bOkAAAAJlLAAA^ THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA SANTA BARBARA PRESENTED BY MR. GEORGE COBB :^=i^^ THE POETS' GALLERY. THE POETS' GALLEEY A SERIES OF PORTRAIT ILLUSTRATIONS ii'itis| f flits. PAINTINGS DESIGNED EXPRESSLY FOR THIS WORK BY THE MOST EMINENT BRITISH ARTISTS. NEW Y O E K : D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 443 AND 445 BROADWAY. M D CCCLXI. CONTENTS. Paintee. 1. ADORATION, W.Boxall, . 2. GEXEVIEVE, .... Meadoics, 3. TUE DREAMER, .... IF. Boxall, . 4. EMILY, B. T. Farris, . 5. TUE GLEANER, .... Landseer, R A., 6. THE MAY QUEEN", ... IF. JSoxall, 7. NATURE'S FAVORITE, . . TF Boxall, . 8. GERTRUDE OF WYOMING, . J. TF WriffM, . 9. MATILDA, TF. Boxall, 10. MARIANNE, . . . • J". TF Wrifflit, 11. THE SHADE OF SADNESS, . . TF Boxall, . 12. EDDERLINE, .... F.Stone, . 13. CAROLINE, J. mimes, . 14. MEDORA, F. Stone, . 15. JULIA, J. TF Wright, 16. HELENA, F. Stgne, . IT. THE SPIRIT OF NORMAN ABBEY, E. G. Wood, 18. SOPHY, W. Boxall, 19. RUTH, TF Boxall, . 20. TUE WIDOW, . . . . TF Boxall, 2L THE FAIR PATRICIAN, . . A. E. Chalon, B. Enceavee. PAGE . W. FlNDEX, . . 7 n. T. Ryall, . 11 . CiiAELES Lewis, . 17 G. Adcock, 29 . II. T. Ryall, . 35 H. RoBixsox, . 39 . W. n. Mote, . 47 H. T. Ryall, . 53 . H. ROBIN'SOX, . 55 J. HOPWOOD, 59 . W. H. Mote, . 63 Eagletox, G7 , II. T. Ryall, . 71 H. T. Ryall, . 75 . R. A. Aetlett, . 81 II. T. Ryall, . 85 . E. FlNDEX, . . 89 II. Robinson, . 93 . R. A. Aetlett, . 95 11. Robinson, . 105 A. R. A. Aetlett, . 109 6 CONTENTS. Paintek. 22. THE GENTLE STUDENT, . . F. Stone, . 23. CECILIA, F. Stone, . 24. THE YOUNG OLYMPIA, . . F. T. Parris, . 25. THE LADY ADELINE, . . A. R Chalon, R A. 2G. EEINNA, F. Stone, . 27. AUKORA, F.Stone, . 28. THE NUN, W. Boxall, . 29. ELEANORE, . . . . F. Stone, . 30. THE MAID OF LISMORE, . . F. Stone, . 31. THE GONDOLA, . . . G. Brown, 32. THE PLEASING THOUGHT, . W. Boxall, . 33. THE WILD FLOWER, . . . TF. Boxall, 34. ISABELLA, G. Broicn, . 35. THE PASSION-FLOWER, . . D. M'Clise, 36. MARGARITA, F. Stone, . Engkavek. PAGE R. A. Aktlett, 115 ^Y. H. Mote, . 119 U. T. Ryall, . 123 II. Robinson, 127 CnAELES Lewis, 131 R. n. Dyer, 133 n. T. Ryall, . 137 J. S. Agae, 141 R. H. Dyer, . 145 W. n. Mote, . 149 R. A. Aetlett, 153 II. T. Etall, . 155 J. Wagstaff, . 159 Hollis, 167 W. H. Mote, . 171 THE POETS' GALLEBY ADORATION. The stillness of a spirit lies Upon her liusli'd and happy heart ; And on her brow and in her eyes, Are thoughts that play a prophet's paii:, And look, mth power, upon the skies, To read their lofty mysteries ! — Before her rests the scroll, unrollVl, Where every tale of every star That, on its Avheels of molten gold, Majestically moves afar — The lanoTiao-e of each flower that blows — The song of every breeze that sings — The meteor's mission, as it goes By, on its burning wings — ADORATION. And all creation's secrets, stand Translated, by tlie self-same liand That liung tlie oracles on liigh, And wTote the legends in the sky, In letters both too dark and brio-ht For earthly skill or earthly sight : — Till all the tniths by angels sung, His mercy told in mortal tongue ; And light along his riddles smiled. That solves them for this almost child ! How beautiful she looks ! — as flowers When newly touched with heaven's dew ; Upon her soul the sacred showers Of truth have fall'n anew ! — She to the fount of life has gone. To draw forth " water from its wells,'' — And bathed in Jordan, where alone The chann of healing dwells ! — The hallow'd dove within her breast Looks through her soft and serious eyes, And, on her forehead, glimpses rest Of glory fr'om the skies ! Oh ! clasp the treasure to thy heart Which thou so soon hast found, — Thy youth has " ta'en the better part," — Thou art on " holy ground," A\Tiere words to make thine age rejoice Shall reach thee, in the " still, small voice ! " ADORATION. 9 Sit thou by Sion's pleasant streams, Nor leave tliem for tlie far-off waters That lull with, no sucli tappy dreams Jerusalem's lost daugliters ; — Beside wliose dark and loveless deeps The captive spirit sits and weej)s ; And harps that were in Judah strung, Upon earth's branches tuneless hung. Fling, as the world's wind passes o'er. Their unblest sounds on Edom's shore, But sing, in that " strange land," the " Lord's song," never ^^1^6 • T. K. IIEKYET. n. Was man e'er doom'd that beauty made By mimic art should haunt him ; Like Orpheus, I adore a shade. And dote upon a phantom. Thou maid that in my inmost thought Art fancifully sainted. Why liv'st thou not — why art thou nought But canvas sweetly painted ? Whose looks seem lifted to the skies, Too pure for love of mortals — As if they drew angelic eyes To greet thee at heaven's portals. 