love 198 
 
 Thine eyes still shone for me, though far 627 
 
 Think me not unkind and rude 626 
 
 This bright wood-fire 199 
 
 This is our place of meeting; opposite 665 
 
 This is the state of life, — a passing shadow 3 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show 20i 
 
 Those evening bells I those evening bells ! 18 
 
 Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 258 
 
 Thou who within thyself dost not behold 195 
 
 Thus said the Rover 487 
 
 'T is done — but yesterday a king 39 
 
 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, when hope has built a bower .... 54 
 
 'T is not the gray hawk's flight 169 
 
 To-day I '11 haste to quaff my wine 104 
 
 Toll for the brave ..." 552 
 
 Too long, too long a masquer, Arthur comes 607
 
 xxx'iv INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 To sigh, yet feel no \rd\n 194 
 
 To the dim and gloomy shore 72 
 
 To the Lords of Conventio;! 'twas Claver'se who spoke 547 
 
 'T was morn, but not the ray which i'alls the summer boughs among . . 220 
 
 'T was the hour when rites unholy = 411 
 
 'T was whispered in heaven, and 't was muttered in hell 395 
 
 Twice hath the sun upon their conilict set 175 
 
 Twist ye, twine ye ! even so 459 
 
 Two hundred years, — two hundred years 5 
 
 Underneath this stone doth lye 420 
 
 Under tlie greenwood tree 540 
 
 Untouched by love, the maiden's breast 41 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn 315 
 
 Up, spaniel, — the hunter is winding his horn 97 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame 125 
 
 Waken, lords and ladies gay 567 
 
 War! war! no peace !• peace is to me a war 466 
 
 Way down upon de Swanuee Ribber 235 
 
 We are but two, — the others sleep 172 
 
 We are coming. Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more . . . 302 
 
 We believe that fate is less capricious than is imagined 78 
 
 We '11 sh'd no tear, we '11 breathe no sigh 521 
 
 We sit here in the Promised Land 328 
 
 What ails thee, Dervise? eat, — dost thou suppose . 450 
 
 What a pang of sweet emotion 396 
 
 What fairy-like music 63 
 
 What gleams from yon wood in the bright sunshine ? 183 
 
 What shall I do with all the days and hours 205 
 
 What 's hallowed ground? Has earth a clod 45'J 
 
 What strange, deep secret dost thou hold, O death 96 
 
 What though the sun must set, and darkness come 28 
 
 Wha will ride wi' gallant Murray ? 232 
 
 When all was hushed at eventide 437 
 
 When breezes arc soft and skies are fair 361 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command 277 
 
 When coldness wraps this suffering clay , 498 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 300
 
 INDEX OF FIRST LINES. xxxv 
 
 PAGE 
 
 When freshly blows the iiortlieru g;ile . 198 
 
 Wlicn I am dead, no pageant train 110 
 
 Wlien in death I shall calm recline 154 
 
 When Israel, of the Lord beloved 581 
 
 When love with unconfiucd wings 619 
 
 Wlien nielanclioly, born of sin G47 
 
 When o'er the silent seas alone , 130 
 
 When princely Hamilton's abode 1 90 
 
 When shall we all meet again ? 617 
 
 When shall we three meet again ? 466 
 
 When the British warrior queen 502 
 
 When the dying flame of day 592 
 
 When the glow-worn gilds the elfin flower 255 
 
 When the hours of Day are numbered 376 
 
 When the Moorish cymbals clash by day 183 
 
 When the oldest cask is opened 179 
 
 Wiicii tlie tide's billowy swell 59 
 
 Wlieu Time, who steals our years away 24 
 
 Wiu'u twilight dews are falling soft 193 
 
 When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes 186 
 
 Where, oh, where are the visions of morning 375 
 
 Where olive-leaves were twinkling in every wind that blew 357 
 
 Wliere the bee sucks, there suck I 538 
 
 Wliich I wish to remark 557 
 
 While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray 573 
 
 While thee I seek, protecting Power ! 245 
 
 Who counts himself as nobly born 559 
 
 Wiioe'er he be 622 
 
 Who lias not heard of the Vale of Cashmere 160 
 
 Who is tlie happy Warrior ? Who is he 343 
 
 Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear ? .... 196 
 
 Who will believe that, with a smile whose blessing 338 
 
 Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall 452 
 
 Why thus longing, tlius forever sighing 327 
 
 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 394 
 
 Wild rose of Alloway ! my thanks 331 
 
 Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata 245 
 
 Will ye gang to the Hielans, Leezie Liudsay ? 261 
 
 Wilt thou not waken. Bride of May 65 
 
 Wilt thou tempt the waves with me 650
 
 xxxvi INDEX OF FIRST LINES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Withdraw not yet those lips and fingers 456 
 
 With feelings strange and undefined I gaze upon thy face ...... 15 
 
 Within this awful volume lies 634 
 
 Within 't was brilliant all and light 412 
 
 Woo her when with rosy blush 60 
 
 Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng 45 
 
 Ye are gone, ye are gone, friends of my youth 12 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 21^2 
 
 Ye gentlemen of England 264 
 
 Ye hunters of New England 206 
 
 Ye mariners of England ! 507 
 
 Ye mariners of Spain 152 
 
 Yes, we '11 rally round the flag, boys, rally once again 313 
 
 Yet a few days, and thee 494 
 
 Ye 've gathered to your place of prayer 126 
 
 You know we Frcneh stormed Ratisbon 273 
 
 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride 197 
 
 You say that my love is plain 383 
 
 You tell me you 're promised a lover 7 
 
 You wonder why I still would seek 100
 
 AN OLD SCRAP-BOOK, 
 
 WITH ADDITIONS.
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin, 
 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
 Eor his country he sighed, when at twilight rejjairing 
 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. 
 
 But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion. 
 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, 
 
 Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion. 
 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 
 
 Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger : 
 The wild deer and wolf to a covert can Hee, 
 
 But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
 A home and a country remain not to me. 
 
 Never again in the green sunny bowers 
 
 Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, 
 
 Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 
 And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. 
 
 Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
 But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
 
 And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! 
 cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
 In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me ? 
 Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
 
 They died to defend me, or live to deplore ! 
 
 Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing, 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can draw : 
 
 Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 
 Land of my fathers ! Erin go bragh !
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 3 
 
 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
 
 Green be thy tields, sweetest isle of the ocean ! 
 
 And thy harp-striking hards sing aloud, with devotion, 
 
 Erin niavournin — Erin go bragh ! 
 
 Campbell. 
 First copied by me about 1821 ; a schoolboy taste. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 This is the state of life, — a passing shadow will throw down 
 the baseless fabric of man's hopes. And when the tablets of 
 this fleeting state are charactered with all felicity, comes Death 
 with a sponge moistened in gall, and wipes the beauteous 
 lineaments away. O^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^^^^^ 
 
 Hi'iul liy Mr. Nazuo, Elocution master, at Round Hill, 1827. 
 
 THE LANDING OF THE PILGEIM FATHERS IX 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 The breaking waves dashed high 
 On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
 
 And the woods against a stormy sky 
 Their giant branches tossed ; 
 
 And the heavy night hung dark, 
 
 The hills and waters o'er, 
 When a Ijand of exiles moored their bark 
 
 On the wild New England shore. 
 
 Not as the conqueror comes, 
 
 They, the true-hearted, came ; 
 Not with the roll of the stirring drums. 
 
 And the trumpet that sings of fame ;
 
 LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 Not as the flying come, 
 
 111 silence and in fear ; — 
 They shook the depths of the desert gloom 
 
 With theu' hymns of lofty cheer. 
 
 Amidst the storm they sang, 
 
 And the stars heard, and the sea ; 
 And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang 
 
 To the anthem of the free. 
 
 The ocean eagle soared 
 
 From his nest by the white wave's foam ; 
 And the rocking pines of the forest roared, — 
 
 This was their welcome home. 
 
 There were men with hoary hair 
 
 Amidst the pilgrim band : 
 Why had they come to wither there. 
 
 Away from their childhood's land ? 
 
 There was woman's fearless eye, 
 
 Lit by her deep love's truth ; 
 There was manhood's brow serenely high, 
 
 And the fiery heart of youth. 
 
 What sought they thus afar ? 
 
 Bright jewels of the mine ? 
 The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? — 
 
 They sought a faith's pure shrine. 
 
 Ay, call it holy ground, 
 
 The soil where first they trod ; 
 They have left unstained what there they found, — 
 
 Freedom to worship God. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 Copied : Canton, Dec. 23, 1830.
 
 ANNIVERSARY HYMN. 
 
 HYMN FOR THE TWO HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF 
 THE SETTLEMENT OF CHARLESTOWN. 
 
 Two liimdred years, — two hundred years, — 
 How much of human power and pride, 
 
 What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears. 
 Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! 
 
 The red man, at his horrid rite, 
 
 Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, — 
 
 His bark canoe, its track of light 
 
 Left on the wave beneath the moon, — 
 
 His dance, his yell, his council fire, 
 
 The altar where his victim lay, 
 His death song, and his funeral pyre, — 
 
 That still, strong tide hath borne away. 
 
 And that pale pilgrim band is gone. 
 That on this shore with trembling trod, 
 
 Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
 The ark of freedom and of God. 
 
 And war, that, since, o'er ocean came, 
 And thundered loud from yonder hill, 
 
 And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame. 
 To blast that ark, — its storm is still. 
 
 Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, 
 
 That live in story and in song. 
 Time, for the last two hundred years, 
 
 Has raised, and shown, and swept along.
 
 ABOUT THAT BROW. 
 
 'T is like a dream when one awakes, — 
 This vision of the scenes of old ; 
 
 'T is like the moon when morning breaks ; 
 'T is like a tale round watch-fires told. 
 
 Then what are we, — then what are we ? — 
 Yes, when two hundred years have rolled 
 
 O'er our green graves, our names shall he 
 A morning dream, a tale that 's told. 
 
 God of our fathers, in whose sight 
 The thousand years, that sweep away 
 
 Man, and the traces of his might, 
 Are but the break and close of day, 
 
 Grant us that love of truth sublime, 
 That love of goodness and of thee. 
 
 That makes thy children, in all time, 
 To share thine own eternity. 
 
 PlERPONT. 
 Copied : Canton, Dec. 23, 1830. 
 
 ABOUT THAT BROW. 
 
 About that brow 
 
 Ne'er did a smile in dimples shine 
 That I 've forgotten now : 
 
 No, I remember all 
 Thy winning power. 
 
 And oft will memory recall 
 The rapture of that hour 
 
 When broke upon my longing sight
 
 .1 LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 Thy form, as welcome then 
 
 As the first beam of Diorning light 
 To lone, benighted men. 
 
 Away ! — my bark upon the wave 
 
 Is riding now ; 
 The ebbing tide's last ripples lave 
 
 Her curling prow. 
 Upon her deck my foot must tread, 
 
 Unfurled her sail ; 
 On the blue wave my path be sped, 
 
 Before the swelling gale. 
 But ere I go I ask of thee. 
 
 Maiden, a boon : 
 Bestow but one brief thought on me 
 
 When I am gone. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Copied : Canton, Dec. 23, 1830. 
 
 A LETTER OF ADVICE FROM MISS M. T. 
 TO ARAMINTA. 
 
 You tell me you 're promised a lover. 
 
 My own Araminta, next week ; 
 Why cannot my fancy discover 
 
 The hue of his coat and his cheek ? 
 Alas, if he look like another, 
 
 A vicar, a banker, a beau, 
 I'e deaf to your father and mother. 
 
 My own Araminta, say No !
 
 A LETTER OF ADVICE. 
 
 If he wear a top-boot in his wooing, 
 
 If he come to you riding a cob, 
 If he talk of his baking or brewing, 
 
 If he puts up his feet on the liob, 
 If he ever drinks port after dinner. 
 
 If his brow or his breeding is low, 
 If he calls himself " Thompson " or " Skinner," 
 
 My own Araminta, say No ! 
 
 If he studies the news in the papers 
 
 While you are preparing the tea. 
 If he talks of the damps and the vapors 
 
 While moonlight lies soft on the sea, 
 If he 's sleepy while you are capricious, 
 
 If he has not a musical " Oh," 
 If he does not call Werther delicious. 
 
 My own Araminta, say No ! 
 
 If he ever sets foot in the city 
 
 Among the stock-brokers and Jews, 
 If he has not a heart full of pity. 
 
 If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
 If his Hps are not redder than roses, 
 
 If his hands are not whiter than snow. 
 If he has not the model of noses. 
 
 My own Araminta, say No ! 
 
 If he speak of a tax or a duty, 
 
 If he does not look grand on his knees, 
 If he 's blind to a landscape of beauty, — 
 
 Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, — 
 If he dotes not on desolate towers. 
 
 If he likes not to hear the blast blow. 
 If he knows not the language of flowers, 
 
 My own Araminta, say No !
 
 FOR THEE, LOVE, — FOR THEE, LOVE. 
 
 He must walk like a god of old story 
 
 Come down from the home of his rest ; 
 He must smile like the sun in his glory 
 
 On the buds he loves ever the best ; 
 And oh, from his ivory portal, 
 
 Like music the soft speech must flow : 
 If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, 
 
 My own Araminta, say No ! 
 
 Don't listen to tales of his bounty, 
 
 Don't hear what they tell of his birth, 
 Don't look at his seat in the county, 
 
 Don't calculate what he is worth, 
 But give him a theme to write verse on. 
 
 And see if he turn out his toe ; 
 If he 's only an excellent person, 
 
 My own Araminta, say No ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Copied : Canton, Dec. 25, 1830. 
 
 FOR THEE, LOVE, — FOR THEE, LOVE. 
 
 For thee, Love, — for thee, Love, 
 
 I '11 brave Fate's sternest storm ; 
 She cannot daunt or chill the heart 
 
 That love keeps bold and warm. 
 And when her clouds are blackest, nought 
 
 But thy sweet self I '11 see, 
 Nor hear amidst the tempest aught 
 
 But thee. Love, — only thee ! 
 
 For thee. Love, — for thee, Love, 
 My fond heart would resign
 
 10 SONG. 
 
 The brightest cup that Tleasure fills, 
 And Fortune's wealthiest mine; 
 
 P'or Pleasure's smiles are vanity, 
 And fortunes fade or flee : 
 
 There 's purity and constancy 
 In thee, Love, — only thee. 
 
 For thee. Love, — for thee, Love, 
 
 Life 's lonely vale I '11 tread, 
 And aid thy steps the journey through. 
 
 Nor quit thee till I 'm dead. 
 And even then round her I love 
 
 My shade shall hovering be, 
 i\va\ warl)b notes from heaven above, 
 
 To thee, Love, — onlv thee. 
 
 Copied in China. 
 
 AXONYMOLS. 
 
 HELLVELLYN. 
 
 I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyu, 
 
 Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; 
 
 All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling, 
 And starting around me the echoes replied. 
 
 On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, 
 
 And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, 
 
 One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, 
 
 "When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died. 
 
 Dark green was that spot mid the brown mountain-heather, 
 Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay 
 
 Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather. 
 Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
 
 IIELLVELLYN. \\ 
 
 Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 
 For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, 
 The much-loved remains of her master defended, 
 And chased the hill-fox and the raven away. 
 
 ll(»\v long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? 
 
 When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start ? 
 How many long days and long weeks didst thou number 
 
 Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart ? 
 And, oh ! was it meet that — no requiem read o'er him, 
 No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him. 
 And thou, little guardian, alone stretched bafore him — 
 
 Unhonored the Pilgrim from life should depart ? 
 
 When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, 
 The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall ; 
 
 With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, 
 And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : 
 
 Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, 
 
 In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming ; 
 
 Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, 
 Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall. 
 
 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature. 
 
 To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb ; 
 
 When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, 
 And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. 
 
 And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, 
 
 Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying. 
 
 With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying. 
 In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. 
 
 Scott.
 
 12 TIME. 
 
 T I ]\I E. 
 
 Ye are gone, ye are gone, friends of my youth. 
 In the spring-time of hope and love ; 
 
 Ye are gone in the bloom of unfading truth 
 To the stainless worlds above. 
 
 I '11 not weep for you, friends of my youth, 
 
 Nor sigh o'er your ruined prime ; 
 Death, the proud archer, hath more of trutli 
 
 Than the stately graybeard. Time. 
 
 He comes but the fleeting hues to steal, 
 
 Of the cheek's carnation dye. 
 Or the print of his iron hand to seal 
 
 On the eyes' dark brilliancy. 
 
 Death can but sever the mortal link 
 
 That bindeth the kindred clay, 
 Whilst bright through the archway's ruined chink 
 
 Faith's golden sunbeams stray. 
 
 But Time, the rude spoiler, comes, alas ! 
 
 "With a heavier, deeper woe ; 
 Wasting our years, like the sands of his glass, 
 
 In a dull and certain flow.
 
 HYMN. 13 
 
 In fiicndship's wane and passion's decline^ 
 
 There 's nothing on earth so dear 
 As the twhikling lights which again may shina 
 
 In a distant hemisphere. 
 
 ( )h, Death, the proud archer, hath more of truth 
 Thau the stealthy graybeard. Time. 
 
 M. A. C. 
 
 Copied in China : only identified by the initials. 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 The dead are like the stare by day 
 Withdrawn from mortal eye, 
 
 Yet holding unperceived their way 
 Through the unclouded sky. 
 
 By them, through holy hope and love, 
 
 We feel, in hours- serene, 
 Connected with a world above, 
 
 Immortal and unseen. 
 
 For death his sacred seal hath set 
 
 On bright and bygone hours ; 
 And they we mourn are witli us yet. 
 And more than ever ours. 
 
 Ours, by the pledge of love and faith, 
 By hopes of heaven on high ; 
 
 By trust, triumphant over death 
 In immortality. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 14 THE MOON IS UP, THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 THE MOON IS UP, THE EVENING STAR. 
 
 The moon is up, the evening star 
 Shines lonely from its home of blue. 
 
 The fox howl 's heard from the fell afar, 
 And the earth is robed in sombre hue ; 
 
 From the shores of light the beams come down 
 
 On the river's breast and the cold grave-stone. 
 
 Tlie kindling fires in heaven so bright 
 Look sweetly out from yon azure sky, 
 
 While the glittering pearls of the dewy night 
 Seem trying to mimic their brilliancy ; 
 
 Yet all these charms no joy can bring 
 
 To the dead in the cold grave slumbering. 
 
 To numbers wild, yet sweet withal. 
 
 Should the harp be struck on the sleepy pillow. 
 Soft murmuring, as. the breezes fall, 
 
 Of sighing winds on the foamy billow ; 
 For who would disturb, in their silent bed. 
 The fancied dreams of the lonely dead ? 
 
 Oh, is there one in this world can say 
 That the soul exists not after death, 
 
 That the powers which illumine this mould of clay 
 Are but a puff of common breath ? 
 
 Oh, come this night to the grave and see 
 
 The sleepy state of your destiny. 
 
 I "ve seen the moon gild the mountain's brow, 
 I 've watched the mist over the river stealing ;
 
 ro A NEWLY OPENED OYSTER. 15 
 
 But ne'er did I feel in my breast till now 
 So calm, so pure, and so holy a feeling : 
 'T is soft as the thrill that memory throws 
 Athwart the soul in the hour of repose. 
 
 Thou Father of all in the worlds of light. 
 
 Fain would my spirit aspire to thee, 
 And through the screen of this gentle night 
 
 Behold the dawn of eternity ; 
 For this the path which thou hast given. 
 The only path to the bliss of heaven. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 TO A NEWLY OPENED OYSTER. 
 
 With feelings strange and undefined I gaze upon thy face, 
 Thou choice and juicy specimen of an ill-fated race ! 
 How calmly, yea, how meekly thou reclinest in thy shell. 
 Yet what thy woes and sufferings are man can conjecture well ! 
 For thou wert torn from friends and home, and all thy heart 
 
 could wish. 
 Thou hapless, helpless innocent! mute, persecuted fish! 
 Tliou wert happy in thy native bed, where blithesome billows 
 
 Till the cruel fisher fished thee from home, sweet home, away. 
 He stowed thee in his coble, and he rowed thee to the strand ; 
 Thou wert bought and sold and opened, and placed in this tight 
 
 hand. 
 1 know that while I moralize thy flavor fades away ; 
 I know thou shouldst be ate alive before thy sweets decay ; 
 1 know that it is foolishness, this weak delay of mine, 
 And epicures may laugh at it as sentimental whine.
 
 16 THE MARINER'S DREAM. 
 
 Well, let them laugh, I still will drop a tear o'er thy sad fate, 
 
 Thou wretehed aud ill-fated one, thou sad disconsolate ! 
 
 O'er thee and o'er thy kindred hangs an all-consuming doom. 
 
 To die a slow and Hngering death, in living find a tomb. 
 
 Like the Indian frtun the forest, like the roebuck from the glen, 
 
 Thy race is dwindling silently before the arts of men ; 
 
 Ye are passing from the river, from the sea-bank, from the shore, 
 
 And the haunts that long have known ye shall know ye soon no 
 
 more. 
 The " Blue Point " and the " Shrewsbury " are fading fast away. 
 And clamless soon will be our streams, and oysterless our bay. 
 Why were ye made so racy, rich, and luscious to the taste? 
 'T is this has stripped your thickest banks, and made your beds 
 
 a waste. 
 
 Your virtues are made sanctified and holy traitors to ye, 
 
 And that which was your proudest boast has served but to 
 
 undo ye. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Copied in China, April 30, 18.31. 
 
 THE MARINEE'S DREAM. 
 
 In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay ; 
 
 His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind ; 
 But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, 
 
 And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind. 
 
 He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers. 
 And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn ; 
 
 While memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers, 
 And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
 
 THE MARINER'S DREAM. 17 
 
 Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide, 
 And bade the young dreamer in ecstasy rise ; 
 
 Now far, far behind him the green waters glide. 
 And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. 
 
 The jessamine clambers in flowers o'er the thatch. 
 
 And the swallow chirps sweet from her nest in the wall ; 
 
 All trembling with transport, he raises the latch. 
 And the voices of loved ones reply to his call. 
 
 A father bends o'er him with looks of delight ; 
 
 His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear ; 
 And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite 
 
 With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. 
 
 The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast ; 
 
 Joy quickens his pulses, his hardships seem o'er; 
 And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest, — 
 
 " God ! thou hast blest me, — I ask for no more." 
 
 Ah ! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ? 
 
 Ah ! what is that sound which now 'larms on his ear ? 
 'T is the lightning's red gleam, painting hell on the sky ; 
 
 'T is the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere. 
 
 He springs from his hammock, he flies to the deck ; 
 
 Amazement confronts him with images dire ; 
 Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck ; 
 
 The masts fly in splinters ; the shrouds are on fire. 
 
 Like mountains the billows tremendously swell ; 
 
 In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ; 
 Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell. 
 
 And the death-angel flaps his broad wings o'er the wave.
 
 1!^ THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 * 
 ( ) sailor boy, woe to thy dreain of delight ! 
 
 In darkness dissolves the gay frostwork of bliss. 
 Where now is the picture that fancy touched bright, — 
 
 Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss ? 
 
 O sailor boy, sailor boy, never again 
 
 Shall home, love, or kindred thy wishes repay ; 
 
 Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main. 
 Full many a fathom, thy frame shall decay. 
 
 No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee, 
 Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge ; 
 
 But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be, 
 And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge. 
 
 On a bed of green sea-flow^ers thy Umbs shall be laid. 
 Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow ; 
 
 Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made. 
 And every part suit to thy mansion below. 
 
 Days, months, years, and ages shall circle away, 
 And still the vast waters above thee shall roll ; 
 
 Earth loses thy pattern forever and aye, — - 
 sailor boy, sailor boy, peace to thy soul ! 
 
 William Dimond. 
 Copied in China, May 4, 1831. 
 
 THOSE EVENING BELLS. 
 
 Those evening bells ! those evening bells ! 
 How many a tale their music tells 
 Of youth, and home, and that sweet time 
 When last I heard their soothing chime !
 
 MISSIONARY HYMN. 19 
 
 Those joyous hours are passed away ; 
 And many a heart that then was gay 
 Within the tomb now darkly dwells, 
 And hears no more those evening bells. 
 
 And so 't will be when I am gone — 
 
 That tuneful peal will still ring on ; 
 
 While other bards shall walk these dells, 
 
 And sing your praise, sweet evening bells. 
 
 Moore. 
 China, 1831. 
 
 MISSIONARY HYMK 
 
 From Greenland's icy mountains. 
 
 From India's coral strand. 
 Where Afric's sunny fountains 
 
 Eoll down their golden sand ; 
 From many an ancient river. 
 
 From many a palmy plain. 
 They call us to deliver 
 
 Their land from error's chain. 
 
 What though the spicy breezes 
 
 Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle ; 
 Though every prospect pleases, 
 
 And only man is vile ; 
 In vain with lavish kindness 
 
 The gifts of God are strewn : 
 The heathen in his blindness 
 
 Bows down to wood and stone.
 
 20 THE MOONLIGHT MARCH. 
 
 Can we, whose souls are lighted 
 
 With wisdom from on high, — 
 Can we to men benighted 
 
 The lamp of life deny ? 
 Salvation, oh, salvation, — 
 
 The joyful sound proclaim, 
 Till each remotest nation 
 
 Has learnt Messiah's name. 
 
 Waft, waft, ye winds. His story. 
 
 And you, ye waters, roll, 
 Till like a sea of glory 
 
 It spreads from pole to pole ; 
 Till o'er our ransomed nature 
 
 The Lamb for sinners slain, 
 Eedeemer, King, Creator, 
 
 In bliss returns to reign. 
 
 Heber. 
 Copied: June 14, 1831. 
 
 THE MOONLIGHT MAECH. 
 
 I SEE them on their winding way ; 
 About their ranks the moonbeams play ; 
 Their lofty deeds and daring high 
 Blend with the notes of victory. 
 And waving arms and banners bright 
 Are glancing in the mellow light : 
 They 're lost and gone, the moon is past. 
 The wood's dark shade is o'er them cast ; 
 And fainter, fainter, fainter still. 
 The march is risiag o'er the hilL
 
 PIBROCH OF DONUIL DllfJ. 21 
 
 Again, again, the pealing drum, 
 The clashing horn ; they come, they come ! 
 Through rocky pass, o'er wooded steep. 
 In long and glittering files they sweep ; 
 And nearer, nearer, yet more near, 
 Their softened chorus meets the ear. 
 Forth, forth, and meet them on their way ! 
 The trampling hoofs brook no delay ; 
 With thrilling fife, and pealing drum, 
 And clashing horn, they come, they come ! 
 
 Heber. 
 Copied : June 15, 1831. 
 
 PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU. 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Pibroch of Donuil, 
 Wake thy wild voice anew, 
 
 Summon Clan-Conuil. 
 Come away, come away. 
 
 Hark to the summons ! 
 Come in your war array. 
 
 Gentles and commons. 
 
 Come from the deep glen and 
 
 From mountain so rocky ; 
 The war-pipe and pennon 
 
 Are at Inverlochy. 
 Come every hill-plaid, and 
 
 True heart that wears one ; 
 Come every steel blade, and 
 
 Strong hand that bears one.
 
 22 MAN'S PILGRIMAGE. 
 
 Leave untended the herd. 
 
 The flock without shelter ; 
 Leave the corpse uninterred, 
 
 The bride at the altar ; 
 Leave the deer, leave the steer, 
 
 Leave nets and barges : 
 Come with your fighting gear, 
 
 Broadswords and targes. 
 
 Come as the winds come when 
 
 Forests are rended ; 
 Come as the waves come when 
 
 Navies are stranded : 
 Faster cpme, faster come. 
 
 Faster and faster, 
 Chief, vassal, page and groom, 
 
 Tenant and master. 
 
 Fast they come, fast they come ; 
 
 See how they gather ! 
 Wide waves the eagle plume. 
 
 Blended with heather. 
 Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 
 
 Forward each man set ! 
 Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 
 
 Knell for the onset ! 
 
 Scott. 
 Copied : June 17, 1831. The childieii and graiidchildreu will reiuciiilier this 
 ill the nurseiy. 
 
 MAN'S PILGEIMAGE. 
 
 Man's is a weary pilgrimage, 
 
 As through this world he wends ; 
 
 In every age, from stage to stage, 
 Still discontent attends.
 
 GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 23 
 
 With weariness he casts liis eye 
 
 Upon the road before, 
 And still remembers with a sigh 
 
 " The days that are no more." 
 
 SOUTHEY. 
 
 Co[iieci in China, Sunday, July 3, 1831. " Just one year since I drove Mis. F. 
 and the girls into Boston to see the barque 'Lintin.' " 
 
 GEEEN GROW THE RASHES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 There 's nought but care on ev'ry ban', 
 In ev'ry hour that passes, O ; 
 
 What signifies the life o' man, 
 An' 't were na for the lasses, ? 
 
 Chorus. 
 Green grow the rashes, ; 
 
 Green grow the rashes, ; 
 The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, 
 
 Were spent among the lasses, ! 
 
 The warly race may riches chase. 
 An' riches still may Hy tliem, ; 
 
 An' though at last they catch them fast, 
 Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, 0. 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
 But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
 My arms about my dearie, ; 
 
 An' warly cares an' warly men 
 May a' gae tapsalteerie, O. 
 Green grow, &c.
 
 24 SONG. 
 
 For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, 
 Ye 're nouglit but senseless asses, O ; 
 
 The wisest man the warl' e'er saw. 
 
 He dearly lov'd the lasses, 0. 
 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
 Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
 
 Her noblest work she classes, O ; 
 Her 'prentice han' she tried on man. 
 An' then she made the lasses, O. 
 Green grow, &c. 
 
 Burns. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When Time, who steals our years away, 
 Shall steal our pleasures too. 
 
 The memory of the past will stay. 
 And half our joys renew. 
 
 Then, Chloe, when thy beauty's flower 
 
 Shall feel the wintry air, 
 Eemembrance will recall the hour 
 
 AVhen thou alone wert fair ! 
 
 Then talk no more of future gloom : 
 
 Our joys shall always last ; 
 For hope shall brighten days to come. 
 
 And memory gild the past ! 
 
 Moore.
 
 THE RECALL. 25 
 
 KNOW YE THE LAND? 
 
 A PAKODY. 
 
 Know ye the land where the bamboo and queue are, 
 The emblems of deeds that are done m the cHme, 
 Where priestly fond writers the primest of swells are, 
 And nothing in nature or man is sublime ? 
 Where the flowers have no smell, no flavor the fruit, 
 And 't is stupid to talk, and there 's nothing to shoot ; 
 Where the earth is burnt mud and the sky is all blaze. 
 Where the dew is death fog and the air a red blaze. 
 And the beautiful blue of the exquisite land 
 Is a compound of blue mud and brick-dust and sand ? 
 'T is the land of the East, 't is the region of curry, 
 That slowly we come to and leave in a hurry : 
 Know ye the land ? My good friend, if you do. 
 By the Lord I don't envy you : I know it too ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE RECALL. 
 
 O'er the far blue mountain, o'er the white sea-foam. 
 Come, thou long-parted one, back to thy home : 
 When the bright fire shineth, sad looks thy place ; 
 While the true heart pineth, missing thy face. 
 
 Music is sorrowful since thou art gone, 
 Sisters are mourning thee ; come to thine own. 
 Hark ! the home voices call back to thy rest ; 
 Come to thy father's hall, thy mother's breast. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 Copied : Oct. 23, 1831.
 
 26 IX VAIN, ALAS! IN VAIN. 
 
 AWAY, AWAY WE BOUND O'ER THE DEEP. 
 
 Aavay, away we bound o'er tlie deep ; 
 Lightly, brightly our merry hearts leap ; 
 Homeward we sail to the land of our love, 
 The starlight beacon shining above. 
 Softly, sweetly the murmurs of song 
 Pour on the ear as we hasten along. 
 Gently breathed from the mariner's lips, 
 As the oar in the waveless mirror he dij:)s. 
 
 Swiftly we glide, and, oh, as we near 
 The haven, the home of those we love dear, 
 We think not of woe, we dream not of ill, 
 For our star all lovely shines on us still. 
 Away, then, with hope we dash o'er the deep ; 
 Lightly, brightly our merry hearts leap ; 
 Homeward we sail to the land of our love. 
 By the starlight beacon shining above. 
 
 ANONYMOrS. 
 
 Mrs. M. Olivia Long's song. 
 
 IN VAIN, ALAS ! IN VAIN. 
 
 In vain, alas ! in vain, ye gallant few. 
 From rank to rank your volleyed thunder flew. 
 Oh, bloodiest picture on the book of Time ! 
 Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime ; 
 Found not a generous friend, a pitying foe. 
 Strength in her arms, nor mercy in her woe !
 
 31 r BOAT IS ON THE SHORE. 27 
 
 Dropped from her nerveless arm the shattered spear, 
 Closed her bright eye and curbed her high career : 
 Hope for a season bade the world farewell, 
 And Freedom shrieked as Kosciusko fell. 
 
 Campbell, Pleasures of Hope. 
 
 Copied : March 7, 1832. A report of tlie surrender of Warsaw (via Manilla). 
 
 MY BOAT IS ON THE SHOEE. 
 
 My boat is on the shore, 
 
 And my bark is on the sea ; 
 But before I go, Tom Moore, 
 
 Here 's a double health to thee. 
 
 Here 's a sigh to those who love me, 
 And a smile to those who hate ; 
 
 And, whatever sky 's above me. 
 Here 's a heart for every fate. 
 
 Though the ocean roar around ine, 
 
 Yet it still shall bear me on ; 
 Though a desert should surround me, 
 
 It hath springs that may be won. 
 
 Were 't the last drop in the well, 
 
 As I gasped upon the brink, 
 Ere my fainting spirits fell, 
 
 'T is to thee that I would drink. 
 
 With that water, as this wine. 
 
 The libation I would pour 
 Should be — Peace with thine and mine. 
 
 And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 
 
 Byron. 
 Copied in China.
 
 28 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 THE HELEN OF CANOVA. 
 
 In this beloved marble view, 
 
 Beyond the works and thoughts of man, 
 What Nature could, but would not do, 
 
 And Beauty and Canova can. 
 
 Beyond imagination's power, 
 Beyond the Bard's defeated art, 
 
 With immortality her dower. 
 Behold the Helen of the Heart. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 EXPOSTULATION. 
 
 What though the sun must set, and darkness come. 
 Shall we turn coldly from the blessed light. 
 And o'er tlie heavens call an earlier gloom. 
 Because the longest day must end in night ? 
 What though the golden summer flies so fast, 
 Shall we neglect the rosy wreaths she brings. 
 Because their blooming sweetness may not last, 
 And winter comes again with snowy wings ? 
 What though this world be but the journeying land. 
 Where those who love but meet to part again ; 
 Where, as we clasp in welcome friendship's hand. 
 The greeting clasp becomes a parting strain ? 
 'T is better to be blessed for one short hour, 
 Than never know delight of love or joy. 
 Friendship, or mirth, or happiness, or power, 
 And all that Time creates, and must destroy. 
 
 F. A. Kemble.
 
 THE SHIP IS READY. 29 
 
 THE SHIP IS READY. 
 
 Fare thee well ! the ship is ready, 
 And the breeze is fresh and steady ; 
 Hands are fast the anchor weighing,' 
 High in air the streamers playing. 
 Spread the sails ; the waves are swelling 
 Proudly round thy buoyant dwelling : 
 Fare thee well ! and when at sea, 
 Think of those who sigh for thee. 
 
 When from land and home receding, 
 And from hearts that ache to bleeding, 
 Think of those behind that love thee. 
 While the sun is bright above thee ; 
 Then, as down the ocean glancing, 
 With the waves his rays are dancing. 
 Think how long the night will be 
 To eyes that weep for thee. 
 
 When the lonely night-watch keeping, 
 All below thee still and sleeping, 
 As the needle points the quarter. 
 On the wide and trackless water. 
 Let thy vigils ever find thee 
 Mindful of the friends behind thee ; 
 Let thy bosom's magnet be 
 Turned to those who wake for thee. 
 
 When with slow and gentle motion 
 Heaves the bosom of the ocean. 
 While in peace thy bark is riding. 
 And the silver moon is gliding
 
 30 THE LAKE OF WINDERMERE. 
 
 On the sky with tranquil s^jlendor, 
 When the shining hosts attend her, 
 Let the brightest vision be, 
 Country, home, and friends to thee. 
 
 When the tempest hovers o'er thee, 
 Danger, death, and wreck before thee, 
 While the sword of fire is gleaming, 
 Wild the winds, the torrents streaming. 
 Then, a pious suppliant bending. 
 Let thy thoughts ascending 
 Eeach the mercy- seat to be 
 Met by prayers that rise for thee. 
 
 Miss H. F. Gould. 
 
 Copied off Cape Bank, Sunday, March 7, 1833. 
 
 THE LAKE OF WINDEEMERE. 
 
 I WOULD I had a charmed boat 
 
 To sail that lovely lake. 
 Nor should another prow but mine 
 
 Its silver silence wake. 
 No one should cleave its sunny tide. 
 
 But I would float along 
 As if the breath that filled my sail 
 
 Was but a murmured song. 
 
 Then I would think all pleasant thoughts, 
 
 Live early youth anew, 
 When hope took tunes of prophecy. 
 
 And tones of music too,
 
 GENEVIEVE. 31 
 
 And colored life with its own hues, 
 The heart's true " Claude Lorraine," 
 
 The rich, the warm, the beautiful, — 
 I 'd live them once again. 
 
 Kind faces flit before my eyes, 
 
 Sweet voices fill my ear ; 
 And friends I long have ceased to love, 
 
 I '11 still think loved and here. 
 With such fair phantasies to fill, 
 
 Sweet lake, thy summer air, 
 If thy banks were not paradise, 
 
 Yet I would dream they were. 
 
 Miss L. E. Landon. 
 
 M. P. F. Copied off Isle of France, Sunday, March 24, 1833, on board 
 lip " Alert." 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour. 
 When midway on the mount I lay 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene.. 
 Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve !
 
 32 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 She listened with a Hitting bhish, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined ; and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love, 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face. 
 
 His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity. 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve : 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng. 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherished Ions.
 
 ON A MISER. 33 
 
 She wept with pity and delight, 
 She l)lushed with love and virgin shame; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved, — she stept aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stept, — • 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye, 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And, bending back her head, looked up 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'T was partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 't was a bashful art 
 That I might rather feel than see 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous bride. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 ON A MISER. 
 
 Ieox was his chest, 
 
 Iron his door : 
 His hand was iron ; 
 
 His heart was more. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 8
 
 34 Dill X KING-SONG. 
 
 DRINKING-SONG. 
 
 Banish sorrow, grief is folly ; 
 
 Thought, unheiid thy wrinkled brow ; 
 Hence, dull care and melancholy ; 
 
 Joy and mirth await us now. 
 Bacchus opens all his treasures, 
 
 Comus gives us wit and song; 
 Follow, follow, follow pleasure ; 
 
 Let us join the jovial throng. 
 
 Life is short, 't is but a season, 
 
 Time is ever on the wing; 
 Then let 's the present moment seize on, 
 
 Who knows what the next may bring ? 
 All our time by mirth we measure. 
 
 All dull cares we may despise ; 
 Follow, follow, follow pleasure. 
 
 To be merry, to be wise. 
 
 Wherefore then should we perplex us. 
 
 Why should we not merry be. 
 Since in life there 's nought to vex us. 
 
 Drinking sets our cares all free ? 
 Let's have drinking without measure. 
 
 Let 's have wine, while time we have ; 
 Follow, follow, follow pleasure, 
 
 There 's no drinking in the grave. 
 
 When Death comes in, we '11 say, " Good fellow, 
 Come and sit you down by me ;
 
 THE SAILOR'S CONSOLATION, 35 
 
 Drink with me until you 're mellow, 
 
 Then like us you shall be free. 
 Sit down, Death, — we must have leisure, 
 
 Drinking can't be hurried so ; 
 Follow, follow, follow pleasure ; 
 One more bumper, then we '11 go." 
 
 Anonymous. 
 Copied: March 24, 1833. Sung by Dr. John Jennison on the barque " Lintin." 
 
 THE SAILOE'S CONSOLATION. 
 
 One night came on a hurricane, 
 
 The sea was mountains rolling, 
 When Barney Buntline turned his quid, 
 
 And said to Billy Bowling : 
 " A strong nor' wester 's blowing. Bill ; 
 
 Hark ! don't ye hear it roar now ? 
 Lord help 'em, how I pities them 
 
 Unhappy folks on shore now I 
 
 " Foolhardy chaps who live in towns, 
 
 What danger they are all in, 
 And now lie quaking in their beds, 
 
 For fear the roof shall fall in ! 
 Poor creatures ! how they envies us, 
 
 And wishes, I 've a notion. 
 For our good luck, in such a storm. 
 
 To be upon the ocean ! 
 
 " And as for them who 're out all day 
 On business from their houses, 
 
 And late at night are coming home, 
 To cheer their babes and spouses.
 
 36 THE FIVE DREAMS. 
 
 While you and I, Bill, on the deck 
 
 Are comfortably lying, 
 My eyes ! what tiles and chimney-pots 
 
 About their heads are flying ! 
 
 "And very often have we heard 
 
 How men are killed and undone, 
 By overturns of carriages, 
 
 By thieves and fires in London. 
 We know what risks all landsmen run, 
 
 From noblemen to tailors ; 
 Then, Bill, let us thank Providence 
 
 That you and I are sailors." 
 
 William Pitt. 
 A very old favorite. 
 
 THE FIVE DEEAMS 
 
 on a piece of wedding-cake in a sealed paper, with five 
 ladies' names theke written. 
 
 FIRST. 
 
 The first was a vision with flaxen hair. 
 
 And such an ethereal eye and smile. 
 As told of the genius that harbored there. 
 
 And the art that in ambush lay the while ; 
 And I knelt and I offered — 't was much for me — 
 
 A heart ; but she laughed at the gift, and said 
 'T was kindly meant, but indeed 't would be 
 
 Scarce worth her accepting without a head. 
 
 SECOND. 
 
 And the next was the very nymph of dreams, 
 
 Transparently, beautifully pale. 
 Like the moon when she sheds her mildest beams 
 
 Through a summer cloud's faintest, fleeciest veil ;
 
 THE FIVE DREAMS. 37 
 
 And I knelt again, and she left me kneeling, 
 And with queen-like steps and averted eyes 
 
 She was gone, ere the power of devoted feeling • 
 Could shape into words what it uttered in sighs. 
 
 THIRD. 
 
 And the third was a perfect Hebe, glowing 
 
 With all that life's loveUest morning brings, 
 And radiant with happy spirits flowing 
 
 From living and pure and sheltered springs. 
 And I knelt with a sigh that she would not hear ; 
 
 But she heard my petition and answered no. 
 And she laughed at my sorrow and starting tear, 
 
 And she vanished before it had time to flow. 
 
 FOURTH. 
 
 The fourtli ! oh, I know that large, dark eye, 
 
 Those curls of the glossiest, raven jet ; 
 I have worshipped their beauty m hours gone by. 
 
 And my spirit remembers its slavery yet. 
 Shall the secret thoughts of my heart at length 
 
 Not find to the hps their timid way ? 
 Too late and in vain ! their collected strength 
 
 Trembles and dies in a faint essay. 
 
 FIFTH. 
 
 But the last of the train is passing now, — 
 
 How she sways majestically by ! 
 There 's moonlight upon her lofty brow, 
 
 And romance in her visionary eye. 
 Her thoughts in a far-away country roam. 
 
 All peopled with fancies divinely fair. 
 And thither her spirit is floating home. 
 
 To be welcomed, I ween, the fairest fair. 
 
 Anonymous, New York American.
 
 38 UAIL, CHARMING POWER! 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE BIRCH. 
 
 BY A SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Let others laud the storm-defymg oak, 
 
 Proof 'gainst the whirlwind and the lightning stroke. 
 
 The graceful willow or the aspen tree, 
 
 But birch, the useful stinging birch, for me ! 
 
 A. E. DURIVAGE. 
 Copied: Apiil 14, 183S. 
 
 STROKE A KETTLE. 
 
 Tender-handed stroke a nettle. 
 And it stings you for your pains ; 
 
 Grasp it like a man of mettle, 
 And it soft as silk remains. 
 
 So it is with common natures, — 
 
 Use them kindly, they rebel ; 
 But be rough as nutmeg graters, 
 
 And the rogues obey you well. 
 
 Aarox Him,. 
 
 HAIL, CHARMING POWER! 
 
 Hail, charming power of self-opinion ! 
 For none be slaves in thy dominion : 
 Secure in thee, the mind 's at ease ; 
 The vain have only one to please. 
 
 British Martial.
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEOX BOX A P ARTE. 
 
 ODE TO NAPOLEON BONAPAKTE. 
 
 'T IS done, — but yesterday a king, 
 And arm'd with kings to strive ; 
 And now thou art a nameless thing, — 
 
 So abject, yet alive. 
 Is this the man of thousand thrones, 
 Who strewed our earth with hostile bones, 
 
 And can he thus survive ? 
 Since he, miscalled the morning star, 
 Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. 
 
 Thanks for that lesson, — it will teach 
 
 To after-warriors more 
 Than high philosophy can preach, 
 
 And vainly preached before. 
 That spell upon the minds of men 
 Breaks never to unite again, 
 
 Tliat led them to adore 
 Those Pagod things of sabre sway, 
 With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. 
 
 The Desolator desolate ! 
 
 The Victor overthrown ! 
 The Arljiter of others' fate 
 
 A Suppliant for his own ! 
 Is it some yet imperial hope 
 That with such change can calmly cope ? 
 
 Or dread of death alone ? 
 To die a prince, or live a slave, — 
 The choice is most ignobly brave. 
 
 39
 
 40 RECEIPT TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE. 
 
 He who of old would rend the oak, 
 
 Dreamed not of the rebound ; 
 Chained by the trunk he vainly broke, — 
 
 Alone, — how looked he round ? 
 Tliou, in the sternness of thy strength, 
 An equal deed hast done at length, 
 
 And darker fate hast found : 
 He fell, the forest prowlers' prey ; 
 But thou must eat thy heart away ! 
 
 But thou — from thy reluctant hand 
 
 The thunderbolt is wrung, — 
 Too late thou leav'st the high command 
 
 To which thy weakness clung. 
 All evil spirit as thou art. 
 It is enough to grieve the heart 
 
 To see thine own unstrung; 
 To think that God's fair world hath been 
 The footstool of a thing so mean. 
 
 Byron. 
 Copied: Sunda}-, April 28, 1833; passing St. Helena. 
 
 RECEIPT TO MAKE A MAN OF CONSEQUENCE. 
 
 A BROW austere, a circumspective eye, 
 A frequent shrug of the " os humeri," 
 A nod significant, a stately gait, 
 A blustering manner and a tone of weight, 
 A smile sarcastic, an expressive stare, — 
 Adopt all these as time and place will bear, 
 Then rest assured that those of little sense 
 AVill deem you sure a man of consequence. 
 
 British Martial.
 
 NORNA'S PROPHECIES. 41 
 
 NOENA'S PROPHECIES. 
 
 FOR BEENDA. 
 
 Untouched by love, the maiden's breast 
 Is like the snow on Ptona's crest, 
 High seated in the middle sky, 
 In bright and barren purity ; 
 But by the sunbeam gently kissed. 
 Scarce by the gazing eye 't is missed. 
 Ere down the lonely valley stealing, 
 Fresh grass and growth its course revealing. 
 It cheers tlie flock, revives the flower, 
 And decks some happy shepherd's bower. 
 
 FOR MINNA. 
 
 Untouched by love, the maiden's breast 
 Is like the snow on Rona's crest : 
 So pure, so free from earthly dye. 
 It seems, whilst leaning on the sky, 
 Part of the heaven to which 't is nigh ; 
 But passion, like the wild March rain. 
 May soil the wreath with many a stain. 
 We gaze, — the lovely vision 's gone ; 
 A torrent fills the bed of stone. 
 That, hurrying to destruction's shock. 
 Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. 
 
 Scott, The Pirate. 
 
 TO 
 
 Lie on, and my revenge shall be 
 To speak the very truth of thee. 
 
 British Martial.
 
 -t- CUMynil HALL. 
 
 CUMNOK HALL. 
 
 The dews of summer night did fall ; 
 
 The moon, sweet regent of the sky, 
 Silvered the walls of Cumnor Hall, 
 
 And many an oak that grew thereby. 
 