10 ADORATION. Yet loveliness has here no grace Absti'acted or Ideal — Art ne'er but from a living face Drew looks so seeming real. Wliat wert thou, maid ? — thy life — thy name Oblivion hides in mystery ; Thou from thy face my heart could frame A long romantic history. Transported to thy time I seem, Though dust thy coffin covers — And hear the songs, in fancy's di'eam, Of thy devoted lovers. How witching must have been thy breath — How sweet the living charmer — "Whose every semblance after death Can make the heart grow warmer ! Adieu, the charms that vainly move My soul in their possession — That prompt my lips to speak of love. Yet rob them of expression. Yet thee, dear picture, to have praised Was but a poet's duty ; And shame to him that ever gazed Impassive on thy beauty. THOMAS CAMPBELL. /I / GEKEVIEYE. All thoiiglits, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking di'eams do I Live o'er again that happy horn*, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin'd tower. The Moonshine, stealing o'er the scene. Had blended Avith the lights of eve. And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve ! She leant against the armed man, The statue of the aimed knight ; She stood and listen'd to my lay. Amid the lingering light. 12 GENEVIEVE. Few sorrows liatli slie of lier o^^ti, My liope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best wliene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I play'd a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin mid and hoar}^ She listen'd with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes and modest grace ; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand ; And that for ten long years he woo'd 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 listen'd with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace : And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! GENEVIEVE. , 13 But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night ; — That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade. There came and look'd him in the face An Angel beautiful and bright ; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! — And that, unknowing what he did, He ]eaj)'d amid a murderous band. And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land ! — And how she wept and clasp'd his knees. And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain : — And that she nursed him in a cave. And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay : — 14 • GENEVIEVE. His dying words — but wlien I reacli'd That tenderest strain of all tlie ditt}-, My faltering voice and pausing liarp Disturb'd lier soul with pity ! — All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve : The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve ; — And hopes, and fears that kindle hope. An uudistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued. Subdued and cherish'd lono; — She wept with pity and delight. She blush'd 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. GENEVIEVE. 15 'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear, And partly 'twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see, The swelling of her heart. I calni'd her fears, and she was calm. And told her love with virgin pride. And so I won my Gene\deve, My bright and beauteous Bride. S. T. COLERIDGE. n. Thine eyes' blue tenderness, thy long fair hair. And the wan lustre of thy features — caught From contemplation — where serenely wrought. Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair — Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That — but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloyed and stainless thought — I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect, by his colors blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent,) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn — Such seemest thou — but how much more excellent ! With naught Remorse can claim — nor Virtue scorn. BYKON. 10 GENEVIEVE. in. Thy cheek is pale with tliouglit, but not from woe, And yet so lovely tliat if Mii'tli could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow : And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes — but, oli ! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow. For through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress ; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship) more, but cannot love thee less. BTKON. -^^" v V . /• ^ <^* THE DREAMER. Sleep on, and dream of heaven awliile, Thougli shut so close thy laughing eyes, Thy rosy lips still wear a smile, And move, and breathe delicious sighs ! Ah, now soft blushes tinge her cheeks, And mantle o'er her neck of snow ; Ah, no^v she murmui's, now she speaks What most I ^\dsh — and fear to know. She starts, she trembles, and she weeps ! Her fair hands folded on her breast. — And now, how like a saint she sleeps ! A seraph in the realms of rest ! Sleep on secure ! above control, Thy thoughts belong to heaven and thee ! And may the secret of thy soul Remain ^vithin its sanctuary ! SAMUEL R0QER3. 18 THE DREAMER. n. On your curls' fair roundness stand Golden lights serenely ; One cheek, pushed out hy the hand, Folds the dimple inly — Little head and little foot Hea\y laid for pleasure ; Underneath the lids half shut Plants the shining azure ; Open soul'd in noonday sun, So, you lie and slumber ; Nothing evil having done, Nothins: can encumber. I, who cannot sleep as well, Shall I sigh to view you ? Or sigh fui'ther to foretell All that may undo you ? Nay, keep smiling, gentle child. Ere the fate appeareth ! I smile, too ; for patience mild Pleasure's token weareth. Nay, keep sleeping before loss ; I shall sleep, though losing ! As by cradle, so by cross. Sweet is the reposing. THE DREAMER. 19 And God knows, wLo sees us twain, Child at cLildisli leisure, I am all as tired of pain As you are of pleasui'e. Very soon, too, by His grace Gently wrapt around me, I shall show as calm a face, I shall sleep as soundly — Differing in this, that I, SleejDing, must be colder. And, in waking presently, Brio;hter to beholder — Differing in this beside, (Sleeper, have you heard me ? Do you move, and open wide Your great eyes toward me ?) That while I you draw withal From this slumber solely. Me, from mine, an angel shall, Trumpet-tongued and holy ! ELIZABETH BAKEETT BROWNING. HI. Art thou a thing of mortal birth. Whose happy home is on our earth ? Does human blood with life imbue Those wandering veins of lieavenly lilue, 20 THE DREAMEK. That stray along that forehead fair, Lost 'mid a gleam of golden hair ? Oh ! can that light and airy breath Steal from a being doomed to death ; Those featm-es to the grave be sent In sleep thus mutely eloquent ? Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, A j^hantom of a blessed dream ? A himian shape I feel thou art — I feel it at my beating heart. Those tremors both of soul and sense Awoke by infant innocence ! Though dear the forms by Fancy wove. We love them with a transient love ; Thoughts from the li\dng world intrude Even on her deepest solitude : But, lovely child ! thy magic stole At once into my inmost soul, With feelings as thy beauty fair, And left no other vision there. To me thy parents are unknowTi ; Glad would they be their child to own ! And well they must have loved before. If since thy birth they loved not more. Thou art a branch of noble stem. And, seeing thee, I figure them. What many a childless one would give, If thou in their still home would' st live ! Though in thy face no family line Might sweetly say, " This babe is mine ! " THE DREAMER. 21 111 time thou wouldst become the same As theii* own child,— all but the name. How happy must thy parents be "Who daily live in sight of thee ! Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek Than see thee smile, and hear thee speak, And feel all natui'al griefs beguiled By thee, their fond, theii' duteous child. What joy must in theii' souls have stirr'd When thy first broken words were heard — Words, that, inspired by heaven, express'd The transports dancing in thy breast ! And for thy smile ! — thy lij^, cheek, brow, Even while I gaze, are kindling now. I call'd thee duteous ; am I wrong ? No ! truth, I feel, is in my song : Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move To God, to nature, and to love ! To God ! — for thou, a harmless child, Hast kept his temple undefiled : To nature ! — for thy tears and sighs Obey alone her mysteries : To love ! — for fiends of hate might see Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee. What wonder then, though in thy dreams Thy face with mystic meaning beams ! Oh ! that my sj^irit's eye could see Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! That light of dreaming soul appears To play from thoughts above thy years ; 22 THE DREAMER. Tliou smilest as if tliy soul were soaring To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. And who can tell what visions high May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? What brighter throne can brisj-htness find To reign on, than an infant's mind, Ere sin destroy, or error dim, The glory of the seraphim ? But now thy changing smiles ex]3ress Intelligible happiness. I feel my soul thy soul 2:>artake. Wliat grief ! if thou wouldst now awake ! With infants happy as thyself I see thee bound, a playful elf ; I see thou art a darlino: child, Among thy playmates bold and wild ; They love thee well ; thou art the queen Of all their sports, in bower or green ; And if thou livest to woman's height. In thee A\dll friendship, love, delight. And live thou surely must ; thy life Is far too spiiitual for the strife Of mortal pain ; nor could disease Find heart to prey on smiles like these. Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright — To those thou lovest, a saving light — The staff of age, the help sublime Of eri'ing youth, and stubborn prime ; And Avhen thou goest to heaven again. Thy vanishing be like the strain THE DREAMER. 23 Of airy liarp — so soft the tone The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! Thi'ice blessed he whose stars design His pui'e spii'it to lean on thine, And watchftil share, for days and years, Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears. For good and guiltless as thou art. Some transient griefs will touch thy heait — Griefs that along thy alter'd face Will breathe a more subduing grace Than even those looks of joy that lie On the soft cheek of infancy. Though looks, God knows, are cradled there, That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair. Oh ! vision fail' ! that I could be Again as young, as pure, as thee ! Vain msh ! the rainbow's radiant form May view, but cannot brave, the storm ; Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes That paint the bird of Paradise ; And years, so Fate hath orderVl, roll Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, Such as the gladness of thy face, O sinless babe, by God are given To charm the wanderer back to heaven. No common impulse hath me led To this green spot, thy quiet bed. Where by mere gladness overcome, In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. 