 Now nought was heard beneath the skies. 
 The sounds of busy life were still. 
 
 Save an unhappy lady's sighs, 
 That issued from that lonely pile. 
 
 " Leicester," she cried, " is this thy love 
 That thou so oft hast sworn to me, — 
 
 To leave me in this lonely grove, 
 Inmiured in shameful privity ? 
 
 " No more thou com'st with lover's speed. 
 Thy once beloved bride to see ; 
 
 But be she alive or be she dead, 
 
 I fear, stern Earl, 's the same to thee. 
 
 " Not so the usage I received 
 
 When happy in my father's hall ; 
 
 No faithless husband then me grieved. 
 No chilling fears did me appall. 
 
 " Then, Leicester, why, again I plead 
 (Tlie injured surely may repine). 
 
 Why didst thou wed a country maid, 
 
 When some fair princess might be thine ?
 
 CUMNOll HALL. 43 
 
 " Why didst thou praise my humble charms, 
 
 And, oh, then leave them to decay ? 
 Why didst thou win me to thy arms. 
 
 Then leave to mourn the livelong day ? 
 
 " The village maidens of the plahi 
 
 Salute me lowly as they go ; 
 Envious they mark my silken train, 
 
 Nor think a Countess can have woe. 
 
 " The simple nymphs, they little know 
 How far more happy 's then- estate, — 
 
 To smile for joy than sigh for woe. 
 To be content than to be u'reat. 
 
 " My spirits flag, my hopes decay ; 
 
 Still that dread death-bell smites my ear. 
 And many a boding seems to say, 
 
 ' Countess, prepare, thy end is near.' " 
 
 Thus, sore and sad, that lady grieved, 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear ; 
 
 And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, 
 And let fall many a bitter tear. 
 
 And ere the dawn of day appeared. 
 In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, 
 
 Full many a piercing scream was heard, 
 And many a cry of mortal fear. 
 
 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring. 
 An aerial voice was heard to call, 
 
 And thrice the raven flapped its wings 
 Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.
 
 44 CUMNOR HALL. 
 
 The mastiff howled at village door, 
 The oaks were shattered on the green ; 
 
 Woe was the hour, for nevermore 
 That hapless Countess e'er was seen. 
 
 And in tliat manor now no more 
 Is cheerful feast and sprightly Lall ; 
 
 For ever since that dreary hour 
 Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 
 
 The village maids, with fearful glance. 
 Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall ; 
 
 Nor ever lead the merry dance 
 
 Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 Full many a traveller oft hath sighed. 
 And pensive wept the Countess' fall. 
 As wandering onward they 've espied 
 The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. 
 
 William Julius Mickle. 
 Copied : MiLTON HiLL, Oct. 31, 1833. 
 
 OX A STONE THKOWN THAT MISSED A THICK HEAD. 
 
 Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head 
 
 From a flint so unluckily thrown ; 
 I think, very different from thousands indeed, 
 
 'T was a lucky escape for the stone. 
 
 Peter Pixuak.
 
 ANNE HATHAWAY. 45 
 
 ANNE HATHAWAY. 
 
 Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng, 
 With love's sweet notes to grace your song, 
 To pierce the heart with thrilling lay, 
 Listen to mine Anne Hathaway. 
 She hath a way to sing so clear, 
 Phoebus might wondering stop to hear ; 
 To melt the sad, make blithe the gay, 
 And nature charm, Anne hath a way. 
 She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; 
 To breathe delight, Anne hath a way. 
 
 When envy's breath and rancor's tooth 
 
 Do soil and bite fair worth and truth, 
 
 And merit to distress betray. 
 
 To soothe the heart, Anne hath a way. 
 
 She hath a way to chase despair, 
 
 To heal all grief, to cure all care, 
 
 Turn foulest night to fairest day, 
 
 Thou knowest, fond heart, Anne hath a way. 
 
 She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; 
 
 To make grief bliss, Anne hath a way. 
 
 Talk not of gems, the Orient list, 
 The diamond, tojjaz, amethyst, 
 The emerald mild, the ruby gay — 
 Talk of my gem, Anne Hathaway. 
 She hath a way, with her bright eye. 
 Their various lustre to defy ; 
 The jewel she, and the foil they. 
 So sweet to look Anne hath a way.
 
 46 JEAN IE MORRISON. 
 
 She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; 
 
 To shame bright gems, Anne hath a way. 
 
 But were it to my fancy given 
 
 To rate her charms, I 'd call them heaven ; 
 
 For though a mortal made of clay, 
 
 Angels must love Anne Hathaway. 
 
 She hath a w^ay so to control, 
 
 To rapture, the imprisoned soul, 
 
 And sweetest heaven on earth display, 
 
 That to be heaven Anne hath a way. 
 
 She hath a way, Anne Hathaway ; 
 
 To be heaven's self, Anne hath a way. 
 
 Attributed to Shakspeare. 
 Copied : Milton Hill, Oct. 31, 1833. 
 
 JEANIE MOEEISOK 
 
 I 'VE wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 Through mony a weary way ; 
 But never, never can forget 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 The fire that 's blawn on Beltane e'en 
 
 May weel be black gin Yule ; 
 But blacker fa' awaits the heart 
 
 Where first fond luve grows cule. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 
 The thochts o' bygane years 
 Still fling their shadow\s ower my path, 
 
 And blind my een wi' tears ;
 
 JEAN IE MORRISON. 47 
 
 They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, 
 
 And sair and sick I pine, 
 As memory idly summons up 
 
 The blithe blinks o' langsyne. 
 
 'T was then we luvit ilk ither weel, 
 
 'T was then we twa did part ; 
 Sweet time, sad time ! twa bairns at scule, 
 
 Twa bairns, and but ae heart ! 
 'T was then we sat on ae laigh bink. 
 
 To leir ilk ither lear ; 
 And tones and looks and smiles were shed, 
 
 Eemembered evermair. 
 
 I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet. 
 
 When sitting on that bink, 
 Cheek touchin' cheek, loof locked in loof, 
 
 What our wee heads could think. 
 When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, 
 
 Wi' ae bulk on our knee. 
 Thy lips were on thy lesson, but 
 
 My lesson was in thee. 
 
 The throssil whusslit in the wood, 
 
 The burn sang to the trees, 
 And we, with nature's heart in tune, 
 
 Concerted harmonies ; 
 And on the knowe abune the burn. 
 
 For hours thegither sat 
 In the silentness o' joy, till baith 
 
 Wi' very gladness grat. 
 
 Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Momson, 
 Tears trickled doun your cheek,
 
 48 JEANIE MORRISON. 
 
 Like dew-Leads on a rose, yet nana 
 
 Had ony power to speak. 
 That was a time, a blessed time, 
 
 When hearts were fresh and young, 
 When freely gushed all feelings forth, 
 
 Unsyllabled, unsung. 
 
 I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west, 
 
 I 've borne a weary lot ; 
 But in my wanderings, far or near, 
 
 Ye never were forgot. 
 The fount that first burst frae this heart, 
 
 Still travels on its way ; 
 And channels deeper, as it rins. 
 
 The luve o' life's young day. 
 
 dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 
 Since we were sindered young, 
 
 1 've never seen your face, nor heard 
 
 The music o' your tongue ; 
 But I could hug all wretchedness. 
 
 And happy could I dee. 
 Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
 0' bygane days and me. 
 
 William Motherwell. 
 Copied : Milton Hill, Oct. 31, 1833. 
 
 WONDERS CEASE. 
 
 The prophet Balaam was in wonder lost 
 
 To have his ass speak ; — asses now talk most. 
 
 Akoxymous.
 
 JJAV BliEAKS ON THE MOUNTAIN. 49 
 
 DAY BEEAKS ON THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Day breaks on the mountain, 
 
 Light bursts on the storm, 
 The sun from the shower 
 
 Glints silent and warm. 
 But dark is the hour 
 
 Of grief on my soul ; 
 There 's no morn to awake it, 
 
 No beam to console. 
 
 The hawk to his corrie, 
 The dove to her nest, 
 The wolf to the greenwood, 
 
 The fox to his rest. 
 But woe and morrow 
 
 Are wakeful to me ; 
 There 's no rest for my sorrow. 
 
 No sleep for my ee. 
 
 O Lily of England, 
 
 lady, my love. 
 How fair is the sunbeam, 
 
 Thy bower above ! 
 And bright be thy blossom, 
 
 And reckless thy glee, 
 And crossed not thy bosom 
 
 With sorrow for me. 
 
 We have met in delight, 
 
 We have dreamed ne'er to sever, 
 4
 
 CLEVELAND'S SONG TO MINNA. 
 
 We have loved in despair, 
 We have parted forever. 
 But yet there's a rest 
 
 To the mournful is given ; 
 We shall sleep on earth's breast, 
 And awaken in heaven. 
 
 Anonymous, Bridal of Colchairn. 
 Copied : MiLTON, Oct. 31, 1833, from E. P. F.'s Log-book. 
 
 CLEVELAND'S SONG TO MINNA. 
 
 Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear, 
 Has left its last soft tone with you ; 
 
 Its next must join the seaward cheer, 
 And shout among the shouting crew. 
 
 The accents which I scarce could form 
 Beneath your frown's controllmg check, 
 
 Must give the word, above the storm. 
 To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. 
 
 The timid eye I dared not raise. 
 
 The hand, that shook when pressed to thine. 
 Must point the guns upon the chase — 
 
 Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 
 
 To all I love, or hope — or fear. 
 
 Honour or own, a long adieu ! 
 To all that life has soft and dear. 
 
 Farewell ! save memory of you ! 
 
 Scott, TJie Pirate. 
 Copied: Milton, Oct. 31, 1833.
 
 THE BRAES OF BALQUITHER. 51 
 
 THE BRAES OF BALQUITHER. 
 
 Lf:T us gae, lassie, gae 
 
 To the braes of Balquither, 
 Where the blae berries grow 
 
 'Mang the bonnie Highland heather ; 
 Wliere the deer and the rae, 
 Lightly bounding together, 
 Sport the lang summer day 
 'Mang the braes o' Balquither. 
 Will ye go, lassie, go 
 
 To the braes o' Balquither, 
 Where the blae berries "row 
 
 'Mang the bonnie bloomin' heather ? 
 
 I will twine thee a bower 
 
 By the clear siller fountain. 
 And I '11 cover it o'er 
 
 Wi' the flow'rs o' the mountain ; 
 I will range through the wilds, 
 
 And the deep glens sae dreary, 
 And return wi' the spoils 
 
 To the l)ower o' my dearie. 
 Will ye go, &c. 
 
 When the rude wintry win' 
 
 Idly raves round our dwelling, 
 And the roar of the linn 
 
 On the night breeze is swelling ; 
 Sae merrily we '11 sing 
 
 As the storm rattles o'er us. 
 Till the deer shieling ring 
 
 Wi' the light lilting chorus. 
 Will ye go, &c.
 
 52 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 Now the suniiner is in prime 
 
 Wi' the flow'rs riclily blooming. 
 And the wild mountain thyme 
 
 A' the moorlands perfuming ; 
 To our dear native scenes 
 Let us journey together, 
 Where glad innocence reigns, 
 'Mang the braes of Balquither. 
 Will ye go, lassie, go 
 
 To the braes o' Balquither, 
 Where the blae berries grow 
 
 'Mang the bonnie bloomm' heather ? 
 
 Tannahill. 
 Copied : Oct. 31, 1833. Sung at Naushon, 
 
 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 
 
 Fill the goblet again ! for I never before 
 
 Felt the glow which now gladdens my heart to its core : 
 
 Let us drink ! — who would not ? — since, through life's varied 
 
 round, 
 In the goblet alone no deception is found. 
 
 I have tried in its turn all that life can supply : 
 
 I have basked in the beam of a dark rolling eye ; 
 
 T have loved ! — who has not ? — but what heart can declare 
 
 That pleasure existed while passion was there ? 
 
 In the days of my youth, when the heart 's in its spring, 
 And dreams that affection can never take wing, 
 I had friends ! — who has not? — but what tongue will avow 
 That friends, rosy wine ! are so faithful as thou ?
 
 FILL THE GOBLET AGAIN. 53 
 
 The heart of a mistress some boy may estrange, 
 Friendship shifts with the sunbeam, — thou never canst change : 
 Thou grow'st old, — who does not ? — but on earth what appears. 
 Whose virtues, like thine, still increase with its years ? 
 
 Yet if blest to the utmost that love can bestow. 
 Should a rival bow down to our idol below. 
 We are jealous ! — who 's not ? — thou hast no such alloy ; 
 For the more that enjoy thee, the more we enjoy. 
 
 Then the season of youth and its vanities past, 
 For refuge we fly to the goblet at last : 
 There we find, — do we not ? — in the flow of the soul, 
 That truth, as of yore, is confined to the bowl. 
 
 Long life to the grape ! for when summer is flown. 
 
 The age of our nectar shall gladden our own : 
 
 We must die — who shall not? — May our sins be forgiven, 
 
 And Hebe shall never be idle in heaven. 
 
 Byron. 
 
 Copied in 5° N., 20° W. ; thermometer, 85°; calm; dead-ahead; " Logan." 
 
 CLEAE-SIGHTED, YET BLIND. 
 
 His own merits perceiving, sure S through the land 
 
 For acute penetration unrivalled would stand, 
 
 Were it not this one blemish pre-eminence smothers, — 
 
 He is totally blind to the merits of others. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 54 DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG GIRL. 
 
 DEATH OF MAJOE HOWARD. 
 
 Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than mine ; 
 Yet one I would select from that proud throng, 
 Partly because they blend me with his line, 
 And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
 And partly that bright names will hallow song ; 
 And his was of the bravest, and when shower'd 
 The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files along. 
 Even where the thickest of war's tempest lower'd, 
 They reach'd no nobler breast than thine, young, gallant Howard 
 
 Byron, Childe Harold. 
 Copied at sea 48° S., 24° W. ; " Logan." 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF A BEAUTIFUL YOUXG GIRL. 
 
 'T IS ever thus, 't is ever thus, when hope has built a bower, 
 Like that of Eden, wreathed about with every thornless flower, 
 To dwell therein securely, the self-deceivers trust, 
 A whirlwind from the 'desert comes, and " all is in the dust.'' 
 
 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, that when the poor heart clings 
 With all its finest tendrils, with all its flexile rings. 
 That goodly thing it cleaveth to, so fondly and so fast. 
 Is struck to earth by lightning, or shattered by the blast. 
 
 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with beams of mortal bliss. 
 With looks too bright and beautiful for such a world as this : 
 One moment round about us their angel lightnings play ; 
 Then down the veil of darkness drops, and all has passed away.
 
 ON ENGLISH TRAVELLERS. 55 
 
 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with sounds too sweet for earth, — 
 Seraphic sounds, that float away, borne heavenward in their birth : 
 The goklen shell is broken, the silver chord is mute ; 
 The sweet bells are all silent, and hushed the lovely lute. 
 
 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with all that 's best below : 
 The dearest, noblest, loveliest, are always first to go, — 
 The bird that sings the sweetest ; the vine that crowns the rock, 
 The glory of the garden ; " the flower of the flock." 
 
 'T is ever thus, 't is ever thus, with creatures heavenly fair. 
 
 Too finely framed to bide the brunt more earthly natures bear ; 
 
 A little while they dwell with us, blessed ministers of love, 
 
 Then spread the wings we had not seen, and seek their home 
 
 above. 
 
 Anonymous, Connecticut Mirror. 
 
 Copied : June 1", 1S34, " Logan," off Cape ; gale of wind and rolling sea. 
 
 ON ENGLISH TRAVELLEES. 
 
 On knottiest points with ease debate. 
 Without one just thought on the matter ; 
 
 With scarce the traveller's art to gaze. 
 You ape the sages to distinguish ; 
 
 And while dear England's laws you praise, 
 You quite forget the law^s of English. 
 
 Even now, while freedom through the lands 
 Sweeps gathering on, behold in all 
 
 His might on Murray's counter stands 
 And fires his popgun — Captain Hall ! 
 
 'T is said when famed Alcides slew 
 The Earth's dread, that slumber bound him. 
 
 The hero woke, attacked anew,
 
 56 
 
 ONE STILL LINGERED. 
 
 And found the tribe of pygmies round him. 
 
 So truth some mighty victory gains, 
 And, lo ! the dwarfs rush out to seize him ! 
 
 The giant crushed, there still remains. 
 Some tribe of Hall's that can but tease him. 
 
 But from the traveller now we turn 
 One moment to address the reader. 
 
 BuLWER, The Twins. 
 
 THE GEAVE. 
 
 The grave is but a calmer bed, 
 
 Where mortals sleej) a longer sleep, — - 
 ,A shelter for the houseless head, 
 
 A spot where wretches cease to weep. 
 
 Anonymous, BlackwoocVs Magazine. 
 Copied : Jan 29, 1835. 
 
 ONE STILL LINGEEED. 
 
 One still lingered, pale and last, 
 By the lonely gallery stair. 
 
 As if his soul had passed. 
 
 Vanished with some stately fair. 
 
 Who the Knight, to few was known ; 
 Who his Love, he ne'er would tell ; 
 But his eyes were — like thine own, 
 But his heart was — Oh, farewell ! 
 
 ANONyMOUS, BlachwoocV s Magadne. 
 Copied in China, Jan. 29, 1835.
 
 BEFORE JEHOVAH'S AWFUL THRONE. i)l 
 
 BEFOEE JEHOVAH'S AWFUL THEONE. 
 
 Before Jehovah's awful throne, 
 
 Ye nations, bow with sacred joy. 
 Know that the Lord is God alone ; 
 
 He can create, and he destroy. 
 
 His sovereign power, without our aid, 
 Made us of clay, and formed us men ; 
 
 And when like wandering sheep we strayed. 
 He brought us to his fold again. 
 
 We '11 crowd thy gates with thankful songs, 
 Higli as the heavens our voices raise ; 
 
 And earth, with her ten thousand tongues, 
 Shall fill thy courts with sounding praise. 
 
 Wide as the world is thy command ; 
 
 Vast as eternity thy love ; 
 Firm as a rock thy truth shall stand. 
 
 When rolling years shall cease to move. 
 
 Watts. 
 Copied in Ciiin'A, 1835. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 Cease every joy to glimmer on my mind, 
 
 But leave, oh, leave the light of hope behind ; 
 
 What though my winged hours of bliss have been 
 
 Like angel's visits, few and far between, 
 
 Her musing mood shall every pang appease. 
 
 And charm when pleasures lose the power to please. 
 
 Campbell, Pleasures of Hope. 
 Copied : Canton, Jan. 1, 1836.
 
 58 LOVE NOT. 
 
 LOVE NOT! 
 
 Love not, love not ! ye hapless sons of clay ! 
 
 Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers, — 
 Things that are made to fade and fall away 
 
 Ere they have blossomed for a few short hours. 
 
 Love not ' 
 
 Love not ! the thing ye love may change ! 
 
 The rosy lip may cease to smile on you ; 
 The kindly beaming eye grow cold and strange ; 
 
 The heart still warmly beat, yet not be true. 
 
 Love not I 
 
 Love not ! the thing you love may die. 
 
 May perish from the gay and gladsome earth ; 
 
 The silent stars, the blue and smiling sky. 
 Beam o'er its grave, as once upon its birth. 
 
 Love not ! 
 
 Love not ! oh, warning vainly said 
 
 In present hours as in years gone by : 
 Love flings a halo round the dear one's head, 
 Faultless, immortal, till they change or die. 
 
 Love not ! 
 
 Carolixe Norton. 
 
 THE BEAGGART. 
 
 John puiTs himself ; forbear to chide : 
 
 An insect vile and mean 
 
 Must, well he knows, be magnified 
 
 Before it can be seen. 
 
 AxoNYMors.
 
 THE BELL AT SEA. 59 
 
 COUNTY GUY. 
 
 Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh, 
 
 The sun has left the lea ; 
 The orange flower perfumes the bower, 
 
 Tiie breeze is on the sea. 
 The lark, his lay who trilled all day. 
 
 Sits hushed his partner nigh ; 
 Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour ; 
 
 But where is Covuity Guy ? 
 
 The village maid steals through the shade, 
 
 Her shepherd's suit to hear ; 
 To beauty shy, by lattice high, 
 
 Sings high-born cavalier. 
 The star of love, all stars above, 
 
 Now reigns o'er earth and sky. 
 And high and low the influence know ; 
 
 But where is County Guy ? 
 
 Scott, Quentin Durward. 
 Copied: Macao, July 15, 1836. 
 
 THE BELL AT SEA. 
 
 When the tide's billowy swell 
 
 Had reached its height, 
 Then pealed the rock's lone bell 
 
 Slowly by night. 
 Ear over cliflf and surge 
 
 Swept the deep sound ; 
 Making each wild wind's dirge 
 
 Still more profound.
 
 60 WOOING-TIME. 
 
 Yet that funereal tone 
 
 The sailor blest, 
 Steering through darkness on 
 
 With fearless breast. 
 E'en thus may we that 11 oat 
 
 On life's wide sea, 
 Welcome each warning note, 
 
 Stern though it be. 
 
 Hemans. 
 
 Copied from Mrs. Gordon's Music-book : Macao, July 21, 1836. 
 
 WOOING-TIME. 
 
 Woo her when with rosy blush 
 
 Summer eve is sinking, 
 When on rills that softly gush 
 
 Stars are softly winking, 
 When throu'di boughs that knit the bower 
 
 Moonlight gleams are stealmg ; 
 Woo her till the gentle hour 
 
 Wakes a gentler feeling. 
 
 Woo her when the north wind calls 
 
 At the lattice nightly, 
 When within the cheerful hall 
 
 Blaze the fagots brightly. 
 While the wintry tempest round 
 
 Sweeps the landscape hoary. 
 Sweeter in her ear shall sound 
 
 Love's delightful story. 
 
 Bryaxt.
 
 ISLE OF BEAUTY. 61 
 
 HOW GAILY EOWS THE GONDOLIER. 
 
 How gaily rows the gondolier, 
 When love and hope his light bark steer ! 
 Cheerily the southern breeze he braves, 
 And boldly stems the swelling waves. 
 
 The gondolier, how light he rows 
 Wlien not a star its radiance throws ! 
 'T is time his swift bark on to urge 
 Across the gently flowing surge. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 ISLE OF BEAUTY. 
 
 Shades of evening, close not o'er us, 
 
 Leave our lonely bark awhile ; 
 Morn, alas ! will not restore us 
 
 Yonder dim and distant isle. 
 Still my fancy can discover 
 
 Sunny spots where friends may dwell ; 
 Darker shadows round us hover : 
 
 Isle of beauty, fare thee well, 
 
 'T is the hour when happy faces 
 Smile around the taper's light ; 
 
 Wlio will fill our vacant places. 
 Who will sing our soncrs to-nioht ?
 
 62 TllK LIGHT ILMIK. 
 
 Through the mist that lioats above us 
 Faintly sounds the vesper bell, 
 
 Like a voice from those who love us, 
 Breathing fondly, Fare thee well ! 
 
 When the waves are round me breaking, 
 
 As I pace the deck alone, 
 And my eye in vain is seeking 
 
 Some green leaf to rest upon, 
 What would I not give to wander 
 
 Where my old companions dwell ? 
 Absence makes the heart grow fonder : 
 
 Isle of beauty, fare thee well ! 
 
 T. H. Bayly. 
 
 THE LIGHT BAEK. 
 
 "Off," said the stranger, "off, off, and away !" 
 And away flew the light bark o'er the silvery bay. 
 " We must reach ere to-morrow the far distant wave ; 
 The billows we'll laugh at, the tempest we'll brave." 
 
 The young roving lovers, their vows have been given ; 
 Unsmiled on by mortals, but hallowed in heaven : 
 She was Italy's daughter, I knew by her eye ; 
 It wore the bright beam that illumines her sky. 
 
 And she has forsaken her palace and halls 
 For the chill breeze and the light which falls 
 O'er the pure wave from the heavens above ; 
 And their guiding star was the bright star of love. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 GONDOLA. 63 
 
 GONDOLA. 
 
 What fairy-like music 
 
 Steals over the sea, 
 Entrancing our senses 
 
 With charmed melody ! 
 'T is the voice of the mermaid, 
 
 That floats o'er the main, 
 As she mingles her song 
 
 With the gondolier's strain. 
 
 The winds are all hushed, 
 
 And the water 's at rest ; 
 They sleep like the passions 
 
 In infancy's breast ! 
 Till the storms shall unchain them 
 
 From out their dark cave. 
 And break the repose 
 
 Of the soul and the wave. 
 
 Mrs. C. B. Wilson. 
 Copied: Macao, Ju% 21, 1836. Mrs. Long's song. 
 
 MORTAL. 
 
 Can any mixture of earth's mould 
 Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment ? 
 For such a sacred and home-felt delight, 
 Such sober certainty of waking bliss, 
 I never knew till now. 
 
 Milton, Comus.
 
 64 LINES TO A LADY 
 
 LINES TO A LADY. 
 
 The leaf floats by upon the stream, 
 
 L^n heeded in its silent path ; 
 The vision of the shadowy dream 
 
 A similar remembrance hath. 
 
 The cloud that floats across the moon 
 Scarce brightens ere its hues are gone ; 
 
 The mist that shrouds the lake, as soon 
 Must vanish as the night hath flown. 
 
 The dove hath cleft the pure blue sky ; 
 
 No traces of his wing are there. 
 The light hath dwelt in beauty's eye ; 
 
 It was but now — and now is, where? 
 
 The winds of night have passed the flower ; 
 
 Hath morning found its gay leaf dim ? 
 The bird hath sung by lady's bower ; 
 
 To-morrow will she tliink of him ? 
 
 But still the cloud may not forget 
 The moon's serene but parting light ; 
 
 The bird, the leaf, remember yet 
 
 One that hath made their pathway bright. 
 
 And I, though cold neglect be mine. 
 My name to deep oblivion given, 
 
 Will, while on earth, remember thine. 
 And breathe it to my lyre in heaven. 
 
 N. P. Willis. 
 
 Copied: Albion, July 22, 1836.
 
 BRIDAL SERENADE. 65 
 
 BEIDAL SERENADE. 
 
 Wilt thou not waken, Bride of May, 
 While flowers are fresh and the sweet bells chime ? 
 Listen and learn from my roundelay 
 How all life's pilot-boats sailed one day 
 A match with Time. 
 
 Love sat on a lotus leaf afloat. 
 And saw old Time in his loaded boat ; 
 Slowly he crossed life's narrow tide, 
 While Love sat clapping his wings and cried, 
 " Who will pass Time ? " 
 
 Patience came first, but soon was gone 
 With helm and sail to help Time on ; 
 Care and Grief could not lend an oar, 
 And Prudence said, while he stayed on shore, 
 " I '11 wait for Time." 
 
 Hope filled with flowers her amaranth bark, 
 And lighted its helm with a glowworm's spark ; 
 Then Love, when he saw her bark fly fast. 
 Said, " Lingering Time will soon be past ; 
 Hope outspeeds Time." 
 
 Wit went nearest old Time to pass, 
 With his diamond oar, and his boat of glass ; 
 A feathery dart from his store he drew. 
 And shouted, while far and swift it flew, 
 " Oh, Mirth kills Time."
 
 06 THE MOURNER. 
 
 But Time sent the feathery arrows back, 
 Hope's boat of amaranths missed the track ; 
 Then Love bade his butterfly pilots move, 
 And laughingly said, " They shall see liow Love 
 Can conquer Time." 
 
 His gossamer sails he spread with speed ; 
 But Time has wings when Time has need. 
 Swiftly he crossed Life's sparkling tide, 
 And only Memory stayed to chide, 
 Unpitying Time ! 
 
 Wake and listen, thou Bride of May ! 
 Listen and heed thy minstrel's rhyme. 
 Still for thee some bright hours stay ; 
 For it was a hand like thine, they say, 
 
 Gave wings to Time. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE MOURNEE. 
 
 She flung her white arms around him. " Thou art all 
 
 That this poor heart can cling to ; yet I feel 
 
 That I am rich in blessings, and the fear 
 
 Of this most bitter moment still is mingled 
 
 With a strange joy. Eeposing on thy heart, 
 
 I hear the blasts of fortune sweeping by, 
 
 As a babe lists to music, — wondering, 
 
 But not affrighted. In the darkest hour 
 
 Thy smile is brightest ; and when I am wretched, 
 
 Then am I most beloved. In hours like this 
 
 The soul's resources rise, and all its strength
 
 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 67 
 
 Bounds into being ! I would rather live 
 With all my faculties thus wakened round me, 
 Of hopes and fears and joys and sympathies, 
 A few short moments, even with every feeling 
 Smarting from Fate's deep lash, tlian a long age, 
 However calm and free from turbulence. 
 Bereft of these most high capacities. 
 Not vainly have I nursed them : for there is 
 An impulse even in suffering, and so pure 
 Eise the eternal hopes, called by them anguish, 
 Of a world-wearied spirit." 
 
 Miss Roscoe, of Liverpool. 
 Copied : Macao, July 22, 1836. 
 
 THE HOUE OF DEATH. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, • 
 
 And stars to set, — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death ! • 
 
 Day is for mortal care. 
 Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, 
 
 Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, 
 But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth ! 
 
 The banquet hath its hour, 
 Its feverish hour of mirth and song and wine ; 
 
 There comes a day of grief's o'erwhelming power, - 
 A time for softer tears, — but all are thine.
 
 68 THE HOUR OF DEATH. 
 
 Youth and the opening rose 
 May look hke things too glorious for decay, 
 
 And smile at thee, — but thou art not of those 
 That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall. 
 And flowers to wither at the north-wind's brcatli, 
 
 And stars to set, — but all, 
 Thou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 
 
 We know when moons shall wane. 
 When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, 
 
 When autumn's hues shall tinge the golden grain, — 
 But who shall teach us when to look for thee ? 
 
 Is it when spring's first gale 
 Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie ? 
 
 Is it when roses in our paths grow pale ? — 
 They have one season, — all are ours to die ! 
 
 Thou art where billows foam. 
 Thou art where music melts upon the air ; 
 
 Thou art around us in our peaceful home ; 
 And the world calls us forth, — and thou art there. 
 
 Thou art where friend meets friend. 
 Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest, — 
 
 Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend 
 The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest. 
 
 Leaves have their time to fall, 
 And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath. 
 
 And stars to set, — but all, 
 Tliou hast all seasons for thine own, Death ! 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 Copied : China, July 22, 1836.
 
 ALNWICK CASTLE. 69 
 
 ALNWICK CASTLK 
 
 EXTRACTS. 
 
 Gaze on the Abbey's ruined pile ; 
 
 Does not the succoring ivy, keeping 
 Her watch around it, seem to smile, 
 
 As o'er a loved one sleeping ? 
 One solitary turret gray 
 
 Still tells, in melancholy glory, 
 The legend of the Cheviot day, 
 
 The Percy's proudest border-story. 
 That day its roof was triumph's arch ; 
 
 Then rang, from aisle to pictured dome, 
 The light step of the soldier's march, 
 
 The music of the trump and drum ; 
 And babe and sire, the old, the young, 
 And the monk's hynni and minstrel's song, 
 And woman's pure kiss, sweet and long, 
 
 Welcomed her warrior home. 
 
 Wild roses by the Abbey towers 
 
 Are gay in their young bud and bloom ; 
 They were born of a race of funeral flowers 
 That garlanded, m long-gone hours, 
 
 A templar's knightly tomb. 
 He died, the sword in his mailed hand, 
 On the holiest spot of the Blessed Land, 
 
 Where the Cross was damped with his dying breath, 
 When blood ran free as festal wine. 
 And the sainted air of Palestine 
 
 Was thick with the darts of death.
 
 70 ALNWICK CASTLE. 
 
 Wise with the lore of centuries, 
 
 What tales, if thei-e be " tongues in trees," 
 
 Those giant oaks could tell, 
 Of beings born and buried here, — 
 Tales of the peasant and the peer. 
 Tales of the bridal and the bier, 
 
 The welcome and farewell, — 
 Since on their boughs the startled bird 
 First, in her twilight slumbers, heard 
 
 The Norman's curfew-bell. 
 
 And noble name and cultured land, 
 
 Palace, and park, and vassal band, 
 
 Are powerless to the notes of hand 
 
 Of Eothschild or the Barings. 
 
 The age of bargaining, said Burke, 
 Has come : to-day the turbaned Turk 
 (Sleep, Eichard of the lion heart ! 
 Sleep on, nor from your cerements start) 
 
 Is England's friend and fast ally ; 
 The ]\Ioslem tramples on the Greek, 
 
 And on the Cross and altar-stone, 
 
 And Christendom looks tamely on. 
 And hears the Christian maiden shriek. 
 
 And sees the Christian father die ; 
 And not a sabre blow is given 
 For Greece and fame, for faith and heaven. 
 
 By Europe's craven chivalry. 
 
 You '11 ask if yet the Percy lives 
 In the armed pomp of feudal state.
 
 IinW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND^ 71 
 
 The present representatives 
 
 Of Hotspur and his "gentle Kate" 
 Are some half-dozen serving-men 
 In the drab coat of William Penn ; 
 
 A chambermaid, whose lip and eye, 
 And cheek, and brown hair, bright and curling, 
 
 Spoke nature's aristocracy ; 
 
 And one, half groom, half seneschal. 
 
 Who bowed me through court, bower, and hall, 
 
 From donjon-keep to turret wall, 
 
 For ten-and-sixpence sterling. 
 
 Halleck. 
 
 HOW STANDS THE GLASS AROUND? 
 
 SAID TO HAVK BEE:N^ SUXG BY GEXERAL WOLFE THE EVEXING 
 BEFORE HE WAS KILLED AT QUEBEC. 
 
 How stands the glass around ? 
 For shame, ye take no care, my boys ! 
 
 How stands the glass around ? 
 
 Let mirth and wine abound. 
 The trumpets sound. 
 The colors they are flying, boys, — 
 
 To fight, kill, or wound : 
 
 May we still be found 
 Content with our hard fate, my boys, 
 On the cold gi'ound ! 
 
 Why, soldiers, wliy 
 
 Should we be melancholy, boys ? 
 
 Wliy, soldiers, why. 
 
 Whose business 't is to die ? 
 
 What ! sighing ? fie !
 
 72 TO THE DIM AND GLOOMY SHORE. 
 
 Don't fear : drink on : be jolly, boys ! 
 
 'T is he, you, or I ! 
 
 Cold, hot, wet, or dry, 
 We 're always bound to follow^, boys, 
 And scorn to fly ! 
 
 'T is but in vain, — 
 I mean not to upbraid you, boys, — 
 'Tis but in vain 
 For soldiers to complain : 
 Should next campaign 
 Send us to Him who made us, boys 
 We 're free from pain ; 
 But if we remain, 
 A bottle and a kind landlady 
 Cure all again. 
 
 Anonymous, Old Song. 
 Copied: Oct. 9, 1836. 
 
 TO THE DIM AND GLOOMY SHOEE. 
 
 To the dim and gloomy shore 
 Thou art gone some steps before ; 
 But thither the swift hours lead us ! 
 If Love may in life be brief. 
 
 In death it is fixed forever ! 
 In the hall which our feasts illume, 
 The flower for an hour may bloom ; 
 But the cypress that decks the tomb, 
 
 The cypress, is green forever. 
 
 BULWER. 
 Sent me by Madge. Copied : Sunday, Oct. 9, 1836.
 
 THE CATHEDRAL. 73 
 
 THE CATHEDRAL. 
 
 How loud amid these silent aisles 
 
 My quiet footstep falls, 
 Where words, like ancient chronicles. 
 
 Are scattered on the walls. 
 A thousand phantoms seem to rise 
 
 Beneath my lightest tread, 
 And echoes bring me back replies 
 
 From homes that hold the dead. 
 The loftiest passions and the least 
 
 Lie sleeping side by side, 
 And love hath reared its staff of rest 
 
 Beside the grave of pride. 
 
 Alike o'er each, alike o'er all, 
 
 Their lone memorials wave ; 
 The banner on the sculptured wall, 
 
 The thistle o'er the grave, 
 Each, herald-like, proclaims the style 
 
 And bearings of the dead. 
 But hangs one moral all the while 
 
 Above each slumbering head. 
 
 And the breeze, like an ancient bard, comes by, 
 
 And touches the solemn chords 
 Of the harp which death has hung on high ; 
 
 And fancy weaves the words, — 
 Songs that have one unwearied tone. 
 
 Though they sing of many an age. 
 And tales to which each graven stone 
 
 Is but a titlepage !
 
 74 TO MY YACHT. 
 
 The warrior here hath sheathed his sword, 
 
 Tlie poet crushed his lyre, 
 The miser left his counted hoard, 
 
 The chemist quenched his fire. 
 The maiden nevermore steals forth 
 
 To hear her lover's lute, 
 And all the trumpets of the earth 
 
 In the soldier's ear are mute. 
 
 The moonlight sits, with her sad, sweet smile, 
 
 O'er the heedless painter's rest. 
 And the organ rings through the vaulted aisle, 
 
 But it stirs not the minstrel's breast. 
 The mariner has no wish to roam 
 
 From his safe and silent shore, 
 And the weeping in the mourner's home 
 
 Is hushed forevermore ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 TO MY YACHT. 
 
 Away, o'er the wave to the home we are seeking. 
 Bark of my hope, ere the evening be gone ! 
 
 There 's a wild, wild note in the curlew's shrieking ; 
 There 's a whisper of death in the wind's low moan. 
 
 Though blue and bright are the heavens above me, 
 And the stars are asleep on the quiet sea. 
 
 And hearts I love, and hearts that love me, 
 Are beating beside me merrily. 
 
 Yet far in the west, where the day's faded roses, 
 Touched by the moonbeam, are withering fast, — 
 
 Where the half-seen spirit of twilight reposes. 
 Hymning the dirge of the hours that are past, —
 
 THE WINSOME WEE THING. 75 
 
 There, where the ocean wave sparkles at meeting 
 (As sunset dreams tell us) the kiss of the sky, 
 
 On his dim, dark cloud is the infant storm sitting, 
 And beneath the horizon his lightnings are nigh. 
 
 Another hour, and the death- word is given, — 
 
 Another hour, and his lightnings are here ; 
 Speed, speed thee, my bark, ere the breeze of even 
 
 Is lost in the tempest, our home will be near. 
 
 Then away o'er the wave, while thy pennant is streaming 
 
 In shadowy light, like a shooting star ; 
 Be swift as the thought of the wanderer, dreaming. 
 
 In a stranger land, of his fireside afar. 
 
 And wliile memory lingers I '11 fondly believe thee 
 
 A being with life and its best feelings warm. 
 And freely the wild song of gratitude weave thee. 
 Blessed spirit, that bore me and mine from the storm. 
 
 Halleck, Fanny. 
 Macao, Feb. 22, 1836. Copied: Cantox, Oct. 9, 1S36. 
 
 THE WINSOME WEE THING. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing. 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a lo'esome wee thing, 
 This dear wee wife o' mine ! 
 
 I never saw a fairer, 
 I never lo'ed a dearer ; 
 And neist my heart I 'II wear her. 
 For fear my jewel tine.
 
 76 AH, Mil. B. 
 
 She is a winsome wee thing, 
 She is a handsome wee thing, 
 She is a lo'esome wee thing. 
 This clear wee wife o' mine ! 
 
 The warld's wrack we share o't, 
 The warstle and the care o't ; 
 Wi' her I '11 blithely bear it, 
 And think my lot divme. 
 
 Copied on board ship " Lucouia," at sea, Jan. 1, 1837. 
 
 BuRXS. 
 
 AH, ME. B. 
 
 Air : "County Guy." 
 ( Written on Mr. Tom BcaVs keeinng a large party tvaiting at Vachills, June, 1831.) 
 
 Ah, Mr. B., 't is half -past three : 
 
 The soup has left the fire. 
 The salmon fish perfumes the dish ; 
 
 We all begin to tire. 
 The soles in state thy coming wait, 
 
 And fragrant lies the eel ; 
 Fish, soup, and plate confess 'tis late, 
 
 But where is Monsieur Beal ? 
 
 A half-hour 's sped, — he 's surely dead. 
 
 Or else he 'd send a chit ; 
 I '11 bet you two to one he 's had 
 
 An apoplectic fit. 
 
 (lost!) 
 
 What bell rings at the gate ? 
 " His ghost, his ghost ! " loud cries our host ; 
 
 'T is Monsieur Beal, though late. 
 
 AxOXYilOUS. 
 Copied : Jan. 1, 1837.
 
 MY TENT ON SHORE, MY GALLEY ON THE SEA. 77 
 
 HE THAT HATH SAILED. 
 
 He that hath sailed upon the dark blue sea 
 Has viewed at times, I ween, a full fair sight. 
 When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze may be. 
 The white sails set, the gallant vessel light. 
 Masts, spars, and strand retiring to the right. 
 The glorious main expanding on the bow. 
 
 Byron, GJiilde Harold. 
 Copied during a vexatious calm, a contrast to the above, on board ship " Luco- 
 nia," Jan. 1, 1837. 
 
 MY TENT ON SHOEE, MY GALLEY ON THE SEA. 
 
 So let them ease their hearts with prate 
 Of equal rights, which men ne'er knew ; 
 I have a love for freedom too. 
 
 Ay ! let me, like the ocean patriarch, roam, 
 
 Or only know on land the Tartar's home ! 
 
 My tent on shore, my galley on the sea. 
 
 Are more than cities and Serais to me. 
 
 Borne by my steed or wafted by my sail, 
 
 Across the desert or before the gale, 
 
 Bound where thou wilt, my barb ! or glide, my prow 
 
 But be the star that guides the wanderer. Thou ! 
 
 Thou, my Zuleika, share and bless my bark ; 
 
 The dove of peace and promise to mine ark !
 
 ADDRESS TO MY WASIIERWOMAy. 
 
 Or, since that hope denied in worlds of strife, 
 Be thou the rainl)o\v to the storms of life ; 
 The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, 
 And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray ! 
 
 How dear the dream in darkest hours of ill, 
 Should all be changed, to find thee faithful still ! 
 Be but thy soul, like Selim's, firmly shown ; 
 To thee be Selim's tender as thine own, — 
 To soothe each sorrow, share in each delight, 
 Blend every thought, do all, — but disunite. 
 
 Byron, Tlie Bride of Abydos. 
 Copied : Jan. 1, 1837. 
 
 ADDEESS TO MY WASHEEWOMAN 
 
 ON MISSING SOME FINE SHIKTS. 
 
 Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
 All my nice plaited shirts vanished like air ? 
 
 To thy new master hie. 
 
 On him the same trick try ; 
 
 Then ask thy pocket vfhy 
 
 No cash is there. 
 
 Akoxymous.. 
 
 EXTEACT. 
 
 We believe that fate is less capricious than is imagined ; that 
 nearly all men (though this is a singular assertion) have through 
 life, in their several grades, the same average of opportunities. 
 It is he who can seize and connect them, and by keen sight and 
 ready experience calculate on their re-occurrence, for whom men 
 have their applause and Fortune her garland. 
 
 BuLWER, Disoifiied,
 
 THE LAST JOURNEY. 79 
 
 THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 Tlie custom of an Egyptian funeral procession is to pause before the door of 
 certain houses, sonietiuics receding a few stejjs for the dead to bid a last farewell 
 to their friends and to effect a reconciliation with their enemies. 
 
 Slowly with measured tread 
 Onward we bear the dead 
 
 To his lone home. 
 Short grows the homeward road ; 
 On with your mortal load, 
 
 grave, we come ! 
 
 Yet, yet, ah ! hasten not 
 Past each remembered spot 
 
 Where he had been ; 
 Where late he walked in glee, 
 There from henceforth to be 
 
 Nevermore seen. 
 
 Eest ye, set down the bier ; 
 One he loved dwelleth here : 
 
 Let the dead lie 
 A moment that door beside. 
 Wont to fly open wide, 
 
 Ere he drew nigh. 
 
 Hearken ! he speaketh yet : 
 " friend, wilt thou forget 
 
 (Friend more than Ijrother) 
 How hand in hand we 've gone, 
 Heart with heart linked in one, 
 
 All to each other ?
 
 80 THE LAST JOURNEY. 
 
 " friend, I go from thee, — 
 Where the worm feasteth free, 
 
 Darkly to dwell ; 
 Giv'st thou no parting kiss ? 
 Friend ! is it come to this ? 
 
 friend, farewell ! " 
 
 Uplift your load again ; 
 Take up the mourning strain, 
 
 Pour the deep wail. 
 Lo ! the expected one 
 To his place passeth on ; 
 
 Grave, bid him hail ! 
 
 Yet, yet, ah ! slowly move ; 
 Bear not the form we love 
 
 Fast from our sight : 
 Let the air breathe on him, 
 And the sun beam on him 
 
 Last looks of light. 
 
 Here dwells his mortal foe ; 
 Lay the departed low. 
 
 Even at his gate : 
 Will the dead speak again, 
 Utt'ring proud boasts and vain, 
 
 Last words of hate ? 
 
 Lo ! the cold lips unclose ; 
 
 List ! list ! what sounds are those. 
 
 Plaintive and low ? 
 " thou, mine enemy. 
 Come forth and look on me 
 
 *Ere hence I go.
 
 MORTON SEEKING THE BLIND WIDOW. 81 
 
 " Curse not thy foeman now ; 
 Mark on liis pallid brow 
 
 Whose seal is set. 
 Pardoning, I pass away ; 
 Then wage not war with clay, 
 
 Pardon, — forget ! " 
 
 Now all his labor 's done, 
 Now, now the goal is won, 
 
 grave, we come ! 
 Seal up tliis precious dust. 
 Land of the good and just ! 
 
 Take the soul home. 
 
 Mrs. Southey. 
 
 Copied : three days from St. Helena, Feb. 12, 1837. 
 
 'T IS o'er, he sleeps ; the sea-bird and the surge, 
 The tempest breezes, swell his only dirge. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 MOPtTON SEEKING THE BLIND WIDOW. 
 
 The track of the road followed the course of the brook, which 
 was now visible and now only to be distmguished by the brawl- 
 ing heard among the stones, or in the clefts of the rock that 
 occasionally interrupted its course. 
 
 " Murmurer that thou art," said Morton, in the entliusiasm of 
 his reverie, " why chafe with the rocks that stop thy course for a 
 moment ? There is a sea to receive thee in its bosom, and an 
 eternity for man when his fretful and hasty course tlirough the 
 vale of time shall be ceased and over. What thy petty fuming 
 is to the deep and vast billows of a shoreless ocean are our 
 cares, hopes, fears, joys, and sorrows, to the ol)jects which 
 must occupy us through the awful and boundless succession 
 of ages." Scott, Old Mortality.
 
 82 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 SOUND, SOUND THE CLARION. 
 
 Sound, sound tlie clarion, fill the fife ! 
 
 To all the sensual world proclaim, 
 One crowded hour of glorious life 
 
 Is worth an age without a name. 
 
 Scott, Old Mortalify. 
 
 Copied : Sunday, Feb. 19, 1837, 5° S. 
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 
 
 A FAMOUS man is Robin Hood, 
 The English ballad-singer's joy ! 
 
 And Scotland has a thief as good, 
 
 An outlaw of as daring mood : 
 She has her brave Rob Roy. 
 
 Say, then, that he w^as wise as brave, — 
 As wise in thought, as bold in deed ; 
 
 For in the principle of things 
 He sought his moral creed. 
 
 Said generous Rob, " What need of books ? 
 
 Burn all the statutes and their shelves : 
 They stir us up against our kind, 
 
 And worse, against ourselves. 
 
 "We have a passion, make a law. 
 Too false to guide us or control ; 
 
 And for the law itself we fight 
 In bitterness of soul.
 
 ROB ROY'S GRAVE. 83 
 
 " And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose 
 
 Distinctions that are plain and few : 
 These find I graven on my heart ; 
 
 That tells me what to do. 
 
 " The creatures see of flood and field, 
 
 And those that travel on the wind ! 
 With them no strife can last : they live 
 
 In peace, and peace of mmd. 
 
 *' For why ? because the good old rule 
 
 Sufficeth them, — the simple plan. 
 That they should take, who have the power, 
 
 And they should keep, who can. 
 
 "A lesson which is quickly learned, 
 
 A signal this which all can see ! 
 Thus nothing here provokes the strong 
 
 To wanton cruelty. 
 
 " All freakishness of mind is checked ; 
 
 He tamed, who foolishly aspires ; 
 While to the measure of his might 
 
 Each fashions his desires. 
 
 *' All kinds and creatures stand and fall 
 
 By strength of prowess or of wit : 
 'T is God's app(jintment who must sway 
 
 And who is to submit. 
 
 "Since then, the rule of right is plain, 
 
 And longest life is but a day ; 
 To have my ends, maintain my rights, 
 
 I '11 take the shortest way."
 
 84 ''MERRY ENGLAND." 
 
 And thus among the rocks he lived, 
 
 Through summer's heat and winter's snow : 
 
 The eagle, he was lord above. 
 And l^ob was lord below. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 Copied at sea : Sunday, March 5, 1837 ; N. E. Trade ; 13° X., 42° W. 
 
 "MEEEY ENGLAND." 
 
 " Merry England ! " what picture do these simple words recall ! 
 Hamlets resting in the shelter of the old ancestral hall ; 
 Tower and spu'e, and park and palace, halls whose hospitable door 
 Never yet repelled the weary, never closed against the poor. 
 
 Bands of yeomen, brave and loyal ; nobles, courteous, frank, and 
 
 free ; 
 Fearless rulers, firmly blending gentleness with dignity ; 
 Peaceful days, when old Eeligion, like a silver-circling band, 
 Clasped alike round prince and peasant, bound in one accord 
 
 the land. 
 
 In their pew beside their household. Squire and Lady duly seen ; 
 Blithesome looks at fair and market, lightsome dance on village 
 
 green ; 
 Winter nights, wliere kindly neighbors passed the harmless jest 
 
 or tale. 
 While tlie fagot's cheerful crackle thawed the old October ale. 
 
 Ruddy children daily whooping underneath the ancient oak, 
 Hoary woods around them ringmg to their father's stalwart 
 stroke ;
 
 "MERRY ENGLAND." 85 
 
 Sunny slopes, where busy sickles sparkled through the golden 
 
 grain ; 
 And from darkenmg lanes at evening, sportive laugh of maid 
 
 or swam. 
 
 Still the land is fair as ever ; still the sun's departing glow 
 Lies as bright on spire and turret, lingering there as loath to 
 
 go: 
 But the sunshine of the spirit, trusting heart, and open brow, — 
 Whither have they all departed ? " Merry England," where art 
 
 thou ? 
 
 See, through yonder blazing city, riot, blood, and plunder rave ; 
 
 Europe's savior scarce escaping death from those he fought to 
 save; 
 
 Startled streets, whose mournful echoes render back the bat- 
 tle's din ; 
 
 Elying crowds, and charging horsemen ! Peace abroad, but 
 war within. 
 
 Where the faith that with a glory wreathed the monarch's 
 
 sacred crown ? 
 Where the ties that linked the lowly with the loftiest peer's 
 
 renown ? 
 Where the reverence, deep and holy, which on lawn and ermine 
 
 saw 
 God's own stamp, and in their wearers, loved religion, feared 
 
 the law ? 
 
 Altars spurned and thrones insulted, order scoffed at, laws 
 
 defied ; 
 Factious subjects, dastard rulers, — shifting witli the shifting 
 
 tide, —
 
 86 MATERNAL AFFECTION. 
 
 Doubtful present, darker future ! x\nxious heart and clouded 
 
 brow, 
 These are now thy altered features, — mournful England, such 
 
 lou. Anonymous, Blackwood's Maga::ine. 
 
 Copied from the "Boston Patriot," Sunday, March 12, 1837. 
 
 EPITAPH ON NAPOLEON'S TOMB AT ST. HELENA. 
 
 IN IMITATION OF BOMBASTES. 
 
 Here lies Boney, stout of heart and limb, 
 Who conquered all but Welly, — Welly, him ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 MATEENAL AFFECTION. 
 
 There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride 
 of manhood, that softens the heart and brings it back to the 
 feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced 
 life, in sickness, in despondency, — who that has pined on a 
 weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, — but 
 has thought of the mother that looked on his childhood, that 
 smoothed his pillow and administered to his helplessness ? Oh, 
 there is an endearing tenderness in the love of a mother to a 
 son that transcends all the affections of the heart. It is neither 
 to 1)6 chilled by selfishness, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor 
 stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his 
 convenience. She will glory in his fame, and exult in his pros- 
 perity. If adversity overtake him, he will be dearer to her liy 
 misfortune ; if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still 
 love and cherish him; and if all the world cast him off, she 
 will be all the world to him. 
 
 Copied: Sunday, March 19, 1837; 28° N., 62" W.
 
 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 87 
 
 THE SONG OF THE FOKGE. 
 
 Clang, clang, — the massive anvils ring ; 
 Clang, clang, — a hundred hammers swing, 
 Like the thunder rattle of a tropic sky ; 
 The mighty blows still multiply, 
 
 Clang, clang. 
 Say, brothers of the dusky brow. 
 What are your strong arms forging now ? 
 
 Clang, clang — we forge the coulter now. 
 The coulter of the kindly plough : 
 
 Sweet Mary Mother, bless our toil ; 
 May its broad furrow still unbind 
 To genial rains, to sun and wind, 
 
 The most benignant soil. 
 
 Clang, clang — our coulter's course shall be 
 On many a sweet and sheltered lea, 
 
 By many a streamlet's silver tide, 
 Amidst the song of morning birds. 
 Amidst the low of sauntering herds, 
 Amidst soft breezes which do stray 
 Through woodbine hedges and sweet May, 
 
 Along the green hill's side. 
 
 When regal autumn's bounteous hand 
 With widespread glory clothes the land, 
 
 When to tlie valleys, from the brow 
 Of each resplendent slope, is rolled 
 A ruddy sea of living gold, 
 
 We bless, we bless the plough.
 
 88 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 
 
 Clang, clang — again, my mates, what glows 
 Beneath the hammers' potent blows ? 
 Clang, clang — we forge the giant chain, 
 Which bears the gallant vessel's strain 
 
 'Midst stormy winds and adverse tides ; 
 Secured by this, the good ship braves 
 The rocky roadstead, and the waves 
 
 Which thunder on her sides. 
 
 Anxious no more, the merchant sees 
 The mist drive dark before the breeze, 
 
 The storm cloud on the hill ; 
 Calmly he rests, though far away 
 In boisterous climes his vessels lay, 
 
 Eeliant on our skill. 
 
 Say, on what sands these links shall sleep. 
 Fathoms beneath the solemn deep, — 
 By Afric's pestilential shore ; 
 By many an iceberg, lone and hoar; 
 By many a palmy western isle. 
 Basking in Spring's perpetual smile ; 
 By stormy Labrador. 
 
 Say, shall they feel the vessel reel, 
 
 The crashing broadside make reply ; 
 Or else, as at the glorious Nile, 
 Hold grappling ships that strive the while 
 For death or victory ? 
 
 Hurrah — clang, clang — once more, what glows, 
 Hark ! brothers of the forge, beneath 
 
 The iron tempest of your blows, 
 The furnace's red breath ?
 
 THE SONG OF THE FORGE. 89 
 
 Clang, claug — a Luriiiug shower, clear 
 And brilliant, of bright sparks, poured 
 
 Around and up in the dusky air. 
 As our hammers forge the sword. 
 
 The sword ! — extreme of dread ; yet when 
 Upon the freeman's thigh 't is bound, 
 
 While for his altar and his hearth. 
 
 While for his land that gave him birth, 
 The war drums roll, the trumpets sound, 
 
 How sacred is it then ! 
 
 Whenever for the truth and right 
 It flashes in the van of fight, — 
 Whether in some wild mountain pass, 
 As that where fell Leonidas ; 
 Or on some sterile plain and stern, 
 A Marston, or a Bannockburn ; 
 Or amidst crags and bursting rills. 
 The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills ; 
 Or, as when sunk the Armada's pride, 
 It gleams above the stormy tide, — 
 
 Still, still, whene'er the battle word 
 Is Liberty, where men do stand 
 For justice and their native land, 
 
 Then Heaven bless the Sword 1 
 
 Anonymous, 
 Calcutta Quarterly Magazine and Review. 
 
 Copied: Sunday, March 19, 1837.
 
 90 LINES IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION. 
 
 LINES 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION. 
 
 I 'll tell thee why this weary world meseemeth 
 But as the visions light of one who dreameth, 
 
 Which pass like clouds, leaving no trace beliind ; 
 Why this strange life, so full of sin and folly, 
 In me awakes no melancholy. 
 
 Nor leaveth shade or sadness o'er my mind. 
 'T is not that with an undiscerning eye 
 I see the pageant wild go dancing by, 
 
 Mistaking that which falsest is for true ; 
 'T is not that pleasure hath entwined me, 
 'T is not that sorrow hath enshrined me, — 
 
 I bear no badge of roses or of rue, — 
 But in the inmost chambers of my soul 
 
 There is another world, a blessed home, 
 O'er which no living power holdeth control, 
 
 Anigh to which ill things do never come. 
 There shineth the glad sunlight of clear thought, 
 
 With hope and faith holding communion high. 
 Over a fragrant land, with flowers y-wrought. 
 
 Where gush the living springs of poesy. 
 There speak the voices that I love to hear, 
 
 There smile the glances that I love to see. 
 There live the forms of those my soul holds dear, 
 
 Forever in that secret world with me. 
 They who have walked with me along life's way, 
 
 And severed been by fortune's adverse tide. 
 Who ne'er again through time's uncertain day. 
 
 In weal or woe, may wander by my side, —
 
 NOW. 91 
 
 These all dwell here ; nor those whom life alone 
 
 Divideth from me, but the dead, the dead, — 
 Those weary ones who to their rest are gone, 
 
 Wliose footprints from the earth have vanished, — 
 Here dwell they all : and here within this world, 
 Like light within a summer sun-cloud furled. 
 
 My spirit dwells ; therefore this evil life. 
 With all its gilded snares and fair deceivings, 
 Its wealth, its want, its pleasures, and its grievings. 
 
 Nor frights, nor frets me, by its idle strife. 
 () thou ! who readest of thy courtesy. 
 Whoe'er thou art, I wish the same to thee. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 ('oi)if(l : Sunday, March 26, 1837, on board the " Luconia," edge of the Gulf, 
 sixty miles from " tlie Cape of Storms," Hatteras. S. P. C. 
 
 NOW. 
 
 Rise ! for the day is passing, 
 
 And you lie dreaming on ; 
 The others have buckled their armor, 
 
 And forth to the fidit are "one : 
 A place in the ranks awaits you. 
 
 Each man has some part to play ; 
 The past and the future are nothing 
 
 In the face of the stern to-day. 
 
 Rise from your dreams of the future, ■ 
 Of gaining some hard-fought field ; 
 
 Of storming some airy fortress. 
 Or bidding some giant yield.
 
 92 ONE BY ONE. 
 
 Your future has deeds of glory, 
 
 Of honor (God grant it may) ; 
 But your arm will never be stronger, 
 
 Or the need so great as to-day. 
 
 Rise ! if tlie past detains you, 
 
 Her sunshine and storms forget ; 
 No chains so unworthy to hold you 
 
 As those of a vain regret : 
 Sad or bright, she is lifeless ever ; 
 
 Cast her phantom arms away. 
 Nor look back save to learn the lesson 
 
 Of a nobler strife to-day. 
 
 Rise ! for the day is passing. 
 
 The sound that you scarcely hear 
 Is the enemy marching to battle ; 
 
 Arise, for the foe is here. 
 Stay not to sharpen your weapons, 
 
 Or the hour will strike at last. 
 When from dreams of a coming battle 
 
 You may wake to find it past. 
 
 Adelaide A. Procter. 
 
 Copied from a newspaper, Naushon, Aug. 5, 1857. Distributed widely as a 
 recruiting-sons during the Rebellion. 
 
 ONE^ BY ONE. 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing. 
 One by one the moments fall ; 
 
 Some are coming, some are going ; 
 Do not strive to grasp them all.
 
 ONE BY ONE. 93 
 
 One by one thy duties wait thee, 
 Let thy whole strength go to each ; 
 
 Let no future dreams elate thee, 
 Learn thou first what these can teach. 
 
 One by one (bright gifts from heaven) 
 
 Joys are sent thee here below ; 
 Take them readily when given, 
 
 Eeady too to let them go. 
 
 One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, 
 
 Do not fear an armed band ; 
 One will fade as others greet thee. 
 
 Shadows passing through the land. 
 
 I)o not look at life's long sorrow, 
 See how small each moment's pain ; 
 
 God will help thee for to-morrow, 
 So each day begin again. 
 
 Every hour that fleets so slowly 
 
 Has its task to do or bear ; 
 Luminous the crown, and holy. 
 
 When each gem is set with care. 
 
 Do not linger with regretting. 
 
 Or for passing hours despond, 
 Nor, the daily toil forgetting, 
 
 Look too eagerly beyond. 
 
 Hours are golden links, God's token, 
 Eeaching heaven ; but one by one 
 Take them, lest the chain be broken 
 Ere the pilgrimage be done. 
 
 Adp:laide a. Procter. 
 Copied from a newspaper, Naitshox, Aug. 5, 1857.
 
 94 TO THE FIRST OF THE SERAPHIM, — UEA Til. 
 
 TO THE FIRST OF THE SERAPHIM, — DEATH. 
 
 Stars, — radiant stars, 
 Ye tliat troop forth in your diamond cars, 
 
 Who shall declare 
 What bright things bless your dwelling fair ? 
 
 '"TisI; 'tis I." 
 Seraph, dost thou deign reply ? 
 Yes, I know the tones of that voice entrancing, 
 
 And I turn to meet 
 
 Its whispering sweet, 
 And to catch, if it may be, thy balmy breath, 
 And to bask in the light from thy clear eyes glancing ; 
 
 For the voice is thine. 
 Thou spirit of essence the most divine, 
 Guide to the better land, — benignant Death- 
 Flowers, — gem-like flowers, 
 Ye light earth's else benighted bowers ; 
 But who shall tell the charm that in your deep cups dv*-e?l ? 
 
 "'TisI; 'tis I." 
 Comes on the zephyr the prompt reply. 
 But, violet, 't is not thy perfumed sigh, 
 And 't is not, rose, thy fragrant breath ; 
 
 But thine, oh, thine, 
 Thou spirit of essence the most divine. 
 Best friend and fairest hope, — benignant Death. 
 
 Moon, — spectral moon , 
 Ghding through pale night's haunted noon, 
 Who shall withdraw the veil 
 That shrouds thy being's law ?
 
 TO THE FIRST OF THE SERAPHIM, — DEA TH. 95 
 
 " This hand, this hand." 
 Again, again those accents bland, 
 But 't is not the music of worshipping spheres 
 That comes to bless thy votary's ears, 
 And 't is not the voice of a sinking star. 
 Pouring in praise its latest breath. 
 But a voice of import dearer far. 
 
 Thine, yes, thine. 
 Thou spirit of essence the most divine, 
 Best friend, and fairest hope, — benignant Death. 
 
 Waves, — glittering waves. 
 Ye that lie soft o'er a myriad graves. 
 
 How shall I know 
 What ye conceal in your depths below ? 
 
 " Through me, through me," 
 In music floats o'er the sounding sea ; 
 
 But 't is not thou. 
 Bright southland breeze, that art whispering now, 
 Not thou that through the bosom stealing 
 Wakest the troubled depths of feeling, — 
 'T is a warmer, a purer, a dearer breath, 
 
 Thine, yes, thine, 
 Thou spirit of essence the most divine, 
 Guide to the better land, — serenest Death. 
 
 Mrs. Foster. 
 
 Written in Eome liy a friend of Mrs. Ames, one of Mrs. Pollen's English 
 friends, and sent by her to Mrs. Follen. Copied: Sept. 28, 1837.
 
 OG THE RIVER. 
 
 WHAT STEANGE, DEEP SECEET. 
 
 What strange, deep secret dost tliou hold, Death, 
 
 To hallow those thou claimest for thine own ? 
 
 That which the open book could never teach 
 
 Tlie closed one whispers as we stand alone 
 
 By one now more alone than we ! and strive 
 
 To comprehend the passion of that peace. 
 
 In vain our tlioughts would wind within 
 
 The heart of that great mystery of release. 
 
 Baptism of death, which steepest infant eyes 
 
 In grace of calm the saints might hope to wear ; 
 
 Whose cold touch purifies the guilty brow. 
 
 And sets again the seal of childhood there ! 
 
 Our line of life in vain would sound thy sea ; 
 
 That which we seek to know, we soon shall be. 
 
 E. S. H. 
 Copied : September, 1837. 
 
 THE RIVER 
 
 ElVER, river, little river, 
 
 Bright you sparkle on your way. 
 O'er the yellow pebbles dancing. 
 Through the flowers and foliage glancing. 
 
 Like a child at play. 
 
 Ptiver, river, swelling river. 
 
 On you rush o'er rough and smooth ; 
 Louder, faster, brawling, leaping , 
 Over rocks, by rose-banks sweeping, 
 
 Like impetuous youth.
 
 THE DEAD DOG. 97 
 
 Eiver, river, brimming river, 
 
 Broad and deep and still as time, 
 
 Seeming still, yet still in motion, 
 
 Tending onward to the ocean, 
 Just like mortal prime. 
 
 Eiver, river, rapid river. 
 
 Swifter now you slip away ; 
 Swift and silent as an arrow, 
 Through a channel dark and narrow. 
 
 Like life's closing day. 
 
 Eiver, river, headlong river, 
 
 Down you dash into the sea, — 
 Sea that line hath never sounded, 
 Sea that sail hath never rounded, 
 Like eternity. 
 
 Mrs. Southet. 
 Copied : MiLTOX, Aug. 10, 1860. 
 
 THE DEAD DOG. 
 
 " Poor dog, he was faithful and kind, to be sure, 
 And never forsook me, for all I was poor ; 
 But he died at my feet on a cold winter's day, 
 And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray." 
 
 Campbell. 
 
 Up, spaniel, — the hunter is winding his horn 
 In the green-wood ; the winged echoes float 
 
 'Mid the bright-bannered clouds like the heralds of morn :. 
 Hear'st thou not the wild choir, — hear'st thou not ? 
 
 Oh, it was not thy wont with the sluggard to lie 
 
 When the dingles were voiced with the shrill hunting-cry.,
 
 98 THE DEAD DOG. 
 
 Up, spaniel, — the sunbeam hath stolen on thy lair 
 
 With a smile that rebuketh thy sleep, 
 The west wind is lifting thy shining brown hair. 
 
 Yet thy slumber is changeless and deep ; 
 Can the sunbeam not kindle thine eye as of old 
 With delight, that its glance is so dreamless and cold ? 
 
 The west wind, — oh, list to the spell which it brings 
 From the hills and the green forest bowers, 
 
 Wliere the wood birds sit laving their beautiful wmgs 
 In the dew-drops that fill the wild flowers. 
 
 And the sun-bee's glad roundelay bids thee rejoice : 
 
 Up, up, honest heart, with thy welcoming voice ! 
 
 You stir not ; but I have a charm beyond all 
 That the shrill hunting clarion could be. 
 
 Or the soft sunny smiles on thy Ijright locks that fall, 
 Or the wind's wizard numbers to thee, 
 
 Or the wood-pigeon's murmurs, the bee's madrigals : 
 
 Up, Eoswall, 'tis she whom thou lovest that calls. 
 
 'Tis she whom thou lovest, — her voice was a spell 
 
 That no slumber was wont to disown. 
 And thy heart went as free as some blithe marriage bell, 
 
 When her grateful caresses were won ; 
 Eut now — oh, what change has come over that heart 
 When her gentlest caress can no pleasure impart ! 
 
 There's a step on the threshold, — the stranger is come; 
 
 Thou art stretched his dull sliadow beneath. 
 He has spoke ; but thy quick, ringing challenge is dumb. 
 
 For the sentinel's slumber is death. 
 No larum can rouse thee ; no joy of the past 
 Can give light to thy sleeping, — the longest and last.
 
 EPITAPH ON A SLAVE. 99 
 
 But the merry green leaves of the spring-time shall wave 
 
 Like some bonny bird's wings o'er thy bones, 
 And the stars and the sunlight will brood o'er thy grave 
 
 With a smile that had gladdened thee once ; 
 But the pencil of memory with holier part 
 Hath engraven thine epitaph deep on my heart. 
 
 , A. L. Pickering, 
 
 Spirit of the Times, Alaij 13, 1840. 
 
 EPITAPH ON A SLAVE IN OLD "BURIAL HILL; 
 CONCORD, MASS. 
 
 Here lies the body of John Jack, 
 
 A native of Africa, 
 
 Who died March 20th, 1773, 
 
 Aged about sixty years. 
 
 God wills us free ; 
 Man wills us slaves. 
 I will as God wills ; 
 God's will be done. 
 
 Though born in a land of slavery, 
 
 He was born free ; 
 
 Though he lived in a land of freedom, 
 
 He lived a slave. 
 
 Till by his honest, though stolen labors 
 
 He earned the source of slavery. 
 
 Which gave him his freedom, 
 
 Though not long before death. 
 
 The great tyrant. 
 
 Gave him his final emancipation.
 
 100 WHY ? 
 
 And placed him on a footing with kings. 
 
 Though a slave to vice, 
 
 He practised those virtues 
 
 "Without which kings are but slaves. 
 
 Supposed to have been written by Daniel Bliss, of Concord. 
 
 WHY? 
 
 ANSWER TO THE QUESTION WHY I WISH TO RETURN TO 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 You wonder why I still would seek 
 
 To quit this land of yours, 
 And count with sorrow every week 
 
 My pilgrimage endures. 
 Y^ou wonder I should w4sh to fly, 
 
 And leave such scenes behind ; 
 But if I pass their beauties by, 
 
 Oh, think not I am blind ! 
 There is the beauty for the eye, 
 
 Another for the mind. 
 Your skies may wear a deeper hue, 
 
 Your woods a richer green, 
 And brighter spring-flowers bloom for you, 
 
 Than I have ever seen ; 
 But in our rugged land to me 
 There is a moral scenery, 
 
 A sense of what hath been. 
 That makes its homeliness more dear 
 Than all the beauty that is here ; 
 For there affection's silken chain 
 
 First linked me to the earth, 
 There have I wept in bitterest pain. 
 
 And laughed in lightest mirth.
 
 THE LATE DEPUTATION TO PARIS. 101 
 
 There is my ovm., own Jiome. 
 And where 1 first beheld the day, 
 Still let me tread my shaded way ; 
 
 And when the Angel comes, 
 And the stern mandate bids me die, 
 Though sorrow closed the lifted eye, . 
 
 Yet it were joy to know. 
 
 That when my ashes sleep below, 
 
 New England's flower will o'er me blow, 
 
 Above me drift New England snow. 
 
 And bend her azure sky. 
 
 James H. Perkins. 
 
 THE LATE DEPUTATION TO PARIS. 
 
 "THE MERCHANT FRINGE." 
 
 The Merchant Prince of England, 
 
 Wliat a glorious name he bears ! 
 No minstrel tongue litis ever sung 
 
 The deeds the hero dares. 
 Enlist that soldier in your Cause, 
 
 No dangers bar his way. 
 But gallantly he draws his — check, 
 
 If the Cause will only pay. 
 
 Where Freedom waves her banners. 
 
 He stands, her champion bold ; 
 The noble English Merchant Prince 
 
 For her unlocks his gold ; 
 For her the Prince's glowing pulse 
 
 With generous ardor thrills. 
 If only sure that Freedom 
 
 Will duly meet her bills.
 
 102 THE LATE DEPUTATION TO PARIS. 
 
 When scarce the gory bayonet 
 
 Upholds the Despot's throne, 
 The Merchant Prince, all chivalry. 
 
 Springs forward with a loan ; 
 And vain a nation's cry to scare 
 
 That dauntless friend in need. 
 Provided only that the loan 
 
 Is safely guaranteed. 
 
 See where a sovereign's crown rewards 
 
 A venturous Parvenu, 
 Crouches the Merchant Prince to kiss 
 
 His royal brother's shoe. 
 For trampled law, for broken vow. 
 
 No doit his Princeship cares. 
 If that salute can raise, an eighth. 
 
 His gain on railway shares. 
 
 You, Christian of the slop-shop. 
 
 And you, usurious Jew, 
 Assert your royal blood, for both 
 
 Are Merchant Princes too. 
 One common creed unites you. 
 
 Devout professors of it, 
 " There 's but one Allah, — Mammon, 
 
 And Cent per Cent 's his profit." 
 
 What ! blame some petty huckster 
 That his vote is bought and sold ; 
 
 What ! chide some wretched juryman 
 That he blinked at guilt, for gold ; 
 
 What ! whip some crouching mendicant. 
 Who fawned that he might eat — 
 
 With the ]\Ierchant Prince of England 
 
 At the Third Napoleon's feet ? 
 
 Anonymous, Punch. 
 
 \
 
 THE FIRE-FIEND. 103 
 
 THE FIRE-FIEND. 
 
 A NIGHTMARE. 
 
 In the deepest death of midnight, while the sad and solemn swell 
 Still was floating, faintly echoed from the forest chapel bell, — 
 Faintly, falteringly floating o'er the sable waves of air 
 That were through the midnight rolling, chafed and billowy with 
 
 the tolling, — 
 In my chamber I lay dreaming by the firelight's fitful gleaming^ 
 And my dreams were dreams foreshadowed on a heart fore- 
 doomed to care. 
 
 On the red hearth's reddest centre, from a blazing knot of oak, 
 Seemed to gibe and grin this phantom, when in terror I awoke. 
 
 Then, as in Death's seeming shadow, in the icy pall of Fear, 
 I lay stricken, came a hoarse and hideous murmur to my ear, — 
 Came a murmur like the murmur of assassins in their sleep, 
 Muttering, "Higher ! higher ! higher ! I am Demon of the Fire ; 
 I am Arch-Fiend of the Fire, and each blazing roof 's my pyre, 
 And my sweetest incense is the blood and tears my victims 
 weep." 
 
 Through my ivy-fretted casements filtered in a tremulous note 
 From the tall and stately linden, where a robin swelled his 
 
 throat, — 
 Querulous, Quaker-breasted robin, calling quaintly for his mate ! 
 Then I started up, unbidden, from my slumber, nightmare- 
 ridden. 
 With the memory of that fire-demon in my central fire, 
 On my eye's interior mirror like the shadow of a fate !
 
 104 THERE WAS A LISTENING FEAR. 
 
 Ah ! the liendish lire had smouldered to a white and formless 
 
 heap, 
 And no knot of oak was flaming as it flamed upon my sleep ; 
 But around its very centre, where the demon face had shone, 
 Forked shadows seemed to linger, pointing as with spectral 
 
 linger 
 To a Bible, massive, golden, on a table carved and olden. 
 And I bowed and said, " All power is of God, of God alone." 
 
 POE. 
 
 We heard Edgar A. Poe recite "The Raven "at Mr. Roderick Sedgwick's, 
 New Yuuk, with great effect ; but we prefer this specimen to the later one. 
 
 I'LL HASTE TO QUAFF MY WINE. 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 To-DAY I '11 haste to quaff my wine. 
 As if to-morrow ne'er should shine ; 
 But if to-morrow comes, — why, then, 
 I '11 haste to quaff my wine agam. 
 
 For Death may come with brow unpleasant. 
 May come when least we wish him present. 
 And beckon to the sable shore. 
 And grimly bid us — drink no more ! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THEEE WAS A LISTENING FEAR 
 
 There was a listening fear in her regard. 
 
 As if calamity had but begun ; 
 
 As if the vanward cloud of evil days 
 
 Had spent their malice, and the sullen roar 
 
 Was with its stored thunder laboring up. 
 
 c. r. F. 
 
 Milton Hill.
 
 SENT TO HEAVEN. 105 
 
 W. M. HUNT'S FEENCH SONG. 
 
 Derri^re chez vous il y a I'lin vert bocage 
 Ou les rossignols y cliaiitait tous les jours, 
 Et la il dit son cliarmant langage, 
 " Les Amoureux sont malheureiix toujours, 
 Les Amoureux sont inalheureux toujours." 
 
 La nos deux noms sont ecrits sur un t'rene, 
 La sur un frene nos deux noms sont graves ; 
 Temps a efface nos noms sur le frene, 
 Mais dans nos coeurs temps les a conserves, 
 Mais dans nos coeurs temps les a conserves. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 SENT TO HEAVEN. 
 
 I HAD a message to send her, 
 
 To her whom my soul loved best ; 
 
 But I had my task to finish. 
 
 And she had gone home to rest, — 
 
 To rest in the far bright heaven, 
 Oh, so far away from here ! 
 
 It was vain to speak to my darling. 
 For I knew she could not hear. 
 
 I had a message to send her, 
 So tender and true and sweet; 
 
 I longed for an angel to bear it, 
 And lay it down at her feet.
 
 100 SENT TO HE A VEN. 
 
 I placed it one summer evening 
 On a little white cloud's breast;* 
 
 But it faded in golden splendor, 
 And died in the crimson west. 
 
 I gave it the lark, next morning. 
 And I watched it soar and soar ; 
 
 But its pinions grew faint and weary. 
 And it fluttered to earth once more. 
 
 To the heart of a rose I told it ; 
 
 And the perfume, sweet and rare. 
 Growing faint on the blue bright ether, 
 
 Was lost in the balmy air. 
 
 I laid it upon a censer, 
 
 And I saw the incense rise ; 
 
 But its clouds of rolling silver 
 
 Could not reach the far blue skies. 
 
 I cried in my passionate longing : 
 " Has the earth no angel friend 
 
 Who will carry my love the message 
 That my heart desires to send ? " 
 
 Then I heard a strain of music. 
 So mighty, so pure, so clear. 
 
 That my very sorrow was silent, 
 And my heart stood still to hear. 
 
 And I felt in my soul's deep yearning 
 At last the sure answer stir, — 
 
 "The music will go up to heaven, 
 And carry my thought to her."
 
 SHALL WE EVER MEET AGAIN? 107 
 
 It rose in harinoiiious rushiug 
 
 Of mingled voices and strings, 
 And I tenderly laid my message 
 
 On the music's outspread wings. 
 
 I heard it float further and further, 
 In sound more perfect than speech ; 
 
 Further than sight can follow, — 
 Further than soul can reach. 
 
 And I know that at last my message 
 Has passed through the golden gate ; 
 
 So my heart is no longer restless, 
 And I am content to wait. 
 
 Adalaide Pkoctor. 
 
 SHALL WE EVER MEET AGAIN? 
 
 Shall we ever meet again 
 
 In the woodland by the sea ? 
 Will the moment bringing pain 
 To the heart and to the brain. 
 
 Come again to thee and me ? 
 Shall we hear again the moaning 
 
 Of the ocean to the shore, 
 Like the ever low intoning 
 
 Of a celebrant, Lenore ? 
 Shall we ever meet again ? 
 
 Ah me, that Joy should borrow 
 A thorn to wound the heart 
 
 From the pale red rose of Sorrow ! 
 Adieu ! for we must part.
 
 108 THE STORM. 
 
 We may never meet again 
 
 In the woodland by the sea ; 
 But the song and the refrain 
 Which we sang beside the main 
 
 Will be ever dear to me. 
 There is no sun that shineth 
 
 But hath its spot of shade ; 
 The brightest day declineth, 
 
 And sweetest roses fade. 
 We may never meet again. 
 
 Ah me, that Love should borrow ' 
 A thorn to wound the heart 
 
 From the pale-red rose of Sorrow ! 
 
 Adieu ! for we must part. 
 
 Edward Capern. 
 
 THE STORM. 
 
 Cease, rude Boreas, blustering railer ! 
 
 List, ye landsmen all, to me ; 
 Messmates, hear a brother sailor 
 
 Sing the dangers of the sea : 
 From bounding billows, fierce in motion. 
 
 When the distant whirlwinds rise. 
 To the tempest-troubled ocean. 
 
 Where the seas contend with skies. 
 
 Hark ! the boatswain hoarsely bawling, 
 
 By topsail sheets and haulyards stand ! 
 Down top-gallants quick be hauling I 
 
 Down your staysails, — hand, boys, hand! 
 Now it freshens, set the braces. 
 
 The lee topsail-sheets let go : 
 Luff', boys, luff" ! don't make wry faces, 
 
 Up your topsails nimbly clew.
 
 THE STORM. lOP 
 
 The topsail-yarcls point to the wind, boys, 
 
 See all clear to reef each course ; 
 Let the foresheet go, — don't mind, boys, 
 
 Though the weather should prove worse. 
 Fore and aft the spritsail-yard get, 
 
 Eeef the mizzen, see all clear ; 
 Hands up, each preventer-brace set ! 
 
 Man the fore-yards ! Cheer, lads, cheer ! 
 
 Now the dreadful thunder roaring. 
 
 Peal on peal contending clash. 
 On our heads fierce rain falls pouring. 
 
 In our eyes blue lightnings flash. 
 One wide water all around us. 
 
 All above us one black sky ; 
 Different deaths at once surround us, — 
 
 Hark ! what means that dreadful cry ? 
 
 The foremast 's gone ! cries every tongue out, 
 
 O'er the lee, twelve feet 'bove deck : 
 A leak beneath the chest-tree 's sprung out, — 
 
 Call all hands to clear the wreck. 
 Quick ! the lanyards cut to pieces : 
 
 Come, my hearts, be stout and bold ! 
 Plumb the well, — the leak increases. 
 
 Pour feet water in the hold ! 
 
 While o'er the ship wild waves are beating, 
 
 We our wives and children mourn : 
 Alas ! from hence there 's no retreating ; 
 
 Alas ! from hence there 's no return. 
 Still the leak is gaining on us. 
 
 Both chain-pumps are choked below ; 
 Heaven have mercy here upon us ! 
 
 For only that can save us now.
 
 110 DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISKJUTll. 
 
 O'er tlie lee-beam is the land, l)oys ! 
 
 Let the guns o'erboard be thrown : 
 To the pump come every hand, boys ! 
 
 See, our mizzen-mast is gone ! 
 The leak we 've found, it cannot pour fast : 
 
 We 've lightened her a foot or more ; 
 Up and rig a jury foremast, — 
 
 She rights ! she rights, boys ! we 're off shore ! 
 
 (t. a. Stevens. 
 Sung by Dr. John Jennison on the " Lintin." 
 
 DIEGE OF ALAEIC THE VISIGOTH. 
 
 Alaric stormed and spoiled the city of Rome, and was afterwards buried in the 
 channel of the river Busentius, the water of which had been diverted fioni its 
 course that the body might be interred. 
 
 When I am dead, no pageant train 
 Shall waste their sorrows at my bier, 
 
 Nor worthless pomp of homage vain 
 Stain it with hypocritic tear ; 
 
 For I will die as I did live, 
 
 Nor take the boon I cannot give. 
 
 Ye shall not raise a marble bust 
 
 Upon the spot where I repose ; 
 Ye shall not fawn before my dust. 
 
 In hollow circumstance of woes : 
 Nor sculptured clay, with lying breath, 
 Insult the clay that moulds beneath. 
 
 Ye shall not pile, with servile toil, 
 Your monuments upon my breast. 
 
 Nor yet within the common soil 
 
 Lay down the wreck of power to rest,
 
 DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. Ill 
 
 Where man can boast that he has trod 
 On him that was " the scourge of God." 
 
 But ye the mountain stream shall turn, 
 
 And lay its secret channel bare, 
 And hollow, for your sovereign's urn, 
 
 A resting-place forever there : 
 Then bid its everlasting springs 
 Flow back upon the King of Kings ; 
 And never be the secret said, 
 Until the deep give up his dead. 
 
 My gold and silver ye shall fling 
 
 Back to the clods that gave them birth, — 
 
 The captured crowns of many a king. 
 The ransom of a conquered earth ; 
 
 For, e'en though dead, will I control ' 
 
 The trophies of a capitol. 
 
 But when beneath the mountain tide 
 Ye 've laid your monarch down to rot. 
 
 Ye shall not rear upon its side 
 
 Pillar or mound to mark the spot ; 
 
 For long enough the world has shook 
 
 Beneath the terrors of my look, 
 
 And now that I have run my race, 
 
 The astonished realms shall rest a space. 
 
 My course was like a river deep. 
 
 And from the northern hills I burst, 
 
 Across the world in wrath to sweep. 
 And where I went the spot was cursed ; 
 
 Nor blade of grass again was seen 
 
 Where Alaric and his hosts had been.
 
 112 DIRGE OF ALARIC THE VISIGOTH. 
 
 See how their liaughty barriers fail 
 Beneath the terror of the Goth ; 
 
 Their iron-breasted legions (|uail 
 Before my ruthless sabaoth ; 
 
 And low the queen of empires kneels, 
 
 And grovels at my chariot wheels. 
 
 Not for myself did I ascend 
 
 In judgment my triumphal car; 
 
 'T was God alone on high did send 
 The avenging Scythian to the war, 
 
 To shake abroad, with iron hand, 
 
 The appointed scourge of his command. 
 
 With iron hand that scourge I reared 
 O'er guilty king and guilty realm ; 
 Destruction was the ship I steered, 
 
 And vengeance sat upon the helm, 
 "When, launched in fury on the flood, 
 I ploughed my way through seas of blood, 
 And in the stream their hearts had spilt 
 Washed out the long arrears of guilt. 
 
 Across the everlasting Alp 
 
 I poured the torrent of my powers. 
 And feeble Ccesars shrieked for help 
 
 In vain within their seven-hilled towers 
 I quenched in blood the brightest gem 
 That glittered m their diadem. 
 And struck a darker, deeper dye 
 In the purple of their majesty, 
 And bade my northern banners shine 
 Upon the conquered Palatine. 
 
 My course is run, my errand done : 
 I go to him from whom I came ;
 
 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 113 
 
 But never yet shall set the sun 
 
 Of glory that adorns my name ; 
 And Koman hearts shall long be sick, 
 When men shall think of Alaric. 
 
 My course is run, my errand done : 
 
 But darker ministers of fate. 
 Impatient round the eternal throne 
 
 And in the caves of vengeance, wait ; 
 And soon mankind shall blench away 
 Before the name of Alaric. 
 
 Edward Everett. 
 
 THE AMEEICAN EAGLE. 
 
 There 's a fierce gray bird, with a bending beak, 
 
 With an angry eye, and a startling shriek. 
 
 That nurses her brood where the cliff flowers blow, 
 
 On the precipice top, in perpetual snow ; 
 
 That sits where the air is shrill and bleak. 
 
 On the splintered point of a shivered peak. 
 
 Bald-headed and stripped, like a vulture torn 
 
 In wind and strife, her feathers worn. 
 
 And ruffled and stained, while loose and bright 
 
 Ptound her serpent neck, that is writhing and bare, 
 
 Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair. 
 Like the crest of a warrior, thinned in fight. 
 
 And shorn, and bristling : see her, where 
 
 She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air, 
 With wing half poised, and talons bleeding, 
 
 And kindling eye, as if her prey 
 
 Had suddenly been snatched away, 
 While she was tearinij it and feeding.
 
 114 THE AMERICAN EAGLE. 
 
 Above the dark torrent, above the bright stream, 
 
 The voice may be heard 
 
 Of the Thunderer's bird 
 Calling out to her God in a clear, wild scream, 
 As she mounts to his throne and unfolds in his beam ; 
 While her young are laid out in his rich, red blaze. 
 And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays. 
 Proud bird of the cliff, where the barren yew springs. 
 Where the sunshine stays, and the wind-harp sings. 
 She sits, unapproachable, pluming her wings. 
 She screams, — she 's away, — over hill-top and flood, 
 Over valley and rock, over mountain and wood. 
 That bird is abroad in the van of her brood. 
 'T is the bird of our banner, the free bird that braves, 
 When the battle is there, all the wrath of the waves ; 
 That dips her pinions in the sun's first gush ; 
 Drinks his meridian blaze, his farewell flush ; 
 Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak, 
 Like the slipped falcon, when her piercing shriek 
 Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing. 
 To drink at some new victim's clear, red spring. 
 That monarch bird, she slumbers in the night 
 Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height ; 
 Or sleeps upon the wing, amid the ray 
 Of steady, cloudless, everlasting day ; 
 Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march, 
 And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch ; 
 Soars wheeling through the storm, and screams away, 
 Where the young pinions of the morning play ; 
 Broods with her arrows in the hurricane ; 
 Bears her green laurel o'er the starry plain, 
 And sails around the skies and o'er the rolling deeps. 
 With still unwearied wing, and eye that never sleeps. 
 
 Neal.
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 11^ 
 
 NEW ENGLAND. 
 
 Hail to the land whereon we tread. 
 
 Our fondest boast ! 
 The sepulchre of mighty dead, 
 The truest hearts that ever bled. 
 Who sleep on glory's brightest bed, 
 
 A fearless host : 
 No slave is here ; our unchained feet 
 Walk freely as the waves that beat 
 Our coast. 
 
 There is no other land like thee, 
 
 No dearer shore : 
 Thou art the shelter of the free ; 
 The home, the port of liberty, 
 Thou hast been, and shalt ever be, 
 
 Till time is o'er. 
 Ere I forget to think upon 
 My land, shall mother curse the son 
 She bore. 
 
 Thou art the firm, unshaken rock, 
 
 On which we rest ; 
 And, rising from thy hardy stock, 
 Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock, 
 And slavery's galling chains unlock, 
 
 And free the oppressed : 
 All who the wreath of freedom twine 
 Beneath the shadow of their vine. 
 Are blessed. 
 
 Pkrcival.
 
 116 ADDRESS TO THE AICMMl'. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY IN BELZONI'S 
 EXHI15ITI0N. 
 
 And thou hast walked about (how strange a story !) 
 In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago, 
 
 When the Memnonium was in all its glory, 
 And time had not begun to overthrow 
 
 Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous, 
 
 Of which the very ruins are tremendous. 
 
 Speak, — for thou long enough hast acted dummy ; 
 
 Thou hast a tongue, — come, let us hear its tune : 
 Thou 'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy, 
 
 Eevisiting the glimpses of the moon, — 
 Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures. 
 But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features. 
 
 Tell us — for doubtless thou canst recollect — 
 To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame ? 
 
 Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect 
 
 Of either Pyramid that bears his name ? 
 
 Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer ? 
 
 Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden 
 By oath to tell the mysteries of thy trade, 
 
 Then say what secret melody was hidden 
 
 In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played ? 
 
 Perhaps thou wert a priest ; if so, my struggles 
 
 Are vain, — Egyptian priests ne'er owned their juggles.
 
 ADDRESS TO THE MUMMY. 117 
 
 Perchance that very hand, now pinioned flat, 
 Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass ; 
 
 Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat ; 
 
 Or doffed thuie own to let Queen Dido pass ; 
 
 Or held, by Solomon's own invitation, 
 
 A torch at the great temple's dedication. 
 
 I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed. 
 Has any Eoman soldier mauled and knuckled ; 
 
 For thou wert dead and buried and embalmed 
 Ere Eomulus and Pemus had been suckled : 
 
 Antiquity appears to have begun 
 
 Long after thy primeval race was run. 
 
 Since first tliy form was in this box extended, 
 
 We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations : 
 
 The Poman Empire has begun and ended ; 
 
 New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations, 
 
 And countless kings have into dust been humbled. 
 
 While not a fragment of thy flesh has crumbled. 
 
 Didst thou not hear the pother o'er thy head 
 Wlien the great Persian conqueror, Cambyses, 
 
 Marched armies o'er thy tomb with thundering tread, 
 O'ertlirew Osiris, Orus, Apis, Isis, 
 
 And shook tlie Pyramids with fear and wonder, 
 
 When the gigantic Memnon fell asunder? 
 
 If the tomb's secrets may not be confessed. 
 
 The nature of thy private life unfold : 
 A heart has throbljed beneath that leathern breast, 
 
 And tears adown tliat dusky cheek have rolled; 
 Have children climbed those knees, and kissed that face ? 
 What was thy name and station, age and race ?
 
 118 THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG. 
 
 Statue of iiesli, — immortal of the dead ! 
 
 Imperishable type of evanescence ! 
 Posthumous man, who quitt'st thy narrow bed, 
 
 And standest undecayed within our presence ! 
 Thou wilt hear nothing till the Judgment morning, 
 When the great trump shall thrill thee with its warning. 
 
 AVhy should this worthless tegument endure, 
 
 If its undying guest be lost forever ? 
 Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure 
 
 In living virtue, that when both must sever, 
 Although corruption may our frame consume. 
 The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom. 
 
 Horace Smith, 
 London New Monthly Magazine. 
 
 THE GEEEK EMIGRANT'S SONG. 
 
 Now launch the boat upon the wave ; 
 
 The wind is blowing off the shore. 
 I will not live, a cowering slave, 
 
 In these polluted islands more; 
 Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea 
 There is a better home for me. 
 
 The wind is blowing off the shore, 
 And out to sea the streamers fly. 
 ■ My music is the dashing roar, 
 My canopy the stainless sky; 
 
 It bends above, so fair a blue. 
 
 That heaven seems openmg to my view.
 
 rilE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG. 119 
 
 I will not live a cowering slave, 
 
 Though all the charms of life may sliine 
 
 Around me, and the land, the wave. 
 And sky be drawn in tints divine: 
 
 Give lowering skies and rocks to me. 
 
 If there my spuit can be free. 
 
 Sweeter than spicy gales that blow 
 
 From orange groves with wooing breath, 
 
 The winds may i'rom these islands flow ; 
 But 't is an atmosphere of death, — 
 
 The lotus which transformed the brave 
 
 And haughty to a willing slave. 
 
 Softer than Minder's winding stream, 
 
 The wave may ripple on this coast, 
 And, brighter than the morning beam. 
 
 In golden swell be round it tost : 
 Give me a rude and stormy shore. 
 So power can never threat me more. 
 
 Brighter than all the tales they tell 
 
 Of Eastern pomp and pageantry, 
 Our sunset skies in glory swell. 
 
 Hung round with glowing tapestry ; 
 The horrors of a whiter storm 
 Swell brighter o'er a freeman's form. 
 
 The Spring may here with Autumn twine, 
 And both combined may rule the year, 
 
 And fresh-blown flowers and racy wme 
 In frosted clusters still be near : 
 
 Dearer the wild and snowy hills 
 
 Where hale and ruddy Freedom smiles.
 
 120 WHAT IS PRAYER f 
 
 Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea. 
 And ocean's stormy vastness o'er, 
 
 There is a better home for me, 
 A welcomer and dearer shore ; 
 
 There hands and hearts and souls are twined, 
 And free the man, and free the mind. 
 
 Percival. 
 
 WHAT IS PEAYEE? 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire. 
 
 Uttered or unexpressed ; 
 The motion of a hidden fire 
 
 That trembles in the breast. 
 
 Prayer is the burden of a sigh. 
 
 The falling of a tear, 
 The upward glancing of the eye, 
 
 Wlien none but God is near. 
 
 Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
 
 That infant lips can try ; 
 Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 
 
 The Majesty on high. 
 
 Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, 
 
 Eeturning from his ways, 
 Wliile angels in their songs rejoice. 
 
 And cry, " Behold, he prays ! " 
 
 Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, 
 
 The Christian's native air; 
 His watchword at the gates of death : 
 
 He enters heaven with prayer.
 
 COME, THOU ALMIGHTY KING. 121 
 
 The saints in prayer appear as one 
 
 In word and deed and mind, 
 While with the Father and the Son 
 
 Sweet fellowship they find. 
 
 Thou, by whom we come to God ! 
 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way ! 
 The path of prayer Thyself hast trod 
 
 Lord, teach us how to pray ! 
 
 Montgomery. 
 
 COME, THOU ALMIGHTY KING. 
 
 Come, thou Almighty King, 
 Help us thy name to sing, 
 
 Help us to praise ; 
 Father all-glorious, 
 O'er all victorious, 
 Come, and reign over us, 
 
 Ancient of days. 
 
 Jesus, our Lord, arise. 
 Scatter our enemies, 
 
 And make them fall; 
 Let thine almighty aid 
 Our sure defence be made ; 
 Our souls on thee be stayed : 
 
 Lord, hear our call. 
 
 Come, thou incarnate Word, 
 Gird on thy mighty sword. 
 Our prayer attend ;
 
 122 SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE. 
 
 Come, and thy people bless, 
 And give thy word success : 
 Sph'it of holmess, 
 On us descend. 
 