24 THE DREAMER. When to the lake I would have gone, A wondrous beauty drew me on — Such beauty as the spirit sees In glittering fields and moveless trees, After a wami and silent shower Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. "What led me hither, all can say Who, knowing God, his vriR obey. Thy slumbers now cannot be long ; Thy little dreams become too strong For sleep — too like realities ; Soon shall I see those hidden eyes. Thou wakest, and starting from the ground, In dear amazement look'st around ; Like one who, little given to roam. Wonders to find herself from home ! But when a stranger meets thy view, Glistens thine eye with wilder hue. A moment's thought who I may be. Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. Fair was that face as break of dawn. When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn, Like a thin veil that half conceal'd The light of soul, and half reveal'd. While thy hush'd heart with visions ^^Tought, Each trembling eye-lash moved with thought, And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek — Such summer-clouds as travel light. When the soul's heaven lies calm and bright, — THE DREAMER. 25 Till tliou awokest ; tlien to tliine eye Tliy ^vliole lieart leapt in ecstasy ! And lovely is tliat lieart of tliine, Or sure those eyes could never shine Witli sucli a ^vild, j^et bashful glee, Gay, half-o'ercome tmiidity ! Nature has breathed into thy face A spirit of unconscious grace — A spirit that lies never still, And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy mil : As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake Soft airs a gentle ri2:)pling make. Till, ere we know, the strangers fly. And Avater blends again with sky. O happy sprite ! didst thou but know What pleasures through my being flo^v From thy soft eyes ! a holier feeling From their bue light could ne'er be stealing ; But thou wouldst be more loth to part. And give me more of that glad heart. Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence The glory of thine innocence. But with deej) joy I breathe the air That kissed thy cheek, and fann'd thy hair, And feel, though fate our lives must sever, Yet shall thy image live for ever ! JOHN wn.soN. 26 THE DKEAMEK. ly. Deae child ! wliom sleep can hardly tame, As live and beautiful as flame, Thou glancest round my graver hours As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers Were not by mortal forehead worn, But on the summer breeze were borne, Or on a mountain streamlet's waves Came glistening down from dreamy caves. With bright round cheek, amid whose glow Delight and wonder come and go ; And eyes whose inward meanings play, Congenial with the light of day ; And l)row so cahn, a home for Thought Before he knows his dwelling wrought ; Though wise indeed thou seemest not, Thou biisrhtenest well the wise man's lot. That shout proclaims the imdoubting mind ; That laughter leaves no ache behind ; And in thy look and dance of glee, Unforced, unthought of, simply fi-ee, IIo^v weak the schoolman's fonnal art Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, In gaze and glance, in voice and word. THE DREAMER. 2< In spite of all foreboding fear, A tiling tliou art of present clieer ; And tlins to he beloved and known, As is a rushy fountain's tone. As is tlie forest's leafy sLade, Or blackbii'd's liidden serenade. Thou art a flash that lights the whole — A gush from nature's vernal soul. And yet, dear child ! ^\dthin thee lives A power that deeper feeling gives, That makes thee more than light or air. Than all things sweet and all things fair ; And sweet and fair as aught may be Diviner life belongs to thee. For 'mid thine aimless joys began The perfect heart and will of Man. Thus what thou art foreshows to me How greater far thou soon shalt be ; And while amid thy garlands blow The winds that warbling come and go, Ever within, not loud but clear, Prophetic murmur fills the ear. And says that every human birth Anew discloses God to earth. JOHN STEELING. 28 THE DREAMER. Y. On ! I can watcli and almost weep To view some angel cliild asleep ; To mark tlie alabaster brow AYliere sinless calm is brooding now, Or see tlie silken fringe tkat lies And covers its innocuous eyes. So have I stood and lieard eacli breath Like music in melodious deatL, And soft and low it swells and lieaves, And at eacli fall suck cadence leaves, As may to pious fancy seem A sigk for glory in its dream. JAMES MONTGOMEPvY. "^H^ *»fc*f;^'' S^^' EMILY I. He came across tlie meadow-pass, Tliat smnmer eve of eves — The suu-Iiglit stream'd along the grass And glanced amid the leaves ; And from the shrubbery below, And from the garden trees, He heard the thrushes' music flow And humming of the bees ; The garden-gate was swung apart — The space was brief between ; But there, for throbbing of his heart. He paused perforce to lean. He