 Come, holy Comforter, 
 Thy sacred witness bear 
 
 In this glad hour : 
 Thou, who ahnighty art. 
 Now rule in every heart. 
 And ne'er from us depart, 
 
 Spirit of power. 
 
 To the great One and Three 
 Eternal praises be 
 
 Hence, evermore. 
 His sovereign majesty 
 May we in glory see. 
 And to eternity 
 
 Love and adore. 
 
 Charles Wesley, 
 
 SERVANT OF GOD, WELL DONE! 
 
 Servant of God, well done ! 
 
 Thy glorious warfare 's past ; 
 The battle 's fought, the race is won, 
 
 And thou art crowned at last, — 
 
 Of all thy heart's desire 
 
 Triumphantly possessed ; 
 Lodged by the ministerial choir 
 
 In the Redeemer's breast.
 
 AWAKE MY SOUL, STRETCH EVERY NERVE. l'2o 
 
 In condescending love, 
 
 The ceaseless prayer he heard, 
 And bade thee suddenly remove 
 
 To thy complete reward. 
 
 With saints enthroned on high, 
 
 Thou dost thy Lord proclaim, 
 And still to God salvation cry, — 
 
 Salvation to the Lamb. 
 
 O happy, happy soul, 
 
 In ecstasies of praise, 
 Long as eternal ages roll. 
 
 Thou seest thy Saviour's face. 
 
 Redeemed from earth and pain. 
 
 Ah, when shall we ascend, 
 And all in Jesus' presence reign 
 
 With our translated friend ? 
 
 Charles Wesley. 
 
 AWAKE, MY SOUL, STRETCH EVERY NERVE. 
 
 Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve. 
 
 And press with vigor on ; 
 A heavenly race demands thy zeal. 
 
 And an immortal crown. 
 
 'T is God's all-animating voice 
 
 That calls thee from on high; 
 'T is he whose hand presents the prize 
 
 To thine aspiring eye.
 
 124 NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 
 
 A cloud of witnesses around 
 
 Hold thee in full survey ; 
 Forget the steps already trod, 
 
 And onward urge thy way. 
 
 Blest Saviour, introduced by thee, 
 
 Our race have we begun ; 
 And, crowned with victory, at thy feet 
 
 We '11 lay our trophies down. 
 
 Doddridge. 
 
 NEAEER, MY GOD, TO THEE. 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 
 That raiseth me ; 
 Still all my song shall be. 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee! 
 
 Though like a wanderer. 
 The sun gone down. 
 
 Darkness be over me. 
 My rest a stone ; 
 
 Yet in my dreams I 'd be 
 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 There let the way appear 
 
 Steps unto heaven ; 
 All that thou sendest me 
 
 In mercy given ;
 
 THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 125 
 
 Angels to beckon me 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 Then, with my wakmg thought 5 
 
 Bright with thy praise. 
 Out of my stony griefs 
 
 Bethel I '11 raise ; 
 So by my woes to be 
 Nearer, my God, to thee, 
 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 Or if on joyful wing 
 
 Cleaving the sky. 
 Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 
 
 Upward I fly ; 
 Still all my song shall be. 
 Nearer, my God, to thee. 
 
 Nearer to thee ! 
 
 Sarah Flower Adams. 
 
 Sung Oct. 10, 1860. 
 
 THE DYING CHEISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame, 
 Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
 Oh the pain, the bliss of dying I 
 Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into life ! 
 
 Hark ! they whisper : angels say, 
 Sister spirit, come away !
 
 126 THE BURIAL OF ARXOLD. 
 
 What is this absorbs me quite, 
 Steals my senses, shuts ray sight, 
 Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 
 The world recedes ; it disappears : 
 Heaven opens on my eyes; my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
 grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 Pope. 
 
 THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD.i 
 
 Ye 've gathered to your place of prayer 
 
 With slow and measured tread ; 
 Your ranks are full, your mates all there, 
 
 But the soul of one has fled. 
 He was the proudest in his strength, 
 
 The manliest of ye all ; 
 Why lies he at that fearful length, 
 
 And ye around his pall ? 
 
 Ye reckon it in days since he 
 
 Strode up that foot-worn aisle, 
 With his dark eye flashing gloriously. 
 
 And his lip wreathed with a smile. 
 Oh, had it been but told you then. 
 
 To mark whose lamp was dim. 
 From out yon rank of fresh-lipped men, 
 
 Would ye have singled him ? 
 
 1 Member of the Senior class in Yale College.
 
 THE BURIAL OF ARNOLD. 127 
 
 Whose was the sinewy arm which flung 
 
 Defiance to the ring ? 
 Whose laugh of victory loudest rung, 
 
 Yet not for glorying ? 
 W^hose heart, in generous deed and thought, 
 
 No rivalry might brook, 
 And yet distinction claiming not ? 
 
 There lies he, — go and look. 
 
 On now, — his requiem is done. 
 
 The last deep prayer is said, — 
 On to his burial, comrades, on. 
 
 With the noblest of the dead ! 
 Slow, — for it presses heavily. 
 
 It is a man ye bear. 
 Slow, — for our thoughts dwell wearily 
 
 On the noblest sleeper there. 
 
 Tread lightly, comrades, — we have laid 
 
 His dark locks on his brow, 
 Like life, save deeper light and shade ; 
 
 We 11 not disturb them now. 
 Tread lightly, — for 't is beautiful, 
 
 That blue-veined eyelid's sleep. 
 Hiding the eye death left so dull ; 
 
 Its slumber we will keep. 
 
 Rest now, — his journeying is done. 
 
 Your feet are on his sod ; 
 Death's chain is on your champion. 
 
 He waiteth here his God. 
 Ay, turn and weep, — 't is manliness 
 
 To be heart-broken here ; 
 
 For the grave of earth's best nobleness 
 
 Is watered by the tear. 
 
 Wilms.
 
 128 THE PILGRIM FATHERS. 
 
 THE PILGEIM FATHEES. 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they ? 
 
 The waves that lirought them o'er 
 Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 
 
 As they break along the shore, — 
 Still roll in the bay as they rolled that day 
 
 When the Mayflower moored below. 
 When the sea around was black with storms, 
 
 And white the shore with snow. 
 
 The mists that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, 
 
 Still brood upon the tide ; 
 And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep. 
 
 To stay its waves of pride. 
 But the snow-white sail that he gave to the gale, 
 
 Wlien the heavens look dark, is gone, — 
 As an angel's wing through an openmg cloud 
 
 Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
 
 The Pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! — 
 
 The hill, whose icy brow 
 Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame. 
 
 In the morning's flame burns now. 
 And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 
 
 On the hillside and the sea. 
 Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; 
 
 But the Pilgrim, — where is he ? 
 
 The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; 
 
 When summer's throned on high. 
 And the world's warm breast is in verdure dressed, 
 
 Go, stand on the hill where they lie.
 
 ])EAT]f OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 12i) 
 
 The earliest ray of the golden day 
 
 On the hallowed spot is cast ; 
 And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
 
 Looks kindly on that spot last. 
 
 The Pilgrim spirit lias not tied : 
 
 It walks in noon's broad light ; 
 And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
 
 With the holy stars, by night. 
 It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
 
 And shall guard this ice-bound shore. 
 Till the waves of the bay where the Mayflower lay 
 
 Shall foam and freeze no more. 
 
 PlERPONT. 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF JOSEPH EODMAN DRAKE. 
 
 DIED IN NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER, 1820. 
 
 " The good die first, 
 And tliey Avhose hearts are dry as summer dust 
 Bum to the socket." 
 
 "\V0RD.SW0HTH. 
 
 Green be the turf alcove thee, 
 
 Friend of my better days ! 
 None knew thee but to love thee, 
 
 Nor named thee but to praise. 
 
 Tears fell, when thou wert dying. 
 
 From eyes unused to weep. 
 And long, where thou art lying, 
 
 AVill tears the cold turf steep. 
 
 When hearts, whose truth was proven. 
 Like thine, are laid in earth, 
 D
 
 130 THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 
 
 There should a wreath be woven 
 To tell the world their worth ; 
 
 And I, who woke each morrow 
 To clasp thy hand in mine, 
 
 AVho shared thy joy and sorrow, 
 Whose weal and woe were thine, — 
 
 It should be mine to braid it 
 
 Around thy faded brow ; 
 But 1 Ve in vain essayed it. 
 
 And feel I cannot now. 
 
 "NMiile memory bids me weep thee, 
 Nor thoughts nor words are free. 
 
 The grief is fixed too deeply 
 That mourns a man like thee. 
 
 Halleck. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE SHIPS. 
 
 When o'er the silent seas alone 
 For days and nights we 've cheerless gone, 
 Oh, they who 've felt it know how sweet. 
 Some sunny morn, a sail to meet. 
 
 Sparkling on deck is every eye, 
 
 " Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " our joyful cry ; 
 
 While answering back the sounds we hear, 
 
 " Ship ahoy ! ship ahoy ! " what cheer ? what cheer ? 
 
 Then sails are backed, we nearer come, 
 Kind words are said of friends and home ; 
 And soon, too soon, we part with pain, 
 To sail o'er silent seas again. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 Suiii^ })}• S. S. F.
 
 THE BONNY BOAT. 131 
 
 THE BONNY BOAT. 
 
 Oh, swiftly glides the bonny boat, 
 
 Just parted from the shore, 
 And to the fisher's chorus note 
 
 Soft moves the dripping oar. 
 These toils are borne with happy cheer, 
 
 And ever may they speed, 
 That feeble age, and helpmate dear, 
 
 And tender bairnies feed. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 We cast our linos in Largo Bay, 
 
 Our nets are floating wide ; 
 Our bonny boat with yielding sway 
 
 Rocks lightly to the tide. 
 And happy prove our daily lot 
 
 Upon the summer sea, 
 And blest on land our kindly cot, 
 
 Where all our treasures be. 
 
 The mermaid on her rock may sing, 
 
 The witch may weave her charm, 
 Nor water-sprite, nor eldrich thing, 
 
 The bonny boat can harm. 
 It safely bears its scaly store 
 
 Through many a stormy gale ; 
 While joyful shouts rise from the shore, 
 
 Its homeward prow to hail. 
 We cast our lines, &c. 
 
 Now, safe arrived on shores, we meet 
 Our friends with happy cheer.
 
 lo2 SONG. 
 
 And with the fisher's chorus greet 
 All those we hold most dear. 
 
 "With happy cheer the echoing cove 
 Eepeats the chanted note, 
 
 As homeward to our cot we move 
 Our bonny, bonny boat. 
 We cast our lines, &c. 
 
 Sung by S. S. F. 
 
 Joanna Baillie, 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Eow gently here, 
 
 My gondolier ! 
 So softly wake the tide, 
 
 That not an ear 
 
 On earth may hear, 
 But hers to whom we glide. 
 
 Had heaven but tongues to speak, 
 
 As well as starry eyes to see ; 
 Oh, think what tales 't would have to tell 
 
 Of wandering youths like me. 
 
 Now rest thee here, 
 
 My gondolier ! 
 Hush, hush, for up 1 go, 
 
 To climb yon light 
 
 Balcony's height. 
 While thou keep'st watch below. 
 
 Oh, did we take for heaven above, 
 
 But half such pains as we 
 
 Take day and night for woman's love. 
 
 What angels we should be ! 
 
 Moore.
 
 THE HIGHLANDER. 133 
 
 THE HIGHLANDER. 
 
 Many years ago, a poor Highland soldier on his return to his native hills, 
 fatigued, as it was supposed, by the length of the march and the heat of the 
 weather, sat down under the shade of a birch-tree, on the solitary road of I.ownn, 
 that winds along the margin of Loch Ken, in Galloway. Here he was found dead ; 
 and this incident forms the subject of the following verses. 
 
 From the climes of the sun, all war-worn and weary, 
 The Highlander sped to his youthful abode ; 
 
 Fair visions of home cheered the desert so dreary. 
 
 Though fierce was the noonbeam and steep was the road. 
 
 Till, spent with the march that still lengthened before him, 
 He stopped by the way in a sylvan retreat ; 
 
 The light shady boughs of the birch-tree waved o'er him, 
 And the stream of the mountain fell soft at his feet. 
 
 He sunk to repose where the red heaths are blended. 
 One dream of his childhood his fancy passed o'er ; 
 
 ])Ut his battles are fought, and his march — it is ended : 
 The sound of the bagpipe shall wake him no more. 
 
 No arm in the day of the conflict could wound him, 
 Though war launched her thunder in fury to kill ; 
 
 Now the angel of death in the desert has found him, 
 Now stretched him in peace by the stream of the hill. 
 
 Tale autumn spreads o'er liim the leaves of the forest, 
 The fays of the wild chant the dirge of his rest ; 
 
 And thou, little brook, still the sleeper deplorest. 
 
 And moistenest the heath-bell that weeps on his breast. 
 
 W. Gillespie.
 
 134 CASABIANCA. 
 
 CASABIANCA. 
 
 The boy stood on the burning deck, 
 Whence all but he had fled ; 
 
 The flame that lit the battle's wreck 
 Shone round him o'er the dead. 
 
 Yet beavitiful and bright he stood, 
 
 As born to rule the storm ; 
 A creature of heroic blood, 
 
 A proud, though childlike form. 
 
 The flames rolled on, — he would not go 
 
 Without his father's word ; 
 That father, faint in death below. 
 
 His voice no longer heard. 
 
 He called aloud, " Say, father, say, 
 
 If yet my task is done ! " 
 He knew not that the chieftain lay 
 
 Unconscious of his son. 
 
 " Speak, father," once again he cried, 
 
 " If I may yet be gone ! " 
 And but the booming shots replied. 
 
 And fast the flames rolled on. 
 
 Upon his brow he felt their breath. 
 
 And in his waving hair. 
 And looked from that lone post of death 
 
 In still, yet brave despair.
 
 NEVER OR NOW. 1:^5 
 
 And shouted but once more aloud, 
 
 " My father, must I stay ? " 
 While o'er him fast, through sail and shruud ; 
 
 The wreathing fires made way. 
 
 They wrapt the ship in splendor wild. 
 
 They caught the flag on high. 
 And streamed above the gallant child, 
 
 Like banners in the sky. 
 
 There came a burst of thunder sound ; 
 
 The boy, — oh, wdiere was he ? 
 Ask of the winds that far around 
 
 With fragments strewed the sea, — 
 
 With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
 
 That well had borne their part ; 
 But the noblest thing that perished there 
 
 Was that young, faithful heart. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 Repeated by K. S. 
 
 NEVER OR NOW. 
 
 AN APPEAL. 
 
 Listen, young heroes ! your country is calling ! 
 
 Time strikes the hour for the brave and the true 
 Now, while the foremost are fighting and falling. 
 
 Fill up the ranks that have opened for you ! 
 
 You whom the fathers made free and defended, 
 Stain not the scroll that emblazons their fame. 
 
 You whose fair heritage spotless descended, 
 Leave not your children a birthright of shame !
 
 136 NEVER on NOW. 
 
 Stay not for questions while Freedom stands gasping ! 
 
 Wait not till Honor lies \vra])ped in his pall ! 
 Brief the lips' meeting be, swift the hands' clasping, — 
 
 " Off for the wars ! ' is enough for them all. 
 
 Break from the arms that would fondly caress you ! 
 
 Hark ! 't is the bugle blast, sabres are drawn ! 
 Mothers shall pray for you, fathers shall bless you. 
 
 Maidens shall weep for you when you are gone 1 
 
 Never or now ! cries the blood of a nation, 
 
 Poured on the turf where the red rose should bloom ; 
 
 Now is the day and the hour of salvation, — 
 Never or now ! peals the trumpet of doom. 
 
 Never or now ! roars the hoarse-throated cannon 
 Through the black canopy blotting tlie skies ; 
 
 Never or now ! flaps the shell-blasted pennon 
 O'er the deep ooze where the Cumberland lies. 
 
 From the foul dens where our brothers are dying, 
 Aliens and foes in the land of their birth, — 
 
 From the rank swamps where our martyrs are lying 
 Pleading in vain for a handful of earth, — 
 
 From the hot plains where they perish outnumbered, 
 Furrowed and ridged by the battle-field's plough. 
 
 Comes the loud summons ; too long you have slumbered, 
 Hear the last Angel-trump, — Never or Now : 
 
 1862. Holmes.
 
 QUA CURSUM VENTUS. 137 
 
 QUA CUESUM VENTUS. 
 
 As ships, becalmed at eve, that lay 
 With canvas drooping, side by side, 
 
 Two towers of sail at dawn of day, 
 
 Are scarce, long leagues apart, descried ; 
 
 When fell the night, upspruiig the breeze, 
 And all the darkling hours they plied. 
 
 Nor dreamt but each the self-same seas 
 By each was cleaving, side by side : 
 
 E'en so — but why the tale reveal 
 
 Of those whom, year by year unchanged, 
 
 Brief absence joined anew to feel, 
 
 Astounded, soul from soul estranged ? 
 
 At dead of night their sails were filled, 
 And onward each rejoicing steered ; 
 
 Ah, neither blame, for neither willed, 
 Or wist, what first with dawn appeared ! 
 
 To veer, how vain ! On, onward strain. 
 Brave barks ! In light, in darkness too, 
 
 Through winds and tides one compass guides, 
 To that and your own selves be true. 
 
 But blithe breeze, and great seas. 
 Though ne'er, that earliest parting past. 
 
 On your wide plain they join again. 
 Together lead them home at last !
 
 13« FILL THE BUMPER FAIR! 
 
 One port methought alike they sought, 
 One purpose hold where'er they fare, 
 
 bounding breeze, rushing seas, 
 At last, at last, unite them there ! 
 
 Arthur Hugh Clough. 
 
 FILL THE BUMrEPt FAIE! 
 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 Wit's electric flame 
 
 Ne'er so swiftly passes, 
 As when through the frame 
 
 It shoots from brimming glasses. 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
 Sages can, they say. 
 
 Grasp the lightning's pinions. 
 And bring down its ray 
 
 From the starred dominions ; 
 So we, Sages, sit 
 
 And, 'mid bumpers brightening. 
 From the heaven of Wit 
 
 Draw down all its lightning.
 
 FILL THE BUMPER FAIR. 139 
 
 Wouldst thou know what first 
 
 Made our souls inherit 
 This ennoblmg thirst 
 
 For wine's celestial spirit ? 
 It chanced upon that day, 
 
 When, as bards inform us, 
 Prometheus stole away 
 
 The living fires that warm us, 
 
 The careless Youth, when up 
 
 To Glory's fount aspiring. 
 Took nor urn nor cup 
 
 To hide the pilfered fire in. 
 But, oh, his joy when, round 
 
 The halls of heaven spying. 
 Among the stars he found 
 
 A bowl of Bacchus lying. 
 
 Some drops were in that bowl. 
 
 Remains of last night's pleasure. 
 With which the Sparks of Soul 
 
 Mixed their burning treasure. 
 Hence the goblet's shower 
 
 Hath such spells to win us ; 
 Hence its mighty power 
 
 O'er that flame within us. 
 Fill the bumper fair ! 
 
 Every drop we sprinkle 
 O'er the brow of Care 
 
 Smooths away a wrinkle. 
 
 Moore.
 
 140 DRINK TO IIER. 
 
 DHINK TO HEE. 
 
 Drink to her who long 
 
 Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
 The gui who gave to song 
 
 What gold could never buy. 
 Oh ! woman's heart \\as made 
 
 For mmstrel liands alone ; 
 By other fingers played, 
 
 It yields not half the tone. 
 Then here 's to her who long 
 
 Hath waked the poet's sigh, 
 The girl who gave to song 
 
 Wliat gold could never buy. 
 
 At Beauty's door of glass, 
 
 When Wealth and Wit once stood, 
 They asked her, " Which might pass ? ' 
 
 She answered, " He who could. " 
 With golden key Wealth thought 
 
 To pass, but 't would not do ; 
 While Wit a diamond brought. 
 
 Which cut his bright way through. 
 So here 's to her who long 
 
 Hath waked the poet's sigh. 
 The girl who gave to song 
 
 What gold could never buy. 
 
 The love that seeks a home 
 
 \Vhere wealth and grandeur shines, 
 Is like the gloomy gnome 
 
 That dwells in dark gold-mines.
 
 Ull, HAD WE SOME BRIGHT LITTLE ISLE. 141 
 
 But, oh, the poet's love 
 
 Can boast a brighter sphere ; 
 Its native home 's above, 
 
 Though woman keeps it here. 
 Then drink to her who long 
 
 Hath waked the poet's sigh. 
 The girl who gave to song 
 
 What gold could never buy. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 OH, HAD WE SOME BEIGHT LITTLE ISLE 
 OF OUK OWN! 
 
 On, had we some bright little isle of our own, 
 
 In a blue summer ocean far off and alone. 
 
 Where a leaf never dies in the still-blooming bowers, 
 
 And the bee banquets on through a whole year of flowers ; 
 
 Where the sun loves to pause 
 With so fond a delay. 
 
 That the night only draws 
 A thin veil o'er the day ; 
 Where simply to feel that we breathe, that we live. 
 Is worth the best joy that life elsewhere can give. 
 
 There with souls ever ardent and pure as the clime, 
 We should love as they loved in the iirst golden time ; 
 The glow of the sunshine, the balm of the air. 
 Would steal to our hearts, and make all summer there. 
 With affection as free 
 
 From decline as the bowers. 
 And with hope, like the bee. 
 Living always on flowers. 
 Our life should resemble a long day of light, 
 And our death come on holy and calm as the night. 
 
 Moore.
 
 142 It KM OVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 
 
 THE GIPSY LADDIE. 
 
 The gipsies cam to our Laird's yett, 
 And, oh, but they sang sae sweetly ! 
 They sang sae sweet, sae very complete, 
 That doun cam the fair Ladye. 
 
 She cam tripping doun the stair 
 
 Wi' all her maids before her ; 
 
 And when they saw her weel-faur'd face 
 
 They cast the glamour o'er her, 
 
 " Tak frae me my gay mantle. 
 And bring to me my plaidie ; 
 For if kith and kin and a' had sworn, 
 I 'm off with the Gipsy Laddie." 
 
 And when her Laird cam hame at e'en. 
 And speired for his fair Ladye, 
 The ane she cried, the tither replied, 
 " She 's off with the Gipsy Laddie." 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 [" This is an incorrect version of the ballad ; but I never knew any other, and sang 
 it so." — Mrs. Kemble.] 
 
 This poem is from manuscript in Mrs. Fanny Kemble's handwriting, received in 
 Boston, Nov. 3, 1883, and sung by her after a skating-party at Milton, about 
 1853. 
 
 ON THE EEMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY POETRAITS. 
 
 Silent friends, fare ye well! 
 
 Shadows, adieu ! 
 Living friends long I 've lost. 
 
 Now I lose you.
 
 REMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 143 
 
 Bitter tears many I 've shed, 
 
 Ye 've seen tliem flow ; 
 Dreary hours many I 've sped, 
 
 Full well ye know. 
 
 Yet in my loneliness, 
 
 Kindly, methought, 
 Still ye looked down on me. 
 
 Mocking me not 
 
 With light speech and hollow words, 
 
 Grating so sore 
 The sad heart, with many ills 
 
 Sick to the core. 
 
 Then, if my clouded skies 
 
 Brightened awhile. 
 Seemed your soft, serious eyes 
 
 Almost to smile. 
 
 Silent friends, fare ye well ! 
 
 Shadows, adieu ! 
 Living friends long I 've lost, 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Taken from hearth and board, 
 
 AVhen all were gone, 
 I looked up at you and felt 
 
 Not quite alone. 
 
 Not quite companionless, 
 
 While in each face 
 Met me familiar 
 
 The stamp of my race.
 
 144 REMOVAL UF SOME FAMILY PORTUAri'S. 
 
 Tliine, gentle ancestress ! 
 
 Dove-eyed and fair, 
 Melting in sympathy 
 
 Oft for my care. 
 
 Grim Knight and stern-visaged ! 
 
 Yet could I see 
 (Smoothing that furrowed face) 
 
 Good-will to me. 
 
 Bland looks w^ere beaming 
 
 Upon me I knew, 
 Fair sir, bonnie lady, 
 
 From you, and from you. 
 
 Little think happy ones, 
 
 Heart-circled round, 
 How fast to senseless things 
 
 Hearts may be bound ; 
 
 How, w^hen the livmg prop 's 
 
 Mouldered and gone. 
 Heart-strings, low trailing left, 
 
 Clasp the cold stone. 
 
 Silent friends, fare ye well ! 
 
 Shadows, adieu ! 
 Living friends long I 've lost, 
 
 Now I lose you. 
 
 Often wdien spirit-vexed. 
 
 Weary and worn. 
 To your quiet faces, mute 
 
 Friends, would I turn.
 
 ItEMOVAL OF SOME FAMILY PORTRAITS. 145 
 
 Soft as I gazed on them, 
 
 Soothing as bahn, 
 Lulling the passion-storm, 
 
 Stole your deep calm. 
 
 Till, as I longer looked. 
 
 Surely, methought. 
 Ye read and replied to 
 
 My questioning thought. 
 
 "Daughter," ye softly said, 
 
 " Peace to thine heart : 
 We too — yes, daughter ! — have 
 
 Been as thou art ; 
 
 " Tossed on the troubled waves. 
 
 Life's stormy sea ; 
 Chance and change manifold 
 
 Province like thee. 
 
 " Hope-lifted, doubt-depressed, 
 
 Seeing in part, 
 Tried, troul)led, tempted, 
 
 Sustained as thou art, 
 
 " Our God is thy God, — what He 
 
 Willeth is best ; 
 Trust him as we trusted, then 
 
 Kest as we rest." 
 
 Silent friends, fare ye well ! 
 
 Shadows, adieu ! 
 One friend abideth still 
 All changes through. 
 
 Mrs. Southet. 
 10
 
 14G TWO KIXDS OF PIE TV. 
 
 TWO KINDS OF PIETY. 
 
 Tlie following lines may be objected to by some for a seeming in-cvercncc of 
 laiigaag.', but the discerning reader will see that they are far from irreverent in 
 jiurpose and spirit. In this respect they remind us of the eccentiic methods l)y 
 which Rev. Rowland Hill and other excellent divines have sometimes incuh-ated 
 the most sacred lessons of Scripture. The incident on which they are founded is 
 thus related for the "New York Evening Post" : " .\ few years since, a powerful 
 revival of religion was witnessed at Oldtown, Maine. Among the converts was an 
 Indian of the Penobscot tribe. Soon after his conversion, Peol attended a prayer- 
 meeting, and was called npon to " tell his experience." Not exactly understand- 
 ing the constniction of the King's English, Peol expressed himself as follows : 
 " Oh, glory, me feel pious like hell ! " 
 
 The hand of religion is potent to save, 
 
 Its value no mortal can prize ; 
 It leads us in safety clear down to the grave, 
 
 Tlien gives us a pass to the skies. 
 But since the grand choice in the garden was given, 
 
 Smce Adam from paradise fell. 
 Full many are found to be pious like heaven, 
 
 While many are " pious like hell." 
 
 I once was an orphan-boy, mortgaged and leased. 
 
 And served without hope of a fee. 
 For one who was lending the Lord what she fleeced 
 
 From the girl in the kitchen and me. 
 'T was a day or two since that I gazed on the face 
 
 Of her, the once IMademoiselle, 
 And thought, though she bragged of "abounding grace," 
 
 That she, too, was " pious like hell." 
 
 But tares in the wheat, and the counterfeit coin. 
 Should rob us of none of our rest ;
 
 DOLCE FAR NIEXTE. 147 
 
 Let this be our motto while journeying on, — 
 
 " (jrod orders all things for the best." 
 And, mind you, no knowledge to mortal is given, 
 
 V>y which that frail mortal can tell. 
 Except by the fruits, who is pious like heaven. 
 
 Or as Peol was, " pious like hell." 
 
 David Barker. 
 
 DOLCE FAR NIENTE. 
 
 She bends above me like a night 
 
 Deep-skied and tropic-starred ; 
 Her face a clime of peace wherefrom 
 
 All sorrow is debarred. 
 She drops above me like a spell 
 
 All potent in repose. 
 While from her mouth the kisses fall 
 
 Like rose leaves from a rose. 
 
 I cannot move for utter bliss, 
 
 Her beauty weighs me down ; 
 It broods about me like a sea. 
 
 Wherein I dream and drown. 
 The water wields me at its will, 
 
 Along with all sea things. 
 Hither and thither swayed and sent 
 
 In endless journeyings. 
 
 O rare strange face ! within whose round 
 Glad things and sad things meet, — 
 
 Sufficient sweetness yet made up 
 Of things diversely sweet, —
 
 143 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 
 
 Your beauty bends the souls of men, 
 
 As a wind bends the wheat ; 
 And they who cannot reach your hps 
 
 Die happy at your feet. 
 
 I He inert, I take no care 
 
 For better or for worse ; 
 Her beauty bears me dizzily 
 
 Safe through the universe ; 
 One moment sunk in soundless depths, ' 
 
 And the next skyward driven, 
 The buoyant blossom of her face 
 
 Floats me as high as heaven. 
 
 Joseph Bradford. 
 
 ST. SENANUS AND THE LADY. 
 
 ST. SENANUS. 
 
 Oh, haste and leave this sacred isle, 
 Unholy bark, ere morning smUe ; 
 For on thy deck, though dark it be, 
 
 A female form I see. 
 And I have sworn this sainted sod 
 Shall ne'er by woman's feet be trod. 
 
 THE LADY. 
 
 father ! send, not hence my bark, 
 Through wintry winds and billows dark ; 
 
 1 come with humble heart to share 
 Thy morn and evening prayer : 
 
 Nor mine the feet, O holy saint. 
 The brightness of thy sod to taint. 
 
 I
 
 SHAN VAN VOCHT. 149 
 
 The lady's prayer Senanus spurned ; 
 The winds blew fresh, the bark returned ; 
 But legends hint that had the maid 
 
 Till morning's light delayed, 
 And given the saint one rosy smile, 
 She ne'er had left his lonely isle. 
 
 MoORK. 
 
 WOMAN'S LOVE. 
 
 Does woman always love where she is loved i 
 
 The heart is not so blunt mechanical 
 
 That it should instant throb to outward touch. 
 
 A woman who is woman aptest is 
 
 To ope the virgin petals of her love 
 
 Where a true warmth wooes for their fragrancy ; 
 
 And even when she cannot interchange. 
 
 Will with a sigh distil some tenderness. 
 
 George H. Calvert, Boston Transcrijit. 
 
 SHAN VAN VOCHT. 
 
 Oh, the French are on the say. 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 The French are on the say, 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 Oh, the French are in the bay. 
 
 They '11 be here without delay. 
 
 And the Orange will decay. 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 Oh, the French are in the bay, 
 They '11 be here by break of day. 
 And the Orange will decay, 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht.
 
 li>0 SILiy^ VAN VOCHT. 
 
 And where will they have their camp ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Yocht ; 
 Where will they have their camp i 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 On the Currach of Kildare ; 
 The boys they will be there 
 With their pikes in good repair, 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 To the Currach of Kildare 
 The boys they vi^ill repair, 
 And Lord Edward will be there. 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 Then what will the yeoman do '. 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 What will the yeoman do ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 What should the yeoman do, 
 But throw off the red and blue, 
 And swear that they '11 be true 
 To the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 What should the yeoman do, 
 But throw off the red and blue. 
 And swear that they '11 be true 
 To the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 And what color will they w^ear ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 What color will they wear ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 What color should be seen, 
 Where our fathers' homes have been, 
 But our own immortal green ?
 
 THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 151 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 What color should be seen, 
 Where our fathers' homes have been, 
 But our own immortal green ? 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 And will Ireland then be free ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht ; 
 Will Ireland then be free ? 
 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 Yes, Ireland shall be free. 
 From the centre to the sea ; 
 Then hurrah for liberty. 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 Yes, Ireland shall be free. 
 From the centre to the sea ; 
 Then hurrah for liberty, 
 Says the Shan Van Vocht. 
 
 Anonymods. 
 
 THE CAVALIER'S SONG. 
 
 A STEED — a steed of matchlesse speed, 
 
 A sword of metal keene ! 
 All else to noble heartes is drosse. 
 
 All else on earth is meane. 
 The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde. 
 
 The rowlinge of the drum. 
 The clangor of the trumpet lowde, 
 
 ]>e soundes from heaven that come ; 
 And oh, the thundering presse of knightes, 
 
 Whenas their war-cryes swell,
 
 152 SONG OF THE GALLEY. 
 
 May tole from heaven an angel Ijriglit, 
 And rouse a fiend from hell. 
 
 Then mounte — then mounte, brave gallants, all, 
 
 And don your helmes amame ; 
 Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honor, call 
 
 Us to the field againe. 
 No shrewish teares shall fill our eye 
 
 U'hen the sword-hilt 's in our hand, — 
 Heart-whole we '11 part, and no whit sighe 
 
 For the fayrest of the land. 
 Let piping swaine and craven wight 
 
 Thus weepe and puling crye ; 
 
 Our husmess is like men to fight, 
 
 And hero-like to die. 
 
 William Motherwell. 
 
 SONG OF THE GALLEY. 
 
 Ye mariners of Spain, 
 
 Bend strongly on your oars, 
 And bring my love again, 
 
 For he lies among the Moors. 
 
 Ye galleys fairly built. 
 Like castles on the sea, 
 
 Oh, great will be your guilt 
 If ye bring him not to me. 
 
 Lift up, lift up your sail, 
 And bend upon your oars ; 
 
 Oh, lose not the fair gale, 
 
 For he lies anions the Moors.
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WATERS. 153 
 
 It is a narrow strait, 
 
 I see the blue hills over ; 
 Your coming I '11 await, 
 
 And thank you for my lover. 
 
 To Mary I will pray, 
 
 While ye bend upon your oars ; 
 
 'T will be a blessed day, 
 
 If ye fetch him from the Moors. 
 
 LOCKHART. 
 Sung by F. K. and Mrs. A. F. W. 
 
 THE MEETING OF THE WATEES. 
 
 There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet 
 As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; 
 Oh, the last rays of feeling and life must depart, 
 Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart ' 
 
 Yet it was not that Nature had shed o'er the scene 
 Her purest of crystal and brightest of green ; 
 'T was not her soft magic of streamlet or hill, — 
 (_)h, no ! it was something more exquisite still. 
 
 'T was that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near, 
 Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear, 
 And who felt how the best charms of Nature improve 
 When we see them reflected from looks that we love. 
 
 Sweet vale of Avoca ! how calm could I rest 
 
 In thy bosom of shade with the friends I love best. 
 
 Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease. 
 
 And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace. 
 
 Moore. 
 ]\r. P. F.
 
 154 THE LEGACY. 
 
 THE LEGACY. 
 
 When iu death I shall calm recline, 
 
 (Jli, bear my heart to my mistress dear ! 
 Tell her it lived upon smiles and wine 
 
 Of the brightest hue while it lingered here. 
 Bid her not shed one tear of sorrow, 
 
 To sully a heart so brilliant and light ; 
 But balmy drops of the red grape borrow, 
 
 To bathe the relic from morn till night. 
 
 When the light of my song is o'er, 
 
 Then take my harp to your ancient hall ; 
 Hang it up at that friendly door 
 
 Where weary travellers love to call. 
 Then if some bard, who roams forsaken, 
 
 Bevive its soft note in passing along, 
 Oh, let one thought of its master waken 
 
 Your warmest smile for the child of song. 
 
 Keep this cup, which is now o'erfiowing, 
 
 To grace your revel when I 'm at rest ; 
 Never, oh, never its balm bestowing 
 
 On lips that beauty hath seldom blessed. 
 But when some warm, devoted lover 
 
 To her he adores shall bathe its brim. 
 Then, then my spirit around shall hover. 
 
 And hallow each drop that foams for him. 
 
 Moore.
 
 IVRY. 155 
 
 IVRY. 
 
 A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS. 
 
 Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are, 
 And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre. 
 Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, 
 Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, pleasant land 
 
 of France ! 
 And thou, Rochelle, our own Eochelle, proud city of the waters, 
 Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters ; 
 As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy. 
 For cold and stiff' and still they are who wrought thy walls 
 
 annoy. 
 Hurrah, hurrah ! a single field hath turned the chance of war. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre ! 
 
 Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France 
 
 to-day, 
 And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey ; 
 But we of the religion have borne us best in fight. 
 And the good Lord of Eosny hath ta'en the cornet white — 
 Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, 
 The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. 
 Up with it high ; unfurl it wide, that all the host may know 
 How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought his 
 
 church such woe. 
 Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point 
 
 of war, 
 Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre.
 
 15G THE MINSTREL BOY. 
 
 llo, maidens of Vienna ! ho, matrons of Lucerne ! 
 
 Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall 
 return. 
 
 llo, Philip! send for charity thy Mexican pistoles, 
 
 That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's 
 souls. 
 
 Ho, gallant nobles of the league ! look that your arms be 
 bright ; 
 
 Ho, burghers of Sahit Cienevieve ! keep watch and ward to- 
 night. 
 
 For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the 
 slave, 
 
 And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valor of the brave. 
 
 Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are. 
 
 And glory to our Sovereign Lord, King Henry of Navarre. 
 
 Macau LAY. 
 
 THE MINSTEEL BOY. 
 
 The Minstrel boy to the war is gone. 
 
 In the ranks of death you '11 find him ; 
 His father's sword he has girded on, 
 
 And his wild harp slung behind him. 
 " Land of song," said the warrior bard, 
 
 " Though all the world betrays thee. 
 One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard. 
 
 One faithful harp shall praise thee." 
 
 The Minstrel fell, — but the foeman's chain 
 Could not bring his proud soul under ; 
 
 The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, 
 For he tore its cords asunder,
 
 77/ A' LAY or ELEXA. 
 
 And said, " No chains shall sully thee, 
 
 Thou soul of love and bravery ! 
 Thy songs were made for the brave and free, 
 
 They shall never sound in slavery." 
 
 Moore. 
 
 THE LAY OF ELENA. 
 
 He asked me had I yet forgot 
 
 The mountains of my native land ; 
 
 I sought an answer, but had not 
 The words at my command. 
 
 They would not come, and it was better so ; 
 
 For had I uttered aught, my tears, I know, 
 
 Had started at the word as free to flow. 
 
 But I can answer when there 's none that liears ; 
 And now, if I should weep, none sees my tears ; 
 And in my soul the voice is rising strong 
 That speaks in solitude, — the voice of song. 
 
 Yes, I remember well 
 
 The land of many hues, 
 Whose charms what praise can tell. 
 
 Whose praise what heart refuse ? 
 Sublime, but neither bleak nor bare 
 Nor misty, are the mountains there, — 
 Softly sublime, profusely fair. 
 Up to their summits clothed in green, 
 And fruitful as the vales between. 
 They lightly rise 
 And scale the skies,
 
 158 THE LAY OF KLEXA. 
 
 And groves and gardens still abound. 
 For where no shoot 
 Could else take root, 
 The peaks are shelved and terraced round. 
 Earthward appear in mingled growth 
 
 The mulberry and maize ; above, 
 The trellised vine extends to both 
 
 The leafy shade they love. 
 Looks out the white-walled cottage here, 
 The lowly chapel rises near ; 
 Far down the foot must roam to reach 
 The lovely lake and bending beech, 
 Whilst chestnut green and olive gray 
 Checker the steep and winding way. 
 
 A bark is launched on Como's lake, 
 
 A maiden sits abaft ; 
 A little sail is loosed to take 
 
 The night wind's breath, and waft 
 The maiden and her bark away, 
 Across the lake and up the bay. 
 And what doth there that lady fair. 
 
 Upon the wavelet tossed ? 
 Before her shines the evening star, 
 Behind her in the woods afar 
 
 The castle lights are lost. 
 What doth she there ? The evening air 
 Lifts her locks, and her neck is bare ; 
 And the dews that now are falling fast 
 May work her harm, or a rougher blast 
 
 May come from yonder cloud, — 
 And that her bark might scarce sustain. 
 So slightly built, — and why remain ? 
 
 And would she be allowed
 
 THE LAY OF ELENA. 159 
 
 To brave the wind and sit in the dew 
 
 At night on the lake, if her mother knew '. 
 
 Her mother, sixteen years before. 
 
 The burden of the baby bore ; 
 
 And though lirought forth in joy, the day 
 
 So joyful, she was wont to say. 
 
 In taking count of after years, 
 
 Gave birth to fewer hopes than fears. 
 
 For seldom smiled 
 
 The serious child ; 
 And as she passed from childhood, grew 
 More far-between those smiles and few, 
 
 More sad and wild. 
 And though she loved her father well, 
 
 And though she loved her mother more, 
 Upon her heart a sorrow fell 
 And sapped it to the core. 
 And in her father's castle nought 
 She ever found of what she sought. 
 And all her pleasure was to roam 
 Among the mountains far from home, 
 And through thick woods, and wheresoe'er 
 She saddest felt to sojourn there ; 
 And, oh ! she loved to linger afloat 
 On the lonely lake in the little boat. 
 It was not for the forms, — though fair, 
 Though grand they were beyond compare, — 
 It was not only for the forms 
 Of hills in sunshine or in storms. 
 Or only unrestrained to look 
 On wood and lake, that she forsook, 
 
 By day or night, 
 Her home, and far
 
 160 THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 
 
 Wandered by light 
 Of sun or star, — 
 It was to feel her fancy free, 
 
 Free in a world without an end. 
 With ears to hear, and eyes to see, 
 
 And heart to apprehend ; 
 It was to leave the earth behind. 
 And rove with liberated mind. 
 As fancy led, or choice, or chance, 
 Through 'wildered regions of romance. 
 
 Henry Taylor, Phili}) Van Artevelde. 
 
 THE VALE OF CASHMEEE. 
 
 Who has not heard of the Vale of Cashmere, 
 
 With its roses the brightest that earth ever gave, 
 Its temples, and grottos, and fountains as clear 
 
 As the love-lighted eyes that hang over their wave? 
 Oh, to see it at sunset, when warm o'er the lake 
 
 Its splendor at parting a summer eve throws. 
 Like a bride, full of blushes, when lingering to .take 
 
 A last look of her mirror at night ere she goes ; 
 When the shrines through the foliage are gleaming half shown, 
 And each hallows the hour by some rites of its own. 
 
 Here the music of prayer from a minaret swells, 
 
 Here the IMagian his urn full of perfume is swinging, 
 
 And here at the altar a zone of sweet bells 
 
 Eound the waist of some fair Indian dancer is ringing. 
 
 Or to see it by moonlight, when mellowly shines 
 
 The light o'er its palaces, gardens, and shrines;
 
 THE VALE OF CASHMERE. 161 
 
 When the waterfalls gleam like a quick fall of stars, 
 And the nightingale's hyuin from the Isle of Chenars 
 Is broken by laughs and light echoes of feet 
 From the cool, shining walks where the young people meet. 
 
 ])ut the gentlest of all are those sounds, full of feelina", 
 
 That soft from the lute of some lover are stealing, — 
 
 Some lover who knows all the heart-touching power 
 
 Of a lute and a sigh in this magical hour. 
 
 Oh, best of delights as it everywhere is 
 
 To be near the loved one, what a rapture is his 
 
 Who in moonlight and music thus sweetly may glide 
 
 O'er the Lake of Cashmere, with that one by his side ! 
 
 If woman can make the worst wilderness dear. 
 
 Think, think what a heaven she must make of Cashmere. 
 
 So felt the magnificent Son of Acbar, 
 
 When from power and pomp and the trophies of war 
 
 He flew to that valley, forgetting them all 
 
 With the Light of the Harem, his young Nourmahal ; 
 
 When free and uncrowned as the conqueror roved 
 
 By the banks of that lake, with his only beloved. 
 
 He saw, in the ^vreaths she would playfully snatch 
 
 From the hedges, a glory his crown could not match. 
 
 And preferred in his heart the least ringlet that curled 
 
 Down her ex(|uisite neck to the throne of the world. 
 
 There 's a beauty forever unchangingly bright. 
 Like the long, sunny lapse of a summer day's light ; 
 Shining on, shining on, by no shadows made tender, 
 Till Love falls asleep in its sameness of splendor. 
 This was not the l)eauty — oh, nothing like this — 
 That to young Xourmahal gave such magic of bliss ; 
 But that loveliness, ever in motion, which plays 
 
 11
 
 162 BEFORE THE BATTLE. 
 
 Like the light upon autuinu's soft shadowy days, 
 Now here and now there, giving warmth as it flies 
 From the lips to the cheek, from the cheek to the eyes, 
 Now melting in mist and now breaking in gleams, 
 Like the glimpses a saint has of heaven in his dreams. 
 
 When pensive, it seemed as if that very grace. 
 
 That charm of all others, was born with her face; 
 
 And when angry, — for e'en in the tranquillest climes 
 
 Light breezes will ruffle the flowers sometimes, — 
 
 The short, passing anger but seemed to awaken 
 
 New beauty, like flowers that are sweetest when shaken. 
 
 If tenderness touched her, the dark of her eye 
 
 At once took a darker, a heavehlier dye. 
 
 From the depths of whose shadow, like holy revealings 
 
 From innermost shrines, came the light of her feelings. 
 
 Then her mirth — oh, 't was sportive as ever took wing 
 
 From the heart with a burst, like the wild-bird in spring. 
 
 Moore, Light of the Llarcm. 
 
 BEFOKE THE BATTLE. 
 
 By the hope within us springing. 
 
 Herald of to-morrow's strife ; 
 By that sun whose light is bringing 
 
 Chains or freedom, death or life, — 
 Oh, remember life can be 
 No charm for him who lives not free ! 
 
 Like the day-star in the wave, 
 
 Sinks a hero in his grave, 
 'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears. 
 
 Moore.
 
 IT IS rillS, IT IS THIS. 163 
 
 FLY TO THE DESERT. 
 
 Fly to the desert, fly with me, 
 Our Arab tents are rude for thee ; 
 But, oh ! the choice what heart can doubt 
 Of tents with love, or thrones without? 
 
 Our rocks are rough ; but smiling there 
 The acacia waves her yellow hair, 
 Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less 
 For flowering in a wilderness. 
 
 Our sands are bare ; but down their slope 
 The silvery-footed antelope 
 As gracefully and gayly springs 
 As o'er the marble courts of kings. 
 
 Then come, — thy Arab maid will be 
 The loved and lone acacia-tree ; 
 The antelope, whose feet shall bless 
 With their light sound thy loneliness. 
 
 Moore, Light of the Harem. 
 
 IT IS THIS, IT IS THIS. 
 
 There 's a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told, 
 When two, that are linked in one heavenly tie. 
 
 With heart never changing, and brow never cold. 
 Love on through all ills, and love on till they die. 
 
 One hour of a passion so sacred is worth 
 
 Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss ; 
 
 And, oh, if there be an Elysium on earth, 
 
 It is this, it is this. 
 
 Moore, Light of the Hanm.
 
 164 MAN'S MORTALITY. 
 
 THE FOETUNATE LAND. 
 
 Know'st thou the land where hangs the citron-flower. 
 Where gleams the golden orange in the bower. 
 Where gentle zephyrs in the blue sky play, 
 And myrtles creep beneath the towering bay ? 
 
 Know'st thou, indeed ? 
 
 Oh, there, oh, there, 
 Would I with thee, my best beloved, speed. 
 
 Know'st thou the house that rests on columns tall. 
 Its gay saloon, its glittering banquet-hall, 
 Where marble statues stand and gaze on me ? 
 Wliat have they done, thou hapless child, to thee ? 
 
 Know'st thou, indeed ? 
 
 Oh, there, oh, there. 
 Would I with thee, my own kind guardian, speed. 
 
 Know'st thou the mount, and its cloud-crested steep, 
 Where poring mules the misty pathway keep, 
 In caves the dragon hides her ancient brood, 
 Down leaps the rock, and over it the flood ? 
 
 Know'st thou, indeed ? 
 
 Oh, there, oh, there. 
 Our journey tends ; my father, let us speed. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 MAN'S MOETALITY. 
 
 Like as the damask rose you see, 
 Or like the blossom on the tree, 
 Or like the dainty flower in May, 
 Or like the morning of the day,
 
 GONE. 165 
 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas had, — 
 E'en such is man, whose thread is spun, 
 Di*awn out, and cut, and so is done. 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth ; 
 The flower fades, the morning liasteth ; 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies ; 
 The gourd consumes, and man he dies. 
 
 Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, 
 Or like a tale that 's new begun, 
 Or like the bird that 's here to-day, 
 Or like the pearled dew of May, 
 Or like an hour, or like a span. 
 Or like the singing of a swan, — 
 E'en such is man, who lives by breath, 
 Is here, now there, in life and death. 
 The grass withers, the tale is ended ; 
 The bird is flown, the dew 's ascended ; 
 The hour is short, the span is long; 
 The swan 's near death, man's life is done. 
 
 Simon Wastell. 
 
 GONE. 
 
 Another hand is beckoning us, 
 
 Another call is given ; 
 And glows once more with angel-steps 
 
 The path which reaches heaven. 
 
 And half we deemed she needed not 
 The changing of her spliere. 
 
 To give to heaven a shining one, 
 Who walked an an"el here.
 
 166 CONE. 
 
 The blessing of her quiet life 
 
 Fell ou us like the dew ; 
 And good thoughts, wliere her footsteps pressed, 
 
 Like fairy blossoms grew. 
 
 Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 
 
 Were in her very look ; 
 We read her face, as one who reads 
 
 A true and holy book : 
 
 The measure of a blessed hymn, 
 To which our hearts could move ; 
 
 The breathing of an inward psalm ; 
 A canticle of love. 
 
 We miss her in the place of prayer, 
 
 And by the hearth-fire's light ; 
 We pause beside her door to hear 
 
 Once more her sweet " Good-night !" 
 
 There seems a shadow on the day, 
 
 Her smile no longer cheers ; 
 A dimness on the stars of night, 
 
 Like eyes that look through tears. 
 
 Alone unto our Father's will 
 
 One thought hath reconcih'd ; 
 That He whose love exceedeth ours 
 
 Hath taken home His child. 
 
 Fold her, Father ! in thine arms, 
 
 And let her henceforth be 
 A messenger of love between 
 
 Our human hearts and Thee.
 
 .1 HEALTH. 167 
 
 Still let lier mild rebuking stand 
 
 Between us and the wrong, 
 And her dear memory serve to make 
 
 Our faith in Goodness strong. 
 
 And grant that she who, trembling, here. 
 
 Distrusted all her powers, 
 May welcome to her holier home 
 
 The well beloved of ours. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 A HEALTH. 
 
 I FILL this cup to one made np 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon ; 
 To whom the better elements 
 
 And kindly stars have given 
 A form so fair, that, like the air, 
 
 'T is less of earth than heaven. 
 
 Her every tone is music's own, 
 
 Like those of morning birds. 
 And something more than melody 
 
 Dwells ever in her words ; 
 The coinage of her heart are they. 
 
 And from her lips each flows. 
 As one may see the burdened bee 
 
 Forth issue from the rose.
 
 168 SONG OF THE SPIRIT OF DAWN. 
 
 Of her bright face one glance will trace 
 
 A picture on the brain, 
 And of her voice in echoing hearts 
 
 A sound must long remain ; 
 But memory, such as mine of her, 
 
 So very much endears, 
 When death is nigh, my latest sigh 
 
 Will not be life's, but hers. 
 
 I fill this cup to one made up 
 
 Of loveliness alone, 
 A woman of her gentle sex 
 
 The seeming paragon : 
 Her health ! and would on earth there stood 
 
 Some more of such a fi^ame. 
 That hfe might all be poetry. 
 
 And weariness a name. 
 
 Edward Coate Pixkxey. 
 
 SONG OF THE SPIEIT OF DAWN. 
 
 Now on their couch of rest 
 
 ]\Iortals are sleeping, 
 While in dark dewy nest 
 
 Flowerets are weeping ; 
 Ere the last star of night 
 
 Fades in the fountain, 
 My finger of rosy light 
 
 Touches the mountain. 
 
 Far on his filmy wing 
 
 Twilight is wending, 
 Shadows encompassing, 
 
 Terrors attending ;
 
 SWORD CHANT OF THOR STEIN RAUDL 169 
 
 While my foot's fiery print, 
 
 Up my path showing, 
 Gleams with celestial tint 
 
 Brilliantly glowing. 
 
 Now from my pinions fair 
 
 Freshness is streaming. 
 And from my yellow hair 
 
 Glories are gleaming. 
 Nature, with pure delight, 
 
 Hails my returning, 
 And Sol from his chamber bright 
 
 Crowns the young morning. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 THE SWORD CHANT OF THOESTEIN RAUDL 
 
 'T IS not the gray hawk's flight 
 
 O'er mountain and mere ; 
 'T is not the fleet hound's course 
 
 Tracking the deer ; 
 'T is not the light hoof -print 
 
 Of black steed or gray. 
 Though sweltering it gallop 
 
 A long summer's day, — 
 Which mete forth the Lordships 
 I challenge as mine ; 
 Ha, ha ! 't is the good brand 
 I clutch in my strong hand, 
 That can their broad marches 
 
 And numbers define. 
 Land-giver, I kiss thee.
 
 170 SWORD CHANT OF TIJOIiSTEIN RALDT. 
 
 Dull builders of houses, 
 
 Base tillers of earth, 
 Gaping, ask me what lordships 
 
 I owned at my birth ; 
 But the pale fools wax mute 
 
 When I point with my sword 
 East, west, north, and south. 
 
 Shouting, " There am I Lord." 
 Wold and waste, town and tower. 
 
 Hill, valley, and stream, 
 Trembling, bow to my sway 
 In the fierce battle-fray. 
 When the star that rules fate is 
 
 This falchion's red gleam. 
 Might-giver, I kiss thee. 
 
 I 've heard great harps sounding 
 
 In brave bower and hall, 
 I 've drank the sweet music 
 
 That bright lips let fall, 
 I 've hunted in greenwood 
 
 And heard small birds sing ; 
 But away with this idle 
 
 And cold jargoning : 
 The music I love, is 
 
 The shout of the brave. 
 The yell of the dying, 
 The scream of the Hying, 
 When this arm wields death's sickle, 
 
 And garners the grave. 
 Joy-giver, I kiss thee. 
 
 Far isles of the ocean 
 
 Thy lightning have known.
 
 THE SWORD CHANT OF TIIORSTEIX RAUDI. 171 
 
 Aud wide o'er the mainland 
 
 Thy horrors have shown. 
 Great sword of my fatlier, 
 
 Stern joy of his hand, 
 Thou hast carved liis name deep on 
 
 The stranger's red strand, 
 And won him the glory 
 
 Of undying song. 
 Keen cleaver of gay crests, 
 Sharp piercer of broad breasts, 
 Grim slayer of heroes, 
 
 And scourge of the strong ! 
 Fame-giver, I kiss thee. 
 
 In a love more abiding 
 
 Than that the heart knows 
 For maiden more lovely 
 
 Than summer's first rose, 
 My heart 's knit to thine. 
 
 And lives but for thee ; 
 In dreamings of gladness. 
 
 Thou 'rt dancing with me 
 Brave measures of madness 
 
 In some battle-field. 
 Where armor is ringing, 
 And noble blood springing, 
 And cloven, yawn helmet, 
 
 Stout hauberk and shield. 
 Death-giver, I kiss thee. 
 
 When the path of our glory 
 
 Is shadowed in death, 
 With me thou wilt slumber 
 
 Below the brown heath ; 
 Thou wilt rest on my bosom,
 
 17S THE BROTHERS. 
 
 And with it decay, — 
 While harps shall be ringing, 
 And scalds shall be sinking, 
 The deeds we have done in 
 
 Our old fearless day. 
 Song-giver, I kiss thee. 
 
 William Motherwell. 
 
 THE BEOTHEES. 
 
 We are but two, — the others sleep 
 Through Death's untroubled night ; 
 
 We are but two, — oh, let us keep 
 The link that binds us bright I 
 
 Heart leaps to heart, — the sacred flood 
 
 That warms us is the same ; 
 That good old man, — his honest blood 
 
 Alike we fondly claim. 
 
 We in one mother's arms were locked, — 
 
 Long be her love repaid ! 
 In the same cradle we were rocked, 
 
 Eound the same hearth we played. 
 
 Our boyish sports were all the same, 
 
 Each little joy and woe ; 
 Let manhood keep alive the flame, 
 
 Lit up so long ago. 
 
 We are but two, — be that the band 
 
 To hold us till we die ; 
 Shoulder to shoulder let us stand, 
 
 Till side by side we lie. 
 
 Charles Sprague.
 
 KEAUyy AT ^EVJ'LV J'JNl£S. 173 
 
 THEKE'S A BOWER OF EOSES. 
 
 There 's a bower of roses by Bendemeer's stream, 
 
 And the nightingale sings round it all the day long ; 
 111 the time of my childhood 't was like a sweet dream, 
 
 To sit in the roses and hear the bird's song. 
 That bower and its music I never forget, 
 
 But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year, 
 T think — is the nightingale singing there yet ? 
 
 Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer ? 
 
 No, — the roses soon withered that hung o'er the wave ; 
 
 But some blossoms were gathered, while freshly they shone, 
 And a dew was distilled from their flowers, that gave 
 
 All the fragrance of summer when summer was gone. 
 Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies, 
 
 An essence that breathes of it many a year ; 
 Thus bright to my soul, as 't was then to my eyes. 
 
 Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer. 
 
 Moore, Veiled Prophet of Khorassan. 
 
 A favorite of M. P. F. I remember it the day the " Lueonia " sailed from Maca" 
 RoAUS, with a gale of wind blowing, and I walking the deck. 
 
 KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. 
 
 So that soldierly legend is still on its journey, — 
 That story of Kearny who knew not to yield ! 
 
 'T was the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry, and liirncy 
 Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
 
 174 KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. 
 
 Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest, 
 Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and 
 pine, 
 
 Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest, 
 No charge like Phil Kearny's along the whole line. 
 
 When the battle went ill, and the bravest were solemn, 
 
 Near the dark Seven Pines, where we still held our ground, 
 He rode down the length of the withering column, 
 
 And his heart at our war-cry leapt up with a bound ; 
 He snuffed, like his charger, the wind of the powder. 
 
 His sword waved us on, and we answered the sign : 
 Loud our cheers as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder, 
 
 "There's the devil's own fun, boys, along the whole line !" 
 
 How he strode his brown steed ! How we saw his blade brighten 
 
 In the one hand still left, — and the reins in his teeth ! 
 He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten, 
 
 But a soldier's glance shot from his vizor beneath. 
 Up came the reserves to the medley inferrjal. 
 
 Asking where to go in — through the clearing or pine ? 
 " Oh, anywhere ! Forward ! 'T is all the same, Colonel, 
 
 You '11 find lovely fighting along the whole line ! " 
 
 Oh, evil the black shroud of night at Chantilly, 
 
 That hid him from sight of his brave men and tried ! 
 Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped the white lily. 
 
 The flower of our knighthood, the whole army's pride ! 
 Yet we dream that he still — in that shadowy region 
 
 Where the dead form their ranks at the wan drummer's 
 sign — § 
 
 Rides on, as of old, down the length of his legion. 
 
 And the word is still Forward ! along the wdiole line. 
 
 Edmund Clarence Stedman. 
 
 I
 
 rilE CONFLICT. 175 
 
 THE CONFLICT. 
 
 Twice hath the sun upon their conflict set, 
 
 And risen again, and found them grappling yet ; 
 
 While streams of carnage, in his noontide blaze, 
 
 Smoke up to heaven — hot as that crimson haze. 
 
 By which the prostrate caravan is awed, 
 
 In the red Desert, wlien the wind 's abroad. 
 
 " On, Swords of God ! " the panting Caliph calls, — 
 
 " Thrones for the living, heaven for him who falls." 
 
 " On, brave avengers, on," Mokanna cries, 
 
 "And Eblis blast the recreant slave that flies !" 
 
 Now comes the brunt, the crisis of the day ; 
 
 They clash, they strive, the Caliph's troops give way. 
 
 Mokanna's self plucks the black banner down. 
 
 And now the Orient world's imperial crown 
 
 Is just within his grasp, when, hark, that shout ! 
 
 Some hand hath checked the flying Moslems' rout, 
 
 And now they turn, they rally, — at their head 
 
 A warrior (like those angel youths, who led. 
 
 In glorious panoply of heaven's own mail, 
 
 The champions of the Faith through Beder's vale). 
 
 Bold as if gifted with ten thousand lives. 
 
 Turns on the fierce pursuers' blades, and drives 
 
 At once the multitudinous torrent back, 
 
 While hope and courage kindle in his track, 
 
 And at each step his bloody falchion makes 
 
 Terrible vistas through which victory breaks. 
 
 In vain ]\Iokanna, 'midst the general flight. 
 
 Stands, like the red moon on some stormy night, 
 
 Among the fugitive clouds that, hurrying by, 
 
 Leave only her unshaken in the sky.
 
 176 / .S'Jir FROM THE BEACH. 
 
 In vain he yells las desperate curses out, 
 Deals death promiscuously to all about, 
 To foes that charge and coward friends that fly. 
 And seems of all the great Arch-enemy. 
 The panic spreads — "A miracle," throughout 
 The Moslem ranks, " a miracle ! " they shout. 
 All gazing on that youth, whose coming seems 
 A light, a glory, such as breaks in dreams ; 
 And every sword, true as o'er billows dim 
 The needle tracks the loadstar, following him. 
 
 Eight towards Mokanna now he cleaves his path. 
 Impatient cleaves, as though the bolt of wrath 
 He bears from heaven withheld its awful burst 
 From weaker heads, and souls but half-way curst. 
 To break o'er him, the mightiest and the worst ! 
 But vain his speed, — though, in that hour of blood, 
 Had all God's seraphs round ]\Iokanna stood. 
 With swords of fire, ready like fate to fall, 
 Mokanna' s soul would have defied them all ; 
 Yet now the rush of fugitives, too strong 
 For human force, hurries even him along ; 
 In vain he struggles 'mid the wedged array 
 Of flying thousands, — he is borne away. 
 
 Moore, Veiled Prophet of Khomssru 
 
 I SAW FROM THE BEACH. 
 
 I SAW from the beach, when the morning was shining, 
 A bark o'er the waters move gloriously on. 
 
 I came when the sun o'er that beach was declining ; 
 The bark was still there, but the waters were gone.
 
 THE TIME I'VE LOST IX WOOfXG. IT 
 
 And such is the fate of our hfe's early promise, 
 So passing the spring-tide of joy we have known ; 
 
 Eacli wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs from us. 
 And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore alone. 
 
 Xe'er tell me of glories serenely adorning 
 
 The close of our day, the calm eve of our night; — 
 
 (iive me back, give me back, the wild freshness of Morning; 
 Her clouds and her tears are worth Evening's best light. 
 
 Oh, who would not welcome that moment's returning, 
 When passion first waked a new life through his frame, 
 
 And his soul, like the wood that grows precious in burning. 
 Gave out all its sweets to love's exquisite flame ? 
 
 MooRi: 
 
 S VI II a; h\ Mrs. Long. 
 
 THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOINd 
 
 The time I 've lost in wooing. 
 In watching and pursuing 
 
 The light that lies 
 
 In woman's eyes. 
 Has been my heart's undoing. 
 Though Wisdom oft has sought me, 
 I scorned the lore she brought me. 
 
 My only books 
 
 Were woman's looks, 
 And folly 's all they 've taught me. 
 
 Her smile when Beauty granted, 
 I hung with gaze enchanted. 
 
 Like him the sprite 
 
 Whom maids by night 
 Oft meet in slen that 's haunted.
 
 178 SOME LOVE TO ROAM. 
 
 Like him, too, Beauty won me ; 
 But while her eyes were on me, 
 
 If once their ray 
 
 Was turned away, 
 Oh, winds could not outrun me ! 
 
 And are those follies going ? 
 And is my proud heart growing 
 
 Too cold or wise 
 
 For hrilliant eyes 
 Again to set it glowing ? 
 No, — vain, alas ! the endeavor 
 From bonds so sweet to sever ; 
 
 Poor Wisdom's chance 
 
 Against a glance 
 Is now as weak as ever. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 SOME LOVE TO EOAM. 
 
 Some love to roam o'er the dark sea foam. 
 
 Where the shrill winds whistle free ; 
 But a chosen hand in a mountain land, 
 
 And a life in the woods for me. 
 
 Where the shrill winds whistle free, — 
 But a chosen hand in a mountain land, 
 
 And a life in the woods for me. 
 When morning beams, o'er the mountain stream? 
 
 Oh, merrily forth we go, 
 To follow the stag to his slippery crag, 
 
 And to chase the bounding roe, — 
 To follow the stag to his slippery crag. 
 
 And to chase the bounding roe. 
 Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 
 Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho !
 
 HORATIUS COCLES. 179 
 
 Some love to roam o'er the dark sea foam, 
 
 Where the shrill winds wliistle free ; 
 But a chosen band in a mountain land, 
 
 And a life in the woods for me. 
 
 The deer we mark through the forest dark, 
 
 And the prowling wolf we track ; 
 And for right good cheer, in the wild woods here, 
 
 Oh, why should a hunter lack ? 
 For with steady aim at the bounding game. 
 
 And hearts that fear no foe. 
 To the darksome glade, in the forest shade. 
 
 Oh, merrily forth we go ! 
 
 Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 
 Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho ! 
 Some love to roam o'er the dark sea foam, 
 
 Where the shrill winds whistle free ; 
 But a chosen band in a mountain land. 
 
 And a life in the woods for me. 
 
 Charlks Mackay. 
 A favorite of W. H. H., Naushon. 
 
 HORATIUS COCLES. 
 
 When the oldest cask is opened, 
 
 And the largest lamp is lit ; 
 When the chestnuts glow in the embers. 
 
 And the kid turns on the spit ; 
 When young and old in circle 
 
 Around the firebrands close ; 
 When the girls are weaving baskets, 
 
 And the lads are shaping bows ;
 
 180 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEARING, ETC. 
 
 When the goodman mends his armor, 
 
 And trims his hehnet's plume ; 
 When the gocxlwife's shuttle merrily 
 
 Uoes tlashing through the loom, — 
 With weeping and with laughter 
 
 Still is the story told, 
 How well Horatius kept the bridge 
 
 In the brave days of old. 
 
 Macaulay. 
 
 BELIEVE ME, IF ALL THOSE ENDEAEINO 
 YOUNG CHARMS. 
 
 Believe me, if all those endearing young charais. 
 
 Which I gaze on so fondly to-day, 
 Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms. 
 
 Like fairy -gifts fading away, 
 Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art. 
 
 Let thy loveliness fade as it will, 
 And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart 
 
 Would entwine itself verdantly still. 
 
 It is not while beauty and youth are thine own. 
 
 And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear, 
 That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known, 
 
 To which time will but make thee more dear ; 
 No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets, 
 
 But as truly loves on to the close, 
 As the sunflower turns on her god, when he sets, 
 
 The same look which she turned when he rose. 
 
 MOOKE.
 
 THE PERI AT THE GATE. LSI 
 
 THE PERI AT THE GATE* 
 
 One morn a Peri at the gate 
 Of Eden stood, disconsolate ; 
 And as she listened to the springs 
 
 Of life within, like music flowing, 
 And caught the light upon her wings 
 
 Through the half-open portal glowing. 
 She wept to think her recreant race 
 Should e'er have lost that glorious place. 
 
 "How happj," exclaimed this child of air, 
 "Are the holy spirits who wander there, 
 
 'Mid flowers that never shall fade or fall ; 
 Though mine are the gardens of earth and sea. 
 And the stars themselves have flowers for me, 
 
 One blossom of heaven outblooms them all 
 Though sunny the Lake of cool Cashmere, 
 With its plane-tree isle reflected clear. 
 
 And sweetly the founts of that valley fall ; 
 Though bright are the waters of Sing-su-hay, 
 And the golden floods that thitherward stray, — 
 Yet, oh, 't is only the blest can say 
 
 How the waters of heaven outshine them all. 
 
 " Go, wing thy flight from star to star, 
 From world to luminous world, as far 
 
 As the universe spreads its flaming wall ; 
 Take all the pleasures of all the spheres. 
 And multiply each through endless years, — 
 
 One minute of heaven is worth them all." 
 
 MooRK, Paradise and the Feri.
 
 ISli JENNY KISSED ME. 
 
 IIICH AND RAEE WERE THE GEMS SHE WORE 
 
 Rich and rare were the gems she wore, 
 And a bright gold rmg on her wand she bore ; 
 But, oh, her beauty was far beyond 
 Her sparkUng gems or snow-white wand. 
 
 " Lady, dost thou not fear to stray, 
 
 So lone and lovely, through this bleak way ? 
 
 Are Erin's sons so good or so cold 
 
 As not to be tempted by woman or gold?'' 
 
 " Sir Knight, I feel not the least alarm. 
 
 No son of Erin will offer me harm ; 
 
 For, though they love women and golden store, 
 
 Sir Knight, they love honor and virtue more." 
 
 On she went, and her maiden smile 
 In safety lighted her round the green isle ; 
 And blest forever is she who rehed 
 Upon Erin's honor and Erm's pride. 
 
 MOORK. 
 
 Sung by Mrs. Long. 
 
 JENNY KISSED ME. 
 
 Jenny kissed me when we met, 
 Jumping from the chair she sat in. 
 
 Time, you thief ! who love to get 
 Sweets into your list, put that in ! 
 
 Say I 'ra weary, say I 'm sad ; 
 
 Say that health and wealth have missed me ; 
 
 Say I 'm growing old, but add — 
 Jenny kissed me ! 
 
 Leioh Hunt.
 
 NURSERY RHYME. 183 
 
 LUTZOW'S WILD HUNT. 
 
 What gleams from you wood in the bright sunshine? 
 
 Hark ! nearer and nearer 't is sounding. 
 It hurries along, black line upon line ; 
 And the shrill-voiced horns in the wild chase join, 
 
 The soul with dark horror confounding. 
 And if the wild troopers' name you would know, 
 'T is Lutzow's wild Jiigers, — a-hunting they go ! 
 
 From hill to hill through the dark wood they hie, 
 
 And warrior to warrior is calling ; 
 Behind the thick bushes in ambush they lie. 
 The ritle is heard, and the loud war-cry ; 
 
 In rows the Frank minions are falling ! 
 And if the black riders' name you would know, 
 'Tis Lutzow's wild Jagers, — a-huutiug they go! 
 
 NUPtSERY RHYME. 
 
 When the Moorish cymbals clash by day, 
 
 When the brazen trumpets shrilly play. 
 The slave in vain shall then complain 
 
 Of tyranny and knavery. 
 Would you know tlie time to go 
 
 And slyly slip from slavery ? 
 
 When the hollow drum has beat to bed, 
 
 When the little fifer hangs his head, 
 Still and mute the Moorish tiute, 
 
 While nodding guards watch wearily, 
 Then shall we, from prison free, 
 
 March forth by moonlight cheerily. 
 
 George Colman, The Mountaineers. 
 179n.
 
 184 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 THE LIGHTHOUSE. 
 
 The scene was more beautiful far to my eye 
 
 Than if day in its pride had arrayed it ; 
 The land-breeze blew mild, and the azure -arched sky 
 
 Looked pure as the spirit that made it : 
 The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed 
 
 On the shadowy waves' playful motion, 
 From the dim, distant hill, till the lighthouse fire blazed 
 
 Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 
 
 No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 
 
 Was heard in his wildly breathed numbers ; 
 The sea-bird had flown to her wave-girdled nest, 
 
 The fisherman sunk to his slumbers : 
 One moment I looked from the hill's gentle slope, — 
 
 All hushed was the billow's commotion, — 
 And thought that the lighthouse looked lovely as hope, 
 
 That star of life's tremulous ocean. 
 
 The time is long past, and the scene is afar. 
 
 Yet when my head rests on its pillow, 
 Will memory sometimes rekindle the star 
 
 That blazed on the breast of the billow : 
 In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, 
 
 And death stills the heart's last emotion, 
 Oh, then may the seraph of mercy arise, 
 
 Like a star on eternity's ocean. 
 
 Paul Moon Jajiks. 
 A great favorite of my mother.
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 18; 
 
 SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 A lovely apparition, sent 
 To be a moment's ornament : 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 From May-time and the cheerful dawn : 
 A dancing shape, an image gay. 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 I saw her upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions, light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet : 
 
 A creature not too bright or good 
 
 For human nature's daily food, 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 
 
 And now I see with eye serene 
 The very pulse of the machine ! 
 A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
 A traveller between life and death : 
 The reason firm, the temperate will. 
 Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill : 
 A perfect woman, nobly planned 
 To warn, to comfort, and command ; 
 And yet a spirit still, and bright 
 With something of an angel-light. 
 
 Wordsworth.
 
 186 SONG, 
 
 LINES WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFOliK ii IS 
 EXECUTION. 
 
 E 'en such is time, which takes on trust 
 Our youth, our joys, our all we have. 
 And pays us but with earth and dust ; 
 Which m the dark and silent grave, • 
 
 When we have wandered all our ways, 
 Shuts up the story of our days ; 
 But from this earth, this grave, this dust. 
 My God shall raise me up, I trust. 
 
 Sir Walter Haleioh. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When you mournfully rivet your tear-laden eyes, 
 That have seen the last sunset of hope pass away, 
 
 On some bright orb that seems, through the still, sapphire skies. 
 In beauty and splendor to roll on its way. 
 
 Oh, remember this earth, if beheld from afar. 
 
 Appears wrapt in a halo as soft and as bright 
 As the pure silver radiance enshrining yon star. 
 
 Where your spirit is eagerly soaring to-night. 
 
 And at this very midnight, perhaps, some poor heart 
 That is aching or breaking in that distant sphere 
 
 Gazes down on this dark world, and longs to depart 
 From its own dismal home to a happier one here. 
 
 Mrs. Ke.mble.
 
 OH, EVER THUS. LS? 
 
 FAITH. 
 
 Better trust all, and be deceived, 
 
 And weep that trust and that deceiving, 
 
 Than doubt one heart that, if believed, 
 Had blessed one's life with true belicN'ing. 
 
 Oil, in this mocking world, too fast 
 
 The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth ! 
 
 Better be cheated to the last 
 
 Than lose the blessed hope of truth. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 OH, EVER THUS. 
 
 Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, 
 
 I 've seen my fondest hopes decay ! 
 I never loved a tree or liower. 
 
 But 't was the first to fade away. 
 I never nursed a dear gazelle, 
 
 To glad me with its soft black eye. 
 But when it came to know me well, 
 
 And love me, it was sure to die. 
 Now, too, — the joy most like divine 
 
 Of all I ever dreamt or knew, — 
 To see thee, hear thee, call thee mine, — 
 
 Oh, misery ! must I lose that too ? 
 Yet go ! on peril's brink we meet ; 
 
 Those frightful rocks, that treacherous sea 
 No, never come again, — though sweet, 
 
 Though heaven, it may be death to thee. 
 Farewell ! and blessings on thy way.
 
 188 EPITAPH ON TIMOTHY JOHN. 
 
 Where'er thou go'st, beloved stranger ! 
 Better to sit and watch that ray, 
 And think thee safe, though far away, 
 
 Than have thee near me and in danger. 
 
 ]\IooRE, The Fire-Worshippers. 
 
 HYMN TO THE VIEGIN. 
 
 Ave Sanctissima, 
 'T is nightfall on the sea ; 
 
 Ora pro nobis, 
 Our souls we lift to thee ; 
 Watch us while shadows lie 
 Far o'er the water spread ; 
 Hear the heart's lonely sigh, 
 Thine too hath bled. 
 
 Thou that hast looked on death, 
 Aid us when death is near ; 
 Whisper of heaven to faith, 
 Sweet Mother, hear! 
 
 Ora pro nobis. 
 The wave must rock our sleep; 
 
 Ora, Mater, ora, 
 Star of the deep. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans, The Forest Sanctuary. 
 
 EPITAPH ON TIMOTHY JOHN. 
 
 Sacred to the memory of Timothy John, 
 Who di^d in the year one thousand and one. 
 Stranger, pray for the soul of Timothy John, 
 Or let it alone, — 't is all one to Timothy John, 
 Wlio died in the year one thousand and one. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 M.'s philosophy.
 
 THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. 18 J 
 
 LINES FOR MUSIC. 
 
 SUNNY Love ! 
 Crowned with fresh-flowering May, 
 
 Breath like the Indian clove, 
 Eyes like the dawn of day ; 
 
 O sunny Love ! 
 
 fatal Love ! 
 Thy wreath is nightshade all, 
 With gloomy cypress wove ; 
 Thy kiss is bitter gall, 
 fatal Love ! 
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 THE GRAVE OF BONAPARTE. 
 
 On a lone barren isle where the wide-rolling billow 
 
 Assails the stern rock and the wild tempests rave, 
 A hero lies still while the dew-drooping willow 
 
 Like fond weeping mourner bends over his grave. 
 The lightnings may flash and the loud thunders rattle, 
 
 He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain. 
 He sleeps his last sleep, he has fought his last battle ; 
 
 No sound can awake him to glory again. 
 
 Oh ! Shade of tlie mighty, where now are the legions 
 That rushed but to conquer when thou led'st them on ? 
 
 Alas ! they have perished in far hilly regions, 
 And all save the fame of their triumph is gone.
 
 190 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 The trumpet may sound and the loud cannon rattle, 
 
 They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain, 
 Tliey sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle, 
 • No sound can awake them to glory again. 
 
 Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee, 
 
 For, like thine own eagle that soared to the sun, 
 Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee 
 
 A name which before thee no mortal had won ! 
 Though nations may combat, and war's thunders rattle. 
 
 No more on thy steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain ; 
 Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle, 
 
 No sound can awake thee to glory again ! 
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 When princely Hamilton's abode 
 Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers. 
 
 The song went round, the goblet flowed, 
 And revel sped the laughing hours. 
 
 Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound. 
 So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, 
 
 And echoed light the dancer's bound. 
 As mirth and music cheered the hall. 
 
 'T is noon, — against the knotted oak 
 The hunters rest the idle spear ; 
 
 Curls through the trees the slender smoke, 
 Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer.
 
 CADYOW CASTLE. 191 
 
 Proudly the Cliieftain marked his clan. 
 On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 
 
 Yet missed his eye the boldest man, 
 That bore the name of Hamilton. 
 
 "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, 
 Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 
 
 Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
 Why shares he not our hunter's fare?" 
 
 Stern Claud replied, with darkening face 
 (Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he) : 
 
 " At merry feast or buxom chase 
 No more the warrior wilt thou see. 
 
 " Few suns have set since Woodhouselee 
 Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam, 
 
 When to his hearth, in social glee, 
 
 The war-worn soldier turned him home. 
 
 " There, wan from her maternal throes, 
 
 His Margaret, beautiful and mild. 
 Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, 
 
 And peaceful nursed her new-born child. 
 
 " Oh, change accursed ! past are those days ; 
 
 False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
 And, for tlie hearth's domestic blaze. 
 
 Ascends destruction's volumed flame." 
 
 He ceased ; and cries of rage and grief 
 Burst mingling from the kindred band. 
 
 And half arose the kindling Chief, 
 
 And half unsheathed his Arran brand.
 
 192 CADYOW CASTLE. 
 
 But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, 
 Eides headlong with resistless speed, 
 
 Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
 Drives to the leap his jaded steed ? 
 
 Sternly he spoke : " 'T is sweet to hear 
 In good greenwood the bugle blown, 
 
 But sweeter to Eevenge's ear 
 To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 
 
 " Your slaughtered quarry proudly trode, 
 At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, 
 
 But prouder base-born Murray rode 
 
 Through old Linlithgow's crowded town. 
 
 " With hackbut bent, my secret stand, 
 Dark as the purposed deed, I chose. 
 
 And marked where, mingling in his band, 
 Trooped Scottish pikes and English bows. 
 
 " Dark Morton, girt with many a spear. 
 Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 
 
 And clashed their broadswords in the rer.r 
 The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. 
 
 » " 'Mid pennoned spears, a steely grove, 
 
 Proud Murray's plumage floated high : 
 Scarce could his trampling charger move. 
 So close the minions crowded nigh. 
 
 " But yet his saddened brow confessed 
 A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 
 Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
 ' Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh ! '
 
 IVIfEX TWILIGHT DEWS. 193 
 
 " The death-shot parts, the charger springs, 
 
 Wild rises tiiiniilt's startling roar ! 
 And Murray's plumy helmet rings, — 
 
 Rings on the ground, to rise no more. 
 
 " What joy the raptured youth can feel 
 
 To hear her love the loved one tell ; 
 Or he who broaches on his steel 
 
 The wolf by whom his infant fell ! 
 
 " But dearer to my injured eye 
 
 To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 
 And mine was ten times trebled joy, 
 
 To hear him groan his felon soul." 
 
 Scott. 
 
 WHEN TWILIGHT DEWS. 
 
 When twilight dews are falling soft 
 
 Upon the rosy sea, love, 
 I watch the star, whose beam so oft 
 
 Has lighted me to thee, love. 
 And thou, too, on that orb so dear, 
 
 Ah, dost thou gaze at even ; 
 And think, though lost forever here, 
 
 Thou 'It yet be mine in heaven ? 
 
 There 's not a garden-walk I tread, 
 There 's not a flower I see, love. 
 
 But brings to mind some hope that 's fled, 
 Some joy I 've lost with thee, love. 
 
 13
 
 194 TO Siail, YET FEEL NO PAIN. 
 
 And still I wish that hour was near, 
 When friends and foes forgiven, 
 
 The pains, the ills, we 've wept through here 
 
 May turn to smiles in heaven. 
 
 Moore. 
 Sung by Mrs. Long. 
 
 TO SIGH, YET FEEL NO PAIK 
 
 To sigh, yet feel no pain ; 
 
 To weep, yet scarce know why ; 
 To sport an hour with beauty's chain, 
 
 Then throw it idly by ; 
 To kneel at many a shrine. 
 
 Yet lay the lieart on none ; 
 To think all other charms divine. 
 
 But those we just have won, — 
 This is love, faithless love. 
 
 Such as kindleth hearts that rove. 
 
 To keep one sacred flame. 
 
 Through life unchilled, unmoved ; 
 To love in wintry age the same 
 
 As first in youth we loved ; 
 To feel that we adore, 
 
 Even to such fond excess, 
 That, though the heart Avould break with more. 
 
 It could not live with less, — 
 This is love, faithful love, 
 
 Such as saints might feel above. 
 
 Moore.
 
 BALLAD STANZAS. 195 
 
 IMPROMPTU 
 
 WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF THE SONNENBERiJ. 
 
 Thou who within thyself dost not behold 
 
 Ruins as great as these, though not as old, 
 
 Canst scarce through life have travelled many a year, 
 
 Or lack'st the spirit of a pilgrim here. 
 
 Youth hath its walls of strength, its towers of pride ; 
 
 Love, its warm hearth-stones; hope, its prospects wide: 
 
 Life's fortress in thee held these, one and all ; 
 
 And they have fallen to ruin, or shall fall. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 BALLAD STANZAS. 
 
 I KNEW, by the smoke that so gracefully curled 
 Above the green elms, that a cottage was near. 
 
 And I said, " If there 's peace to be found in the world, 
 A heart that is humble might hope for it here." 
 
 It was noon, and on flowers that languished around 
 
 In silence reposed the voluptuous bee ; 
 Every leaf was at rest, and I heard not a sound 
 
 Pjut the woodpecker tapping the hollow beech-tree. 
 
 And " Here in this lone little wood," I exclaimed, 
 " With a maid who was lovely to soul and to eye. 
 
 Who would blush when I praised her, and weep if I blamed, 
 How blest could I live, and how calm could I die ! 
 
 " By the shade of yon sumach, whose red berry dips 
 In the gush of the fountain, how sweet to recline. 
 
 And to know that I sighed upon innocent lips 
 
 Which had never been sighed on by any but mine." 
 
 MOORB. 
 
 One of my very oldest boyhood favorites.
 
 196 
 
 THE ERL-KING. 
 
 THE EEL-KING. 
 
 Who rides there so late throiigli the night dark and drear? 
 
 Tlie father it is, with his infant so dear: 
 
 He hi^kleth the boy tightly clasped in his arm ; 
 
 He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm. 
 
 " My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide ? " 
 " Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side ! 
 Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train ? " 
 " My son, 't is the mist rising over the plain." 
 
 " Oh, come, thou dear infant ! oh, come thou with me ! 
 Full many a game I will play there with thee ; 
 On my strand lovely flowers their blossoms unfold, 
 My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold." 
 
 "My father, my father, and dost thou not hear 
 
 The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear ? " 
 
 " Be calm, dearest child ! 't is thy fancy deceives ; 
 
 'T is the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves." 
 
 " Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there ? 
 
 My daughters, shall tend thee with sisterly care : 
 
 My daughters by night their glad festival keep ; 
 
 They '11 dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep." 
 
 " My father, my father, and dost thou not see 
 
 How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me ? " 
 
 " My darling, my darling, I see it aright ; 
 
 'T is the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight." 
 
 " I love thee, I 'm charmed by thy beauty, dear boy ! 
 And if thou 'rt unwilling, then force I '11 employ." 
 " My father, my father, he seizes me fast ; 
 Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."
 
 YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 197 
 
 The father now gallops, with terror half wild ; 
 He grasps in his arms the puor shuddering child : 
 He reaches his courtyard witli toil and with dread, — 
 The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead. 
 
 Goethe. 
 
 YOU REMEMBER ELLEN. 
 
 You remember Ellen, our hamlet's pride. 
 
 How meekly she blessed her humble lot, 
 When the stranger, William, had made her his bride. 
 
 And love was the light of their lowly cot. 
 Together they toiled through winds and rains, 
 
 Till William at length in sadness said, 
 " We must seek our fortune on other plains ; " 
 
 Then, sighing, she left her lowly shed. 
 
 They roamed a long and a weary way, 
 
 Nor much was the maiden's heart at ease, 
 When now, at the close of one stormy day, 
 
 They see a proud castle among the trees. 
 " To-night," said the youth, " we '11 shelter there ; 
 
 The wind blows cold, and the hour is late." 
 So he blew the horn with a chieftain's air. 
 
 And the porter bowed as they passed the gate. 
 
 " Now, welcome, lady," exclaimed the youth, 
 
 " This castle is thine, and these dark woods all ! " 
 
 She believed him crazed, but his words were truth, 
 For Ellen is Lady of Rosna Hall. 
 
 And dearly the Lord of Rosna loves 
 
 What William the stranger wooed and wed ; 
 
 And the light of bliss, in these lordly groves. 
 
 Shines pure as it did in the lowly shed. 
 
 Moore. 
 Sung by Mrs. Long.
 
 198 THE STEERSMAN'S SONG. 
 
 THE YOUNG MAY MOON. 
 
 The young May moon is beaming, love ; 
 The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love. 
 
 How sweet to rove 
 
 Through Morna's grove. 
 When the drowsy world is dreaming, love. 
 Then awake, — the heavens look bright, my dear ; 
 'T is never too late for delight, my dear, 
 
 And the best of all ways 
 
 To lengthen our days 
 Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear. 
 
 Now all the world is sleeping, love. 
 
 But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love ; 
 
 And I, whose star, 
 
 More glorious far. 
 Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 
 Then awake, — till rise of sun, my dear, 
 The Sage's glass we '11 shun, my dear, 
 
 Or, in watching the flight 
 
 Of bodies of light, 
 He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 THE STEEESMAN'S SONG. 
 
 WKITTEN ABOARD THE BOSTON FRIGATE. 
 
 When freshly blows the northern gale, 
 And under courses snug we fly ; 
 
 When lighter breezes swell the sail. 
 And royals proudly sweep the sky, —
 
 THE WOOD FIRE. 199 
 
 'Loiigside the wheel, unwearied still 
 
 I stand, and as my watchful eye 
 Doth mark the needle's faithful thrill, 
 
 I think of her I love, and cry, 
 
 "Port, my boy, port ! " 
 
 When calms delay, or breezes blow 
 
 Eight from the point we wish to steer ; 
 When by the wind close-hauled we go, 
 
 And strive in vain the port to near, — 
 I think 't is thus the Fates defer 
 
 My bliss with one that 's far away ; 
 And while remembrance springs to her, 
 
 I watch the sails, and sighing say, 
 " Thus, my boy, thus." 
 
 But, see ! the wind draws kindly aft ; 
 
 All hands are up the yards to square, 
 And now the floating stu'n-sails waft 
 
 Our stately ship through waves and air. 
 Oh, then I think that yet for me 
 
 Some breeze of fortune thus may spring, 
 Some breeze to waft me, love, to thee. 
 
 And in that hope I smiling sing, 
 " Steady, boy, so." 
 
 Moore. 
 
 THE WOOD FIKE. 
 
 This bright wood-fire. 
 So like to that which warmed and lit 
 My youthful days, — how doth it flit 
 Back on the periods nigher, 
 Relighting and rewarming in its glow 
 The bright scenes of my youth, all gone out now.
 
 200 THE WOOD FIRE. 
 
 How eagerly its flickering blaze doth catch 
 
 On every point, now wrapped in time's deep shade ! 
 
 Into what wild grotesqueness by its flash 
 
 And fitful checkering is the picture made ! 
 
 "When I am glad or gay, 
 
 Let me walk forth into the brilliant sun, 
 
 And with congenial rays be shone upon ; 
 
 When I am sad, or thought-bewitched would be, 
 
 Let me glide forth in moonlight's mystery ; 
 
 But never, while I live this varied life. 
 
 This past and future, with all wonders rife. 
 
 Never, dear flame, may be denied to me 
 
 Thy dear life-imaging, close sympathy. 
 
 What but my hopes shot upward e'er so bright ? 
 
 What Ijut my fortunes sank so low in night ! 
 
 Why art thou banished now from hearth and hall. 
 Thou who art welcomed and beloved by all ? 
 W^as thy existence then too fanciful 
 For our world's common light, who are so dull ? 
 Did thy bright gleams mysterious converse hold 
 With our congenial souls, — secrets too bold ! 
 Well, we are safe and strong, for now we sit 
 Beside a hearth where no dim shadows flit. 
 Where nothing cheers nor saddens, but a fire 
 Warms feet and hands, nor does to more aspire ; 
 By whose compact utilitarian heap 
 The present may sit down and go to sleep. 
 Nor fear the ghosts who from the dim past walked. 
 And with us by the unequal light of the old wood-fire talked. 
 
 E. S. H. 
 
 E. S. H. filled my boyhood's picture of intellectual brightness and infinite 
 beauty and sweetness. 
 
 \
 
 THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS. 201 
 
 THE WINGED WORSHIPPEES. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS THAT FLEW INTO CIIAUNCY PLACE 
 CHURCH DURING DIVINE SERVICE. 
 
 Gay, guiltless pair, 
 What seek ye from the fields of heaven ;' 
 
 Ye have no need of prayer, 
 Ye have no sins to he forgiven. 
 
 Why perch ye here, 
 Where mortals to their Maker hend ? 
 
 Can your pure spirits fear 
 The God ye never could offend ? 
 
 Ye never knew 
 The crimes for which we come to weep. 
 
 Penance is not for you, 
 Blessed wanderers of the upper deep. 
 
 To you 't is given 
 To wake sweet nature's untaught lays ; 
 
 Beneath the arch of heaven 
 To chirp away a life of praise. 
 
 Then spread each wing, 
 Far, far above o'er lakes and lands, 
 
 And join the choirs that sing 
 In yon blue dome not reared with hands. 
 
 Or, if ye stay 
 To note the consecrated hour. 
 
 Teach me the airy way, 
 And let me try your envied power.
 
 202 SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. 
 
 Above the crowd 
 On upward wings could I but fly, 
 I 'd bathe in yon bright cloud, 
 And seek the stars that gem the sky. 
 
 'T were heaven indeed 
 Through fields of trackless light to soar. 
 
 On Nature's charms to feed. 
 And nature's own great God adore. 
 
 Charles Sprague. 
 A lifetime favorite. I remember well the poet, with the dehk and the buzz of 
 the bank around him, in odd contrast to his refined and classical feature.^. 
 
 SOUND THE LOUD TIMBREL. 
 
 mieiam's song. 
 
 Air: " Avison." 
 
 " And Miriam the prophetess, the sister of Aaron, took a timbrel in her hand ; 
 and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances." — Exou. 
 XV. 20. 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 
 Jehovah has triumphed, — his people are free. 
 Sing, — for the pride of the tyrant is broken. 
 
 His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave. 
 How vain was their boasting, — the Lord hath but spoken. 
 
 And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 
 Jehovah has triumphed, — his people are free. 
 
 Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! 
 
 His word was our arrow, his breath was our sword. 
 
 Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
 
 Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
 
 J
 
 THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT SHRINE. 203 
 
 Vov he luitli looked out from his pillar of glory, 
 
 And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ; 
 Jehovah has triumphed, — his people are free. 
 
 MOORK. 
 
 THE TURF SHALL BE MY FEAGRANT SHRINE. 
 
 xVni : "Stevenson." 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
 My temple, Lord, that arch of thine ; 
 My censer's breath the mountain airs. 
 And silent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
 My choir shall be the moonlight waves. 
 When murmuring homeward to their caves, 
 Or when the stillness of the sea. 
 E'en more than music, breathes of thee. 
 
 I '11 seek, by day, some glade unknown, 
 All light and silence, like thy throne ; 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night, 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
 Thy heaven, on which 't is bliss to look. 
 Shall be my pure and shining book. 
 Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
 The glories of thy wondrous name. 
 
 I '11 read thy anger in the rack 
 
 That clouds awhile the daybeam's track ; 
 
 Thy mercy in the azure hue 
 
 Of sunny brightness, breaking through.
 
 204 THIS WORLD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 There 's nothing bright, above, below, 
 From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
 But in its light my soul can see 
 Some feature of thy deity. 
 
 There 's nothing dark, below, above. 
 But in its gloom I trace thy love. 
 And meekly wait that moment when 
 Thy touch shall turn all bright again. 
 
 Moore. 
 
 
 THIS AVOELD IS ALL A FLEETING SHOW. 
 
 Air : "Stevenson." 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show, 
 
 For man's illusion given ; 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
 Deceitful slime, deceitful flow, — 
 
 There 's nothing true but heaven. 
 
 And false the light on Glory's plume. 
 
 As fading hues of even ; 
 And Love, and Hope, and Beauty's bloom 
 Are blossoms gathered for the tomb, — 
 
 There 's nothing bright but heaven. 
 
 Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 
 
 From wave to wave we 're driven ; 
 And fancy's flash and reason's ray 
 Serve but to light the troubled way, — 
 There 's nothing calm but heaven. 
 
 Moore.
 
 ABSENCE. 205 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 What shall I do with all the days and hours 
 That must be counted ere I see thy face ? 
 
 How shall I charm the interval that lowers 
 
 Between this time and that sweet time of grace ? 
 
 Shall I in slumber steep each weary sense, 
 Weary with longing ? Shall I flee away 
 
 Into past days, and with some fond pretence 
 Cheat myself to forget the present day ? 
 
 Shall love for thee lay on my soul the sin 
 Of casting from me God's great gift of time ? 
 
 Shall I, these mists of memory locked within, 
 Leave and forget life's purposes sublime ? 
 
 Oh, how, or by what means, may I contrive 
 
 To bring the hour that brings thee back more near ? 
 
 How may I teach my drooping hope to live 
 Until that blessed time, and thou art here ? 
 
 I '11 tell thee ; for thy sake I will lay hold 
 Of all good aims, and consecrate to thee, 
 
 In worthy deeds, each moment that is told. 
 While thou, beloved one, art far from me. 
 
 For thee I will arouse my thoughts to try 
 
 All heavenward flights, all high and holy strains ; 
 
 For thy dear sake I will walk patiently 
 
 Through these long hours, nor call their minutes ])ain. 
 
 I will this dreary blank of absence make 
 A noble task-time; and will therein strive
 
 206 HUNTING-SONG FOR 1839. 
 
 To follow excellence, and to o'ertake 
 
 More good than I have won since yet alive. 
 
 So may this doomed time build up in me 
 
 A thousand graces, which shall thus be thine; 
 
 So may my love and longhig hallowed be, 
 And thy dear thought an influence divine. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble. 
 
 HUNTING-SONG FOR 1839. 
 
 Ye hunters of New England 
 
 Who bear the rusty guns 
 Your fathers shot the redcoats with, 
 
 And left them to their sons ! 
 With all your firelocks blaze away 
 
 Before the bucks are gone, 
 As you aim at the game 
 
 In the woods of old Naushon, 
 Where the shot are flying right and left 
 
 In the woods of old Naushon. 
 