lean'd upon the garden-gate ; He look'd, and scarce he breathed ; Within the little porch she sate, With woodbine overwreathecl ; 30 EMILY. Her eyes upon lier work were Ijent, Unconscious who was nigli ; But oft the needle slowly went, And oft did idle lie ; And ever to lier lips arose Sweet fragments sweetly sung, But ever, ere tlie notes could close. She husli'd them on her tongue. Her fancies as they come and go. Her pure face speaks the while ; For now it is a flitting glow, And now a breaking smile ; And now it is a graver shade, When holier thoughts are there — An angel's pinion might he stay'd To see a sight so fair ; But still they hid her looks of light, Those downcast eyelids pale — Two lovely clouds, so silken white, Two lovelier stars that veil. The sun at length his burning edge Had rested on the hill, And, save one thrush from out the hedge, Both bower and grove were still. The sun had almost bade farewell ; But one reluctant ray Still loved within that porch to dwell, As charmed there to stay — EMILY. 31 It stole aslant tlie pear-tree bough, And through the woodbine fringe, And kiss'd the maiden's neck and brow, And bathed her in its tinge. O, beauty of my heart ! he said, O, darling, darling mine ! Was ever light of evening shed On loveliness like thine ? Why should I ever leave this spot, But gaze until I die ? A moment from that bursting thought She felt his footstep nigh. One sudden, lifted glance — but one — A tremor and a start — So gently was theii- greeting done That who would guess their heai*t ? Long, long the sun had sunken down, And all his golden hail Had died away to lines of brown, In duskier hues that fail. The grasshopper was chirj)ing shrill — 'No other living sound Accompanied the tiny rill That giu'gled under ground — No other living sound, unless Some spirit bent to hear Low AS'ords of human tenderness And mingling whispers near. 32 EMILY. The stars, like pallid gems at first, Deep in tlie liquid sky, NoAV foi-tli upon tke darkness burst, Sole kings and liglits on high ; For splendor, myriad-fold, supreme, No rival moonlight strove ; Nor lovelier e'er was Hesper's beam, Nor more majestic Jove. But what if hearts there beat that night That recked not of the skies, Or only felt theii* imaged light In one another's eyes ? And if two worlds of hidden thou2:ht And longing passion met, Which, passing human language, sought And found an utterance yet ; And if they trembled as the flowers That droop across the stream, And muse the while the starry hours Wait o'er them like a dream ; — And if, when came the parting time, They falter' d still and clung ; What is it all ? An ancient rhyme Ten thousand times besung — That part of Paradise which man Without the portal knows ; Which hath been since the world l)egan. And shall be till its close. ANONYMOUS. EMILY. 33 n. Her eye lias wander'cl from the book That rests upon lier knee ; Gone from that page of love and war, Where can her fancy be ? Is it amid those pleasant vales Where once her childhood stray'd ; Those olive groves upon the hill, The myrtles in the glade ; — Where, almost hidden from the bee, The early violet dwells, Or where the Spring chimes fragrant peals From the blue hyacinth bells ? Ah ! there is color on her cheek, And languor in her eye ; It is some deeper, dearer thought, That now is flitting by ! A history of old romance That painted page has shown ; How can she read of others' love And not recall her own ? Her heart is in the tented field, A youthful kniglit is there ; Ah ! well she knows the scarf and glove Which he is vow'd to wear. 34 EMILY. Upon that scarf, upon that glove, Her tears have left their stain ; But they will wear a deeper dye. Ere brought to her again. Ah ! absence is not darkness all — It hath its lighter hour, When youth is fresh upon the soul^ And fancy tries its power : That maiden with her wandering eye. The sweet flush on her brow. One image present on her mind — Is she not happy now ? Yes ; haunted by those gentle dreams Which early life but hnows : The first warmth over morning's sky — The first dew on the rose ; — Ere colder, dai'ker feelings rise Within the mind's pure spring ; When hope soars lark-like through the air, With sunshine on its wing. An innocent and happy love Is in that youthful face ; God grant that never coming years May leave a sadder trace ! Life's book has one or two fair leaves ; Ah, such should be for thine ! That young face is too kind, too good To bear a harsher line. MISS LANDON. *'*^., »*Wi.H,.^ THE GLEANER. She stood breast-high amid the corn, Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born, Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell — Which Avere blackest none could tell ; But lone: lashes veil'd a lio-lit That had else been all too bright. Sure, I said, heaven did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean ; Lay thy sheaf adown and come. Share my harvest and my home. THOMAS HOOD. 36 THE GLEANER. n. Child of Nature ! liapj^ier tliou, Guileless botli of lieart and brow, Than full many a higli-born fair Deck'd witli jewels rich and rare. Broider'd zone and silken vest Hide, too oft, an aching breast ; Glittering gems with ringlets shine, Boasting less of grace than thine. In thy bloom of youthful pride. With thy guardian by thy side. Thoughts, which blissful visions give, At thy bidding wake and live. Thoughts — of nature's beauties born, Russet fields of ripen'd corn, Sunshine bright, and balmy breeze Playing through the leafy trees. Dreams of her, the fair and young. By the bard of Idlesse sung ; Her who " once had friends ; " but thou Hast thine ^^dth thee, even now. Health and peace, and sweet content. Store of fancies innocent ; And that pla}mate, in his glee, — These are friends befittino* thee. THE GLEANER. 37 Blended witli sucli visions briglit, Rises one of liolier light ; Lovely botli to lieart and eye In its own simplicity : 'Tis of her, the gentle maid, Who in Boaz' corn-fields stray'd ; Meekly o'er her labor leaning, For her widow'd mother gleaning ! Since, her memory to revive Is thy proud prerogative. What can poet wish for thee, But as blest as her to be ? BEPvNAED BAKTON. ni. Her brow is pure as thought can be. And whiter than the foam-clad sea, Exj^anded with an arch of grace Like heaven's above a heavenly face ; And on that polish'd cheek, behold Her ringlets, by the breeze unroll'd. In gleaming motion dance and shake Like ripples on a restless lake. 38 THE GLEANER. Her years are on tlie verge of lieaven, — That period wlien to life is given Tlie freshness of elastic youth Yet touch'd with woman's deeper truth. Again behold that virgin face ! 'Tis beauty in the mould of grace ; Incarnate soul lies sculptured there ; A feeling so di\dnely fail* Is dwelling in those dark-fi'inged eyes, That when they front congenial skies, Pure spirits well might deem that earth Had copied some celestial bii-th, Or beauty in the world had gi'own, All spirit-like, to watch theii' own. JAMES M0XTG05IEET. X <^ / w^,^ ^sr— m THE MAY QUEEN. You must wake and call me early, call me early, motlier dear; To-moiTow 'ill be tlie happiest time of all the glad New-year — Of all tlie glad New-year, mother, the maddest, merriest day ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. There's many a black, black eye, they say, but none so bright as mine ; There's Margaret and Mary, there's Kate and Caroline ; But none so fair as little Alice in all the land, they say : So I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. I sleep so sound all night, mother, that I shall never wake. If you do not call me loud when the day begins to break ; But I must gather knots of flowers and buds, and garlands gay ; For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. 40 THE MAY QUEEN. As I came i\y> the valley, ^vLom tliink ye should I see, But Rol)in leaning on the bridge beneath the hazel-tree ? He thought of that sharp look, mother, I gave him yesterday, — But I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. He thought I Tvas a ghost, mother, for I was all in white ; And I ran by him A\'itliout speaking, like a flash of light. They call me cruel-hearted, but I care not Avhat they say. For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. They say he 's dying all for love — but that can never be ; They say his heart is breaking, mother — what is that to me ? There's many a bolder lad i'll woo me any summer day ; And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. Little Eflae shall go with me to-morrow to the green. And you'll be there, too, mother, to see me made the Queen ; For the shepherd lads on every side 'ill come from far away, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May The honeysuckle round the porch has woven its wa\^ bowers. And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers ; And the ^^dld marsh-marigold shines like fire in swamps and hol- lows gray, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the .May. THE MAY QUE EX. 41 The niglit- winds come and go, motlier, upon tlie meadow-grass, And tlie liappy stars above tliem seem to brigliten as tliey pass ; There will not be a drop of rain the whole of the livelong day, And I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, Tm to be Queen o' the May. All the valley, mother, 'ill be fresh and green and still, And the cowslip and the crowfoot are over all the hill, And the rivulet in the flowery dale 'ill merrily glance and play, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. So you must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear, To-morrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year : -To-morrow 'ill be of all the year the maddest, merriest day. For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be Queen o' the May. NEW YEAR'S EVE. If you're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear. For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see — Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no more of me. To-night I saw the sun set — he set and left behind The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind ; And the New-year's coming up, mother ; but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. G 42 THE MAY QUEEN. Last May we made a crown of flowers ; we had a merry day — Beneatli tlie liawtlioru on the green they made me Queen of May ; And we danced about the Maypole and in the liazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops. There's not a flower on all the hills — ^the frost is on the pane ; I only wish to live till the snowdi'ops come again. I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high — I long to see a flower so before the day I die. The building rook 'ill caw from the windy tall elm-tree, And the tufted plover pij^e along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave. Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of mine, In the early, early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm ujion the hill — When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world is still. A\nien the flowers come again, mother, beneath t]ie waning light. You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night ; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool. You'll bury me, my mother, just beneath the ha^vthorn shade, And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother ; I shall hear you when you pass. With your feet above my head, in the long and pleasant grass. THE MAY QUEEN. 43 I have been wild and wayward, but you'll forgive me now ; You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow ; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild ; You should not fret for me, mother — you have another child. If I can, I'll come again, mother, from out my resting-j)lace ; Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face ; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what you say, And be often, often ^yiih. you, when you think I'm far away. Good-night ! good-night ! when I have said good-night for ever- more. And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door. Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been. She'll find my garden-tools upon the gi'anary floor. Let her take 'em — they are hers ; I shall never garden more. But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlor- window, and the box of mignonette. Good-night, sweet mother ! Call me before the day is born. All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn ; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year — So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear. 44 THE MAY QUEEN COXCLUSIOIh. I THOUGHT to pass awaj before, and yet alive I am ; And in tlie fields all round I hear tlie bleating of tbe lamb. How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet's here. Oh sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the skies ; And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that cannot rise ; And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers that blow ; And sweeter far is death than life, to me that long to go. It seem'd so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed sun ; And now it seems as hard to stay ; and yet, His will be done ! But still I think it can't be longj; before I find release ; And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words of peace. Oh blessings on his kindly voice, and on his silver hair ! And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet me there ! Oh blessings on his kindly heart, and on his silver head ! A thousand times I blest him, as he knelt beside my bed. He show'd me all the mercy, for he taught me all the sin ; Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there's One will let me in. Nor Avould I now be well, mother, again, if that could be ; For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. I did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death-watch beat — There came a sweeter token when the night and morning meet ; But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. THE MAY QUEEX. 45 All in the wild Marcli-mornino- 1 lieard tlie anorels call — It was wlien the moon was setting, and the dark was over all ; The trees began to whisj^er, and the wdnd began to roll, And in the wild March-morning, I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake, I thought of you and Effie dear ; I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here ; With all my strength I pray'd for both — -and so I felt resign'd, And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed ; And then did something speak to me — I know not what was said ; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping ; ana I said, " It's not for them — it's mine ; " And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars — Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven, and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is. I know The blessed music went that Avay my soul will have to go. And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day ; But Effie, you must comfort her when I am past away. And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret ; There's many worthier than I would make him happy yet. If I had lived — I cannot tell — I mio-ht have been his wife : But all these thino-s have ceased to be, with mv desire of life. 46 THE MAY QUEEX. Oh look ! the sun begins to rise ! the heavens are in a glow ; He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine — AVild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. Oh sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done