 Our sportsmen are proverbial 
 
 Among the ducks and loons, 
 And greatly feared of quadrupeds, 
 
 From mammoths down to coons. 
 With double barrels loaded high, 
 
 Their triggers both are drawn, 
 As they clang and they bang 
 
 In the woods of old Naushon, 
 Where tlie bucks are leaping through the leaves 
 
 In the woods of old Naushon. 
 
 I
 
 THE BUGLE-HORN. 207 
 
 New England's trusty sportsmen 
 
 Shall leave their wives so dear, 
 To hunt with our brave Governor 
 
 For many a happy year. 
 Then, then, ye gallant gentlemen. 
 
 When ancient corks are drawn, 
 Fill the toasts to the host 
 
 In the hall of old Naushon, 
 While the wine is flowing bright and free 
 
 In the hall of old Naushon. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 THE BUGLE-HORN. 
 
 Oh, who does not love the bugle-horn ? 
 
 How sweet are its tones on the breezes borne ! 
 
 They seem like the voice of a spirit to be. 
 
 Breathing its heavenly melody. 
 
 What a lovely morn is this to blend 
 
 Its music with that which the forests lend ! 
 
 The sunlight breaks through the leaves of green. 
 
 And softly rests on the limbs between, 
 
 And the gale of autumn has checked its career, 
 
 While the hills re-echo the cadence clear. 
 
 How thrillingly sweet the notes float along, 
 
 And the sheen of the ocean still bears them on, 
 
 As calmly wrapped in an em(^rald bed. 
 
 It sleeps in peace, for the storm spirit has fled. 
 
 So pure and clear in repose it seems 
 
 Like the face of a sleeper who sinless dreams ; 
 
 And the crash in the distance that 's brought to my ear 
 
 Is caused by the leap of the forest deer.
 
 208 
 
 COME TO THE SPORTS, ETC. 
 
 At the sound of my bugle he 's up and away : 
 No music to him is the huntsman's lay. 
 Oh, Death, when he comes, let it be such a morn ! 
 From its tenement here when my spirit is borne. 
 May it pass like the notes of my bugle-horn ! 
 1835. W. H. H. 
 
 W. H. H. introduced the bugle into Kaushox woods. His instrument still 
 belongs to one of my grandchildren. We have lately tried to reproduce tlu^ effect 
 of it at the hunt of 1883. 
 
 I 
 
 COME TO THE SPORTS OF OUE WAVE-CIRCLED 
 
 ISLE. 
 
 Come to the sports of our wave-circled isle, 
 
 Come when the forest is changing ; 
 By the starry light of an autumn night, 
 
 The deer through the woods are ranging. 
 
 The hoar-frost fringes the moss-covered tree. 
 The wind through the boughs is sighing ; 
 
 Though its leaves are sear with the waning year, 
 A buck in their shade is lying. 
 
 The hues of summer are gone from the hill, 
 But the sunshine around it is streaming ; 
 
 With a living light the forest is bright, 
 Wliere the doe in her lair is dreaming. 
 
 These are the glories of Nature's decay, — 
 She fades with no tinge of sadness ; 
 
 O'er her scarlet bowers, o'er the dying flowers, 
 The fawns are leaping in gladness.
 
 OH, LET NO CHANGE IN AFTER YEARS. 209 
 
 And thus should life, like the fleeting year, 
 Grow bright as it nears the gloaming, 
 
 Till it shines a star in the fields of air, 
 
 Where the loved and lost ones are roaming. 
 
 Then come to the sports of our wave-circled isle. 
 
 Come when the forest is changing ; 
 By the starry light of an autumn night, 
 The deer through its woods are ranging. 
 
 W. \V. S. 
 Sung ;tt the hunt, October, 1839. 
 
 OH, LET NO CHANGE IN AFTER YEAKS. 
 
 Oh, let no change in after years 
 
 Efface the magic spell 
 That fancy weaves around these scenes. 
 
 Where memory loves to dwell ! 
 Amidst the toiling throngs of life. 
 
 The world's most tainted air. 
 Oh, keep unstained from vulgar strife 
 The feelings cherished here ! 
 
 We '11 then, as now, round friendship's shrine 
 
 The heart's libation pour. 
 And sadly still fresh garlands twine, 
 At twilight's musing hour. 
 
 Wlien loudly moans the autumn gale. 
 
 In storm the daylight fades. 
 And lifelike tones of seeming wail 
 
 Sound through the forest glades, 
 Oh, they, the loved of other days, 
 
 How fondly then they seem 
 
 14
 
 210 "/ NUMBER NONE BUT THE CLOUDLESS HOURS." 
 
 To hover round our thoughtful gaze, 
 Like a remembered dream ! 
 We '11 then, as now, &c. 
 
 And when the tranquil summer air 
 
 Breathes on its earliest flowers, 
 
 The thought, amid these scenes so fair, 
 
 Steals o'er our happiest hours, — 
 
 Of those whom oft with joy we met, 
 
 They still are lingering near ; 
 
 We meet them yet, we meet them yet. 
 
 In storm and sunshine here. 
 
 We'll now, as then, round friendship's shrine 
 
 The heart's libation pour, 
 
 And sadly still fresh garlands twine. 
 
 At twilight's musing hour. 
 
 W. W. S. 
 
 October, 1841. This always seemed to nie tlie best original thing in the Island 
 Book. 
 
 "I NUMBER NONE BUT THE CLOUDLESS HOURS. 
 
 Air ; " Fair Harvard." 
 
 There stands, in the garden of old St. Mark, 
 
 A sun-dial, quaint and gray, 
 And takes no heed as the hours in the dark 
 
 Pass over it day by day ; 
 It has stood for ages among the flowers. 
 
 In the land of sky and song, — 
 " I number none but the cloudless hours," 
 
 Its motto, the livelong day. 
 
 So let my heart in this garden of life 
 Its calendar cheerfully keep.
 
 WELCOME TO A SUPPER. 211 
 
 Taking no note of the sorrow and strife 
 
 Which in shadow across it creep ; 
 Content to dwell in this land of onrs, 
 In the hope that is twin with love, 
 And numbering none but the cloudless hours, 
 Till the day-spring dawn from above. 
 
 Anonymois. 
 N.vrsHOX, Sept. 1, 1866. 
 
 WELCOME TO A SUPPER 
 
 GIVEN TO DR. 0. W. HOLMES, FEB. 16, 1865, AT MILTON. 
 
 As 'mid the storm-cloud's parting veil 
 
 A ray of sunshine streams, 
 So through rude winter, snow, and hail, 
 
 His bright-eyed visage gleams 
 Who gilds the lore of ancient days 
 
 With gems of wit and mirth, 
 And weaves the poet's sweetest lays 
 
 That genius gives to earth. 
 Eill up till o'er the crystal rim 
 
 The sparkling wine-drops flow ; 
 While lips that drain the beaker's brim 
 
 With warmest welcome glow. 
 
 Twine round his brows a triple wreath 
 
 Of rarest wildwood flowers, 
 Plucked when Aurora's perfumed breath 
 
 Plays with the laughing hours ; 
 And while fresh laurels thus we cull 
 
 For learning, wit, and art, 
 Fill up your glasses, fill them full 
 
 To his large, genial heart.
 
 212 HUNTING-SONG. 
 
 Fill up till o'er the crystal rim 
 
 The sparkling wine-drops How, 
 While lips that drain the heaker's brim 
 
 With warmest welcome glow. 
 
 W. W. Swain. 
 
 HUNTING-SONG. 
 
 Not a buck was shot, nor a doe, nor a fawn, 
 
 As from drive to drive we hurried. 
 Though the huntsmen were dragged from their beds 
 at dawn, 
 
 And the deer were terribly worried. 
 
 We crawled back slowly at fall of night, 
 
 At a funeral trot returning, 
 As we steered our course by the dim red light 
 
 Of the captain's cheroot a-burning. 
 
 Short, not sweet, were the words w^e said, 
 
 As we smoked in silent sorrow ; 
 But we swore that the deer must all be dead, 
 
 — And we 'd try it again to-morrow. 
 
 No rush for saddle or haunch was heard, — 
 
 We did not care a button ; 
 For we said with a grin how much w^e preferred 
 
 A leg of the island mutton. 
 
 Then we jogged in silence along the road ; 
 
 But we kept up a mighty thinking 
 Of the wagon showing its empty load. 
 
 And the folks all staring and winking.
 
 Ay OPAL GEM. 213 
 
 We thought, as we sadly removed the caps 
 
 From the useless shot and powder, 
 How we 'd better have stayed at home perhajis, 
 
 And fired with our spoons at chowder ! 
 
 Slowly and solemnly one hy one 
 
 We entered and told our story, 
 The hearing whereof brought lots of fun 
 
 And a plentiful lack of glory. 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 September 23, 1857. 
 
 AN OPAL GEM. 
 
 An opal gem, the island lies, 
 Set in the blue surrounding sea ; 
 
 And there beneath the sunny skies 
 
 Wander young footsteps, light and free. 
 
 There gayly gleam the ruddy leaves. 
 Soft shimmering in the autumn sun, 
 
 Her rainbow robe the rich year weaves, — 
 Rare robe, to deck the harvest spun. 
 
 It is the month the hunters love ; 
 
 Sound the wild horn, bring forth the steed ! 
 O'er hill and dell we 'd gladly rove ; 
 
 But who the gallant chase shall lead ? 
 
 Sad silence hangs upon the hall ; 
 
 No hunter's troop to-day you '11 find. 
 He who was first to sound the call 
 
 In his still grave hears not the wind,
 
 214 ^.V OPAL GEM. 
 
 Nor song of bird, nor voice of friend ; 
 
 Nor feels the warmth of morning sun, 
 Or of true hearts that sadly blend 
 
 For love of him whose race is run. 
 
 The deer may toss her antlers high, 
 To seek the covert of the brake : 
 
 No need the hunter's foot to fly ; 
 
 This year we hunt not, for his sake, — • 
 
 For sake of him who once did own 
 With heart so free this sea-girt isle, 
 
 Whose memory in thy woods, Naushon, 
 Is writ in Nature's sunny smile ; 
 
 But not in Nature's smile alone ! 
 
 More deeply writ in those two graves, — 
 The love that gathered to its own 
 
 Now shares the life from death that saves. 
 
 And he who in the distant years 
 
 Shall call his own these woodlands fair, 
 
 Who seeks of earthly hopes and fears 
 To know the end, shall hud it there. 
 
 Yet not in sadness close the strain 
 
 That tells of this last " Harvest home ; " 
 
 A moment pause, to wind again 
 
 The jocund notes which sounded " Come ! ' 
 
 And when the friends who at that call 
 With joy appear in ready bands. 
 
 In turn lie low, still may this hall 
 
 Know the warm grasp of cordial hands :
 
 NO MORE THE SUMMER FLOWERET CHARMS. 215 
 
 Still may the early breeze and sun 
 
 Keep fresh the cheerful thought of hiui 
 Who from the morn till day was done 
 In gladness joined their joyful hymn. 
 
 A. s. II. 
 CoTUiT, Oct. 1'.^ or 17, 185S. 
 
 NO MORE THE SUMMER FLOWERET CHARM.S. 
 
 No more the summer floweret charms, 
 
 The leaves will soon be sear, 
 And Autumn folds his jewelled arms 
 
 Around the dying year ; 
 So, ere the whitening seasons claim 
 
 Our leafless groves awhile, 
 With golden wine and glowing flame 
 
 We '11 cro^yn our lonely isle. 
 
 Once more the merry voices sound 
 
 Withm the antlered hall, 
 And long and loud the baying hound 
 
 Returns the hunter's call. 
 And through the woods, and o'er the hill, 
 
 And far along the bay, 
 The driver's horn is sounding still, 
 
 Up, sportsmen, and away ! 
 
 No bars of steel, nor walls of stone. 
 
 Our little empire bound, 
 But, circling with his azure zone. 
 
 The sea runs foaming round. 
 The whitening wave, the purpled skies, 
 
 The blue and lifted shore. 
 Braid with their dim and blending dyes 
 
 Our wide horizon o'er.
 
 216 CHARADE. 
 
 And who will leave the grave debate 
 
 That shakes the smoky town, 
 To rule amidst our island state, 
 
 And wear our oak-leaf crown ? 
 And who will be awhile content 
 
 To hunt our woodland game, 
 And leave the vulgar pack that scent 
 
 The reeking tracks of fame ? 
 
 And who, that shares in toils like these, 
 
 Will sigh not to prolong 
 Our days beneath the broad-leaved trees, 
 
 Our nights of mirth and song ? 
 Then leave the dust of noisy streets, 
 
 Ye outlaws of the w^ood. 
 And follow through his green retreats 
 
 Your noble Eobin Hood. 
 October, 1849. O. W. H. 
 
 CHAKADE. 
 
 A BAEK from Tagus' golden strand 
 My First floats on the stream ; 
 
 Go seek it where the Emerald land 
 Smiles with her brightest gleam. 
 
 My Second through my first pursues 
 By turns its winding way ; 
 
 And wdien descend the twilight dews. 
 And Bacchus bears the sway, 
 
 My Whole the imprisoned spirit frees, 
 \^^lilst loud the jest and song 
 
 Are borne upon the evening breeze 
 In joyous notes along. 
 
 W. W. S. 
 
 J
 
 THE STORM PETREL. 211 
 
 SOFT GLEAMS THE OCTOBER SUN. 
 
 Soft gleams the October sun : 
 
 We look for the feet of the hunter ; 
 
 But the hunter's race is run, 
 
 No more he mounts with the morning. 
 
 Old boon companions and friends, 
 This year we meet not each other ; 
 No voice the greeting sends. 
 In stillness shines the morning. 
 
 No more shall his clieerful halloo 
 Arouse the deer in the dell ; 
 The earth hath taken its due, 
 Till shines the eternal morning. 
 
 Supposed to refer to Governor Swain. 
 
 A. S. H. 
 
 THE STORM PETREL. • 
 
 Bird of untiring wing. 
 
 Whose home is the wave's crest, 
 When clouds and darkness fling 
 Their curtains o'er the deep. 
 It cradles thy light sleep 
 
 Upon its heaving breast. 
 
 With morning's early light. 
 Ear o'er the long low wave 
 
 Begins thy wandering flight ; 
 
 All day thy pinions sweep 
 
 Above the unfathomed deep, 
 Thy heritage and grave.
 
 218 OX A. B. 
 
 Dark harbinger of stonii ! 
 
 Amidst the roaring surge 
 Is seen thy shadowy form, 
 
 As phantom-like it glides 
 Far down their caverned sides, 
 Or scales the crested verge. 
 
 Along their foaming track, 
 
 When ships, by tempest tossed. 
 
 Reel madly through the rack, 
 
 And stout hearts quail with fear, 
 
 Then thou art hovering near, 
 " Lone wandering, but not lost." 
 
 W. W. S. 
 
 ON A. B. 
 
 The music clamors shrill and loud. 
 
 And vibrates on the perfumed air ; 
 The myriad murmurs of the crowd 
 
 Die into breathless silence there. 
 We hear the tread of marching feet. 
 
 We hear the rattling roll of drums ; 
 All vagrant eyes together meet, 
 
 The maskers gay procession comes. 
 
 And, first and fairest of them all. 
 
 The glad night's sovereign leads the line. 
 Each heart beats proud to own the thrall 
 
 Of youth and beauty's right divine ; 
 And swift the yielding mass divides 
 
 To leave her princely progress free, 
 As tlirough the spacious path she glides. 
 
 Like Israel through the parted sea. 
 
 I
 
 IT IS A BEAUTIFUL BELIEF. 219 
 
 What crown is worth her own dark hair, 
 
 What arms so fatal as her eyes ? 
 What banner ever shone so fair 
 
 As in her cheek faint flushing flies ? 
 Decked with these emblems of her power, 
 
 Her beauty lights the gilded room ; 
 One heart, one worship, gilds the hour. 
 
 As one sun warms a summer's bloom. 
 
 And after her there comes a swarm 
 
 Of smaller stars less grandly bright, 
 As in the tropic midnight warm 
 
 I Ve seen faint glimmers fire the night. 
 That in some proud ship's wake were rife, 
 
 Whose full-sailed beauty cleft the waves. 
 That in her passage found their life, 
 
 And in her shadow found their graves, 
 
 The pageant passes, and she goes ; 
 
 Her beauty gladdens other eyes, 
 And in my passing dream the rose 
 
 Fades to the gray of winter skies. 
 I sigh as round my heart is rolled 
 
 Indifference that beguiles despair. 
 Would I were only half as old, 
 
 Or she were only half as fair ! 
 
 Colonel Hay. 
 
 IT IS A BEAUTIFUL BELIEF. 
 
 It is a beautiful belief 
 That ever round our head 
 
 Are hovering, with noiseless wing, 
 The spirits of the dead.
 
 220 
 
 DRYBURGH ABBEY. 
 
 It is a beautiful belief, 
 
 When finished our career, 
 That it will be our destiny 
 
 To watch o'er others here ; 
 
 To lend a moral to the flower, 
 
 Breathe wisdom on the wind ; 
 To hold commune, at night's pure noon, 
 
 With the imprisoned mind; 
 
 To bid the erring cease to err, 
 
 The trembling be forgiven ; 
 To bear away from ills of clay 
 
 The infant to its heaven. 
 
 Ah, when delight was found in life, 
 
 And joy in every breath, 
 I cannot tell how terrible 
 
 The mystery of death. 
 
 But now the past is bright to me. 
 
 And all the future clear ; 
 For 't is my faith that after death 
 
 We still shall linger here. 
 
 James H. Perkins. 
 
 DEYBURGH ABBEY. 
 
 'T WAS morn, but not the ray which falls the summer boughr; 
 
 among. 
 When beauty walks in gladness forth, with all her light and 
 
 song; 
 'T was morn, but mist and cloud hung deep upon the lonely vale. 
 And shadows, like the wings of death, were out upon the gale.
 
 DRYBURGH ABBEY. 221 
 
 For he whose spuit woke the dust of nations into life, 
 
 That o'er the waste and barren earth spread flowers and fruitage 
 
 rife ; 
 Whose genius like the sun illumed the mighty realms of mind, — 
 Had fled forever from the fame, love, friendship of mankind. 
 
 To wear a wreath in glory wrought his spirit swept afar. 
 Beyond the soaring wing of thought, the light of moon or star, 
 To drink immortal waters, free from every taint of earth, 
 To breathe before the shrine of life, the source whence worlds 
 had birth. 
 
 There was wailing on the early breeze, and darkness in the sky, 
 When with sable plume, and cloak, and pall, a funeral train 
 
 swept by ; 
 Methought — St. Mary shield us well ! — that other forms 
 
 moved there 
 Than those of mortal brotherhood, the noble, young, and fair. 
 
 Was it a dream ? How oft in sleep we ask. Can this be true ? 
 Whilst warm imagination paints her marvels to our view ; 
 Earth's glory seems a tarnished down to that which we behold 
 When dreams enchant our sight with thhigs whose meanest 
 garb is gold. 
 
 AVas it a dream ? Methought, the " dauntless Harold " passed 
 
 me by ; 
 The proud " Fitz James," with martial step, and dark intrepid 
 
 eye; 
 That " Marmion's " haughty crest was there, a mourner for his 
 
 sake ; 
 And she, the bold, the beautiful, — sweet " Lady of the Lake." 
 
 The minstrel whose last lay was o'er, whose liroken harp lay low. 
 And with him glorious " Waverley " with glance and step of woe ;
 
 222 DRYBURGH ABBEY. 
 
 And " Stuart's" voice rose there as when, 'midst fate's disastrous 
 
 war, 
 He led the wild, ambitious, proud, and brave " Teh Ian Vohr." 
 
 Next, marvelling at his sable suit, the "Dominie" stalked pa^t, 
 
 With " Bertram," " Julia," by his side, whose tears w^ere flowing- 
 fast ; 
 
 "Guy Mannering," too, moved there, o'erpowered by that afflict- 
 ing sight, 
 
 And " Merrilies," as when she wept on Ellangowan's height. 
 
 Solemn and grave, " Monkbarns " approached, amidst that burial 
 
 line, 
 And " Ochiltree " bent o'er his staff and mourned for " Auld 
 
 lang syne." 
 Slow moved the gallant " Mclntyre," whilst " Lovel " mused 
 
 alone ; 
 For once " Miss Wardour's " image left that bosom's faithful 
 
 throne. 
 
 With coronach and arms reversed forth came " MacGregor's " 
 
 clan, 
 Eed "Dougal's" cry pealed shrill and wild, " Eob Eoy's " bold 
 
 brow looked wan. 
 The pale " Diana " kissed her cross, and blessed its sainted ray ; 
 And " Wae is me," the "Bailie" sighed, "that I should see this 
 
 day!" 
 
 Next rode in melancholy guise, with sombre vest and scarf, 
 Sir Edward, Laird of Ellieslaw, the far renowned " Black Dwarf." 
 Upon his left, in bonnet blue, and white locks flowing free, 
 The pious sculptor of the grave, stood "Old Mortality." 
 
 " Balfour of Burley," " Claverhouse," the " Lord of Evandale," 
 And stately " Lady Margaret," whose woe might nought avail ;
 
 A CHARADE. 223 
 
 Fierce "Bothwell" on his charger black, as from the conflict 
 
 won, 
 A.nd pale " Hebakuk Muckiewrath," who cried, " God's will be 
 
 done ! " 
 
 Still onward like the gathering night advanced that funeral train. 
 Like billows when the tempest sweeps across the shadowy main ; 
 Where'er the eager gaze might reach in noble ranks were seen 
 Dark plume and glittering mail and crest, and woman's beau- 
 teous mien. 
 
 A. sound thrilled through the lengthening host ; methought the 
 
 vault was closed 
 Where in his glory and renown fair Scotia's bard reposed. 
 A. sound thrilled through that lengthening host ; and forth my 
 
 vision fled ; 
 But, ah, that mournfiil dream proved true, — the immortal Scott 
 
 was dead. 
 
 Charles Swain. 
 
 A CHARADE. 
 
 It is said to have been sent some years ago in a blank cover to Queen Adelaide. 
 She attributed the lines to Sir Walter Scott, and enclosed them to him ; but his 
 answer was that he had never written anything half so gooil. The author is still 
 unknown. 
 
 Sir Hilary charged at Agincourt, — 
 
 Sooth, 't was a dreadful day ; 
 And though in those old days of sport 
 The rufflers of the camp and court 
 
 Found little time to pray, 
 'T is said Sir Hilary uttered there 
 Two syllables in form of prayer :
 
 --^^ SEASONS HAVE PASSED AWAY. 
 
 My First for all the brave and proud 
 
 Who see to-morrow's sun ; 
 My jVcxt, with its cold, quiet cloud, 
 To those who find a dewy shroud 
 
 Before the day be done : 
 My "iVhole for those whose bright blue eyes 
 Weep when a warrior nobly dies. 
 
 SEASONS HAVE PASSED AWAY. 
 
 Seasons have passed away 
 
 Since last we met : 
 Springs have to summers blushed, 
 Summers on autumn rushed, 
 Autumns fallen, winter crushed ; 
 
 Love bloometh yet. 
 
 Kingdoms have passed away 
 
 Since last we met : 
 See from the thrones of pride 
 Monarchs like spectres glide ; 
 Love's laws do still abide, 
 
 Love reigneth yet. 
 
 Dear ones have passed away. 
 
 Since last we met : 
 Brother and friend have gone, 
 Heart of twin heart is shorn ; 
 Love laugheth death to scorn, 
 Love liveth yet. 
 
 Mrs. Howe. 
 Suii" bv H. C. B.
 
 SUN AND SHADOW. 225 
 
 CHAKADE. 
 
 My FiJ^st, beloved of many an ancient dame, 
 Within my Next from Eastern countries came. 
 fragrant JVhole, of which each forms a part, 
 Thou art not science, but thou teachest art. 
 
 (Te^( -chest.) 
 Bishop Williams. 
 Fiist heard at our friend's, Charles B. Sedgewick, Sykacuse. 
 
 SUN AND SHADOW. 
 
 As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green, 
 
 To the billows of foam-crested blue, 
 Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen. 
 
 Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue : 
 Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray 
 
 As the chaff in the stroke of the flail ; 
 Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way. 
 
 The sun gleaming bright on her sail. 
 
 Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun, — 
 
 Of breakers that whiten and roar ; 
 How little he cares if in shadow or sun 
 
 They see him who gaze from the shore ! 
 He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef, 
 
 To the rock that is under his lee. 
 As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf, 
 
 O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea. 
 
 Thus drifting afar to the dim, vaulted caves 
 Where life and its ventures are laid, 
 15
 
 226 A NATIONAL SONG OF TRIUMPH. 
 
 The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves 
 
 May see us in sunshine or shade ; 
 Yet true to our course, though our shadow grow dark, 
 
 We '11 trim our broad sail as before. 
 And stand by the rudder that governs the liark, 
 
 Nor ask how we look from the shore. 
 
 Holmes. 
 Written in the northeast lower room of the Naushon Mansion House. 
 
 A NATIONAL SONG OF TEIUMPH. 
 
 Written for, and sung at, a large social meeting of friends, who met by aj)point- 
 nientat Young's Tavern, Edinburgh, to celebrate the entry of the Allies into Paris 
 in 1814. 
 
 Now, Britain, let thy cliffs o' snaw 
 
 Look prouder o'er the marled main ; 
 The bastard Eagle bears awa', 
 
 An' ne'er shall ee thy shores again. 
 Come, bang thy banners to the wain, 
 
 The struggle 's past, the prize is won ; 
 Well may thy Lion shake his mane. 
 
 And turn his gray beard to the sun. 
 
 Lang hae I bragged o' thine an' thee, 
 
 E'en when thy back was at the wa' ; 
 ^ow thou my proudest sang shalt be, 
 
 As lang as I hae breath to draw. 
 Where now the coofs who boded woe, 
 
 And coldness o'er our efforts threw ? 
 An' where the proudest, fellest foe, 
 
 Frae hell's black porch that ever flew ? 
 
 Oh, he might conquer feckless kings, — 
 Those bars in Nature's onward plan, —
 
 OUR ISLAND CHRISTMAS EVE. 227 
 
 But fool is he the yoke that flings 
 
 O'er the unshackled soul of man. 
 'T is like a cobweb on his breast, 
 
 That binds the giant while asleep ; 
 Or curtain hung upon the east 
 
 The daylight from the world to keep. 
 
 Here 's to the hands sae long upbore, 
 
 The Rose and Shamrock, blooming still ; 
 An' here 's the burly plant of yore, 
 
 The Tliistle of the Norlan' hill ! 
 Lang may auld Britain's banners pale 
 
 Stream o'er the seas her might has won ; 
 Lang may her Lions paw the gale 
 
 An' turn their dewlaps to the sun. 
 
 James Hogg. 
 A great favorite of Governor Swain, upon whose lips it often was. Taken 
 from a copy furnished by Governor J. H. Clifford, of New Bedford. 
 
 OUR ISLAND CHRISTMAS EVE. 
 
 The song bird has flown from our sea-girded isle, 
 And the greenwood once vocal is silent and sear; 
 
 The sun has withdrawn from the heaven his smile, 
 And deep in his covert lies hid the red deer. 
 
 O'er the desert is sweeping the bleak wintry blast. 
 
 And the rocks, they are frosted with wind-driven foam ; 
 
 But the sailor, light-hearted, his anchor well-cast. 
 
 In the Cove's friendly shelter sleeps dreaming of home. 
 
 From tree-arch and column moss-garlands are waving. 
 Like the ivy that droops on the gray minster wall. 
 
 While the moon through the cloud-rifts with silver is paving 
 The dim forest-aisles like a festival hall.
 
 228 THE GATHERING OF THE HAYS. 
 
 And, hark ! what rare music swells around us and o'er us, 
 As thougli on the wings of the breezes were borne ! 
 
 'T is the winds and the waves join their voices in chorus, 
 To hail with fit anthem the glad Christmas morn. 
 
 The starlight that shone over Bethlehem's plain, 
 And guided the shepherds to Mary's sweet boy, 
 
 To-night sheds its radiant blessing again. 
 
 And fills the poor heart with a treasure of joy. 
 
 Captain Clarke. 
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE HAYS. 
 
 GATHERING. 
 
 " Mag Garadh ! Mac Garadh ! red race of the Tay, 
 
 Ho ! gather ho ! gather like hawks to the prey. 
 Mac Garadh, Mac Garadh, Mac Garadh, come fast ; 
 
 The flame 's on the beacon, the horn 's on the blast. 
 The standard of Errol unfolds its white breast, 
 
 And the falcon of Loncartie stirs in her nest. 
 Come away, come away, come to the tryst. 
 
 Come in, Mac Garadh, from east and from west. 
 
 Mac Garadh ! Mac Garadh ! Mac Garadh, come forth ! 
 
 Come from your bowers from south and from north, 
 Come in all Gowrie, Kinnoul, and Tweeddale, 
 
 Drumelzier and Naughton, come locked in your mail. 
 Come, Stuart, come, Stuart, set up thy white rose ; 
 
 Killour and Buccleuch, bring thy bills and thy bows ; 
 Come in, Mac Garadh, come armed for the fray, — 
 
 Wide is the war-cry, and dark i'^ the day.
 
 THE GATHERING OF THE HAYS. 229 
 
 QUICK MARCH. 
 
 The Hay ! the Hay 1 the Hay ! the Hay ! 
 
 Mac Garadh is coining, give way ! give way ! 
 The Hay ! the Hay ! the Hay ! the Hay ! 
 
 Mac G-aradh is coming, give way ! 
 Mac Garadh is commg, clear the way ! 
 
 Mac Garadh is coming, hurra, hurra ! 
 Mac Garadh is coming, clear the way ! 
 
 Mac Garadh is coming, hurra ! 
 
 Mac Garadh is coming like beam of war ; 
 
 The blood-red shields are glintmg far ; 
 The Stuart is up, his banner white 
 
 Is Hung to the breeze like flake of light. 
 Dark as the mountain's heather wave. 
 
 The rose and the thistle are coming brave. 
 Bright as the sun which gilds its thread, 
 
 King James' tartan is flashing red. 
 Upon them, Mac Garadh, bill and bow ; 
 
 Cry, Holleu, Mac Garadh ! holleu, holleu !. 
 
 CHARGE. 
 
 Mac Garadh is coming ! like stream from the hill, 
 Mac Garadh is coming, lance, claymore, and bill ! 
 
 Like thunder's wide rattle, 
 
 Is mingled the battle. 
 With cry of the falling and shout of the charge ; 
 
 The lances are Hashing, 
 
 The claymores are clashing. 
 And ringing the arrows on buckler and targe. 
 
 BATTLE. 
 
 Mac Garadh is coming ! the banners are shaking, 
 The war-tide is turning, the phalanx is breaking,
 
 230 THE JACOBITE'S PLEDGE. » 
 
 The Southrons are flying, 
 
 "Saint (Jeurge" vainly crying, 
 And Brunswick's white horse on the field is borne down ; 
 
 The red cross is shattered, 
 
 The red roses scattered, 
 And bloody and torn the white plume in its crown. 
 
 PURSUIT. 
 
 Far shows the dark field like the streams of Cairn Gorm, 
 Wild, broken, and red in the skirt of the storm ; 
 Give the spur to the steed, 
 
 Give the war-cry its holleu, 
 Cast loose to wild speed, 
 
 Shake the bridle and follow. 
 The rout's in the battle, 
 
 Like blast in the cloud ; 
 The flight's mingled rattle 
 Peals thickly and loud. 
 Then holleu, Mac Garadh ! holleu, Mac Garadh ! 
 Holleu,. holleu, holleu, Mac Garadh! 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE JACOBITE'S PLEDGE. 
 
 Here 's a health to them that 's awa'. 
 
 Here 's a health to them that 's awa' ; 
 
 Here 's a health to him that was here yestreen, 
 
 But durstna bide till day. 
 
 Oh, wha winna drink it dry ? 
 
 Oh, wha winna drink it dry ? 
 
 Wlia winna drink to the lad that 's gane. 
 
 Is nane o' our company.
 
 THE CHANGE. 231 
 
 Let him be swung on a tree, 
 
 Let him Lc swung on a tree ; 
 
 Wha winna drmk to the lad that 's gane, 
 
 Can ne'er be the man for me. 
 
 It 's good to be merry and wise, 
 
 It 's good to be honest and true, 
 
 It 's good to be aff wi' the auld king 
 
 Afore we be on wi' the new. 
 
 ANONYMOrS. 
 
 THE CHANGE. 
 
 Star of the twilight gray. 
 
 Where wast thou blinking, 
 When in the olden day, 
 
 Eve dim was sinking ? 
 " O'er knight and baron's hall. 
 
 Turret and tower, 
 O'er fell and forest tall, 
 
 Green brake and bower." 
 
 Star of the silver eve, 
 
 What hast thou noted, 
 While o'er the tower and tree 
 
 High hast thou floated ? 
 " Blue blades and bonnet gear, 
 
 Plaids lightly dancing, 
 Lairs of the dun deer, 
 
 And shafts dimly glancing." 
 
 Star of the maiden's dream, 
 Star of the gloaming.
 
 232 GATHERING OF ATHOL. 
 
 Where now doth bhnk thy beam, 
 When owls are roaming ? 
 
 " Where in the baron's hall 
 Green moss is creeping, 
 
 Where o'er the forest's fall 
 Gray dew is weeping." 
 
 Star of the even still, 
 
 What now doth meet thee, 
 When from the lonely hill 
 
 Looks thy blink sweetly ? 
 " Hearths in the wind bleached bare, 
 
 Eoofs in earth smouldered. 
 Sheep on the dun deer's lair. 
 
 Trees felled and mouldered." 
 
 Akoxymous. 
 
 GATHEPJNG OF ATHOL. 
 
 Wha will ride wi' gallant Murray ? 
 
 Wha will ride wi' Geordie's sel" ? 
 He 's the flow'r o' a' Glen Isla, 
 
 And the darlin o' Dunkel'. 
 See the white rose in his bonnet ! 
 
 See his banner o'er the Tay ! 
 His gude sword he now has drawn it, 
 
 And has flung the sheath away. 
 
 Every faithful Murray follows ; 
 
 First of heroes, best of men ! 
 Every true and trusty Stewart 
 
 Blythely leaves his native glen. 
 Athol lads are lads of honor, 
 
 Westland rogues are rebels a' :
 
 O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. 233 
 
 When we come within their border, 
 We may gar the Campbells' claw. 
 
 Menzies, he 's our friend and brother; 
 
 Gask and Strowan are nae slack ; 
 Noble Perth has ta'en the field, 
 
 And a' the Drummonds at his back. 
 Let us ride wi' gallant Murray, 
 
 Let us fight for Charlie's crown ; 
 From the right we '11 never sinder, 
 
 Till we bring the tyrants down. 
 
 Mackintosh, the gallant soldier, 
 
 Wi' the Grahams and Gordons gay, 
 They have ta'en the field of honor, 
 
 Spite of all their chiefs could say. 
 Bend the musket, point the rapier. 
 
 Shift the brog for Lowland shoe. 
 Scour the durk, and face the danger : 
 
 Mackintosh has all to do. 
 
 Anoxymous. 
 
 O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE. 
 
 Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 
 
 Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 
 I '11 gie John Ross anither bawbee 
 To ferry me o'er to Charlie. 
 
 We '11 o'er the water, we '11 o'er the sea, 
 
 We '11 o'er the water to Charlie ; 
 Come weel, come wo, we '11 gather and go, 
 And live or die wi' Charlie.
 
 234 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 It 's weel I lo'e my Charlie's name, 
 Though some there be abhor him ; 
 
 But, oh, to see auld Nick gauii hame. 
 And Charlie's faes before him. 
 We '11 o'er the water, &c. 
 
 I swear by moon and starns sae bright, 
 
 And^un that glances early. 
 If I had twenty thousand lives, 
 
 I 'd gie them a' for Charlie. 
 We '11 o'er the water, &c. 
 
 I ance had sons, but now hae nane : 
 
 I bred them toiling sairly ; 
 And I wad bear them a' again. 
 And lose them a' for Charlie. 
 
 We '11 o'er the water, we '11 o'er the sea, 
 
 We '11 o'er the water to Charhe ; 
 Come weel, come wo, we '11 gather and go, 
 And live or die wi' Charlie. 
 
 Anokymous. 
 
 HOME, SWEET HOME. 
 
 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
 
 Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home ! 
 
 A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there. 
 
 Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere, 
 
 Home, home, sweet, sweet home ! 
 
 There 's no place like home. 
 
 An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, 
 Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again ;
 
 OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 235 
 
 The birds, singing gayly, that came at my call ; — 
 
 ( live me them, and the peace of mind dearer than all. 
 
 Home, sweet, sweet, sweet home ! 
 
 There 's no place like home. 
 
 John Howard Payne. 
 
 I iMTsonally knew Mr. Payne in New Yoiik during 1837, when with quaint 
 cynicism, during the panic of tliat year, he remarked to me, "I bear the misfor- 
 tunes of my lei low-creatures with the same philosophy which they have always 
 shown towards mine." 
 
 OLD FOLKS AT HOME. 
 
 Way down upon de Swannee Eibber, 
 
 Far, far away, 
 Dare 's wha my heart is turning ebber, — 
 
 Dare 's wha de old folks stay. 
 All up and down de whole creation 
 
 Sadly I roam ; 
 Still longing for de old plantation, 
 
 And for de old folks at home. 
 All de world am sad and dreary 
 
 Eb'rywhere I roam ; 
 Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. 
 Far from de old folks at home ! 
 
 All round de little farm I wandered. 
 
 When I was young ; 
 Den many happy days I squandered. 
 
 Many de songs I sung. 
 When I was playing wid my brudder, 
 
 Happy was I ; 
 Oh, take me to my kind old mudder. 
 Dare let me live and die.
 
 -!36 A LIFE ON riJE OCEAN WA VE 
 
 All de world am sad and dreary 
 
 Eb'rywliere I roam ; 
 Oh, darkeys, how my heart grows weary. 
 Far from de old folks at home ! 
 
 One little hut among de bushes, 
 
 One dat I love, 
 Still sadly to my mem'ry rushes. 
 
 No matter where I rove. 
 When will I see de bees a humming 
 
 All round de comb ? 
 When will I hear de banjo tumming 
 
 Down in my good old home ? 
 All de world am sad and dreary 
 
 Eb'rywhere I roam ; 
 Oh, darkeys, how my heart gi'ows weary. 
 Far from de old folks at home ! 
 
 Stephen C. Foster. 
 
 A LIFE ON THE OCEAN WAVE. 
 
 A LIFE on the ocean wave, 
 
 A home on the rolling deep, 
 Where the scattered waters rave, 
 
 And the winds their revels keep. 
 Like an eagle cage'd I pine 
 
 On this dull, unchanging shore : 
 Oh, give me the flashing brine, 
 
 The spray and the tempest's roar. 
 
 Once more on the deck I stand, 
 Of my own swift-gliding craft : 
 
 Set sail, — farewell to the land ; 
 The gale follows fair abaft.
 
 SPARKLING AND BRIGHT. 237 
 
 We shoot through the sparkling foam, 
 
 Like an ocean bird set free, — 
 Like the ocean bird, our home 
 
 We '11 find far out on the sea. 
 
 The land is no longer in view. 
 
 The clouds have begun to frown ; 
 But with a stout vessel and crew. 
 
 We '11 say, Let the storm come down. 
 And the song of our hearts shall be, 
 
 While the winds and the waters rave, 
 A home on the rolling sea, 
 
 A life on the ocean wave. 
 
 Epes Sargent. 
 A favorite Island song. 
 
 SPAEKLING AND BRIGHT. 
 
 Sparkling and bright in liquid light, 
 
 Does the wine our goblets gleam in ; 
 With hue as red as the rosy bed 
 
 Which a bee would choose to dream in. 
 Then fill to-night, with hearts as light, 
 
 To loves as gay and fleeting 
 As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
 
 And break on the lips while meeting. 
 
 Oh if mirth might arrest the flight 
 
 Of Time through Life's dominions. 
 We here awhile would now beguile 
 
 The graybeard of his pinions ! 
 So drink to-night with hearts as light. 
 
 To loves as gay and fleeting 
 As bubbles that swim on the beaker s brim, 
 
 And break on the lips while meeting.
 
 238 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 But since Delight can't tempt the wight, 
 
 Nor fond llegret delay him, 
 Nor Love himself can hold the elf, 
 
 Nor sober Friendship stay him, 
 We '11 drink to-night, with hearts as light, 
 
 To loves as gay and fleeting 
 As bubbles that swim on the beaker's brim, 
 
 And break on the lips while meeting. 
 
 Chakles Fenxo Hoffman. 
 Will's song ; a favorite Island song. 
 
 ANNIE LAURIE. 
 
 Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
 
 Where early fa's the dew, 
 And it 's there that Annie Laurie 
 
 Gie'd me her promise true, — 
 Gie'd me her promise true. 
 
 Which ne'er forgot will be ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I 'd lay me doon and dee. 
 
 Her brow is like the snaw-drift ; 
 
 Her throat is like the swan ; 
 Her face it is the fairest 
 
 That e'er the sun shone on, — 
 That e'er the sun shone on, — 
 
 And dark blue is her ee ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 
 I 'd lay me doon and dee. 
 
 Like the dew on the gowan lying 
 Is the fa' o' her fairy feet ; 
 
 «
 
 COME, BRAVE WITH ME THE SEA. 239 
 
 And like the winds in summer sighing, 
 
 Her voice is low and sweet, — 
 Her voice is low and sweet, 
 
 And she 's a' the world to me ; 
 And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
 I 'd lay me doon and dee. 
 
 Douglas of Fixglaxd. 
 Sung by C. W. . □ . 
 
 COME, BEAVE WITH ME THE SEA. 
 
 Aiu: " Suoni la Tromba." 
 
 Come, brave with me the sea, love, 
 
 The empire of the free, love ! 
 
 There shalt thou dwell with me, love, 
 
 My blessing and my pride ! 
 Come, hasten with me there, love. 
 While yet the wind is fair, love, 
 Where sparkling billows foam, love, 
 Where fate may bid us roam, love. 
 My ship shall be thy home, love. 
 
 And thou a sailor's bride! 
 
 Though fair the earth may be, love, 
 It is not like the sea, love. 
 When soars the spirit free, love, 
 
 As o'er its breast we ride. 
 Come then, dwell with me there, love. 
 Come, while the wind is fair, love, 
 Wliere sparkling billows foam, love, 
 
 So boundless and so wide ; 
 With me all danger dare, love, 
 
 As should a sailor's bride. 
 
 AXOXYMOUS. 
 
 This air has always been a favorite of mine ever since I first heard Badialm 
 sing it in the opera of " I Puritani." The band of the First Massachusetts Cavalry 
 also played it with great eft'cct in South Carolina duiing the war.
 
 240 
 
 THE DISASTER. 
 
 PESCATOR DELL' ONDE. 
 
 O TESCATOR deir onde Fidelin, 
 
 pescator dell' onde Fidelin, 
 
 Viene pescar in qua colla bella sua barca, 
 
 Colla bella se ne va, Fidelin. 
 
 Non voglio cento scudi Fidelin, 
 Non voglio cento scudi Fidelin, 
 Ne borsa ricama colla bella sua barca, 
 Colla bella se ne va, Fidelin. 
 
 lo voun bazin d' ainore Fidelin, 
 
 lo voun bazin d' amore Fidelin, 
 
 Che qual mi paghera colla bella sua bocca, 
 
 Colla bella se ne v^, Fidelin. 
 
 Anonymous, Popular Venetian Somj. 
 
 Sun" bv Mrs. Russell Sturgis at Macao. 
 
 I 
 
 THE DISASTER. 
 
 He wandered through the briery woods. 
 
 And through the tangled fern, 
 And tore his must n't mention 'ems, 
 
 And had to put on hern. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 This reminds me of a party of young Boston men who in their city clothes 
 were taken through the Blue Hill briers after quail. Retaining home, one 
 of them disappeared and was found in the stable mending his torn garment, 
 being too modest to ask any one to do it for him. His name was N. H. or 
 G. R. M.
 
 HOME BY THE SEA. 241 
 
 HOME BY THE SEA. 
 
 Oh, give me a home by the sea, 
 
 Where the white waves are crested with foam, 
 Where the shrill winds are carolling free, 
 
 As o'er the wild waters I roam. 
 For I '11 list to ocean's wild roar 
 And join in its stormiest glee. 
 Nor ask in the wide world for more 
 Than a home by the deep rolling sea, 
 A home, a home, 
 A home by the deep rolling sea, 
 
 A home, a home, 
 A home by the deep rolling sea. 
 
 At morn, when the sun from the east 
 
 Comes mantled with purple and gold, 
 Whose hues on the billows are cast. 
 
 Which sparkle with splendor untold, 
 Oh, then, by the shore would I stray. 
 
 And roam as the halcyon, free. 
 From envy and care far away, 
 
 In my home l)y the deep rolling sea, 
 A home, a home, &c. 
 
 At eve, when the moon in her pride 
 Eides queen of the soft summer night. 
 
 And gleams on the murmuring tide, 
 With floods of her silvery light, 
 
 Oh, earth has no beauty so rare, 
 No place that is dearer to me ; 
 16
 
 242 YE BAXKS AXD BRAES 0' BONNIE DOON. 
 
 Then give me, so free and so fair, 
 
 A home by the deep rolling sea, 
 
 A home, a home, &c. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 Sung by S. J. on the " Rambler," in a gale of wind, holding on to the shrouds 
 the little yacht under close reefs. 
 
 YE BANKS AND BEAES 0' BONNIE DOON. 
 
 Tune : " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight." 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 
 How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ? 
 
 How can ye chant, ye little birds. 
 An' I sae weary, fu' o' care ? 
 
 Thou 'It break my heart, thou warbling bird, 
 That wantons thro' the flowering thorn ; 
 
 Thou minds me o' departed joys, — 
 Departed, never to return. 
 
 Thou 'It break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 
 
 That sings beside thy mate ; 
 For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 
 
 And wistna o' my fate. 
 
 Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, 
 
 To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 
 
 And ilka bird sang o' its love. 
 And fondly sae did I o' mine. 
 
 AVi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
 
 Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree ; 
 
 And my fause luver stole my rose. 
 
 But, ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
 
 Burns. 
 M. P. F. 
 
 i
 
 BRIGNALL BANKS. 243 
 
 BEIGNALL BANKS. 
 
 Oh, Brignall bank.s f\ro wild and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green, 
 And you may gather garlands there, 
 
 Would grace a summer queen. 
 And as I rode by Dalton Hall, 
 
 Beneath the turrets high, 
 A maiden on the castle wall 
 
 Was singing merrily, — 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " Oh, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I 'd rather rove with Edmund there, 
 
 Than reign our English queen." 
 
 " If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 
 
 To leave both tower and town, 
 Thou first must guess what life lead we, 
 
 That dwell by dale and down ? 
 And if thou canst that riddle read. 
 
 As read full well you may. 
 Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed. 
 
 As blithe as Queen of May." 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 
 
 And Greta woods are green ; 
 I 'd rather rove with Edmund there 
 
 Than reign our English queen."
 
 244 . BRIGNALL BANKS. 
 
 " With burnished brand and musketoon 
 
 So gallantly yon come, 
 I read you for a bold Dragoon, 
 
 That lists the tuck of drum." — 
 " I list no more the tuck of drum, 
 
 No more the trumpet hear ; 
 But when the beetle sounds his hum. 
 
 My comrades take the spear. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 "And, oh, though Brignall banks be fair. 
 
 And Greta woods be gay, 
 Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
 
 Would reign my Queen of May. 
 
 " Maiden, a nameless life I lead, 
 
 A nameless death I '11 die ; 
 The fiend whose lantern lights the mead, 
 
 Were better mate than I. 
 And when I 'm with my comrades met. 
 
 Beneath the greenwood bough, 
 Wliat once we were we all forget, 
 
 Nor think what we are now. 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 " Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 
 And Greta woods are green, * 
 
 And you may gather garlands there 
 Would grace a summer queen." 
 
 Scott, Rokeby. 
 A favorite of il. P. F,
 
 WHILE THEE 1 SEEK. 245 
 
 THE BLUE JUNIATA. 
 
 Wild roved an Indian girl, bright Alfarata, 
 Wliere sweep the waters of the blue Juniata ; 
 
 Swift as an antelope, through the forest going. 
 