The voice that now is sj^eaking may be beyond the sun — For ever and for ever with those just souls and true — And what is life, that we should moan ? why make we such ado ? For ever and for ever, all in a blessed home. And there to wait a little while till you and Eflie come — To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your breast — And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. ALFKED TENNYSON. NATURE'S FAVORITE He prayetli well, who lovetli well Both man and bird and beast. Ancient Maeixer. Piped the blackbird on tlie beechwood spray : " Pretty maid, slow wanderiog this way, What's your name ? " quoth he — " What's your name ? O stoj) and straight unfold, Pretty maid, with showery curls of gold ! " — " Little Bell." said she. Little Bell sat down beneatli the rocks, Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — " Bonny bird," quoth she, " Sing me your best song before I go." " Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he. 48 NATURE'S FAVORITE. And the blackbird piped ; you never lieard Half so gay a song from any bird — Full of quips and wiles, Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, All for love of tliat sweet face below, Dimpled o'er witb smiles. And tlie while the bonny bird did j^our His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 'Neath the morning skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow. And shine forth in happy overflow From the blue, bright eyes. Down the dell she tripp'd, and through the glade, Peep'd the squirrel from the hazel shade, And from out the tree Swung, and leap'd, and frolick'd, void of fear — While bold blackbird piped that all might hear — " Little Bell ! '' piped he. Little Bell sat down amid the fern — " Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — Bring me nuts," quoth she. Up, away the frisky squiiTel hies — Golden, wood-lights glancing in his eyes — And adown the tree. Great ripe nuts, kiss'd brown by July sun. In the little lap, dropp'd one by one — . Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun ! " Happy Bell ! " pipes he. NATURE'S FAVORITE. 49 Little Bell look'd up and down the glade — " SquiiTel, squirrel, if you're not afi-aid, Come and share witli me ! " Down came squiiTel eager for his fare — Down came bonny blackbird I declare ; Little Bell gave each his honest share — All the merry three ! And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisk'd from bough to bough again, 'Neath the mornino; skies, In the little childish heart below All the sweetness seem'd to grow and grow. And shine out in happy ovei^ow, From her blue, bright eyes. By her snow-white cot at close of day, Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray — Very calm and clear Eose the praying voice to where, unseen, In blue heaven an angel shape serene Paused awhile to hear — " What good child is this," the angel said, " That with happy heart, beside her bed Prays so lovingly ? " Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, Croon'd the ])lackbird in the orchard croft, " Bell, dear Bell ! " croon'd he. 50 NATURE'S FAVORITE. " Wliom God's creatures love," tlie angel fair Murmured, " God dotli bless with angels' care ; Child, thy bed shall be Folded safe from harm — Love deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind. Little Bell, for thee." T. WESTWOOD. II. Three years she grew in sun and shower, When Nature said : A lovelier flower On earth was never sown ; This child I to myself will take ; She shall be mine, and I will make A lady of my own. Myself mil to my darling be Both law and impulse ; and with me The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. She shall be sportive as the fa"wn. That wild with glee across the lawn Or up the mountain springs ; And hers shall be the breathing balm And hers the silent and the calm Of mute insensate things. NATURE'S FAVORITE. 51 The floating clouds their state shall lend To her ; for her the willow bend ; Nor shall she fail to see Even in the motions of the stonn, Grace that shall mould the maiden's form By silent sympathy. The stars of midnio-ht shall be dear To her ; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place, Where ri\Tilets dance their way^vard round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. And vital feelins-s of delig^ht Shall rear her form to stately height, Her virgin bosom swell ; Such thoughts unto her I will give. While she and I together live Here in this happy dell. WILLIAM VOKDSWORTH. 52 KATUliE'S i'AVURITE. m. Her bosom was a soft retreat For love, and love alone, And yet lier heart had never beat To love's delicious tone. It dwelt mthin its circle free From tender thoughts like these, "Waiting the little deity, As the blossom waits the breeze, Before it throws the leaves apart. And trembles, like the love-touched heart. She was a creatm'e, strange as fan*. First mom^nful and then wild — Now laughing on the clear bright air As merry as a child ; Then, melting do^vn as soft as even Beneath some new control. She'd throw her hazel eyes to heaven, And sing with all her soul. In tones as rich as some young bird's, Warblino- her o^vn delicrhtful words. o o AMELIA B. WELBY. i« '