 Loose were her jetty locks, in wavy tresses flowing. 
 
 Gay was the mountain song of bright Alfarata, 
 Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata : 
 
 " Strong and true my arrows are, in my painted quiver ; 
 Swift goes my light canoe adown the rapid river." 
 
 So sang the Indian girl, bright Alfarata, 
 
 Where sweep the waters of the blue Juniata. 
 
 Fleeting years have borne away the voice of Alfarata ; 
 Still sweeps the river on, the blue Juniata. 
 
 Mrs. M. D. Sullivan. 
 
 WHILE THEE I SEEK. 
 
 While thee I seek, protecting Power! 
 
 Be my vain wishes stilled ; 
 And may this consecrated hour 
 
 With better hopes be filled. 
 
 Thy love the powers of thought bestowed ; 
 
 To thee my thoughts would soar ; 
 Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed. 
 
 That mercy I adore !. 
 
 In each event of life, how clear 
 
 Thy ruling hand I see ! 
 Each blessing to my soul more dear, 
 
 Because conferred by thee.
 
 246 FREEDOM OF THE MIND. 
 
 In every joy that crowns my days. 
 
 In every pain I bear, 
 My heart shall find delight hi praise. 
 
 Or seek relief in prayer. 
 
 When gladness wings my favored hour, 
 Thy love my thoughts shall fill ; 
 
 Eesigned when storms of sorrow lower, 
 My soul shall meet thy will. 
 
 My lifted eye without a tear 
 The gathering storm shall see ; 
 
 My steadfast heart shall know no fear ; 
 That heart shall rest on thee ! 
 
 H. M. Williams. 
 
 FREEDOM OF THE MIND. 
 
 High walls and huge the hody may confine. 
 
 And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze. 
 And massive bolts may baffle his design, 
 
 And vigilant keepers watch his devious ways ; 
 Yet scorns th' immortal mind this base control ! 
 
 No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose : 
 Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole, 
 
 And, in a flash, from earth to heaven it goes ! 
 It leaps from mount to mount, — from vale to vale 
 
 It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers ; 
 It visits home, to hear the fireside tale. 
 
 Or in sweet converse pass the joyous hours : 
 'T is up before the sun, roaming afar. 
 
 And, in its watches, wearies every star ! 
 
 William Lloyd Garrison. 
 Baltimore Jail, 1830. 
 
 I
 
 SHAKSPEAliE'S EPITAPH. 247 
 
 TELL HER I'LL LOVE HER. 
 
 Tell her I '11 love her while the clouds drop ram, 
 
 Or while there 's water in the pathless main ; 
 
 Tell her I '11 love her till this life is o'er, 
 
 And then my ghost shall visit this sweet shore,— 
 
 Tell her I '11 love her till this life is o'er, 
 
 And then my ghost shall visit this sweet shore. 
 
 Tell her I only ask she '11 think of me, 
 1 '11 love her while there 's salt within the sea ; 
 Tell her all this, tell it, tell it o'er and o'er, 
 I '11 love her while there 's salt within the sea ; 
 Tell her all this, tell it, tell it o'er and o'er : 
 The anchor 's weiyhed, or I would tell her more. 
 
 SHAKSPEARE'S EPITAPH. 
 
 Good frend for Jesus' sake forbeare 
 To digg the dust enclosed heare ; 
 Bleste be ye man yt spares these stones. 
 And curst be he yt moves my bones. 
 
 Attributed to Shakspeare.
 
 248 HOME. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 No, it is not a poet's dream. 
 
 It does not live in thought alone ; 
 
 For here, by Housatonic's stream. 
 Home, as she wrote of it, is known. 
 
 Here, where round every rock and peak 
 Clings some tradition dim and hoary, 
 
 And every valley seems to speak 
 
 Of the lost Indian's pride and glory ; 
 
 Where the pure mists long linger nigh, 
 Like guardian Naiads to the rills, 
 
 And the vast shades flit silently. 
 As giant spectres, o'er the hills ; 
 
 Where neither slaves nor nobles bend. 
 But all in love aid one another ; 
 
 Where every stranger is a friend. 
 And every honest man a brother ; 
 
 Where all gives proof of woman's power, 
 The might of nature, not of art ; 
 
 And day by day, and hour by hour. 
 Heart clingeth closer still to heart. 
 
 Here is a home, a home in truth, — 
 One that can chase away the ills 
 
 Of age, and lend new joy to youth ; 
 A holy home among the hills.
 
 LETTER OF FRANKLIN TO MR. STRAHAN. 249 
 
 Here may we see a stronger bond 
 
 Than interest, ambition, pelf, 
 Which, reaching to the world beyond, 
 
 Still makes a world within itself. 
 
 For though to few the power is given 
 
 To guide, to govern, or to move. 
 Yet unto each all-bounteous Heaven 
 
 Holds out the Godlike power to love. 
 
 Long may that flame within us burn. 
 As here each bounding heart it lills, 
 
 Although we never should return 
 To this sweet home among the hills. 
 
 James Handasyd Perkins. 
 
 Stockbridge, August, 1836. Written on hearing some one say that there 
 were no such homes as Catherine M. Sedgwick describes in her "Home." 
 
 A LETTER OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN TO 
 MR. STRAHAN. 
 
 Philadelphia, July 5, 1775. 
 
 Mr. Strahan, — You are a Member of Parliament, and one 
 of that majority which has doomed my Country to Destruction. 
 You have begun to burn our towns and murder our people. 
 Look upon your hands! they are stained with the blood of 
 your relations ! You and I were long friends ; you are now my 
 Enemy, and I am 
 
 Yours, B. Franklin.
 
 250 SPIRITii WHICH HOVER ROUND. 
 
 SPTEITS WHICH HOVER ROUND. 
 
 Spirits which hover round me, ye whose wings 
 
 Beat back the tempter, whose sweet presence brings 
 
 Calm, gentle feelings, wishes pure and kind, 
 
 An eye for all God's beauty, and a mind 
 
 Open to all his voices, — still be nigh 
 
 When the great mystery his broad shadow flings 
 
 Over earth's firmest visions, till they fly 
 
 Like shadows of the night, and teach me how to die ! 
 
 When my breath faileth as the summer air 
 Dieth at evening ; when my heart, whose care 
 Jesus hath lightened, throbs, stops, throbs again. 
 Then, slowly sinking, ceases without pain 
 Its noiseless, voiceless labors, — still be nigh. 
 Let not the ghastly form of Death be there ; 
 But to my clouded, yet clear-seeing eye. 
 Reveal your forms of light and make me love to die. 
 
 The pinions of the dark and dreaded one 
 Shall not then fan my temples ; when 't is done, 
 This hard-fought fight, your fingers shall untie 
 My earthward l)onds, your voices silently 
 Whisper, " Come home, your life is but begun ; " 
 And in your arms borne upward, far on high. 
 With mind and heart grown to heavei^s harmony, 
 I shall know all, love all, and find 't is life to die. 
 
 Anonyhous. 
 
 Copied by E. P. F.
 
 MR. WEDDERBURN ON FRANKLIN. 251 
 
 GAYLY THE TEOUBADOUR 
 
 Gayly the Troubadour touched his guitar, 
 When he was hastening home from the war ; 
 SinCTinw, " From Palestine hither I come. 
 Ladye Love ! Ladye Love ! welcome me home." 
 
 She for the Troubadour hopelessly wept, 
 Sadly she thought of him when others slept ; 
 Singing, " In search of thee would I might roam ! 
 Troubadour ! Troubadour ! come to thy home." 
 
 Hark ! 't was the troubadour breathing her name, 
 Under the battlement softly he came ; 
 Singing, " From Palestine hither I come. 
 Ladye Love ! Ladye Love ! welcome me home." 
 
 T. H. Bayly. 
 
 MR. WEDDERBURN ON ERANKLIN.i 
 
 . . . Here is a man who, with the utmost insensibility of 
 remorse, stands up and avows himself the author of all. I can 
 compare it only to Zanga in Dr. Young's " Revenge," — 
 
 " Know then 't was I ; 
 I forged tlie letter, I disposed the picture ; 
 I hated, I despised, and I destroy." 
 
 1 Benjamin Franklin, while in England as agent of the Massachusetts Colony, 
 sent home the famous " Hutchinson letters." On learning that a duel had been 
 fought on account of the supposed responsibility of that act, he published a 
 letter stating that he alone was responsible for the letters being transmitted to 
 America. The above extract is from the siieech of Mr. Weddcrburn in the 
 English Trivy Council ; referring to Fraukliu and his avowed connection with 
 that transaction.
 
 252 I'VE BEEN ROAMING. 
 
 MEET ME BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 Meet me by moonlight alone, 
 
 And then I will tell yovi a tale, 
 Must be told by the moonlight alone, 
 
 In the grove at the end of the vale. 
 You must promise to come, for I said 
 
 I would show the night flowers their queen : 
 Nay, turn not away that sweet head ; 
 
 'Tis the loveliest ever was seen ! 
 
 Daylight may do for the gay, 
 
 The thoughtless, the heartless, the free; 
 But there 's something about the moon's ray 
 
 That is sweeter to you and to me : 
 Oh ! remember, be sure to be there, 
 
 For though dearly a moonlight I prize, 
 I care not for all in the air. 
 
 If I want the sweet light of your eyes. 
 
 J. A. Wade. 
 
 I'VE BEEN EOAMINa. 
 
 I 'VE been roaming where the meadow dew is sweet, 
 And I 'm coming with its pearls upon my feet ; 
 I 've been roaming o'er the rose and lily fair. 
 And I 'm coming with their blossoms m my hair. 
 
 I 've been roaming where the honeysuckle creeps, 
 And I 'm coming with its kisses on my lips ; 
 I 've been roaming over hill and over plain. 
 And I 'm coming to my bower back again. 
 
 George Soane.
 
 SHOULD HE UPBRAID. 253 
 
 BEGONE! DULL CAEE. 
 
 Begone ! dull care, 
 I prithee begone from me, 
 
 Begone ! dull care. 
 You and I shall never agree. 
 Long time hast thou been tarrying here, 
 
 And fain thou wouldst me kill. 
 But i' faith, dull care. 
 
 Thou never shalt have thy will. 
 
 Too much care 
 Will make a young man turn gray, 
 
 And too much care 
 Will turn an old man to clay. 
 My wife shall dance and I will sing, 
 
 So merrily pass the day ; 
 For I hold it -one of the wisest things. 
 To drive dull care away. 
 
 Anonymous (seventeenth century). 
 Sung by Dr. Jennison. 
 
 SHOULD HE UPBRAID. 
 
 Should he upbraid, I '11 own that he prevail, 
 And sing as sweetly as the nightingale ; 
 Say that he frown, I '11 say his looks I view 
 As morning roses newly tipped with dew ; 
 Say he be mute, I '11 answer with a smile. 
 And dance, and play, and wrinkled care beguile. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 254 
 
 BID ME DISCOURSE. 
 
 LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 
 
 Air: "Cadul gu lo." 
 
 Oh, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, 
 
 Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright ; 
 
 The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see, 
 
 They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. 
 
 Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
 
 Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 
 
 Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows ; 
 It calls but the warders that guard thy repose. 
 Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red. 
 Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. 
 Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 
 
 Oh, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come 
 
 When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum ; 
 
 Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may. 
 
 For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. 
 
 Oh, ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 
 
 Scott. 
 
 BID ME DISCOURSE. 
 
 Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, 
 
 Or like a fairy trip upon the green ; 
 Or like a nymph, with bright and flowing hair, 
 
 Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. 
 
 Shakspeare, Venus and Adonis.
 
 THE BANKS OF THE BLUE MOSELLE. ' 255 
 
 OH, BID YOUR FAITHFUL ARIEL FLY. 
 
 Oh, bid your faithful Ariel fly- 
 To the farthest Indian sky ! 
 And then, at thy afresh command, 
 I '11 traverse o'er the silver sand, 
 I'll climb the mountains, plunge the deep: 
 I, like mortals, never sleep. 
 
 I '11 do your task, whate'er it be. 
 Not with ill will, but merrily. 
 Oh, bid your faithful Ariel fly 
 To the farthest Indian sky ! 
 And then, at thy afresh command, 
 I '11 traverse o'er the silver sand. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 THE BANKS OF THE BLUE MOSELLE. 
 
 When the glow-worm gilds the elfin flower 
 
 That clings round the ruined shrine 
 Where first we met, where first we loved. 
 
 And I confessed me thine, 
 'T is there I '11 fly to meet thee still. 
 
 At sound of vesper bell. 
 In the starry light of a summer night, 
 
 On the banks of the blue Moselle. 
 
 If the cares of life should shade thy brow, 
 Yes, yes, in our native bowers 
 
 My lute and heart might best accord 
 To tell of happier hours ;
 
 256 TITANIA'S SONG. 
 
 Yes, there I'll soothe thy griefs to rest, 
 
 Each sigh of sorrow quell, 
 In the starry light of a summer night, 
 
 On tlie banks of the blue Moselle. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 TITANIA'S SONG. 
 
 Child of earth with the golden hair, 
 Thy soul 's too pure, and thy face too fair, 
 To dwell with the creatures of mortal mould. 
 Whose lips are warm as their hearts are cold. 
 
 Eoam, roam to our fairy home. 
 
 Child of earth with the golden hair. 
 
 I '11 rob of its sweets the bumblebee, 
 I '11 crush the wine from the cowslip tree, 
 I '11 pull thee berries, I '11 heap thy bed, 
 Of downy moss and the poppies red. 
 Eoam, roam, &c. 
 
 Thou shalt dance with the fairy queen, 
 Through summer nights on the moonlit green. 
 To music murmuring sweeter far 
 Than ever w^as heard 'neath the mornmg's star. 
 Eoam, roam, &c. 
 
 Dim sleep shall woo thee, my darling boy, 
 In her mildest mood with dreams of joy ; 
 And when the morning ends her reign. 
 Pleasure shall bid thee welcome again. 
 Eoam, roam, &c. 
 
 Anonymous.
 
 / REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 257 
 
 FEOM "THE STABILITY OF SCIENCE." 
 
 The feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms, 
 On some tall light-house dash their little forms, 
 And the rude granite scatters for their pains 
 Those small deposits that were mea<it for brains. 
 Yet the proud fabric in the morning's sun 
 Stands all unconscious of the mischief done ; 
 Still the red beacon pours its evening rays 
 For the lost pilot with as full a blaze, 
 Nay, shines, all radiance, o'er the scattered fleet 
 Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet. 
 I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims 
 To call our kind by such ungentle names ; 
 Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare, 
 Think of their doom, ye simple, and beware ! 
 
 0. W. Holmes. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember, 
 
 How my childhood fleeted by, — 
 The mirth of its December, 
 
 And the warmth of its July. 
 On my brow, love, — on my brow, love, 
 
 There are no signs of care ; 
 But my pleasures are not now, love, 
 
 What childhood's pleasures were. 
 17
 
 258 THOU SOFT-FLOWING AVON. 
 
 Then the bowers, then the bowers, 
 
 Were as blithe as blithe could be. 
 And all their radiant flowers, 
 
 Were coronals for me : 
 Gems to-night, love, — gems to-night, love, 
 
 Are gleaming in my hair ; 
 But they are not half so bright, love, 
 
 As childhood's roses were. 
 
 I was singing, I was singing, 
 
 And my songs were idle words ; 
 But from my heart was springing 
 
 Wild music like a bird's : 
 Now I sing, love, — now I sing, love, 
 
 A fine Italian air ; 
 But it 's not so fine a thing, love, 
 
 As childhood's ballads were. 
 
 I was merry, I was merry, 
 
 When my little lovers came. 
 With a lily, or a cherry. 
 
 Or a new invented gaide: 
 Now I've you, love, — now I've you, love, 
 
 To kneel before me there; 
 But you know you 're not so true, love. 
 As childhood's lovers were. 
 
 W. M. Praed. 
 
 THOU SOFT-FLOWING AVON. 
 
 Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream. 
 Of things more than mortal thy Shakspeare w^ould dream ; 
 The fairies by moonlight dance round the green bed, 
 Ft.r liallowed the turf is which pillowed his head.
 
 LOVE'S RITORNELLA. 259 
 
 The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain. 
 Here rove without danger and sigh without pain ; 
 The sweet hud of beauty no bligh^ shall here dread, 
 For hallowed the turf is which pillowed his head. 
 
 Here youth shall be famed for their love and their tinth, 
 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 (tArrtck.. 
 
 LOVE'S RITORNELLA. 
 
 " Gentle Zitella, whither away ? 
 
 Love's Ritornella, list while I play." 
 
 " No ! I have lingered too long on the road, 
 
 Night is advancing, the brigand 's abroad ; 
 
 Lonely Zitella hath too much to fear. 
 
 Love's Ritornella she may not hear." 
 
 " Charming Zitella, why shouldst thou care ? 
 Night is not darker than thy raven hair ; 
 And those bright eyes if the brigand should see, 
 Thou art the robber, the captive is he. 
 Gentle Zitella, banish thy fear : 
 Love's Ritornella tarry and hear." 
 
 Simple Zitella, beware ! oh, beware 1 
 List ye no ditty, grant ye no prayer !
 
 260 SOLDIER, REST! 
 
 To your light footsteps let terror add wings, 
 'T is Massaroni himself who now sings, — 
 " Gentle Zitella, banish thy fear ; 
 Love's Eitornella tarry and hear." 
 
 J. E,. Planchk. 
 
 SOLDIER, REST! 
 
 " Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 
 Dream of battled fields no more, 
 
 Days of danger, nights of waking. 
 In our isle's enchanted hall, 
 
 Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
 Fairy strains of music fall. 
 
 Every sense in slumber dewing. 
 Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
 Dream of fighting fields no more ; 
 Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
 Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 
 
 " No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 
 
 Armor's clang, or war-steed champing, 
 Trump nor pibroch summon here 
 
 Mustering clan, or squadron tramping. 
 Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 
 
 At the daybreak from the fallow, 
 And the bittern sound his drum, 
 
 Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
 Ruder sounds shall none be near ; 
 Gruards nor warders challenge here, 
 Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing. 
 Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping." 
 
 She paused, then blushing led the lay, 
 To grace the stranger of the day ;
 
 LEEZIE LINDSAY. 261 
 
 Her mellow notes awhile prolong 
 The cadence of the flowhig song, 
 Till to her lips, in measured frame, 
 The minstrel verse spontaneous came. 
 
 " Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
 
 While our slumbrous spells assail ye, 
 Dream not, with the rising sun, 
 
 Bugles here shall sound reveille. 
 Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 
 
 Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying, — 
 Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen 
 
 How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
 Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done ; 
 Think not of the rising sun. 
 For at dawning to assail ye. 
 Here no bugles sound reveille." 
 
 Scott, Lcuhj of the ImIu. 
 Repeated with great effect by W. S. at Swan Island. 
 
 LEEZIE LINDSAY. 
 
 " Will ye gang to the Hielans, Leezie Lindsay ? 
 
 Will ye gang to the Hielans wi' me ? 
 Will ye gang to the Hielans, Leezie Lindsay, 
 
 My bride and my darling to be ? " 
 
 " To gang to the Hielans wi' you, sir, 
 
 I dinna ken how that may be ; 
 For I ken na the Ian' that ye live in, 
 
 Nor ken I the lad I 'm gaun wi' ! " 
 
 " 0, Leezie lass, ye maun ken little 
 If sae be that ye dinna ken me !
 
 262 LIVI-: WITH MK AND BE MY LOVE. 
 
 My name is Lord Eoiiald Mac Donald, 
 A chieftain o' liigli degree." 
 
 Slie has kilted her coats o' green satin, 
 
 She has kilted them up to the knee, 
 
 And she 's aff wi' Lord Eonald Mac Donald, 
 
 His bride an' his darlin' to be. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 Sung by Mrs. Long and by Mr. Angieu. 
 
 LIVE WITH ME AND BE MY LOVE. 
 
 Come live with me and be my love, 
 And we will all the pleasures prove 
 That hills and valleys, dales and fields, 
 And all the craggy mountains yields. 
 There will we sit upon the rocks, 
 And see the shepherds feed their flocks 
 By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
 Melodious birds sing madrigals. 
 And will I make thee beds of roses. 
 With a thousand fragrant posies ; 
 A cap of flowers, and a kirtle 
 Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. 
 A gown made of the finest wool. 
 Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; 
 Slippers lined choicely for the cold, 
 With buckles of the purest gold. 
 A belt of straw and ivy buds, 
 With coral clasps and amber studs. 
 The shepherd swains shall dance and sing 
 For thy delight, each May morning ; 
 And if these pleasures may thee move. 
 Then live with me and be my love. 
 
 Christopher Marlowe.
 
 THE LARK. 263 
 
 THE MINSTEEL'S REQUEST. 
 
 SuMiMEii eve is goMe and past, 
 Summer dew is falling fast : 
 I have wandered all the day, 
 Do not bid me farther stray : 
 Gentle hearts of gentle kin, 
 Take the wandering harper in. 
 
 I have song of war for knight, 
 Lay of love for lady bright, 
 Fairy tale to lull the heir, 
 Goblin grim the maids to scare : 
 Dark the night, and long till day. 
 Do not bid me farther stray. 
 
 Ancient lords had fair regard 
 For the harp and for the bard : 
 Baron's race throve never well 
 Where the curse of minstrel fell ; 
 If you love your noble kin, 
 Take the weary harper in. 
 
 Scott, Rokeby. 
 
 THE LAEK. 
 
 Bird of the wilderness. 
 Blithesome and cumberless. 
 
 Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea ! 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 
 
 Oh, to abide in the desert with thee !
 
 264 YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Wild is thy lay, and loud. 
 Far ill the downy cloud, 
 Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
 Where, on thy dewy wing, 
 Where art thou journeying ? 
 ' Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on eartk 
 
 O'er fell and fountain sheen. 
 
 O'er moor and mountain green. 
 O'er the red streamer that heralds the day ; 
 
 Over the cloudlet dim. 
 
 Over the rainbow's rim, 
 Musical cherub, soar, singing, away ! 
 
 Then, when the gloaming comes, 
 
 Low in the heather blooms 
 Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be. 
 
 Emblem of happiness. 
 
 Blest is thy dwelling-place, — 
 Oh, to abide in the desert with thee ! 
 
 Jamks Ho«g. 
 
 YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 
 
 Ye gentlemen of England, 
 
 That live at home at ease. 
 Ah, little do you think upon 
 
 The dangers of the seas ! 
 Give ear unto the mariners, 
 
 And they will plainly show 
 All the cares and the fears 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 All you that will be seamen 
 Must bear a valiant heart,
 
 YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND. 265 
 
 For when you come upon the seas, 
 
 You must not think to start : 
 Nor once to Ije faint-hearted, 
 
 In rain, hail, blow, or snow, 
 Nor to think for to sVirink 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 The lawyer and the usurer. 
 
 That sit in gowns of fur, 
 In closets warm can take no harm, — 
 
 Abroad they need not stir : 
 When winter fierce with cold doth pierce, 
 
 And beats with hail and snow. 
 We are sure to endure, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Then courage, all brave mariners, 
 
 And never be dismayed, — 
 Whilst we have bold adventurers. 
 
 We ne'er shall want a trade : 
 Our merchants will employ us 
 
 To fetch them wealth, I know ; 
 Then be bold, — work for gold. 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Wlien tempests are blown over, 
 
 And greatest fears are past, 
 In weather fair, and temperate air, 
 
 We straight lie down to rest ; 
 But when the billows tumble. 
 
 And waves do furious grow, 
 Then we rouse, up we rouse, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow.
 
 266 THE DASHING WHITE SERGEANT. 
 
 When we return in safety, 
 
 With wages for our pains, 
 The tapster and the vintner 
 
 Will help to share our gains : 
 We '11 call for liquor roundly, 
 
 And pay before we go; 
 Then we '11 roar on the shore, 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 Martyx Parker. 
 1 heard this sung by Admiral Goldsboro' when he was a Lieutenant. 
 
 THE DASHING WHITE SEEGEANT. 
 
 If I had a beau. 
 
 For a soldier who 'd go. 
 
 Do you think I 'd say no ? 
 No, no, not I. 
 
 When his red coat I saw, 
 
 Not a tear would it draw ; 
 But I 'd give him edat for his bravery ! 
 If an army of Amazons e'er came in play, 
 As a dashing white sergeant I 'd march away. 
 
 When my soldier is gone, 
 
 Do you think I 'd take on. 
 
 Or sit moping forlorn ? 
 No, no, not I. 
 
 His fame my concern, 
 
 How my bosom would burn. 
 When I saw him return crowned with victory ! 
 If an army of Amazons e'er came in play, 
 As a dashing white sergeant I 'd march away. 
 
 General Burgoym':
 
 TOM BOWLING. 
 
 TOM BOWLING. 
 
 Here, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, 
 
 The darling of our crew ; 
 No more he '11 hear the tempest howling, 
 
 For death has broached him to. 
 His form was of the manliest beauty, 
 
 His heart was kind and soft ; 
 Faithful below he did his duty, 
 
 lint now he 's gone aloft. 
 
 Tom never from his word departed. 
 
 His virtues were so rare ; 
 His friends were many and true-hearted. 
 
 His Poll was kind and fair. 
 And then he 'd sing so blithe and jolly, — 
 
 Ah, many 's the time and oft ! 
 But mirth is turned to melancholy. 
 
 For Tom is gone aloft. 
 
 Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, 
 
 When He, who all commands, 
 Sliall give, to call life's crew together. 
 
 The word to pipe all hands. 
 Thus Death, who. kings and tars despatches, 
 
 In vain Tom's life has doffed ; 
 For, though his body 's under hatclies, 
 
 His soul has gone aloft. 
 
 Charles Dibdin. 
 
 I reuiember J. Howard, of Springfield, singing this.
 
 26S THE TWINS. 
 
 THE TWINS. 
 
 In form and feature, face and limb, 
 
 I grew so like my brother, 
 That folks got taking me for him, 
 
 And each for one another. 
 It puzzled all our kith and kin, 
 
 It reached a fearful pitch ; 
 For one of us was born a twin, 
 
 And not a soul knew which. 
 
 One day, to make the matter worse. 
 
 Before our names were fixed, 
 As we were being washed by nurse, 
 
 We got completely mixed ; 
 And thus, you see, by fate's decree, 
 
 Or rather nurse's whim. 
 My brother John got christened me. 
 
 And I got christened him. 
 
 This fatal likeness ever dogged 
 
 My footsteps when at school ; 
 And I was always getting flogged. 
 
 When John turned out a fool. 
 I put this question, fruitlessly. 
 
 To every one I knew : 
 " What would you do, if you were me, 
 
 To prove that you were you ? " 
 
 Our close resemblance turned the tide 
 
 Of my domestic life, 
 For somehow my intended bride 
 
 Became my brother's wife.
 
 SIGH NO MORE, LADIES. 269 
 
 In fact, year after year the same 
 
 Absurd mistakes went on ; 
 And when I died, the neighbors came 
 
 And buried brother John. 
 
 Henry S. Leigh. 
 
 One of Malcolm's songs, associated with the intense enjoyment of Mr. Emku- 
 S(iN. who could never laugh long enough over it. 
 
 CEABBED AGE AND YOUTH. 
 
 Crabbed age and youth cannot live together : 
 
 Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care ; 
 
 Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather ; 
 
 Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare ; 
 
 Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short ; 
 
 Youth is nimble, age is lame ; 
 
 Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold ; 
 
 Youth is wild, and age is tame. 
 
 Age, I do abhor thee ; youth, I do adore thee. 
 
 Oh, my love, my love is young ! 
 
 Age, I do defy thee. Oh, sweet shepherd, hie thee, 
 
 For methinks thou stay'st too long. 
 
 Shakspeare, Passionate Pilgnm. 
 
 SIGH NO MORE, LADIES. 
 
 Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more : 
 
 Men were deceivers ever. 
 One foot in sea, and one on shore ; 
 To one thing constant never. 
 
 Shakspeare, 
 Much Ado about Nothiiuj.
 
 270 THE SOLDIER TIRED OF WAR'S ALARMS. 
 
 THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN'. 
 
 (Traditioiiiil.) 
 
 The Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! 
 
 The Campbells are comin' to boniiie Lochleven ; 
 
 The Campbells are comm', oho, oho ! 
 
 Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay, 
 
 I looked down to bonnie Loclileven, 
 
 And saw three bonnie perches play. 
 
 Great Argyle, he goes before ; 
 He makes the cannons and guns to roar. 
 Wi' sound o' trumpet, pipe, and drum, 
 The Campbells are comin', oho, oho ! 
 The Campbells are comin', &c. 
 
 The Campbells they are a' in arms. 
 Their loyal faith and truth to show ; 
 Wi' banners rattlin' in the wind. 
 The Campbells are comin' oho, oho ! 
 The Campbells are comin', &c. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 A nursery song which the grandchildren will all recognize. 
 
 THE SOLDIEE TIRED OF WAR'S ALARMS. 
 
 The soldier tired of war's alarms 
 Forswears the clang of hostile arms, 
 
 And scorns the spear and shield ; 
 But if the brazen trumpet sound. 
 He burns with conquest to be crowned, 
 
 And dares again the field. 
 
 ANONYMO08.
 
 THE PARISH PRIEST TO HIS SUCCESSO/!. 271 
 
 REQUIEM FOR A YOUNG SOLDIER. 
 
 Bkeathe, trumpets, breathe slow notes of saddest wailing ; 
 
 Sadly responsive peal, ye muffled drums! 
 Comrades, with downcast eyes and banners trailing, 
 
 Attend him home, — the youtliful warrior comes. 
 
 Upon his shield, upon his shield returning. 
 Borne from the field of honor where he fell, 
 
 Glory and Grief, together clasped in mourning, 
 His fame, his fate, with sobs exulting tell. 
 
 Wrap round his breast the flag his breast defended. 
 His country's flag, in battle's front enrolled : 
 
 For it he died ; on earth forever ended, 
 
 His brave young life lives in each sacred fold. 
 
 With proud, fond tears, by tinge of shame untainted, 
 
 Bear him, and lay him gently in his grave ; 
 Above the hero write, — the young balf-sainted, — 
 " His country asked his life ; his life he gave." 
 
 George Lunt. 
 Referring to Captain Shurtleff. 
 
 THE PARISH PRIEST TO HIS SUCCESSOR. 
 
 If thou dost find 
 
 A house built to thy mind 
 
 Without thy cost, 
 Serve thou the more 
 God and the poor ; 
 
 My labor is not lost. 
 
 Hf.rbkrt.
 
 272 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 THE SOLDIER'S DREAM. 
 
 Our bugles sang truce ; for the night-cloud had lowered, 
 And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky, 
 
 And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, — 
 The wcEiry to sleep, and the wounded to die. 
 
 When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, 
 By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain. 
 
 At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, 
 And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 
 
 Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
 Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track : 
 
 'T was autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 
 To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 
 
 I flew to the pleasant fields, traversed so oft 
 
 In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; 
 
 I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft. 
 
 And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 
 
 Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
 
 From my home and my weeping friends never to part ; 
 
 My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er. 
 And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart. 
 
 "Stay, stay with us, — rest; thou art weary and worn." 
 And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ; 
 
 But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, 
 And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 
 
 Campbell,
 
 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 273 
 
 INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. 
 
 You know, we French stormed Eatisbon : 
 
 A mile or so away, 
 On a little mound. Napoleon 
 
 Stood on our storming-day ; 
 With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
 
 Legs wide, arms locked behind. 
 As if to balance the prone brow, 
 
 Oppressive with its mind. 
 
 Just as perhaps he mused, " My plans, 
 
 That soar, to earth may fall. 
 Let once my army-leader, Lannes, 
 
 Waver at yonder wall," — 
 Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there tiew 
 
 A rider, bound on bound 
 Full-galloping ; nor bridle drew 
 
 Until he reached the mound. 
 
 Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
 
 And held himself erect 
 By just his horse's mane, a boy : 
 
 You hardly could suspect 
 (So tight he kept his lips compressed. 
 
 Scarce any blood came through). 
 You looked twice ere you saw his breast 
 
 Was all but shot in two. 
 
 " Well," cried he, " Emperor, by God's grace 
 
 We 've got you Eatisbon ! 
 The Marshal 's in the market-place, 
 
 And you '11 be there anon 
 
 18
 
 274 HYMNE DES MARSEILLAIS. 
 
 To see your flag-bird flap his vans 
 
 Where I, to heart's desire, 
 Perched him ! " The chief's eye flashed ; his plans 
 
 Soared up again like fire. 
 
 The chief's eye flashed, but presently 
 
 Softened itself, as sheathes 
 A film the mother-eagle's eye 
 
 When her bruised eaglet breathes : 
 " You 're wounded ! " " Nay," the soldier's pride 
 
 Touched to the quick, he said ; 
 " I 'm killed, Sire ! " And, his chief beside. 
 
 Smiling, the boy fell dead. 
 
 Robert Browning. 
 
 HYMNE DES MAESEILLAIS. 
 
 Allons, enfans de la patrie, 
 
 Le jour de gloire est arrive. 
 
 Contre nous de la tyrannic 
 
 L'etendard sanglant est leve, 
 
 L'etendard sanglant est leve. 
 
 Entendez-vous dans les campagnes 
 
 Mugir ces f eroces soldats ? 
 
 lis viennent jusque dans vos bras 
 
 Egorger vos fils, vos compagnes. 
 Aux armes, citoyens ! formez vos bataillons : 
 Marchez ! marchez ! — qu'un sang impur abreu^'e nos sillons. 
 
 Que veut cette horde d'esclaves, 
 De traitres, de rois conjures ? 
 Pour qui ces ignobles entraves, 
 Ces fers, des longtemps prepares ?
 
 IIYMXE DES MARSEILLAIS. 275 
 
 Franc^ais — pour nous, ah, (j^uel outrage ! 
 Quel transports il doit exciter ! 
 C'est nous qu'on ose menacer 
 De rendre a I'antique esclavage. 
 Aux armes, &c. 
 
 Quoi ! des cohortes etrangeres 
 Feraient la loi dans nos foyers ? 
 Quoi ! ces phalanges inercenaires 
 Terrasseraient nos fiers guerriers, 
 Grand Dieu ! par des mains enchainees, 
 Nos fronts sous le joug se ploieraient, 
 De vils despotes deviendraient, 
 Les maitres de nos destinees. 
 Aux amies, &c. 
 
 Tremblez, tyrans ! et vous, perfides, 
 L'opprobre de tons les partis ; 
 Tremblez ! vos projets parricides 
 Vont enfin recevoir leur prix. 
 Tout est soldat pour vous combattre ; 
 S'ils tombent, nos jeunes heros. 
 La France en produit de nouveaux 
 Contre vous tons prets k se battre. 
 Aux armes, &c. 
 
 Franqais, en guerriers magnamines, 
 Portez ou retenez vos coups ; 
 lilpargnez ces tristes victimes 
 A regret s'armant contre nous ; 
 Mais le despote sanguinaire, 
 Mais les complices de Bouilh' — 
 Tous ces tigres qui, sans pitie, 
 Dcchirent le sein de leur mere ! 
 Aux armes, &c.
 
 276 MOURIR POUR LA PA TRIE. 
 
 Amour sacrc de la patrie, 
 
 Conduis, soutieus uos bras vengeurs! 
 
 Libert >', Libertc cherie, 
 
 Combats avec tes defenseurs ! 
 
 Sous nos drapeaux que la victoire 
 
 Accoure k tes males accens ; 
 
 Que tes ennemis expirans 
 
 Voient ton triomphe et notre gloire ! 
 
 Aux amies, citoyens! formez vos bataillons : 
 
 Marchez ! marchez ! — qu'un sang impur abreuve nos sillons. 
 
 EoDGET DE Lisle. 
 Sung by W. M. H. 
 
 MOUEIR POUR LA PATRIE. 
 
 Par la voix du canon d'alarme. 
 
 La France appelle ses enfants ; 
 Allons, dit le soldat, aux armes ; 
 
 C'est ma mere, je la defends. 
 C'est le sort le plus beau, 
 
 Le plus digne d'envie, 
 C'est le sort le plus beau, 
 
 Le plus digne d'envie. 
 
 Nos amis qui loins des batailles 
 
 Succombent dans I'obscurit^ ; 
 Voyons du moins nos funerailles, 
 
 A la France sa liberte, 
 Mourir pour la patrie. 
 C'est le sort le plus beau, 
 
 Le plus digne d'envie, 
 C'est le sort le plus beau, 
 
 Le plus digne d'envie. 
 
 Alexandre Dumas. 
 Sung by W. M. H.
 
 RULE, BRITANNIA. 211 
 
 RULE, BRITANNIA. 
 
 When Britain first, at Heaven's command, 
 
 Arose from out the azure main. 
 This was the charter of the land. 
 
 And guardian angels sung this strain : 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 The nations not so blest as thee 
 
 Must in their turns to tyrants fall ; 
 While thou shalt flourish, great and free, 
 The dread and envy of them all : 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 Still more majestic shalt thou rise, 
 
 More dreadful from each foreign stroke : 
 As the loud blast that tears the skies 
 Serves but to root thy native oak. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves, 
 
 Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame : 
 All their attempts to bend thee down 
 Will but arouse thy generous flame, 
 But work their woe and thy renown. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 To thee belongs the rural reign ; 
 
 Thy cities shall with commerce shine ;
 
 278 BALAKLAVA. 
 
 All thine shall be the subject main, 
 And every shore it cu-cles, thine, 
 liule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 The Muses, still with Freedom found, 
 Shall to thy happy coast repair ; 
 Blest isle ! with matchless beauty crowned. 
 And manly hearts to guard the fair. 
 Rule, Britannia, rule the waves ; 
 Britons never will be slaves. 
 
 James Thomson. 
 
 BALAKLAVA. 
 
 They gave the fatal order, — Charge ! 
 And so the Light Brigade went down, 
 Where bristluig brows of cannon crown 
 The front of either marge. 
 
 Traced all in fire we saw our way, 
 And the black goal of death beyond, — • 
 It was no moment to despond, 
 To question, or to pray. 
 
 Firm in the saddle, stout of heart, 
 With plume and sabre waving high, 
 Witli gathering stride and onward cry. 
 The Band was swift to start. 
 
 They took the field with solemn eye ; 
 However wild the deed they knew, 
 However who so bade should rue, 
 Their business was, to die.
 
 BALAKLAVA. 279 
 
 'T was the old gallant English blood ; 
 And many a shadowy ancestor, 
 Guarding his sculptured arms afar, 
 That day in memory stood. 
 
 At serried gallop on they press, 
 Swerveless as pencilled lines of light ; . 
 And where a steed turns back in fright, 
 That steed is riderless. 
 
 They charge in high, immortal ire ; 
 The war-cloud swallowed them, the young, 
 The brave, — a handful widely flung, 
 But of heroic fire. 
 
 They fell, unconquered, nor in vain, — 
 No, by the sacrificial cost 
 Of Faith and Courage, never lost, 
 Theirs doth the day remain. 
 
 Eeft heart of love, contain thy wound ! 
 Flash, eyes, though lips press close and pale ! 
 Still, mourners ! let us hear no wail 
 Above the trumpet's sound. 
 
 Nor wait the sire to weep the son 
 That bore his fortune and his pride ; 
 Nor shall the mother's wish divide 
 From these, her cherished one. 
 
 But tearful England holds her breath. 
 
 Listening, uncomforted, their fame 
 
 Who, in the greatness of her name, 
 
 Kode glorious unto death. 
 
 Mrs. Howe. 
 
 I have always considered this much better than Tennyson's •' Balaklavn."
 
 280 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 
 
 THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
 AT BALAKLAVA. 
 
 ! 
 
 Half a league, half a league, 
 
 Half a league onward, j 
 
 All in the valley of Death l 
 
 Rode the six hundred. ' 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! | 
 
 " Charge for the guns ! " he said : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 " Forward, the Light Brigade ! " 
 "Was there a man dismayed ? 
 Not though the soldier knew 
 
 Some one had blundered : 
 Theirs not to make reply. 
 Theirs not to reason why, 
 Theirs but to do and die : 
 Into the valley of Death 
 
 Rode the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them. 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 Cannon in front of them. 
 
 Volleyed and thundered; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell, 
 Boldly they rode and well ; 
 Into the jaws of Death, 
 Into the mouth of Hell, 
 
 Rode the six hundred.
 
 CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE. 281 
 
 Flashed all theii* sabres bare, 
 Flashed as they turned ui air, 
 Sabring the gunners there, 
 Charging an army, while 
 
 All the world wondered : 
 Plunged in the battery-smoke. 
 Right through the line they broke ; 
 Cossack and Russian 
 Reeled from the sabre-stroke, 
 
 Shattered and sundered. 
 Then they rode back, but not — 
 
 Not the six hundred. 
 
 Cannon to right of them, 
 
 Cannon to left of them, 
 
 Cannon behind them, * 
 
 Volleyed and thundered ; 
 Stormed at with shot and shell. 
 While horse and hero fell. 
 They that had fought so well 
 Came through the jaws of Death 
 Back from the mouth of Hell, — - 
 All that was left of them. 
 
 Left of six hundred. 
 
 Wlien can their glory fade ? 
 Oh the wild charge they made ! 
 
 All the world wondered. 
 Honor the charge they made ! 
 Honor the Lis;ht Brio^ade, 
 
 Noble six hundred ! 
 
 Tennyson.
 
 282 THE WATCH ON THE RHINE. 
 
 THE WATCH ON THE EHINE. 
 
 A EOAR like thunder strikes the ear 
 
 Like clang of arms or breakers near. 
 
 Eush forward for the German Ehine ! 
 
 Who shields thee, dear beloved Ehine ? 
 Dear Fatherland, thou need'st not fear, 
 Thy Ehineland watch stands tirndy here. 
 
 A hundred thousand hearts beat high, 
 The flash darts forth from every eye ; 
 For Teutons brave, inured by toil. 
 Protect their country's holy soil. 
 Dear Fatherland, &c. 
 
 When heavenward ascends the eye, 
 Our heroes' ghosts look down from high ; 
 We swear to guard our dear bequest, 
 And shield it with the German breast. 
 Dear Fatherland, &c. 
 
 As long as German blood still glows, 
 The German sword strikes mighty blows, 
 And German marksmen take their stand. 
 No foe shall tread our native land. 
 Dear Fatherland, &c. 
 
 We take the pledge. The stream runs high. 
 
 Our banners proud are wafting high. 
 
 On for the Ehine, the German Ehine ! 
 
 We all die for our native Ehine. 
 
 Hence, Fatherland, be of good cheer," 
 Thy Ehineland watch stands firmly here. 
 
 Max Schueckenburger.
 
 HAIL, COLUMBIA! 283 
 
 HAIL, COLUMBIA! 
 
 Hail, Columbia ! happy land ! 
 Hail, ye heroes ! heaveu-born band, 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause. 
 Who fought and bled in Freedom's cause. 
 And when the storm of war was gone, 
 Enjoyed the paice your valor won. 
 Let independence be our boast, 
 Ever mindful what it cost ; 
 Ever grateful for the prize. 
 Let its altar reach the skies. 
 
 Firm, united, let us be, 
 
 Rallying round our Liberty ; 
 
 As a band of brothers joined. 
 
 Peace and safety we shall find. 
 
 Immortal Patriots ! rise once more ; 
 Defend your rights, defend your shora 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand, 
 Let no rude foe, with impious hand. 
 Invade the shrine where sacred lies 
 Of toil and blood the well-earned prize. 
 While offering peace sincere and just. 
 In heaven we place a manly trust. 
 That truth and justice will prevail. 
 And every scheme of bondage fail. 
 Firm, united, &c. 
 
 Sound, sound the trump of Fame ! 
 
 Let Washington's great name 
 
 Eing through the world with loud applause, 
 
 Ring through the world with loud applause ;
 
 284 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 Let every clime to Freedom dear, 
 Listen with a joyful ear. 
 With equal skill and godlike power, 
 He governs in the fearful hour 
 Of horrid war, or guides with ease 
 The happier times of honest peace. 
 Firm, united, &c. 
 
 Behold the chief who now commands, 
 
 Once more to serve his country stands, — 
 
 The rock on which the storm will beat. 
 
 The rock on which the storm will beat ; 
 
 But, armed in virtue firm and true. 
 
 His hopes are fixed on heaven and you. 
 
 When hope was sinking in dismay, 
 
 When glooms obscured Columbia's day. 
 
 His steady mind, from changes free, 
 
 Eesolved on death or liberty. 
 
 Firm, united, &c. 
 
 Judge Joseph Hopiuxson. 
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 
 
 "I am dying, Egypt, dying." 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 I AM dying, Egypt, dying; 
 
 Ebbs the crimson life-tide fast, 
 And the dark Plutonian shadows 
 
 Gather on the evening blast. 
 Let thine arms, O queen, enfold me, 
 
 Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear ; 
 Listen to the great heart-secrets 
 
 Thou, and thou alone, must hear.
 
 ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA. 285 
 
 Though my scarred and veteran legions 
 
 Bear their eagles high no more, 
 And my wrecked and scattered galleys 
 
 Strew dark Actiuni's fatal shore, 
 Though no glittering guards surround me. 
 
 Prompt to do their master's will, 
 I must perish like a Eoman, — 
 
 Die the great Triumvir still. 
 
 Let not Csesar's servile minions 
 
 Mock the lion thus laid low ; 
 'T was no foeman's arm that felled him, 
 
 'T was his own that struck the blow. 
 His who, pillowed on thy bosom, 
 
 Turned aside from glory's ray, — 
 His who, drunk with thy caresses, 
 
 Madly threw a world away. 
 
 Should the base plebeian rabble 
 
 Dare assail my name at Eome, 
 Where my noble spouse, Octavia, 
 
 "Weeps within her widowed home. 
 Seek her ; say the gods bear witness — 
 
 Altars, augurs, circling wings — 
 That her blood, with mine commingled, 
 
 Yet shall mount the throne of khigs. 
 
 As for thee, star-eyed Egyptian ! 
 
 Glorious sorceress of the Nile ! 
 Light the path to Stygian horrors 
 
 With the splendors of thy smile. 
 Give the Cajsar crowns and arches, 
 
 Let his brow the laurel twine ; 
 I can scorn the Senate's triumphs, 
 
 Triumphing in love like thine.
 
 286 LEXINGTON. 
 
 I am dying, Egypt, dying ; 
 
 Hark ! the insulting foeman's cry ; 
 They are coming — quick, my falchion ! 
 
 Let me front them ere I die. 
 Ah ! no more amid the battle 
 
 Shall my heart exulting swell ; 
 Isis and Osiris, guard thee ! 
 
 Cleopatra, Rome - — farewell ! 
 
 William IT. Lytle. 
 
 The author of this poem was a. general in the Union army from Ohio, and was 
 killed at Cuickamauga. 
 
 LEXINGTON. 
 
 Slowly the mist o'er the meadow was cree])ing, 
 Bright on the dewy buds glistened the sun, 
 When from his couch, while his children were sleeping. 
 Rose the bold rebel and shouldered his gun. 
 
 Waving her golden veil 
 
 Over the silent dale. 
 Blithe looked the morning on cottage and spire ; 
 
 Hushed was his parting sigh. 
 
 While from his noble eye 
 Flashed the last sparkle of liberty's fire. 
 
 Gayly the plume of the horseman was dancing, 
 Never to shadow his cold brow again ; 
 Proudly at morning the war-steed was prancing. 
 Reeking and panting he droops on the rein. 
 
 Pale is the lip of scorn, 
 
 Voiceless the trumpet horn, 
 Torn is the silken-fringed red cross on high ;
 
 THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 287 
 
 Many a belted l)reast 
 Low on tlie turf shall rest, 
 Ere the dai'k hunters the herd have passed by. 
 
 Green be the graves where her martyrs are lying ! 
 Shroudless and tombless they sunk to their rest, — 
 While o'er their ashes the starry fold Hying 
 Wraps the proud eagle they roused from his nest. 
 
 Borne on her Northern pine, 
 
 Long o'er the foaming brine 
 Spread her broad banner to storm and to sun ; 
 
 Heaven keep her ever free. 
 
 Wide as o'er land and sea 
 Floats the fair emblem her heroes have won ! 
 
 Holmes. 
 
 THE STAE-SPANGLED BANNER. 
 
 Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light 
 
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming, — 
 Wliose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, 
 
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming? 
 And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air, 
 
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there : 
 Oh. say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 
 
 On that shore, dimly seen through tlie mists of the deep, 
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
 
 AVhat is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep. 
 As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?
 
 288 JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 
 
 Now it catches the gleam of the mornmg's first beam, 
 In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream : 
 
 'T is the star-spangled banner ; oh, long may it wave 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ! 
 
 And where are the foes who so vaiintingly swore 
 
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
 A home and a country should leave us no more ? 
 
 Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution. 
 No refuge could save the hireling and slave 
 
 From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave ; 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand 
 
 Between their loved homes and the war's desolation. 
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land 
 
 Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation 
 Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just ; 
 
 And this be our motto, " In God is our trust: " 
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
 
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 
 
 Francis Scott Key. 
 
 JOHN BEOWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 
 
 John Browx in Kansas settled, like a steadfast Yankee farmer, 
 Brave and godly, with four sons, — all stalwart men of might. 
 There he spoke aloud for Freedom, and the Border strife grew 
 warmer, 
 Till the Rangers fired his dwelKng, in his absence, in the night ; 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Came homeward in the morning, to find his house burned down.
 
 JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 289 
 
 Then lie grasped his trusty rifle, and boldly fought for freedom ; 
 
 Smote from border unto border the fierce, invading band ; 
 And he and his brave boys vowed — so might Heaven help and 
 speed 'em ! — 
 They would save those grand old prairies from the curse that 
 blights the land; 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Said, " Boys, the Lord will aid us ! " and he shoved his ramrod 
 down. 
 
 And the Lord did aid these men, and they labored day and even, 
 
 Saving Kansas from its peril, and their very lives seemed 
 
 charmed ; 
 
 ■ Till the ruffians killed one son, in the blessed light of heaven, — 
 
 Tn cold blood the fellows slew him, as he journeyed all 
 
 unarmed. 
 
 Then Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Shed not a tear, but shut his teeth, and frowned a terrible 
 frown ! 
 
 Then they seized another brave boy, — not amid the heat of 
 battle, 
 But in peace, behind his ploughshare, — and they loaded him 
 with chains. 
 And with pikes, before their horses, even as they goad their 
 cattle, 
 Drove him cruelly, for their sport, and at last blew out his 
 brains ; 
 
 Then Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 liaised his right hand up to Heaven, calling Heaven's vengeance 
 down. 
 
 19
 
 290 JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 
 
 And he swore a fearful oath, by the name of the Almighty, 
 He would huut this ravening evil that had scathed and torn 
 him so ; — 
 He would seize it by the vitals ; he would crush it day and 
 night; he 
 Would so pursue its footsteps, so return it blow for blow, 
 That Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 Should be a name to swear by, in backwoods or in town ! 
 
 Took the guarded armory building, and the mnskets, and the 
 cannon ; 
 Captured all the county majors and the colonels, one by one ; 
 Scared to death each gallant scion of Virginia they ran on. 
 And before the noon of Monday, I say, the deed was done. 
 Mad Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 With his eighteen other crazy men, went in and took the town. 
 
 Very little noise and bluster, little smell of powder, made he ; 
 
 It wa.s all done in the midnight, like the emperor's coup-d'dtat ; 
 " Cut the wires ! stop the rail-cars ! hold the streets and bridges ! " 
 said he. 
 Then declared the new Eepublic, with himself for guiding 
 star, — 
 
 This Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown ; 
 And the bold two thousand citizens ran off and left the town. 
 
 Tallyho ! the old A'irginia gentry gather to the baying ! 
 
 In tbey rushed and killed the game, shooting lustily away; 
 And whene'er they slew a rebel, those who came too late for 
 slaying, 
 
 Not to lose a share of glory, fixed their bullets in bis clay ;
 
 JOHN BROWN OF OSAWATOMIE. 291 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie I'.rown, 
 Saw his sons fall dead beside him, and between them laid him 
 down. 
 
 How the conquerors wore their laurels ; how they hastened on 
 the trial ; 
 How Old Brown was placed, half dying, on the Charlestowni 
 court-house floor ; 
 How he spoke his grand oration, in the scorn of all denial ; 
 What the brave old madman told them, — these are known 
 the country o'er, 
 
 " Hang Old Brown," 
 Osawatomie Brown," 
 Said the judge, "and all such rebels!" with his most judicial 
 frown. 
 
 But, Virginians, don't do it ! for I tell you that the flagon. 
 Filled with blood of Old Brown's oflspring, was first poured 
 by Southern hands ; 
 And each drop from Old Brown's life-veins, lilce the red gore of 
 the dragon, 
 May spring up a vengeful fury, hissing through your slave- 
 worn lands ! 
 
 And Old Brown, 
 Osawatomie Brown, 
 May trouble you more than ever, when you 've nailed his coffin 
 
 down ! 
 
 E. C. Steuman. 
 
 This poem recalls tlie night which John Brown spent at my house a few months 
 before the fatal enterprise at Harper's Ferry. He passed several hours recounting, 
 very modestly, under cross-examination, liis battles of Osawatomie and Black 
 Jack ; and he left us with the same impression of heroism which his later history 
 left with the world. On the day of his ileath Mrs. Follkn and Miss Susan 
 (Jabot took refuge with us to count his last hours, watching the hands of the 
 (lock as the moment of his execution approached, with strained eyes and bated 
 breath. None of us who were there will ever forget either him, or them as they 
 appeai'ed on that day.
 
 292 ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE. 
 
 ON THE SHORES OF TENNESSEE. 
 
 " Move my arm-chair, faitliful Pompey, 
 
 In the sunshine bright and strong, 
 For this world is fading, Pompey, 
 
 Massa won't be with you long ; 
 And I fain would hear the south- wind 
 
 Bring the sound once more to me, 
 Of the wavelets softly breaking 
 
 On the shores of Tennessee. 
 
 " Mournful though the ripples murmur, 
 
 As they still the story tell. 
 How no vessels float the banner 
 
 That I 've loved so long and well, 
 I shall listen to their music, 
 
 Dreaming that again I see 
 Stars and stripes on sloop and shallop, 
 
 SaiUng up the Tennessee." 
 
 Still the south-wind fondly lingers 
 
 'Mid the veteran's silver hair ; 
 Still the bondman, close beside hiui, 
 
 Stands behind the old arm-chair. 
 With his dark-hued hand uplifted, 
 
 Shading eyes, he bends to see 
 Where the woodland, boldly jutting, 
 
 Turns aside the Tennessee. 
 
 Thus he watches cloud-born shadows 
 Glide from tree to mountain crest, 
 
 Softly creeping, aye and ever. 
 To the river's yielding breast.
 
 I 
 
 TOGETHER. 293 
 
 Ha, above the foliage yonder 
 
 Something liutters wild and free ! 
 " Massa, niassa ! hallelujah ! 
 
 The flag 's come back to Tennessee ! " 
 
 ".Pompey, hold me on your shoulder, 
 
 Help me stand on foot once more, 
 That I may salute the colors 
 
 As they pass before my door. 
 Here 's the paper signed that frees you, 
 
 Give a freeman's shout with me ! 
 God and Union be our watchword 
 
 Evermore in Tennessee ' " 
 
 Then the trembling voice grew fainter, 
 
 And the limbs refused to stand ; 
 One prayer to Jesus, and the soldier 
 
 Glided to that better land. 
 When the flag went down the river 
 
 Man and master both were free, 
 While the ringdove's note was mingled 
 
 With the rippUng Tennessee. 
 
 Ethel Lynn Beers. 
 My favorite among war-songs, as sung by M . 
 
 TOGETHER 
 
 FAIR-HAIRED Northern hero, 
 With thy guard of dusky hue. 
 
 Up from the field of battle 
 Rise to the last review ! 
 
 Sweep downward, holy angels. 
 In legions dazzling bright.
 
 294 THE PICKET-GUARD. 
 
 And bear these souls together 
 Before Christ's throne oi hght. 
 
 The Master, who remembers 
 
 The cross, the thorns, the spear, 
 
 Smiles on the risen freedmen. 
 As their ransomed souls appear. 
 
 And thou, young generous spirit, 
 
 What will thy welcome be ? 
 " Thou hast aided the down-trodden. 
 
 Thou hast done it unto me ! " 
 
 Mrs. Watekstox. 
 Refers to Colonel Robert G. Shaw. 
 
 THE PICKET-GUAED. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac, they say. 
 
 Except now and then a stray picket 
 Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro, 
 
 By a rifleman hid in the tliicket. 
 'Tis nothing : a private or two, now and then, 
 
 Will not count in the news of the battle ; 
 Not an oiScer lost, — only one of the men. 
 
 Moaning out, all alone, the death-rattle. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night. 
 
 Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming ; 
 Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon, 
 
 Or the light of the watch-fires, are gleaming. 
 A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night-wind 
 
 Through the forest leaves softly is creeping ; 
 While stars up above, with their glittering eyes, 
 
 Keep guard, — for the army is sleeping.
 
 THE PlCKET-aUARl). 290 
 
 There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread, 
 
 As he tramps trom the rock to the fountain, 
 And thinks of the two in the lone trundle-bed. 
 
 Far away in the cot on the mountain. 
 His musket falls slack ; his face, dark and grim. 
 
 Grows gentle with memories tender, 
 As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep, 
 
 For their mother, — may Heaven defend her ! 
 
 The moon seems to shine just as brightly as then, 
 
 That night when the love yet unspoken 
 Leaped up to his lips, when low-murmured vows 
 
 Were pledged to be ever unbroken ; 
 Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes. 
 
 He dashes off tears that are welling, 
 And gathers his gun closer up to its place, 
 
 As if to keep down the heart-svv-elling. 
 
 He passes the fountain, the blasted pine-tree, — 
 
 The footstep is lagging and weary ; 
 Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light, 
 
 Toward the shades of the forest so dreary. 
 Hark ! was it the night-wdnd that rustled the leaves ? 
 
 AYas it moonlight so wondrously flashing ? 
 It looked like a rifle : " Ah ! Mary, good-by ! " 
 
 And the life-blood is ebbing and plashing. 
 
 All quiet along the Potomac to-night, 
 
 No sound save the rush of the river ; 
 While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead, — 
 
 The picket 's off duty forever. 
 
 Ethel Lynn Beers.
 
 '296 THE FLAG. 
 
 THE FLAG. 
 
 There 's a flag hangs over my threshold, whose folds are more 
 
 dear to me 
 Than the blood that thrills in my bosom its earnest of liberty ; 
 And dear are the stars it harbors in its sunny field of blue 
 As the hope of a further heaven that lights all our dim lives 
 
 through. 
 
 l)Ut now should my guests be merry, the house is in holiday 
 
 guise. 
 Looking out, through its burnished windows like a score of 
 
 welcoming eyes. 
 Come hither, my brothers, who wander in saintliness and in sin ! 
 Come hither, ye pilgrims of Nature ! my heart doth invite you in. 
 
 My wine is not of the choicest, yet bears it an honest brand ; 
 And the bread that I bid you lighten I break with no sparing 
 
 hand ; 
 But pause, — ere you pass to taste it, one act must accomplished 
 
 be: 
 Salute the flag in its virtue, before ye sit down with me. 
 
 The flag of our stately battles, not struggles of wrath and greed : 
 Its stripes were a holy lesson, its spangles a deathless creed ; 
 'T was red with the blood of freemen, and white with the fear 
 
 of the foe, 
 And the stars that fight in their courses 'gainst tyrants its 
 
 symbols know. 
 
 Come hither, thou son of my mother ! we were reared in the 
 
 self-same arms ; 
 Thou hast many a pleasant gesture, thy mind hath its gifts and 
 
 charms.
 
 THE FLAG. 297 
 
 But my heart is as stern to question as mine eyes are of sorrows 
 
 full : 
 Salute the flag in its virtue, or pass on where others rule. 
 
 Thou lord of a thousand acres, with heaps of uncounted gold, 
 The steeds of thy stall are haughty, thy lackeys cunning and bold ; 
 I envy no jot of thy splendor, I rail at thy follies- none : 
 Salute the flag in its virtue, or leave my poor house alone. 
 
 Fair lady with silken trappings, high waving thy stainless plume, 
 We welcome thee to our numbers, a flower of costliest bloom : 
 Let a hundred maids live widowed to furnish thy bridal bed ; 
 But pause where the flag doth question, and bend thy trium- 
 phant head. 
 
 Take down now your flaunting banner, for a scout comes breath- 
 less and pale. 
 
 With the terror of death upon him ; of failure is all his tale : 
 
 " They have fled while the flag waved o'er them ! they have 
 turned to the foe their back ! 
 
 They are scattered, pursued, and slaughtered ! the fields are all 
 rout and wrack ! " 
 
 Pass hence, then, the friends I gathered, a goodly company 1 
 All ye that have manhood in you, go, perish for Liberty ! 
 But I and the babes God gave me will wait with uplifted hearts, 
 With the firm smile ready to kindle, and the will to perform our 
 parts. 
 
 When the last true heart lies bloodless, when the fierce and the 
 
 false have won, 
 1 '11 press in turn to my bosom each daughter and either son ; 
 Bid them loose the flag from its bearings, and ue '11 lay us down 
 
 to rest 
 AVith the glory of home about us, and its freedom locked in our 
 
 breast. 
 
 Mils. Howe.
 
 298 BATTLE-IIYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 BATTLE-HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. 
 
 Mine eyes have seen the glory of tlie comuig of the Lord ; 
 
 He is tramphng out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are 
 
 stored. 
 He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword ; 
 His truth is marching on. 
 
 I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps ; 
 They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps. 
 I have read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps : 
 His day is marching on. 
 
 I have read a fiery gospel writ in burnished rows of steel : 
 
 " As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall 
 
 deal : 
 Let the hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, 
 Since God is marching on." 
 
 He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat ; 
 He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment seat: 
 Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer him, — be jubilant, my feet ! 
 Our God is marching on. 
 
 In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
 
 With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me : 
 
 As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
 
 While God is marching on. 
 
 Mrs. Howe. 
 
 The great hvmn of the war.
 
 GLORY, GLORY, HALLELUJAH 1 299 
 
 GLOKY, GLOEY, HALtELUJAH ! 
 
 John Brown's body lies a-mouklering in the grave, 
 John Brown's body lies a-niouldering in the grave, 
 John Brown's body lies a-mouldering in the grave, 
 His soul is marching on. 
 Glory glory, hallelujali ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 His soul is marching on. 
 
 The stars of heaven are looking kindly down. 
 The stars of heaven are looking kindly down. 
 The stars of heaven are looking kindly down, 
 On the grave of old John Brown. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 
 He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, 
 
 He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, 
 
 He 's gone to be a soldier in the army of the Lord, 
 
 His soul is marching on. 
 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 
 John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, 
 John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, 
 John Brown's knapsack is strapped upon his back, 
 His soul is marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c. 
 
 His pet lamb will meet him on the way, 
 His pet lamb will meet him on the way, 
 His pet lamb will meet him on the way, 
 And they '11 go marching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &c.
 
 300 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 
 
 They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree, 
 They will hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree, 
 They will hang Jeff' Davis to a sour apple-tree, 
 As they go inarching on. 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah, &e. 
 
 Let's give three good, rousing cheers for the Union, 
 Let 's give three good, rousing cheers for the Union, 
 Let 's give three good, rousing cheers for the Union, 
 As we go marching on. 
 Grlory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Glory, glory, hallelujah ! 
 Hip, hip, hip, hip, hurrah ! 
 
 AXONVMOUS. 
 
 This is the John Brown song used by the soldiers and negroes. Just after 
 the war I was on the St. John's River, on the old steamer "Darlington," com- 
 manded by the worst of rebels, Captain Brock. The night was dark, and the fires 
 of the boat flashed brightly on the trees as we passed. The negro crew gave us 
 in chorus this song, while the rebel captain was grinding his teeth on the upper 
 deck. Such a song in that place five years earlier, before the war, could only 
 have been had at the cost of several lives ; and the contrast, together with the 
 dusky faces, the illumined shores, and the sparkling water, formed a picture never 
 to be effaced from memory. 
 
 THE AMEEICAN FLAG. 
 
 When Freedom from her mountain height 
 
 Unfurled her standard to the air. 
 She tore the azure robe of night. 
 
 And set the stars of glory there ; 
 She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
 The milky baldric of the skies. 
 And striped its pure, celestial white 
 With streakings of the morning light;
 
 THE AMERICAN FLAG. 301 
 
 Then from his mansion in the sun 
 She called her eagle-bearer down, 
 And gave into his mighty hand 
 The symbol of her chosen land. 
 
 Majestic monarch of the cloud, 
 
 Who rear' St aloft thy regal form, • 
 To hear the tempest trumpings loud. 
 And see the lightning lances driven. 
 
 When strive the warriors of the storm, 
 And rolls the thunder drum of heaven, — 
 Child of the sun, to thee 't is given 
 To guard the banner of the free. 
 To hover in the sulphur smoke, 
 To vyard away the battle stroke, 
 And bid its blendings shine afar, 
 Like rainbows on the cloud of war, 
 
 The harbingers of victory. 
 
 Flag of the brave, thy folds shall fly, 
 The sign of hope and triumph high, 
 When speaks the signal trumpet tone, 
 And the long line comes gleaming on ; 
 Ere yet the life blood, warm and wet. 
 Has dimmed the glistening bayonet. 
 Each soldier eye shall brightly turn 
 To where thy sky-born glories burn. 
 And, as his springing steps advance, 
 Catch war and vengeance from the glance. 
 And when the cannon-mouthings loud 
 Heave in wild wreaths the battle-shroud, 
 And gory sabres rise and fall. 
 Like shoots of flame on midnight's pall, 
 Then shall thy meteor-glances glow. 
 And cowering foes shall sink beneath
 
 302 WE ARE COMING, FATHER A BRA 'AM. 
 
 Each gallant arm that strikes below 
 That lovely messenger of death. 
 
 Flag of the seas ! on ocean wave 
 Thy stars shall glitter o'er the Lrave ; 
 Wlien death, careering on the gale, 
 Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
 And frighted waves rush wildly back 
 Before the broadside's reeling rack, 
 Each dying wanderer of the sea 
 Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
 And smile to see thy splendors fly 
 In triumph o'er his closing eye. 
 
 Flag of the free heart's hope and home. 
 
 By angel hands to valor given, 
 Thy stars have lit the welkin dome. 
 
 And all thy hues were born in heaven. 
 Forever float that standard sheet ! 
 
 Where breathes the foe Imt falls before us, 
 With Freedom's soil beneatli our feet, 
 
 And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us ? 
 
 Drake. 
 
 WE AEE COMING, FATHEE ABRA'AM. 
 
 We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more. 
 From Mississippi's winding stream and from New England's 
 
 shore ; 
 We leave our ploughs and workshops, our wives and childi^en 
 
 dear, 
 AVith hearts too full for utterance, with but a silent tear : 
 W^e dare not look behind us, but steadfastly before.
 
 WE ARE COMING, FATHER A BR A' AM. 303 
 
 We are coming, Father Ahra'am, tliree liuiidred thousand more ! 
 
 We are coming, we are coming, our Union to restore ; 
 
 We are coming, Fatlicr Ahra'am, three hundred thousand more ; 
 
 If you look across the hill-tops that meet the Northern sky, 
 Long moving Imes of rising dust your vision may descry ; 
 And now the wind, an instant, tears the cloudy veil aside, 
 And floats aloft our spangled flag, in glory and in pride ; 
 And bayonets in the sunlight gleam, and bands brave music 
 
 pour. 
 We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! 
 We are coming, &c. 
 
 If you look up our valleys, where the growing harvests shine. 
 You may see our sturdy farmer boys fast forming into line ; 
 And children at their mother's knees are pulling at the weeds, 
 And learning how to reap and sow against their country's 
 
 needs, 
 And a farewell group stands weeping at every cottage door. 
 We are coming. Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! 
 We are coming, &c. 
 
 You have called us, and we 're coming, by Richmond's bloody tide, 
 To lay us down for freedom's sake, our brothers' bones beside ; 
 Or from foul treason's savage group to wrench the murderous 
 
 blade, 
 And in the face of foreign foes its fragments to parade. 
 Six hundred thousand loyal men and true have gone before ; 
 We are coming, Father Abra'am, three hundred thousand more ! 
 
 We are coming, &c. 
 
 GnjBoxs, New York Evening Post.
 
 304 AT PORT Pi OVAL. 
 
 AT PORT ROYAL. 
 
 The tent-lights glimmer on the land, 
 
 The ship-lights on the sea ; 
 The night-wind smooths with drifting sand 
 
 Onr track on lone Tybee. 
 
 At last our grating keels outslide, 
 Our good boats forward swing ; 
 
 And while we ride the land-locked tide, 
 Our negroes row and sing. 
 
 For dear the bondman holds his gifts 
 
 Of music and of song, — 
 The gold that kindly nature sifts 
 
 Among his sands of wrong ; 
 
 The power to make his toiling days 
 And poor home-comforts please ; 
 
 The quaint relief of mirth that plays 
 "With sorrow's minor keys. 
 
 Another glow than sunset's fire 
 
 Has filled the west with light, 
 Where field and garner, barn and byre, 
 
 Are blazing through the night. 
 
 The land is wild with fear and hate. 
 
 The rout runs mad and fast ; 
 From hand to hand, from gate to gate, 
 
 The flaming brand is passed.
 
 AT PORT ROYAL. 30 J 
 
 The lurid glow falls strong across 
 
 Dark faces broad with smiles ; 
 Not theirs the terror, hate, and loss 
 
 That fire yon blazing piles. 
 
 With oar-strokes timing to their song, 
 
 They weave in simple lays 
 The pathos of remembered wrong, 
 
 The hope of better days, — 
 
 The triumph note that Miriam sung, 
 
 The joy of uncaged birds ; 
 Softening with Afric's mellow tongue 
 
 Their broken Saxon words. 
 
 So sing our dusky gondoliers ; 
 
 And with a secret pain, 
 And smiles that seem akin to tears, 
 
 We hear the wild refrain. 
 
 We dare not share the negro's trust. 
 
 Nor yet his hope deny ; 
 We only know that God is just. 
 
 And every wrong shall die. 
 
 Rude seems the song ; each swarthy face, 
 
 Flame-lighted, ruder still : 
 We start to think that hapless race 
 
 Must shape our good or ill ; 
 
 That laws of changeless justice bind 
 Oppressor with oppressed ; 
 
 20
 
 306 THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 
 
 And, close as sin and suffering joined, 
 We march to fate abreast, 
 
 Sing on, poor hearts ! your cliant shall be 
 
 Our sign of blight or bloom, — 
 The Vala-song of Liberty, 
 
 Or death-rune of our doom. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 This always recalls oar winter at Port Royal, 1862, and the songs of the nogioes 
 which we lieard as they passed our house, just outside of the Union lines and 
 witlun four miles of the enemy. 
 
 THE FALL OF EICHMOND. 
 
 EoLL not a drum, sound not a clarion note 
 Of haughty triumph to the listening sky ; 
 
 Hushed be the shout of joy in every throat. 
 And veiled the flash of pride in every eye. 
 
 Not with Te Deums loud, and high hosannas, 
 Hail we the awful victory we have won ; 
 
 But with our arms reversed, and lowered banners. 
 Stand we, — our work is done. 
 
 Thy work is done, — God, terrible and just. 
 
 Who lay'st upon our hearts and hands this task. 
 
 Now kneeling with our foreheads in the dust. 
 We venture — peace to ask. 
 
 Bleeding and writhing underneath our sword, 
 Prostrate our brothers lie, — my fallen foe. 
 
 Struck down through us by thee, omnipotent Lord, 
 By thy dread hand laid low.
 
 THE FALL OF RICHMOND. 307 
 
 For our own guilt have we l)een doomed to smite 
 These our own kindred, thy great law defying, — 
 
 These our own flesh and blood who now unite 
 For one thing with us, — bravely dying ; 
 
 Dying how bravely, but how bitterly. 
 
 Not for the better side, but for the worse ; 
 
 Blindly and wearily striving against thee. 
 
 For the bad cause where thou hast set thy curse. 
 
 At whose defeat we may not raise our voice. 
 Save in the deep thanksgiving of our prayers. 
 
 Lord, we have fought the fight, but to rejoice 
 Is ours no more than theirs. 
 
 Call back thy dreadful ministers of wrath 
 Who have led on our hosts to this great day ; 
 
 Let our feet halt in the avenger's path. 
 And bid our weapons stay. 
 
 And our land, freedom's inheritance, 
 
 Turn thou once more the blessing of thy face ; 
 
 Where nations serving thee towards light advance, 
 Give us again our place. 
 
 Not our bewildering past prosperity. 
 
 Not all thy former ill-acknowledged grace. 
 
 But this one boon, — God grant us still to be 
 The home of hope for the whole human race. 
 
 Mrs. Kemble.
 
 308 SONNETS ON THE AMERICAN WAR. 
 
 SONNETS ON THE AMERICAN WAE. 
 
 She has gone down ; they shout it from ai'ar, — 
 
 Kings, nobles, priests, all men of every race 
 
 Whose lagging clogs time's swift, relentless pace. 
 
 She has gone down, — our evil-boding star. 
 
 Rebellion smitten with rebellion's sword. 
 
 Anarchy done to death by slavery 
 
 Of ancient right, insolvent enemy ; 
 
 Beneath a hideous cloud of civil war. 
 
 Strife, such as heathen slaughterers had abhorred. 
 
 The lawless land where no man was called lord, 
 
 Spurning all wholesome curb, and dreaming free. 
 
 Her rabble rules licentious tyranny ; 
 
 In the fierce splendor of her arrogant morn 
 
 She has gone down, — the world's eternal scorn. 
 
 II. 
 
 She has gone down, — woe for the world and all 
 The weary workers, gazing from afar 
 At the clear rising of that hopeful star ; 
 Star of redemption to each weeping thrall 
 Of power decrepit, and of rule outworn ; 
 Beautiful shining of that blessed morn 
 Which was to bring leave for the poor to live, 
 To work and rest, to labor and to thrive. 
 And righteous room for all who nobly strive. 
 She has gone down, — woe for the struggling world. 
 Back on its path of progress sternly hurled 1 
 Land of sufficient harvests for all dearth. 
 
 I
 
 JOHN A. ANDREW. 309 
 
 Home of far-seeing hope, time's latest bii'th, 
 Woe for the promised land of the whole earth ! 
 
 III. 
 
 Triumph not, fools, and weep not, ye faint-hearted ! 
 
 Have ye believed that the supreme decree 
 
 Of Heaven had given this people o'er to perish ? 
 
 Have ye believed that God had ceased to cherish 
 
 This great, new world of Christian liberty ? 
 
 Nay, by the precious blood shed to redeem 
 
 The nation from its selfishness and sin ; 
 
 By each brave heart that bends in lioly strife, 
 
 Leavmg its kindred hearts to break through life ; 
 
 By all the bitter tears, whose source must stream 
 
 Forever every desolate home within, — 
 
 We w411 return to our apj)ointed place, 
 
 Fhst in the vanguard of the human race. 
 
 Mes. Kemble. 
 
 JOHN A. ANDEEW. 
 
 1867. 
 
 O LARGE of heart, and grand, and calm, 
 Who held the helm of State so long. 
 
 Our plaining mingles with our praise. 
 Our sorrow sanctifies our song. 
 
 Clear eyes, kind lips so silent now. 
 Ears deaf to all our worldly din, 
 
 Great soul, which has not left its peer, 
 We would the grave-sods had shut in
 
 310 THE NATION'S DEAD. 
 
 Some lesser man, and we, to-day, 
 Had thy strong will to urge us on. 
 
 Thy brain to plan, thy hands to help. 
 Thy cheerful voice to say " Well done 1 " 
 
 Louise Chandler Moulton. 
 
 THE NATION'S DEAD. 
 
 Four hundred thousand men, 
 
 The brave, the good, the true, 
 In tangled wood, in mountain glen, 
 On battle plain, in prison pen, 
 
 Lie dead for me and you. 
 Four hundred thousand of the brave 
 Have made our ransomed soil their grave, 
 For me and you. 
 
 Good friend, for me and you. 
 
 In many a fevered swamp, 
 
 By many a black bayou. 
 In many a cold and frozen camp. 
 The weary sentinel ceased his tramp, 
 
 And died for me and you. 
 From western plain to ocean tide 
 Are stretched the graves of those who died 
 For me and you. 
 
 Good friend, for me and you. 
 
 On many a bloody plain 
 
 Their ready swords they drew, 
 
 And poured their life-blood like the rain, 
 
 A home, a heritage, to gain. 
 To gain for me and you.
 
 THE NATION'S DEAD. 311 
 
 Our brothers mustered by our side, 
 They inarched, and fought, and bravely died 
 For me and you, 
 Good friend, for me and you. 
 
 Up many a fortress wall 
 
 They charged, those boys in blue ; 
 'Mid surging smoke and volleyed ball, 
 The bravest were the first to fall, 
 
 To fall for me and you. 
 Those noble men, the nation's pride, 
 Four hundred thousand men, have died 
 For me and you, 
 
 Good friend, for me and you. 
 
 In treason's prison-hold 
 
 Their martyr spirits grew 
 To stature like the saints of old, 
 While, amid agonies untold. 
 
 They starved for me and you. 
 The good, the patient, and the tried. 
 Four hundred thousand men, have died 
 For me and you. 
 
 Good friend, for me and you. 
 
 A debt we ne'er can pay 
 
 To them is justly due ; 
 And to the nation's latest day 
 Our children's children still shall say, 
 
 " They died for me and you." 
 Four hundred tliousand of the brave 
 Made this, our ransomed soil, their grave. 
 For me and you, 
 
 Good friend, for me and you. 
 
 Anonymous, Round Table.
 
 312 THE HOUR OF PRAYER. 
 
 THE HOUK OF PRAYER 
 
 Child, amidst the flowers at play. 
 While tlie red light fades away ; 
 Mother, with thine earnest eye 
 Ever following silently ; 
 Father, by the breeze of eve 
 Call'd thy harvest-work to leave ; 
 Pray ! — ere yet the dark hours be. 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 
 
 Traveller, in the stranger's land 
 Far from thine own household band ; 
 Mourner, haunted by the tone 
 Of a voice from this world gone ; 
 Captive, in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell ; 
 Sailor, on the darkening sea, — 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 
 
 Warrior, that from battle won 
 Breathest now at set of sun ; 
 Woman, o'er the lowly slain 
 Weeping on his burial plain ; 
 Ye that triumph, ye that sigh, 
 Kindred by one holy tie, 
 Heaven's first star alike ye see, — 
 Lift the heart and bend the knee ! 
 
 1 
 
 Mrs. Hemans.
 
 THE BATTLE-CRY OF FREEDOM. 313 
 
 THE BATTLE-CEY OF FEEEDOM. 
 
 KALLYING-SONG. 
 
 Yes, we '11 rally round the tiag, boys, rally once again, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And we '11 rally from the hillside, we '11 gather from the plain, 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 
 The Union forever, hurrali, boys, hurrah ! 
 Down with the traitor, up with the star ; 
 While we rally round the flag, boys, rally once agaui, 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 
 We are springing to the call of our brothers gone before, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And we '11 fill the vacant ranks with a million freemen more. 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 The Union forever, &c. 
 
 We will welcome to our numbers the loyal, true, and brave, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And although they may be poor, not a man shall be a slave. 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 The Union forever, &c. 
 
 So we 're springing to the call, from the East and from the West, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And we '11 hurl the rebel crew from the land we love the best, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 The Union forever, &c. 
 
 BATTLE-SONG. 
 
 We are marching to the field, boys, we 're going to the fight, 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ;
 
 314 MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA. 
 
 And wc bear the glorious stars for the Union and the right, 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 
 The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah ! 
 Down with the traitor, up with the star, 
 For we 're marching to the field, boys, going to the tight, 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 
 We will meet the rebel host, boys, with fearless heart and true, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And we 11 show what Uncle Sam has for loyal men to do. 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 The Union forever, &c. 
 
 If we fall amid the fray, boys, we '11 face them to the last. 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And our comrades brave shall hear us, as they go rushing past, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 The Union forever, &c. 
 
 Yes, for Liberty and Union we 're springing to the fight. 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom ; 
 And the victory shall be ours, for we 're rising in our might, 
 
 Shouting the battle-cry of freedom. 
 The Union forever, &c. 
 
 Root. 
 
 MAECHING THEOUGH GEOEGIA. 
 
 Bring the good old bugle, boys, we '11 sing another song. 
 Sing it with a spirit that will start the world along, — 
 Sing it as we used to sing it, fifty thousand strong, 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, we bring the Jubilee ! 
 Hurrah, hurrah, the flag that makes you free ! 
 So we sang the chorus from Atlanta to the sea. 
 While we were marching through Georgia.
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 315 
 
 How the darkeys shouted when they heard the joyful sound, 
 How the turkeys gobbled which our commissary found, 
 How the sweet potatoes even started from the ground, 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, &c. 
 
 Yes, and there were Union men who wept with joyful tears, 
 When they saw the honored Hag they had not seen for years ; 
 Hardly could they be restrained from breaking forth in cheers. 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, &c. 
 
 " Sherman's dashing Yankee boys will never reach the coast," 
 So the saucy rebels said ; and 't was a handsome boast, 
 Had they not forgot, alas ! to reckon with the host, 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 Hurrah, hurrah, &c. 
 
 So we made a thoroughfare for Freedom and her train. 
 Sixty miles in latitude, three hundred to the main ; 
 Treason fled before us, for resistance was in vain, 
 While we were marching through Georgia. 
 
 o o o 
 
 Hurrah, hurrah, &c. 
 
 Work. 
 
 When General Sherman, Admirals Porter, Alhen, and others visited Naushon 
 just after tlie war, this, and similar songs were sung by our young people with 
 great glee on their part, and with much apparent enjoyment by our visitors. 
 
 BAEBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
 Clear in the cool September morn, 
 
 The clustered spires of Frederick stand, 
 Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
 
 316 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 
 
 Round about them orchards sweep, 
 Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 
 
 Fair as a garden of the Lord 
 
 To the eyes of the famished rebel horde ; 
 
 On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
 When Lee marched over the mountain wall, — 
 
 Over the mountains, winding down. 
 Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 
 
 Forty flags with their silver stars, 
 Forty flags with their crimson l;)ars. 
 
 Flapped in the morning wind ; the sun 
 Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 
 
 Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then. 
 Bowed with her fourscore years and ten ; 
 
 Bravest of all in Frederick town. 
 
 She took up the flag the men hauled down ; 
 
 In her attic window the staff she set, 
 To show that one heart was loyal yet. 
 
 Up the street came the rebel tread, 
 Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 
 
 Under his slouched hat left and right 
 He glanced : the old flag met his sight. 
 
 " Halt ! " the dust-brown ranks stood fast ; 
 " Fire ! " out blazed the rifle-blast. 
 
 It shivered the window, pane and sash ; 
 It rent the banner with seam and gash.
 
 BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 317 
 
 Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
 Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf ; 
 
 She leaned far out on the window-sill. 
 And shook it forth with a royal will. 
 
 " Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
 But spare your country's flag," she said. 
 
 A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
 Over the face of the leader came ; 
 
 The nobler nature within him stirred 
 To life at that woman's deed and word : 
 
 " Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
 Dies like a dog — march on ! " he said. 
 
 All day long through Frederick street 
 Sounded the tread of marching feet ; 
 
 All day long that free flag tost 
 Over the heads of the rebel host. 
 
 Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
 
 On the loyal winds that loved it well ; 
 
 And througli the hill-gaps sunset light 
 Shone over it with a warm good-night. 
 
 Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er. 
 
 And the rebel rides on his raids no more. 
 
 Honor to her, and let a tear 
 
 Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 
 
 Over Barbara Frietchie's grave. 
 Flag of freedom and union, wave !
 
 318 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 
 
 Peace and order and beauty draw 
 Round thy symbol of light and law ; 
 
 And ever the stars above look down 
 On thy stars below in Frederick town. 
 
 Whittier. 
 
 TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 
 
 In the prison cell I sit, thinking, mother dear, of you. 
 
 And our bright and happy home so far away ; 
 And the tears they fill my eyes, spite of all that I can do. 
 Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay. 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching. 
 Cheer up, comrades, they will come ; 
 And beneath the starry flag 
 We shall breathe the air again 
 Of the free land in our own beloved home. 
 
 In the battle front we stood, when their fiercest charge they 
 made. 
 And they swept us off, a hundred men or more ; 
 But before they reached our lines they were beaten back dis- 
 mayed, 
 And we heard the cry of victory o'er and o'er. 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. 
 
 I 
 So within the prison cell we are waitmg for the day | 
 
 That shall come to open wide the iron door ; 
 And the hollow eye grows bright, and the poor heart almost gay, 
 As we think of seeing home and friends once more. 
 
 Tramp, tramp, tramp, &c. 
 
 Root.
 
 BOSTON. 319 
 
 BOSTON. 
 
 SICUT PATRIBUS, SIT DEUS NOBIS. 
 
 The rocky nook with hill-tops three 
 Looked eastward from the farms, 
 And twice each day the flowing sea 
 Took Boston in its arms ; 
 
 The men of yore were stout and poor, 
 And sailed for bread to every shore. 
 
 And where they went, on trade intent. 
 
 They did what freemen can ; 
 Their dauntless ways did all men praise, 
 The merchant was a man. 
 
 The world was made for honest trade. 
 To plant and eat be none afraid. 
 
 The waves that rocked them on the deep 
 
 To them their secret told ; 
 Said the winds that sung the lads to sleep, 
 " Like us be free and bold ! " 
 
 The honest waves refuse to slaves 
 The empire of the ocean caves. 
 
 Old Europe groans with palaces. 
 
 Has lords enough and more ; 
 We plant and build by foaming seas 
 A city of the poor ; — 
 
 For day by day could Boston Bay 
 Their honest labor overpay. 
 
 We grant no dukedoms to the few. 
 We hold like rights and shall; —
 
 320 BOSTON. 
 
 Equal on Sunday in the pew, 
 On Monday in the mall. 
 
 For wliat avail the plough or sail, 
 Or land or life, if freedom fail ? 
 
 The noble craftsmen we promote, 
 
 Disown the knave and fool ; 
 Each honest man shall have his vote, 
 Each child shall have his school. 
 A union then of honest men, 
 Or union nevermore again. 
 
 The wild rose and the barbary thorn 
 Hung out their summer pride 
 
 Where now on heated pavements worn 
 The feet of millions stride. 
 
 happy town beside the sea, 
 
 Whose roads lead everywhere to all ; 
 
 Than thine no deeper moat can be, 
 No stouter fence, no steeper wall ! 
 
 Bad news from George on the English throne 
 
 " You are thriving well," said he ; 
 " Now by these presents be it known. 
 You shall pay us a tax on tea ; 
 
 'T is very small, — no load at all, — 
 Honor enough that we send the call." 
 
 " Not so," said Boston, " good my lord, 
 
 We pay your governors here 
 Abundant for their bed and board, 
 
 Six thousand pounds a year.
 
 FREMONT AND VICTORY. 321 
 
 (Your Highness knows our homely word,) 
 Millions for self-government, 
 But for tribute never a cent." 
 
 The cargo came ! and who could blame 
 
 If Indians seized the tea, 
 And, chest by chest, let down the same ' 
 Into the laughing sea ? 
 
 For what avail the plough or sail, 
 Or land or life, if freedom fail ? 
 
 Emerson. 
 Eead in Faneuil Hall, on the Centennial Anniversary of the Destruction of the 
 Tea, Dec. 16, 1873. 
 
 FEEMONT AND VICTORY. 
 
 PRIZE SONG. 
 Air : " Suoni la Tromba." 
 
 Men of the North, who remember 
 The deeds of your sires, ever glorious, 
 Join in our psean victorious, 
 
 The p?ean of liberty ! 
 Hark ! on the gales of November 
 Millions of voices are ringing ; 
 Glorious the song they are singing, 
 
 Fremont and Victory ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 Join the great chorus they 're singing, 
 
 Fremont and Victory ! 
 
 Come from your forest-clad mountains. 
 Come from the fields of your tillage. 
 Come forth from city and village. 
 Join the great host of the free ! 
 
 21
 
 322 FREMONT AND VICTORY. 
 
 As from their cavernous fountains 
 Eoll the deep floods to the ocean, 
 Join the great army in motion, 
 
 Marching to Victory ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 Echoes from ocean to ocean, 
 
 Fremont and Victory ! 
 
 Far in the West rolls the thunder. 
 The tumult of hattle is raging. 
 Where bleeding Kansas is waging 
 
 Warfare with slavery! 
 Struggling with foes who surround her, 
 Lo ! she implores you to stay her ! 
 Will you to slavery betray her ? 
 
 Never — she shall be free ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 Swear that you '11 never betray her : 
 
 Kansas shall yet be free ! 
 
 March ! we have sworn to support her ; 
 The prayers of the righteous shall speed us, 
 A chief never conquered shall lead us, 
 
 Fremont shall lead the free ! 
 Then from those fields red with slaughter, 
 Slavery's hordes shall be driven, 
 Freedom to Kansas be given, 
 
 Fremont shall make her free ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 To Kansas shall freedom be given : 
 
 Fremont shall make her free ! 
 
 Men of the North, who remember 
 The deeds of your sires, ever glorious.
 
 TO R. W. E. 323 
 
 Join in our pa?an victorious, 
 
 The psean of liberty ! 
 Hark ! on the gales of November, 
 Millions of voices are ringing ; 
 Glorious the song they are singing, 
 Fremont and Victory ! 
 Hurrah ! 
 Join the great chorus they 're singing, 
 Fremont and Victory ! 
 
 Charles S. Wetmak. 
 
 On Aug. 2, 1856, during the Fremont campaign, I offered anonymously through 
 the editorial columns of the "New York P>ening Post," a prize of |100 lor the 
 best Republican song in English, and $100 for the best one in German ; the songs 
 to be handed in to the office of the "Post" on or before Sept. 1, 1856. The 
 advertisement also stated that, "if equal in other respects, preference will 
 be given to songs adapted to the air of Suoni la Tromba, from II Puritani." 
 In the issue of Sept. 2, 1856, the " Post " announced that George W. Curtis, 
 Parke Godwin, and Frederic "W. Rackeman had consented to act as a 
 committee to examine the songs and award the prizes. On September 12, these 
 gentlemen reported that they had " carefully read and examined about one hun- 
 dred and fifty contributions, which were sent in from nearly all parts of the 
 Union," and had awarded one prize to the above poem by Charles S. Weyman, 
 of New York, and the other to the German song entitled " Freiheitslied der 
 Deutschen Republicaner," by E. Vitalis Scherb, of Boston. 
 
 Another very valuable poem came in too late for the award, from Mr. Wiiittieu. 
 It has been lost ; but we still hope to recover it. 
 
 TO E. W. E. 
 
 " Dry light makes the best souls." — R. "W. E. 
 
 " Dry-lighted soul," the ray that shines in thee 
 
 Shot without reflex from primeval sun ; 
 We twine the laurel for the victories 
 
 Which thou on Thought's broad, bloodless field hast won.
 
 324 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Thou art the mountain where we cKmb to see 
 The land our feet have trod this many a year ; 
 
 Thou art the deep and crystal winter sky, 
 
 Where noiseless, one by one, bright stars appear. 
 
 It may be, Bacchus at thy birth forgot 
 
 That drop from out the purple grape to press 
 
 Which is his gift to man, and so thy blood 
 
 Doth miss the heat which ofttimes breeds excess. 
 
 But all more surely do we turn to thee 
 
 When the day's heat and blinding dust are o'er, 
 
 And cool our souls in thy refreshing air, 
 
 And find the peace which we had lost before. 
 
 E. S. H. 
 
 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 
 
 Burly, dozing humble-bee ! 
 Where thou art is clime for me ; 
 Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
 Far-off heats through seas to seek, 
 I will follow thee alone, 
 Thou animated torrid zone ! 
 Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 
 Let me chase thy waving lines ; 
 Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
 Singinw over shrubs and vines. 
 
 Insect lover of the sun, 
 Joy of thy dominion ! 
 Sailor of the atmosphere, 
 Swimmer through the waves of air,
 
 TO THE HUMBLE-BEE. 325 
 
 Voyager of light and noon, 
 Epicurean of June ! 
 Wait, I prithee, till I come 
 Within ear-shot of thy hum, — 
 All without is martyrdom. 
 
 When the south-wind, in May days, 
 
 With a net of shining haze 
 
 Silvers the horizon wall, 
 
 And, with softness touching all, 
 
 Tmts the human countenance 
 
 With the color of romance, 
 
 And infusing subtle heats 
 
 Turns the sod to violets, — , 
 
 Thou in sunny solitudes, 
 
 Eover of the underwoods, 
 
 The green silence dost displace 
 
 With thy mellow breezy bass. 
 
 Hot iMidsummer's petted crone, 
 Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
 Tells of countless sunny hours. 
 Long days, and solid banks of flowers ; 
 Of gulfs of sweetness without bound, 
 In Indian wildernesses found; 
 Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
 Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure. 
 
 Aught unsavory or unclean 
 
 Hath my insect never seen ; 
 
 But violets, and bilberry bells. 
 
 Maple sap, and daffodels, 
 
 Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
 
 Succory to match the sky.
 
 326 / WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 
 
 » 
 
 Columbine with horn of honey, 
 Scented fern, and agrimony, 
 Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue, 
 And brier-roses, dwelt among : 
 All beside was unknown waste, 
 All was picture as he passed. 
 Wiser far than human seer. 
 Yellow-breeched philosopher, 
 Seeing only what is fair, 
 
 Sipping only what is sweet, * 
 , Thou dost mock at fate and care. 
 
 Leave the chaff and take the wheat. 
 When the fierce northwestern blast 
 J Cools sea and land so far and fast, — 
 
 Thou already slumberest deep : 
 Woe and want thou canst out-sleep ; 
 Want and woe, which torture us. 
 Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 
 
 Emerson. 
 
 I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. 
 
 I WOULD not live alway : I ask not to stay 
 Wliere storm after storm rises dark o'er the way ; 
 Where, seeking for rest, I but hover around 
 Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found ; 
 Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, 
 Leaves her brilliance to fade in the night of despair, 
 And joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, 
 Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. 
 
 Who, who would live alway away from his God, 
 Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode,
 
 WHY THUS LONGING? 327 
 
 Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, 
 And the noontide of glory eternally reigns ; 
 Where the saints of all ages in harmony meet, 
 Their Saviour and brethren transported to greet. 
 While the anthems of rapture unceasingly roll, 
 And the smile of the Lord is the feast of the soul ? 
 
 W. A. Muhlenberg. 
 
 WHY THUS LONGING? 
 
 Why thus longing, thus forever sighmg. 
 
 For the far-off, unattained, and dim. 
 While the beautiful, all round thee lying. 
 Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 
 
 Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
 All thy restless yearnings it would still ; 
 
 Leaf and flower and laden l)ee are preaching 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
 
 Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee 
 Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw, 
 
 If no silken cord of love hath bound thee 
 To some little world through weal and woe ; 
 
 If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten. 
 No fond voices answer to thme own. 
 
 If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten 
 By daily sympathy and gentle tone. 
 
 Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, 
 Not by works that Avin thee world renown, 
 
 Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
 
 Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
 
 328 COMMEMORATION ODE. 
 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely. 
 
 Every day a rich reward will give ; 
 Thou wilt find by hearty striving only, 
 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 
 
 Dost thou revel m the rosy morning 
 When all nature hails the lord of light. 
 
 And his smile, nor low nor lofty scorning. 
 Gladdens hall and hovel, vale and height ? 
 
 Other hands may grasp the field and forest, 
 Proud proprietors m pomp may shine ; 
 
 But with fervent love if thou adorest. 
 
 Thou art wealthier, — all the world is thine. 
 
 Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest. 
 Sighing that they are not thine alone, 
 
 Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest. 
 And their beauty and thy wealth are gone. 
 
 Harriet Wins low Sewall. 
 
 COMMEMORATION ODE. 
 
 HARVAKD UNIVERSITY, JULY 21, 1865 
 
 We sit here in the Promised Land 
 That flows with Freedom's honey and milk ; 
 But 't was they won it, sword m hand. 
 Making the nettle danger soft for us as silk. 
 We welcome back our bravest and our best ; — 
 Ah me ! not all ! some come not with the rest, 
 Who went forth brave and bright as any here ! 
 I strive to mix some gladness with my strain. 
 But the sad strings complain,
 
 I 
 
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